“Kublai saw the princess and the Polos off from his new palace at Beijing. His gout was too painful for him to travel with them to the coast.
“Morning Flower meant little to him. She’d come down from Mongolia to the Chinese capital for training three years before. The emperor hardly knew her, nor did he care about the elder Polos. Every day with no concern he sent off to risk of death men he was closer to.
“But Marco was different. Never again would he have a friend who pleased him so much and knew his heart so well.
“‘Send word,’ the old man said as he handed Marco the paiza, the slender strip of gold that would assure him safe passage, mounts, and provisions all the way to Tabriz.
“Kublai pinched his lips together. ‘Return quickly,’ he said in a husky voice.
“He turned away. He knew better than to ask for Marco’s promise to return.
“Kublai hadn’t thought it likely that the princess would find Marco handsome. He was, by Mongol standards, a curiosity: a person so strange as not to count in society, for he was European, poor, his smell was odd, and, most important, he was not of the blood imperial.
“Marco, though, might fall in love with the girl in the course of their long trip together, so Kublai arranged that the Venetian should never see her. Her land caravan would be closed; on shipboard she would be sequestered in a separate vessel. Everyone was under orders to assure her privacy.
“Until the royal flotilla entered the Bay of Bengal, Marco never did see her. Then a typhoon struck. Nine of the largest junks sank with all hands lost. The command ship carrying the princess and the senior officers of her retinue was battered beyond repair. They transferred to Marco’s vessel.
“He was on deck when she came aboard. His heart went out to her, first in sympathy, then with something more. He would remember that moment the rest of his life. As an old man he carried in his heart the picture of her broad tan forehead, thick black hair, and steady dark eyes. A shadow of a smile had passed over her face when she’d noticed his dog.”
Boss’s tail thumped the floor.
Hornaday nodded and went on. “It turned out she was curious about the ways of Westerners, especially their odd writing. The only time Marco’s hand touched hers was when he helped her shape the letters of his name in his language. She saved that paper.”
Mark caught himself with cold hands shaping the letters of his own name.
“The shattered flotilla put in on the island of Sumatra, where they spent five months refitting and waiting out the typhoon season.
“Marco explored the island for foods and medicines, testing on some of the ailing sailors a palm elixir the natives said healed all ills. He brought the princess palm wine and palm sugar—things they had never known before. The wine was potent; they got giddy together. One afternoon they ate another new thing—pieces of coconut—and drank its sweet water.
“Once the worst of the storm season was past, they set out up the funnel-shaped Strait of Malacca, five hundred miles long, ten miles across at the narrow end, famous for lanun—pirates.
“They weren’t many days under way before the lanun fell upon them like a swarm of wasps. They’d heard about the rich flotilla refitting on Sumatra.
“It was the pirates’ way to work together, picking off one vessel at a time, ramming, burning, slashing and screaming as they boarded, then stripping it and taking the sailors for slaves. Their secret weapon was a flaming concoction of naphtha and quicklime hurled by catapult at the victims’ rigging.
“Another ship was lost. By the time they escaped the pirates and entered the Bay of Bengal, the princess’s fleet was down to three.
“Storms continued to ravage the imperial flotilla, but disease was the greatest enemy now. Every day they pitched overboard victims of fever and the wasting sickness.”
“What’s wasting sickness, Doc?” Mark asked.
“Cholera—attacks of diarrhea so intense the body loses gallons of water in hours as the flesh shrinks back against the skull and blood turns to jelly.”
Mark grimaced.
“Yes,” said Hornaday, “and the doge had figured sea travel would be easier and safer than following the Road of Silk!
“Two years after the princess’s great fleet set sail from China, three shaken vessels landed at Hormuz. Of the six hundred persons in the royal retinue, only the princess and seventeen of her people had survived.
“It was now Marco’s responsibility to transport the girl overland to Tabriz. He needed pack animals, camels, and horses. Most important, he needed a suitable mount for the princess.
“Marco and the princess came upon a donkey in the bazaar, a large gray donkey with long broad ears and a habit of lying down unexpectedly. He was lying down when they passed by. The trader was kicking and whipping him with his switch. The donkey had large black eyes. He winced every time his master struck, but he would not move.
“The princess said she must have that animal. Suddenly that worthless, lazy, troublesome donkey became the most valuable one in the market.
“He had no name. He was plump, though; someone had cared for him before he fell on ill luck and ended up in the market. Perhaps his master—or mistress more likely—had died. Hormuz was an unhealthy place.
“The donkey had long expressive ears—big even for a donkey—long as a boy’s arm and a palm wide, tough and muscular, well furred, always moving. He would bring them forward when pleased or expectant, lower them when dejected, lay them back when angry. His short tail was twitchy and expressive too.
“Even with the princess on his back the donkey continued his habit of lying down without notice when fatigued or of a mind to rest. He’d wobble his front legs as a warning for the girl to dismount. If she didn’t do so quickly, the donkey would fold his fronts and tumble the royal passenger over his head and go off for a nap.
“The princess’s attendants were all for whip ping him on, but she wouldn’t allow it. She knew it wouldn’t do any good anyway. When her donkey napped, the princess napped, and so did everyone else.
“The donkey had two brands on his left side, each as large as a hand. If those marks spelled a word, Marco couldn’t make it out. No one else could either, so Marco named the donkey after his best friend at home, Mauricio. The way the princess pronounced it, it sounded like Ma-rick-o.
“When word of the royal party’s arrival at Hormuz reached the court at Tabriz, a party of horsemen was sent out to escort them north. The commander brought news that the king whom the princess was to have married had died. Now she was to marry a younger relative of no great reputation. That meant she wouldn’t become a queen after all. Instead, she’d become one of the harem wives—a lonely, unwanted exile in a mountain valley that looked nothing like the thick grassed steppes she’d known as a child or the rich smoky bustle of Kublai’s imperial winter court at Beijing.
“She dreamed of going on to Venice with Marco, but she couldn’t. She knew that if anyone had even guessed her dream, they would have killed him.
“As the entourage drew up at the court of her husband-to-be, Morning Flower dismounted. She kissed the donkey goodbye, bowed to Marco, then averted her face and turned weeping to her maids.
“As the gates crashed shut, someone slipped Marco a package—the headdress of a Mongol princess, adorned with gold, precious stones, and pearls. There was no note.
“The headdress was found among Marco’s possessions after he died. No one in his family had ever seen it.”
“Mom showed it to me in the museum,” Mark blurted, “but they didn’t say it was anything special. They didn’t say it had belonged to the princess he took care of.”
Hornaday shook his head slightly and took a deep breath.
“Later, back in Venice,” he said, “Marco dreamed of putting on Tartar robes and returning to Tabriz with the golden pass and a forged letter from Kublai requesting permission for her to come visit. He imagined bringing lavish gifts of opium, pearls, and silk to her husband to show Kublai
’s respect.
“He wrote. She never answered. How could she? Whom could she trust with her letters?
“Then he heard that she’d died.”
The doctor pinched his lips together and opened his hands. “That’s it,” he said.
Like the teacher you tried to save at Kirkuk, Mark thought.
The signora got up and gathered them all in a huddle. Nobody said anything.
Dad,
I wish you were here. I can’t picture you in what Mom calls the ocean of sand. I wonder if the water problem makes you want to get away. At first we joked about your eating grilled goat and goat cheese, but maybe that’s all there is, so it doesn’t seem funny anymore. It’s Christmas Eve here and this place is spooky. Most of the buildings are dark and the water is black. Mom says maybe there’s stuff going on inside but I don’t see any lights. It’s like the people who lived there all died. If you were here, I’d show you the stone camel. It’s cold here. I hope you are warm. I miss you a lot. Merry Christmas.
Love, Mark
21
FINDING MARCO
It was midnight when Mark and his mother got back to their hotel. All over Venice, bells were chiming and booming.
As Mark pushed open the hotel door, the clerk upstairs started yelling.
“All evening the person from the agency is been here! He have just left! He leave this for you,” he said as they panted up the last steps.
He handed over a rumpled gray envelope covered with strange stamps. “Here is the man’s number. He say call, no matter how late the time.”
Smeared cancelation marks covered the writing, but Mark recognized the handwriting. “Mom!” he exclaimed. “It’s from Dad!”
He tore open the envelope.
Dear Marian, dear Mark,
If I’m lucky, a nearly blind old man who calls himself Mustafa and says he’s making a last visit to his home village will carry this letter to you to a pickup point five or six days’ march from here. I’m coming home. I’ve got parasites. Nothing the locals have is touching them. Bad water. Many animals have died, and I’ve lost all my oomph. I’ll come back someday to finish my work. Maybe Mark will come with me. “Postage” cost me my sovereigns.
See you soon!
All my love, Dad
“What a Christmas present!” Mark cried.
His mother was already on her phone, calling the agency chief at his home.
“They’ve found him!” she whispered to Mark as she listened. “They’re going to fly him back to Baltimore day after tomorrow—the twenty-sixth. We’ll fly back then too!”
As Mark got into bed and slipped the Chinese pillow under his head, he felt something at his feet. He groped around and came up with a small white cowrie shell.
There was a rustling in the corner.
“Good, you got it,” Count Leo announced. “It was Marco’s good luck piece. You’re the next in line, so you should have it.”
“What do you mean I’m the next in line?” Mark asked.
“It’s in your father’s letter,” Leo explained. “Next time he goes out, you’re going too. So Merry Christmas and tanti auguri, as the locals say. Good luck!”
* * *
Christmas Day dawned bright and cold. Mark woke up to bells that rang like flights of soaring birds, wheeling and gathering to soar again.
It was sunny. A sharp breeze blew off the lagoon. The campo was filled with brightly dressed people waving and yelling to one another, “Buon Natale!” Somewhere close, trumpets were playing.
Hornaday and Boss met them at the café. As his mother told the doctor their great news, Mark hugged the dog hard. Boss switched his immense tail in pleasure and licked the boy’s hand.
The café wasn’t open, but the signora, just back from Mass, had hot milk, coffee, and biscotti for them. She looked different in a black dress and shiny new shoes. “For the Mass,” she explained as she limped around. “Only for that do I put on these shoes.”
As they finished breakfast, Hornaday leaned back and looked at Mark. “Sooo,” he drawled, “do you think there might be room back home in Baltimore for Boss?”
Mark wasn’t sure he’d heard right. His eyes filled as he looked at the dog. Could Boss be his?
The doctor was nodding with a big smile and blinking hard.
Mark looked over at his mother. From the way she was smiling, he could tell she was in on it.
The dog was in on it too. As he looked up at Mark, he let out a long joyful howl.
“But won’t you miss him, Doc?” Mark asked.
“I’ll get along okay,” the doctor said in a tight voice. “Venice is no place for a big dog like Boss, and I figure he and you need each other just like Marco needed his dog.”
“Oh wow!” Mark said.
Before Mark could say thank you, Hornaday stood up, shook out his great white handkerchief, and rubbed his face hard.
“I have something else for you,” he said as he handed Mark a small twist of red paper with an ivory carving of a rat inside. “Chinese,” he explained. “After all, it’s the Year of the Rat.”
“Gee, Doc,” said Mark. “It looks really old.”
“Maybe it was Marco Polo’s,” said his mother, laughing.
“And this you already know about,” the doctor added as he passed over the scimitar wrapped in his red wool scarf.
At the Christmas market Mark had gotten the signora a santon of a beaming woman in a white blouse and bright red peasant dress carrying a heaping bowl of dark yellow pasta. For his mother he’d found a maroon silk scarf decorated with Chinese letters in bold brushstrokes; for Hornaday, a wood carving of a black herding dog.
The doctor smiled in a strange way when Mark gave him the carving.
“For you,” said the signora, holding out a CD. “The music you nod your head to here, Vivaldi. And this,” she said, handing Mark a small carving of the Madonna. “So you will remember us at the café. Eh?”
Mark swallowed hard as a storm of feeling swept over him. He was close to crying.
“Th-thanks. Thank you all,” he stammered.
The signora got up and hugged him.
They sat quietly together for several minutes. Then Mark looked closely at the figure the signora had just given him. “Yours has all that paint on her,” he said, pointing. “Why?”
“She was a rescued,” the signora replied. “I found her lying beside a wall. Someone did that bad thing to her, I don’t know why, but she is safe here.”
Suddenly Mark stood up. “Mom, Doc,” he said, “can we go back to Ca Polo the way we went the first time?”
“Sure, why not?” his mother said.
Mark went back to his room for the Marco Polo mask.
Just after they crossed the Rialto Bridge, he stopped. “Doc, do me a favor and go sit over there,” he said, pointing to an empty box beside a mooring post.
“You want a picture?” the doctor asked.
“No. Just go sit on that box. Take off your hat.”
Mark stepped back and squinted. Then he stepped back some more. The slanting winter light caught the bent-over head of the dark man.
“That’s how he saw him the first time,” Mark said. “He must have looked like that.”
“Who?” his mother asked.
“Mustafa,” Mark explained. “That’s how Mustafa must have looked when Marco saw him the first time. He was Marco’s teacher in the school of the street. He told Marco what to expect on the Road of Silk and how to act when he got to Kublai.”
It was dusk by the time they reached Ca Polo.
Mark looked around the campo.
“Leave me here with Boss for a little while,” he said. “We’ll meet you over in that café.”
Holding the Polo mask before his face, Mark waited with Boss in a corner of the square. The sky was like slate. It was damp and cold and absolutely still.
A shape appeared. A boy Mark’s age came to the cistern with a bucket to get water.
Boss jerked
up. Mark caught his breath.
“Yes,” he whispered.
He couldn’t make out the other boy’s face, but he recognized the shape: it was like his own. The clothes were like those on the Polo figure in the museum.
“Ciao, Marco!” he called.
The other turned and stared, trying to make out the caller. Then he smiled and waved.
“Ciao, Marco!” he called back. “Ciao, cane!” Hello, Marco! Hello, dog!
Boss woofed.
Just then a window opened and a woman leaned out—“Marco! Vieni qua!” she hollered in a sharp voice. Come here!
The boy answered, “Sì, Zia Anna. Sì! Vengo! Vengo! Yes, Aunt Anna. I’m coming! I’m coming!” and he hurried off.
Slowly Mark and Boss walked to the café where the others were waiting. It was like a dream, but it wasn’t a dream; they’d seen him! Mark was sure of it.
He fumbled in his pocket for the cowrie charm. Suddenly he pictured himself sitting with his father at the kitchen table with the scale as they planned their Gobi trip. He was ready. He and Boss were ready to go exploring like Marco.
And he’d write about it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
From ear to ear the story has passed till it reached mine …
This is a fiction. The spine of travel is somewhat as Marco described it, as are the ribs of the larger adventures. The rest is imagined but possible, including my guess that Marco and his father and uncle were on a mission for the doge and that members of the Jewish merchant community in Venice helped them.
I’ve imagined the first time Marco told of his travels—his reports to Kublai—and their back-and-forth as the emperor came to appreciate His Impertinence. I have no proof, but I’m pretty sure Marco used notes for those reports and used them again when he told his story to Rustichello.
A compact and convenient edition of The Travels is one edited by Manuel Komroff and published by the Modern Library, New York, 1926. I’ve worked from two longer versions, one edited by Henry Yule in 1871 and revised by Henri Cordier in 1903, republished by Dover in 1993, which from now on I’ll refer to as “Y-C.” It has excellent notes. The other, Marco Polo: The Description of the World, was edited by A. C. Moule and Paul Pelliot (London: G. Routledge, 1938), “M-P.” Of the two, M-P is more readable, but it has few notes.
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