by Robin Brown
The message they brought to Acomet went as follows:
Your nephew questions your conduct in depriving him of the sovereignty and that you have come to meet him in mortal combat. This is not the way an uncle ought to act towards his nephew. So he pleads with you, as a good uncle and father, to restore to him that which is rightfully his. There is no need for this battle. He will honour you and you will be lord of all the land, under him.
But Acomet’s reply was uncompromising.
What my nephew says amounts to nothing. The land is mine not his. I conquered it with his father. Go and tell my nephew that if he so desires, I’ll make him a great lord with more than enough land. He’ll be like my son, the highest in the land, after me. Otherwise – and be sure he gets this message – I’ll do all in my power to put him to death and that’s my final word on the subject.
The emissaries insisted on knowing that this was really Acomet’s final word on the matter. He said it was and there would be no other as long as he lived.
When Argon heard this he was enraged and made it clear to everyone that he believed he had been injured and insulted by his uncle and vowed never to hold a scrap of land until he had taken vengeance in a manner the whole world would hear about. ‘Let us go out tomorrow,’ he declared, ‘and put these faithless traitors to the sword.’ And so it came to pass. Argon arranged his troops in good battle order, advanced the following morning and soon met Acomet, his forces similarly well disposed.
The battle began in the traditional way with a shower of arrows, so thick they seemed like rain from heaven. Everywhere men were thrown from their horses and the cries and groans of the fallen were dreadful to hear. Then the swords and maces were brought into bloody play. The slaughter on both sides was huge and although Argon himself displayed extraordinary bravery, an example to all his men, it was all in vain. The day went against him and he was forced to flee, closely pursued by Acomet’s army who slaughtered many more in the rout. And Argon himself was soon captured, whereupon the chase was abandoned and the exultant victors returned to their camp.
Now came a great turn of fate! Acomet, a man who liked his sensual pleasures, ordered Argon to be locked away and guarded while he returned to court to celebrate his victory in the company of the many fair ladies he had there. The command of the army was left to a grand melic or chieftain under strict orders to follow him back to court in short marches that would not tax his exhausted troops.
In the camp, however, was a great Tartar baron, an older man, who took pity on Argon, regarded all that had happened as an act of wicked disloyalty, and vowed to do his utmost to set him free. He began by personally influencing many of the other barons to see things his way and, because of his great age and a reputation for justice and wisdom, soon had them on his side and accepting his orders.
The gentleman’s name was Boga and the other conspirators in the enterprise were Elcidai, Togan, Tegana, Taga, Tiar Oulatai and Samagar. Accompanied by them, Boga went to the tent where Argon was confined, told him that they had repented, and that they intended to set him free and recognise him as their lord.
At first, Argon was very angry, thinking that they’d come to mock him.
‘Fair lords,’ he said, ‘you sin greatly in making me the object of your mockery. Be satisfied with the wrong you have already done me, your rightful lord. Go away!’
‘Lord, we’re not here to mock you,’ Boga protested, and there and then took an oath affirming him as their rightful lord and master. For his part Argon swore to forgive them. With these mutual oaths properly sworn, they freed Argon who took them to the tent of the melik and ordered Boga and his men to riddle it with arrows, killing him.
Confident of his sovereignty, Argon now gave orders for the army to march on the court. Acomet was still partying when a messenger brought him the news that Argon was on his way with the whole force. He announced that the melik was dead and he was sure the same fate awaited Acomet.
Acomet was taken totally by surprise and knew not what to do or say. But he gathered his wits, ordered the messenger not to repeat the news to anyone, at the same time ordering his most trusted followers to arm themselves and saddle up. Telling no one where he was going, he took the road to the Sultan of Babylon believing that there he would be safe.
His objective could only be gained by way of a pass, but when six days later he tried to cross it, the men guarding it recognised him and realised he was fleeing for his life. The guards, loyal to Argon, outnumbered Acomet’s party and they decided to arrest Acomet even though he tried to buy them off with offers of a great deal of treasure.
Acomet was placed under a strong guard and marched for three days back to court where he was handed over to Argon. Acomet’s capture brought Argon the greatest joy imaginable. He immediately called his army to gather and there, before everybody, Acomet was cut down. Argon ordered that Acomet’s body be disposed of in such a way as to ensure that it would never be seen again. Indeed, no one has seen or heard of it since.
Argon recovered his crown in 1286 and ruled for six years, when, I’m reliably advised, he was poisoned. An uncle called Quiacatu then took over the throne, Argon’s son, Casan, being judged to be too far away in Arbor Secco, but his uncle making it clear he ruled only in a caretaker role to keep the kingdom safe from its enemies. As his father before him, Casan declared he would return as soon as he could. Quiacatu, fond of sensual pleasures, took Argon’s wife and made her his own as well as a great number of other women. He too was then poisoned!
In 1294 Argon’s brother Baidu snatched the throne and this time Casan was really furious and decided it was time he abandoned the lands of the Arbor Secco and went home to claim his heritage. Baidu and Casan’s armies met after ten days of forced marches and after a fierce battle Baidu was killed and his army routed. So in 1294 Casan became king and rules the Eastern Tartars to this day.
The founder of the Western Tartar empire was the great king Sain who conquered Russia and Comania, followed by Alania, Lac, Mengier, Zic, Gucia and Gazaria who united the Western Tartars under one government. He was succeeded by Patu, Berca, Mongotimur, Totamangu and Toctai who is the reigning monarch.
In the year 1261 the most savage war in the history of the Tartars erupted between the Tartars of the west, ruled by King Berca, and of the east where King Alau was on the throne. This dispute was, inevitably, over border territory.
Both declared their intention of occupying the land, each daring the other to stop him. Within six months they had vast armies, approaching three hundred thousand men, all very well equipped for war, indeed there had never been an assembly of troops to equal this. Alau now set out for the disputed lands with his vast army, riding for many days without meeting any opposition until they entered a great plain between the areas known as the ‘Iron Gates’ and the Sea of Serain, where they encamped in good order with many a rich pavilion and tent.
Alau waited for Berca to make the first move. He was now occupying the disputed border area and waited to see what would happen. Berca arrived with some three hundred and fifty thousand men and in his traditional battle speech he emphasised this advantage of numbers and promised them victory.
Alau was aware of the odds against him but told his men they were more experienced and would prevail. Intelligence had also been received by Alau that the attack would be launched three days hence and he urged his vast assembly of Eastern Tartars to be ready to die rather than dishonour themselves. On the morning of the battle Alau rose very early and showed great skill in the disposition of his mighty army, dividing them into thirty squadrons of one thousand horsemen, each very well led. Then they advanced half the distance to the other camp.
King Berca had also arranged his men into squadrons of one thousand but he had thirty-five of them. These advanced to within half a mile of the enemy. This was fine fighting ground and these were impressive armies commanded by the two most powerful warriors in the world. They were also related, both being of the lineage of Genghis Kh
an.
Then the nacar gongs sounded and the arrows flew so that you could hardly see the sky and many were slain, both man and horse. Hand-to-hand fighting with maces and swords followed in a battle that was so fierce the noise was louder than the thunder of heaven. The ground became covered with corpses and red with blood. Both the kings fought very bravely and their men followed their example, keeping on till dusk until Berca began to give way. Alau’s men pursued the fleeing enemy, furiously cutting them down without mercy.
After a short chase Alau recalled his men and they returned to their encampment, laid down their arms, dressed their wounds and were so weary they sought their tents and slept. Next morning Alau caused the dead to be buried, friend and foe alike. The losses were so huge it is beyond my ability even to estimate them.
Similar difficulties to these also plagued the succession of a powerful King of the Western Tartars called Mongotimur. His natural successor, Prince Tolobunga, was murdered by a chieftain known as Totamangu with the assistance of another Tartar king, Nogai. Totomangu ruled for a short time until a very able and prudent man by the name of Toctai was chosen king.
When the two sons of Tolobunga grew to maturity they assembled a fair-sized army and presented themselves at King Toctai’s court demanding that Nogai, the last living conspirator in the murder of their father, be brought to justice. Toctai agreed with them and Nogai was summoned to court.
Nogai laughed at the two messengers from the court of King Toctai and said he would not go. Enraged, Toctai told Tolobunga’s sons that if Nogai didn’t come to him, he would raise an army and destroy Nogai. Back went the two messengers to Nogai and related this ultimatum, again to no avail. Nogai put together a huge army, albeit not as large as the army Toctai could field (it numbered over two hundred thousand) because he was not so powerful a king. Tolobunga’s sons, with a fair-sized company of horsemen, joined him.
When battle commenced it soon became apparent that Nogai’s men, who numbered only one hundred and fifty thousand were much the more experienced and the army of Toctai was routed with a terrible slaughter of some sixty thousand of his men. Toctai and the two sons of Tolobunga, who had fought very valiantly, escaped.
POSTSCRIPT
And there, patently exhausted by the never-ending Tartar wars, Marco Polo brings the story of his incredible journey to a close. Many translators share my view that this is a poor way to end so epic a tale. There is even a short epilogue in a Tuscan version dating from the early fourteenth century which excuses Marco’s abrupt ending by having him say:
I refrain from telling you of this (the Black Sea and the Provinces which lie around it) because it would be tedious to recount what is daily recounted by others . . . Venetians, Genoese and Pisans who sail these waters every day.
There is a similar, arguably as dubious, final chapter that closes the famous Marsden translation, which runs as follows:
And now you have heard all that I can tell you about the Tartars and the Saracens and their customs, and likewise about the other countries of the world as far as my travels and knowledge extend. Only we have said nothing whatever about the Greater Sea and the provinces that lie round it, although we know it thoroughly. But it seems to me needless to speak about places that are visited by other people every day. For there are so many who sail all about the world constantly.
Of the manner in which we took our departure from the Court of the Grand Khan you have heard at the beginning of the book, in that Chapter where we told of the difficulties that Messer Maffeo and Messer Nicolo and Messer Marco had about getting the Grand Khan’s leave to go; and in the same Chapter is related the lucky chance that led to our departure. And you may be sure that but for that chance, we should never have got away in spite of all our trouble, and never to have got back to our country again. I believe it was God’s pleasure that we should get back in order that the people might learn about the things that the world contains.
Thanks be to God! Amen! Amen!
This postscript has the ring of an end-note appended by some politically correct cleric, perhaps rather nervous of the magical, exotic and, in places, salacious manuscript he has just translated. Elements of Marco’s story would probably have been regarded as heretical. Others would have found the manuscript morally dubious, if not downright profane. John Frampton’s Elizabethan translation entitled The Travels of Marco Polo actually leaves out the twelve pages of text describing the seemingly never-ending wars between Genghis’s descendants. Frampton chooses to close with the dramatic tale of the Tartar raids for rare furs into the Heart of Darkness in the frozen northland. (I have decided to include Marco’s final notes on the troubled royal successions, but I must admit they are rather tedious.)
So, must we end this incredible tale on a note of anti-climax? Does Marco just run out of steam in spite of his dying protestations that he recounted only half of what he saw? Actually a sensational story does end the book. Both Marco and his co-author, Rustichello the romance-writer, for some reason only hint at an exciting end in their Introduction, but it very properly belongs here. It is the riveting tale of what happened when the Polos reached Venice and attempted to enter their old home.
On a dark and stormy night [in Venice] in the year 1295, a loud banging was heard on the front door of a tall house in the Corte Sabbionera. Fearful of burglars the inhabitants (distant relatives of Marco Polo) at first refused to open the door. But they had made the mistake of drawing the bolt and the intruders fought their way in.
The relatives found themselves confronting three ragamuffins dressed in tattered clothes of oriental design, bearded and speaking Italian in a guttural, halting style as if newly learned. They had huge packs and the three insisted that this was their house and that they were Nicolo, Maffeo and Marco Polo, who had long been given up for dead. A family conference was called, with other relatives coming from all over the city, and the Polos managed to convince their family that they were not impostors.
The story they told astounded the family and word quickly spread throughout Venice. Marco, much the youngest of the three whose life had been the most travelled and exciting, became famous overnight.
They staged an exotic party to finally confirm their claims. Before the grand dinner the travellers had presented themselves in cloaks of crimson satin – which they then removed and had the rich cloth cut into pieces for their guests! During the course of the meal, Nicolo, Maffeo and Marco disappeared again, returning this time in robes of silken velvet which were again cut up and passed around. The process was repeated three times in all, with the travellers explaining that this was all in strict accordance with Mongol custom.
The table was then cleared and the servants asked to leave the room. Marco Polo then produced the ragged street clothes the travellers had worn upon their arrival and, taking up a sharp knife, cut the seams and pleats. A shower of rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds and other jewels, all chosen for their size and value, cascaded on to the dinner table and finally convinced the company that the men were indeed the long-lost Polos – and that they were very rich!
This splendid tale was told by the first print-editor of a Marco Polo manuscript, Giovanni Battista Ramusio, who in his Collection of Voyages and Travels says he was told of it by Senator Haspara Malpieo, ‘a gentleman of very great age and a Senator of great virtue and integrity, whose house was on the canal of San Marino . . . and he said he had heard it from his father and grandfather, and from other old men among the neighbours’. And why not?
Let us give the poet and Polian scholar, John Masefield, the final word:
It is difficult to read Marco Polo as one reads historical facts. One reads them as one reads romance. The East of which he writes is the East of romance.
In the East of romance there grows the ‘tree of the sun’, a sort of landmark or milestone at the end of the great desert. The apples of the sun and the moon grow on that tree. Darius and Alexander fought in its shade. These are the significant facts about the tree accordi
ng to Marco Polo. We moderns who care little for any tree as soon as we can murmur its Latin name, have lost wonder in losing faith. Marco Polo, almost the first European to see the East, saw her in all her wonder, more fully than any man has seen her since.
