All the while, the Republic’s long-standing feud with the Church was fraying the delicate fabric of economic life. On March 27, 1309, the Church issued another punitive papal bull, this one far more serious than the earlier one. Trying to teach the unruly city a lesson for all time, the Church excommunicated the Republic and its citizens. All of Venice’s treaties were declared void—a potentially disastrous blow to its trade relationships. Venetian properties beyond the lagoon were subject to seizure by the Church. Christians everywhere were forbidden to trade with Venice. Banks, ships, factories, storehouses, and trading posts with Venetian interests in foreign lands reportedly were burned.
At first, Venetians, toughened in conflict, took the latest uproar in stride, but when their soldiers fell prey to disease, the Republic’s enemies decimated its fleet. La Serenissima seemed to face the end of her long reign. Even the self-confidence of the Venetian merchant aristocracy crumbled, and the doge, Pietro Gradenigo, humbly dispatched a mission to Pope Clement V, now in Avignon, to seek forgiveness. The gesture succeeded, and the excommunication of Venice ended. Nevertheless, the doge fell into disrepute with the citizens of the Republic.
THERE WAS ANOTHER whiff of rebellion in the air, as a conspiracy of nobles sought to remove Gradenigo from power. Their plan was bold: on the morning of June 15, 1310, they would storm the Piazza San Marco, kill the doge, and then slaughter his closest aides. Fortunately for the stability of the Republic, the weather refused to cooperate. A violent storm blew up, lashing the lagoon with rain and thunder, as if to warn of the awful deed to come. Street thugs chanting “Morte al doge Gradenigo!” could barely hear themselves and scattered under the onslaught of foul weather. Amid the ensuing chaos, the doge’s guard learned of the uprising and attacked at least one hostile group, driving them off.
The rebels suffered another disaster from a most unlikely source. As Bajamonte Tiepolo, one of the leaders, led a vicious mob near the Rialto, the racket infuriated one of the residents, a woman named Giustina Rosso, who opened her window, seized a heavy pot planted with carnations, and hurled it straight at Tiepolo. The missile almost found its target; Tiepolo was spared, but his standard bearer fell to the wet pavement, lifeless, his skull shattered by the flower pot. Tiepolo’s rabble suddenly panicked, as enraged residents hurled one object after another at their exposed heads. The rebels scattered, leaving Tiepolo with no choice but to surrender and bargain for his life. Luckily for him, he managed to negotiate banishment to Dalmatia for four years, while others paid for their rebellion with their lives.
Giustina Rosso, who had thrown the fatal flower pot, received heartfelt thanks from the doge. Asked what reward she desired for her valiant deed, she modestly declared that she wished to display a banner of Saint Mark, patron saint of Venice, every June 15 to commemorate the event. She had only one other request—that her annual rent never exceed fifteen ducats.
On such whimsical deeds turned the fate of Venice.
MARCO AVOIDED the political disputes of his day, preferring to watch over his holdings. He challenged the established order only once, in 1305, when he appeared in court on behalf of a disreputable smuggler, Bonocio of Mestre, to indemnify him. The scenario suggests that the troublemaker may have been operating at Marco’s behest.
ON FEBRUARY 6, 1310, Marco’s uncle Maffeo felt his days coming to an end. He drew up his will, and died soon thereafter. Though married, Maffeo had no children, and therefore he left most of his substantial estate to his nephews, including Marco. Soon after, Marco’s half brother died without a male heir, and left most of his estate to Marco as well. These bequests, combined with his father’s estate, meant that Marco controlled the lion’s share of the Polo enterprise.
The newfound wealth failed to make him comfortable or generous. Accounts of Marco’s animated storytelling yield to records of his litigiousness and pettiness in the latter years of his life. He became increasingly preoccupied with the pursuit of wealth for wealth’s sake, and known for his combativeness and irritability. This sort of behavior, so unlike the engaging attributes of his youth, suggests a tendency to depression. The world’s greatest traveler journeyed no more. He ceased to add to his storehouse of experiences, preferring to strengthen his financial status in the years remaining to him. Documents attest that Marco could be greedy when it suited him, as if he believed having great wealth entitled him to still more. On occasion he lent money to needy relatives, but he always charged them interest; when they were unable to pay, he did not extend or forgive the debt, he took them to court, heedless of the spectacle of one Polo suing another.
In 1319, Marco brought suit against his cousin Marcolino to recover a debt incurred by Marcolino’s father in 1306. The Venetian court ruled that the plaintiff was entitled to seize goods equal to the debt, in addition to twice that amount in the form of a fine, as well as 20 percent interest accumulated over a period of thirteen years. The total exceeded poor Marcolino’s liquid assets, and on September 10 he was forced to transfer ownership of two properties in the San Giovanni Crisostomo neighborhood to Marco Polo—now wealthier than ever.
Marco did not hesitate to take others to court for small matters as well as large. He called a fellow Venetian, Paolo Girardo, to account for a modest unpaid commission for the sale of a pound and a half of musk. To complicate matters slightly, Girardo had surreptitiously sold a small portion, and then returned the remainder to Marco, who, on weighing it, discovered that one-sixth ounce was missing. Outraged, he sued. Described in legal documents as a “noble man,” Marco won a resounding victory and had the paltry satisfaction of being repaid by Girardo, who faced jail if he failed to make Marco whole within a reasonable amount of time.
MARCO POLO’S reputation survived this petty episode and others like it.
At one point Marco drew the attention of Pietro d’Abano, a professor of medicine and philosophy. The two met several times to discuss Marco’s voyage beyond Venice, and each time d’Abano came away impressed by his wide-ranging knowledge, his retentive memory, and, as is obvious on every page of the Travels, his outstanding powers of observation. Returning to Padua, d’Abano composed a treatise in which he complimented “Marco the Venetian” as “the man who has encompassed more of the world in his travels than any I have ever known, and a most diligent investigator,” and proceeded to recount their conversations concerning astronomy, of all things, and, in particular, a certain “star” visible in Zanzibar, the island Marco claimed to have visited near the end of his journey. “He saw this same star under the Antarctic Pole, and it has a great tail, of which he drew the figure, thus.”
Thereafter, Marco spoke as the endlessly curious traveler he once had been, gushing forth details in wild profusion, as if he had found a new Rustichello ready to immortalize his experiences. “He informs me furthermore,” d’Abano wrote, “that thence camphor, lignum aloes, and brazilwood are exported to us. He informs me that the heat there is intense, and the habitations few in number. These things indeed he saw on a certain island at which he arrived by sea. He says, moreover, that the men there are very large, and that there are also very great rams that have wool coarse and stiff as are the bristles of our pigs.”
D’Abano asked Marco whether it was true that people who live “in hot places are timid, and those who are, on the other hand, in cold places, virile,” as Aristotle claimed. Marco attempted to reconcile Aristotle with his own experience as best he could. “I heard from Marco the Venetian, who traveled across the Equator, that he had found there men larger in body than here, and he had found this because in such places one does not meet with the cold that is exhausting and consequently tends to make them smaller.” According to d’Abano’s account, Marco was debunking classical theories in a free-flowing, nonsystematic way drawn from personal observation, yet the professor continued to hold him in the highest esteem. If no longer a traveler, Marco could at least enjoy a burgeoning reputation as the sage of Venice.
BY 1318, when Marco was sixty-four, he could look
with some satisfaction on his growing family. Fantina, the oldest of the three daughters, married Marco Bragadin, with a splendid dowry provided by her wealthy father. Her younger sister, Bellela, followed the same pattern when she married Bertuccio Querini, from an old Venetian family; the union produced two children. Less is known of Moreta, Marco’s third daughter, who left no recorded issue, and probably did not marry while her father was alive.
Marco’s new sons-in-law became his allies in his continuing quarrels with other Polos. Ignoring blood relatives who perhaps had more claim on his loyalties, he chose instead to work with Fantina’s husband, Marco Bragadin; they were so close that the young couple and their four boys and two girls all lived with the patriarch in the Ca’ Polo.
APPROACHING his seventieth winter, the sage of the Ca’ Polo fell out of favor with Venetians. With the Mongol Empire in decline, and the Silk Road no longer passable, the moment in history to which Marco belonged receded in time, even though the implications of his travels had yet to be understood, or his Travels fully appreciated.
When he ambled through the streets of Venice, children followed after, calling out, “Messer Marco, tell us another lie!” Or so one legend has it. Another tradition holds that a Venetian masque witnessed the appearance of a reveler disguised as Marco Polo, who amused the guests by telling the most outrageous stories imaginable as though he believed them to be completely true.
By 1323, Marco had become sickly and bedridden. By this time, his Travels had come to the attention of a Dominican friar named Jacopo d’Acqui, who, as was common, reproduced parts of the narrative in his own work, Imago mundi, in which he related a tantalizing story: “Because there were to be found great things, things of mighty import, and indeed almost unbelievable things, he”—that is, Marco—“was entreated by his friends when he was at the point of death to correct his book and to retract those thing that he had written over and above the truth. To which he replied, ‘Friends, I have not written down the half of those things that I saw.’”
What did Marco omit from his travels? Perhaps gossip from the Mongol court, or his own peccadilloes as a young man far from home. Yet that is not exactly the sense Marco’s statement conveys. Rather than referring to a specific idea, his admission suggests that although he was done with his book, it was not done with him. The experiences contained within its pages would not leave him alone. He had been reliving them since his return, but had found no relief in committing them to paper; describing them only reinforced his obsession. If the accuracy of d’Acqui’s report is to be trusted, Marco’s startling comment tells us that his propensity to relive endlessly his travels along the Silk Road was both a gift and a burden; he could never put those experiences behind him. Although his account draws to a conclusion with his release from Kublai Khan’s empire and return to Venice, his story is amorphous, an odyssey without limits. Asia was so large and varied, so rich in natural resources, customs, politics, in wars and wisdom, and so far advanced over Europe, that no one could manage to include it all in one book.
AS MARCO’S health deteriorated, a physician was summoned—a measure tantamount to calling a priest to administer the last rites. Venetian physicians occupied a respected role in society, but their professional skills were severely limited. By law, they were required to advise a patient suffering from a serious illness to allow for time to draw up or revise a will, and to seek absolution.
On January 8, 1324, Marco lay at home dying, despite the ministrations of the exalted physicians. The day was short; the pale sun cast somber, drawn-out shadows. His family called for the priest of San Procolo, Giovanni Giustiniani, who conveniently doubled as a notary, which meant that he could draw up the dying man’s will and certify it. For Marco, this was his last transaction, his contract with eternity, and he approached it with the skill of an experienced merchant. Working from Marco’s precise notes, Father Giustiniani, writing in the vulgate Latin of the late Middle Ages, drew up the document, long on specificity but short on consistency.
Marco appointed his wife, Donata, and three daughters as coexecutrices, and much of the will’s language was formulaic, in accordance with Venetian customs. He directed that the Church was entitled to tithe his estate, as provided by law, and further directed that additional sums were to be paid to the monastery of San Lorenzo, “where I wish to be buried.” In addition, he listed a number of bequests to people, to religious institutions, and to “every guild and fraternity to which I belong.”
On his deathbed, Marco declared, “I cancel the debt of three hundred lire that my sister-in-law owes me,” and proceeded to cancel other debts owed to him by the convent of San Giovanni, San Paolo of the Order of Preachers, and a cleric named Friar Benvenuto. At the same time, he specified that a fee of 220 soldi be paid to the notary, “for his labor on this my testament and that he may offer prayers to the Lord for me.”
When he came to his servant Peter, the Mongol who had served him in Venice, Marco suddenly turned magnanimous: “I release Peter my servant, of the Tartar race, from all bonds of servitude as [I pray] God may absolve my soul from all guilt and sin, and I likewise release to him all that he may have earned by his labors in his own house, and over and above this I bequeath to him one hundred lire of Venetian denari.”
Only then did Marco consider bequests to his family. Donata would receive an annuity, a prearranged settlement, and the household furnishings, including three beds and all that went with them. The daughters were instructed to divide whatever was left among themselves in equal measure, with a significant exception. Moreta, still unmarried, was to receive “a sum equal to that given to each of my other daughters as dowry and outfit.”
Marco’s will ended with a strict admonition: “If anyone should presume to break or violate this will, may he bring upon himself the curse of almighty God and may he remain bound under the anathema of three hundred and eighteen Fathers, and over and above this he shall pay over to my abovementioned executrices five pounds of gold and may this document, my will, remain in force.” The document ended: “The signature of the above written Messer Marco Polo, who requested that this be drawn up.”
He did not actually sign his will, now on deposit at the Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana in Venice—an omission that has led to the suspicion that he was so infirm he could no longer perform even this simple act. In any case, his signature was not necessary. Giovanni Giustiniani, the priest and notary, signed and authenticated Marco’s last will and testament under Venetian law. To forestall the possibility of forgery, he affixed his tabellionato, a distinctive flourish.
MARCO’S WILL reveals that he had amassed a considerable estate, including items in which he traded, such as fabric, and valuable real estate, including the Ca’ Polo, all of which might have belonged to any prosperous Venetian merchant, with the exception of a few exotic items that bore witness to his exceptional past. Each of the items told a story to those able to understand it.
The first was a “golden tablet of command” conferred on him by Kublai Khan when Marco left Cambulac, and which appointed him to high rank in the Mongol court—a court that barely existed by the time of Marco’s death. The tablet spoke to the depth of the relationship between the Great Khan and the Venetian who had served him for so many years.
The second was a “Buddhist rosary,” made, according to an inventory of Marco’s possessions, from boxwood “in the manner of a paternoster”—a carefully wrought turn of phrase designed to distinguish it from its Christian counterpart. This object spoke to Marco’s once-fervent search for spiritual enlightenment in Asia and India.
The third was a bochta, or Mongol helmet or headdress, decorated with gems and pearls. This unusual item may have been the same headdress worn by the young princess Kokachin, whom Marco had escorted across China. The bestowing of a royal garment on a favorite servant was common practice, and it would have been natural, perhaps even expected, for her to thank the Venetian who had helped to guide her safely across Asia to her new home. Marco
wrote that she had shed tears when she and the Polos parted company, and perhaps she had offered the prize at that emotional moment.
By itself, Marco’s documented wealth did not qualify him as a member of the Venetian financial elite, but it may not tell the entire story. A significant part, or even most, of his assets may have been in the gems he carried back with him from Asia. Rubies and sapphires lent themselves to concealment from commercial rivals, tax collectors, and even family members. Marco and his father and uncle had lived for years among the Mongols while concealing gems in the lining of their robes, and the story of Maffeo’s despair on learning that his wife had inadvertently given his apparently ordinary robe to a beggar suggests the critical importance of those hidden assets. It would have been natural for Marco to continue the custom of hiding his gems after he returned to Venice, even until his death. If this is the case, then the true dimensions of his wealth escaped the notice of the local authorities and will likely never be known.
AS THE HOURS DRAGGED BY, Marco approached death. According to Venetian law, the day commenced at sunset, and it was soon January 9. The all-important notary dated Marco’s will January 8, which meant that his life’s journey ended between sunsets on January 8 and 9, 1324.
The world’s most famous traveler was a prisoner for long periods of his life. He endured decades in two separate forms of confinement, the first when Kublai Khan held him in luxurious captivity in China, the second when he became a prisoner of war in Genoa. Paradoxically, it was during those periods that he was at his best. He had possessed immense patience in the face of trying conditions. That resolve made it possible for him to return safely home from his wayfaring, and later to complete his account in the unlikeliest of circumstances, an enemy prison. Infused with his restless spirit, the Travels survives as both a historical chronicle and a work of art, a depiction of vanished worlds in the form of a timeless adventure.
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