Looking for Marco Polo (15 page)

“‘Upon the harnesses of the lead camels—the tall ones they call pilgrim-camels—there were shields of scarlet with metal mirrors at their centers. Their ranks of bells sounded with each footfall—the sound of the march.

“‘We were warned to watch for spiders and snakes and to oil our bodies against the sun and the biting flies—especially around the eyes, which is where the flies strike in swarms, for the eye is always moist.

“‘We were told to keep away from places where the sand looked wet, no matter how thirsty we were, for it is not water: it is quicksand, the loose sucking sand that swallows men. No camel will go near, but mules will, and thirst-crazed men. Many thirsty are lost at those places.

“‘We were called before dawn by the booming of the chief man’s great bronze gong, a disk the size of a cart wheel worked with strange figures in silver and hung with silk thongs on a long pole. It is so heavy, two men are assigned to carry it, while a third—a squat knot of muscle with a hardwood club—stands on a box and strikes with all his strength. It is said those three are deaf from this work.

“‘It goes OOOOOOOOMM,’ Marco bellowed as hard as he could, bringing Kublai’s guards stumbling over each other.”

Hornaday’s yell had Boss up and barking as the listeners clutched each other.

“‘There was a great hubbub of making ready, calling and running with lanterns, striking the tents, then a confused roaring of men and protesting of camels.

“‘Another great OOOOOOOOMM and we were under way!

“‘We marched out of Lop two abreast, swaying and jerking on the slow-footed camels through green that grew sparser and sparser until there was none, just sand and empty wastes of gravel. Sometimes a heap of
stones marked the way, sometimes graves, sometimes what our guide called “heaps of witness”—a place where someone had a vision. The desert is a great place for visions.

“‘The track swung down into a depression they call the Valley of the Demons. Dried camel dung and skeletons marked our track. The slaves collected the dung for our cooking fires. There was no other fuel. Dung burns hot.

“‘We were told to curb our thirst. We were drinking in a morning what a desert Arab drinks in a day.

“‘Half of our fleet of “ships of the desert,” as those humped beasts are called, Sire, carried our water in goatskins—bloated hairy carcasses, the legs tied off at the feet, the crotch stitched tight, the neck corded off.

“‘There was a long stretch where, as we’d been warned, there was no water, so we drank from those skins. The water was cloudy; it slimed on the tongue and had the taste of fish.

“‘It was six days’ march to the next oasis.

“‘The dawning sun glowed and made the desert fragrant. Two hours later its light smacked us like the flat of a sword. There was no color. We saw no living thing except the flies that pricked at us, trying to drink our eyes.

“‘Sometimes gusts of wind come that groan like dying men. We looked at each other: were there people out there we should rescue?

“‘They are the lost dead, according to our guide. You hear the ghosts of ones who could not keep the track, or their camels grew weak and could not get up.

“‘We were warned, too, about the evil demons in the desert. They shriek and wail. We were told it has happened that travelers going to see if there is someone in distress have been lost, for those sounds are not men but the voices of spirits and goblins. Sometimes the spirits will call a man by name.

“‘Sometimes there are sudden storms of sand driven by a burning wind, Excellency. The old camels sense it coming and begin roaring and going to their knees, stretching their necks out long and laying their muzzles on the sand.’”

Mark was gripping his seat.

“‘We were caught in such a storm, Excellency. There was thunder and lightning. Quickly we formed the caravan in a circle around the lying-down beasts and wrapped the animals’ heads and our own in cloths so we would not breathe in the sand—particles as fine as the perfumed dust your slave powders you with after your bath, Excellency.

“‘The animals groan deep in their throats as you huddle tight together, gasping in rags, chewing grit, the stuff filling your shoes and sifting in where your pants meet your shirt and your shirt your neck. It flies up your cuffs into your armpits and your nether parts, where it rubs and chafes.

“‘We lay down flat lest the spears of lightning strike us as they have struck many beasts and men there, peeling off their skins.

“‘The hurricane moves swiftly and passes in a moment, but if the beasts and their men did not protect themselves, they would die an awful choking death.

“‘The dust can suffocate a man in an hour, the sun
can cook him in an afternoon, thirst will finish him in a day—his tongue swollen and black at the end. Hunger kills in a week—but the snakes! Their bite finishes a man in minutes.

“‘We met them wherever there was water—puff adders, cobras, black snakes. At night we walked with sticks, beating the bushes to drive them off. When all was quiet and no one was moving about, these serpents would slither up silent to lie close against us for warmth. With care we rose to obey the calls of nature. The first to rise would search around his fellows with a stick. One morning we killed twenty.

“‘The chief’s men hurried about collecting all the snakes killed in the night—often a great pile! For breakfast they’d gut them and chop the lengths into sections and roast three or four in a row on the tips of their long curved knives. The meat was white. It tasted like rotten chicken. They counted it a great delicacy. I threw up the piece I ate.’”

Mark paled. On top of what the doctor had just said about the dust storm, the thought of eating roast snake made him want to gag. He swallowed hard.

Hornaday kept on. “‘When we stopped at night, our first task was to dress ourselves and our camels with the black oil of Arabia against the itch. Once the
camels stopped walking, the itch was all they could think of, so we did what we could to keep them from going mad with it. Where their packs chafed we eased them with butter. Only when a camel went down dying did we remove its pack, and then the men would fall upon the beast with their knives, hacking it apart for food.

“‘Mine was a red she-camel. At one point, exhausted and thirsty, she stumbled and fell down a sand cliff, throwing me hard. She lay whimpering and trembling. For all my yelling and prodding she would not get up. I was sure she’d die there.’”

Mark nudged his mother. “A red one, like what we saw on that building,” he whispered. She nodded.

“‘Roaring a terrible curse, our guide circled back and swung off his camel. He slid down to where mine lay moaning. He dug in the baggage and pulled out the pelt of her recently dead calf.

“‘He held it before her. She sniffed and rose. He led her up the cliff. I mounted and we went on. She never failed me again.

“‘That night we made some miles in the dark, but we were tired and hungry. We stopped to camp.

“‘The next day the wind came on again. We made but few miles. Our goatskins were going flat.

“‘The guide said, “We soon pass water holes marked by cairns. Drink what you find there and you will void your bowels ten times over.”

“‘He ordered, “Now you will save your urine. It will not hurt you to drink it. The camels will not. We give them what is left in the skins. To you the taste will be the same.”

“‘We did this, Sire. The taste of a man’s urine is the taste of death.’”

Mark shuddered. “I am going to be sick,” he groaned.

Hornaday went on. “‘We were not eating now, Excellency. We slept on our bellies to ease the hunger ache and keep them from swelling. Two days farther on, still without water, we saw what looked like a wet place in the sand. Despite our warnings, one man ran limping toward it, his hands cupped. The quicksand caught him. He stumbled and began to sink, flailing and howling. Before our rope could reach him, he had sunk to silence.

“‘The desert is searing hot by day with such intense bright light, the only way to survive is to wrap yourself in white suits and head swaddles. Evening comes on with fiery hanging clouds. Then, quickly, it is freezing cold under gleaming stars so bright the Arabs make maps of them.

“‘In Venice we do not see such stars. In the desert
there are no clouds. With so many stars it is easy to find bears, rams, shepherds, and see the Magi approaching overhead.’

“‘Magi?’ Kublai asked. ‘Who are these Magi?’

“‘The wise men who came from Persia to see the infant Christ. They were summoned by a brilliant star. It is in the Bible.’

“‘Such things happen to many in the desert,’ Kublai muttered. ‘The sun cooks their brains. In the dark they have visions.
Go
on.’

“‘At the other side of the Great Desert there are mountains, and the green begins again. Dug into those mountains there are hundreds of caves honoring the Buddha, each one with a painted image of him or a carving of his figure, some with images of the lesser figures as well, all gilded and painted in vivid oranges, crimsons, grays, and blues before scenes of gardens with beautiful women and animals.

“‘Flames gutter before these figures day and night on twists of wool in bowls of fat. A thousand crimson-robed monks tend them, chanting, ringing tiny silver bells, clanking hand cymbals of brass.

“‘These monks beg their livings from those entering and leaving the desert. Those about to depart give them alms in hope of good fortune; those arriving give by way of thanks for their safe coming.

“‘The rest you know, Excellency. The monks gave us cups of their thin soup, and for a small coin they allowed us to sleep in a temple, but all night long they sing-songed and sounded their bells. Their singing was like the desert winds of the lost.

“‘The next morning, Sire, forty days from here, your soldiers met us.’

“Marco stopped speaking.

“‘More!’ the emperor commanded.

“‘I have no more to tell, my lord.’

“‘More!’ the great man boomed. ‘More!’

“Marco held his face steady.

“‘There is nothing more to tell, Excellency,’ he said in a level voice. ‘Everything here is strange to me.’

“‘What is the strangest?’

“Marco thought for a moment.

“‘The paper, Sire,’ he said at last. ‘In Venice paper is a rare thing. We write our books on skins. Here your daily edicts are painted on sheets of it. Even in the place of relief there is paper for wiping.

“‘But strangest of all is your black money paper. I don’t mean the magic money—the tokens painted to look like coins that the Buddhists burn with their dead so the spirit will have funds in the next world. I mean your real money.

“‘Our doge collects tribute and taxes in gold and silver as you do, but unlike you, he must pay out the
same to his servants, soldiers, shipbuilders, and provisioners.

“‘I am told you pay all those you owe with these different-sized slips of black paper stamped with your vermillion seal, and no one in all your kingdom is allowed to make or spend any other money.

“‘The wonder is your people accept those scraps. I see in the markets that even the rumpled ones buy grain and oil and all the other necessaries of life.

“‘Your shadow gold works like real, but in fact it is worthless, my lord. Since it has no value, why do people take it?’

“Kublai smiled. ‘It has value because the people believe it does.’

“‘Today, yes,’ said Marco, ‘but what if tomorrow they stop believing in that trash?’

“‘Venetian,’ Kublai muttered, ‘your tongue is a dangerous little muscle. One day I shall have it out. For now, though, tell me the one thing of Venice you miss the most.’

“‘I am tired, my lord….’

“‘The one thing, then you may go.’

“‘The music of the street, Excellency.’

“‘What music is that?’ Kublai asked.

“‘People laughing and speaking words I can understand as the women stand in their doorways and
talk to one another and the men idle slowly together to the taverns at dusk and stand arm in arm, telling each other stories.

“‘I miss the bells of Venice, Excellency. Your huge bells clang the hours and alarms, but there is no joy in their sounds. Our bells have silver in them, so they ring with a sweet mellowness. Our smallest ones tinkle like young girls laughing. From dawn to dark we hear the music of our bells calling us to prayer, to work, and to rest. I miss our bells and hearing the monks sing our prayers. I feel deaf here, as if my head were wrapped in wool.’

“Marco caught himself. Hadn’t Mustafa warned him never to show his feelings?

“
‘Sounds?’
Kublai asked, pulling at his thin beard. ‘Of all the things of Venice, you miss her sounds the most?’

“Marco nodded.

“Kublai shook his head and turned away. Marco got up to leave.

“Kublai swung back. ‘No! You may not go yet. You must first tell me about a wonderful thing of Venice—something I do not know.’

“‘You said I might leave once I’d told you what I missed the most.’

“‘I expected to hear about something I’d want!’
the emperor screeched. ‘Your noise of Venice is nothing. Tell me about something I might want; then you may leave.’