Looking for Marco Polo (20 page)

“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.

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.

“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.