Looking for Marco Polo by Alan Armstrong

Author:Alan Armstrong [Armstrong, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-89298-1
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2009-09-04T04:00:00+00:00

14

MARCO MEETS KUBLAI

Boss began his long kowtow wake-up stretch as the doctor stood up slowly, like a big stick figure unkinking. “It’s late. Time to shove off,” he said, pulling at his turban. “Come on, boy.”

“Hey!” Mark protested. “You can’t stop there!”

“No! No!” the signora exclaimed. “No matter how late, we must hear.”

Hornaday shrugged, emptied his glass, and sat down again. He was like a performer called back for an encore.

“If you say so,” he said, taking a deep breath.

“Kublai’s summer capital was in Mongolia. It was a walled park sixteen miles around in the high grasslands. At the center there was a palace, but Kublai preferred living in something that reminded him of the tents of his childhood. The palace of marble with columns and ornaments was for his people: they loved dazzle; it made them feel strong. He didn’t need that; he preferred the white tent of felt and bamboo he’d ordered set up in a field of tall steppe grass.

“At the entrance to Kublai’s tent, two of his biggest guards stood with iron rods beside what the Mongolians called a humbling bar, a knee-high stick visitors had to step over.

“The height of the bar signified the occupants’ rank and compelled respect, since crossing it required one to bow, and the higher the bar, the deeper the bow. It was also believed to keep out ghosts because ghosts couldn’t bend their knees.

“Mongol men were shorter than Europeans. They wore heavy fur coats that brushed the floor. They were careful about crossing the entrance bar, but sometimes a foot or a coat hem touched it. Nothing was supposed to. Touching it was considered a bad omen. If a visitor tripped or misstepped and touched the bar, Kublai’s guards would strip the offender and whip him, and he’d have to pay to get his clothes back.

“Marco was tall; he floated over it. He was twenty-one.

“Kublai’s tent was supported by six white poles, gilded and banded blue and topped with carvings of dragons like the ones on Mark’s pillow. The ropes were white silk. There were blue panels in the roof with the constellations figured in silver at their positions on the longest day of the year. The room was fragrant with roses.

“The emperor of the Tartars sat in a white silk robe on a carved wooden bench cushioned with a scarlet rug. He was shorter than Marco, muscular, the color of tarnished copper. His skin was sleek, like it had been oiled. His square face shone behind a long black mustache and a skimpy clutch of brushed chin whiskers. His ears were long and pink, the lobes white and fleshy. It was said that his great ears caught every secret. His chest was broad; his arms were thick. His hair was tucked under a white skullcap tied tight with a thick black band. His eyebrows were tapering gray lines high above his eyes, which were half-closed. When he opened them wide, they cast light. It was said that the secret of his power was in his burning eyes.

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