Читать книгу Caravan to Xanadu, A Novel of Marco Polo - Эдисон Маршалл - Страница 4

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I am Marco Polo, a Venetian. Although there have been other appendages to my name at various times, some of no small honor, thus I declare myself before the world and history, my name and my degree.

I declare too, with the same largeness, that there is no city in the world like my native city. When I was twelve years old—old enough to marvel over my father’s and mother’s and my own conjunction in this happy spot—I went alone into San Marco’s church, walked with bent head lest my eyes be dazzled or made proud by its manifold glories, and on my knees gave humble thanks for the great boon. And on this occasion I did not slip a petition or two into the offering. Although my heart was ever bursting with desires, many of them springing from great needs, by the strong grip of my will I muted every one.

In my inward heart, Venice was something more than the wondrous city of my nativity. All men knew she was the Bride of the Sea—made so by a mystic bond of which the ceremonies of Ascension Day were only the acknowledgment—and I, a boy of twelve, largely undistinguishable from a thousand urchins along the lagoon, held her to be my foster father and mother. My earthly father had sailed away before I was born, and I had never laid eyes on him. My own beautiful mother had died before I could talk plain, when only with my hungry lips and arms could I tell her of my love. Would then the Sea’s Bride, ever gay and tender, deny my plea made with tear-filled eyes between sleep and waking in the full black tide of night, such a scene of advent as most mortals visit sometimes in their lives?

I did not find the answer until another midnight, when at risk of a public flogging, if not a burning, I mounted all four of the great bronze horses brought from over the sea when Venice was newborn, and which stand on the outer gallery of the church—I believed what came into my heart that night. I still believe that some mystic relationship between the spirit of the city and my spirit—if it were only a lad’s love born of loneliness—shaped in no small part my future fate.

Why not begin my chronicle with an event of that same year? I was well grown for my age, with the big hands and feet that foretell large stature among men, and if I were ever noticed in a crowd of boys, it was because of the peculiarity of blue eyes going with black lashes, eyebrows, and hair and olive skin. Of themselves they were no novelty. Blonds were seen every minute or two on the Rialto. Still, they were not as common as in Genoa. I suppose the reason was that the latter city lies in the shadow of mountains, while our merry, highborn lady plays in the sun.

In Venice, even rainy days are gay. On the day in question, the sky was bright as a steel mirror brought from Damascus. But it was not in respect to the warm weather that I wore a flimsy shirt and tattered breeches and no more. The poor rig spared my better turnout, itself no fine array God wot, in fact hand-me-downs from my cousin Leo. Besides, in the part of the city for which I was bound, rags that could not hide purses were healthier than robes, less conspicuous, and lighter to run in. It was a part of the city that I greatly loved—it was my college, which I would not swap for Padua—and when I went there I shed all vestiges of respectability along with my cares.

By the da Lorenzo canal, a high-smelling backwater of the lagoon, I joined four of my playmates on a mighty voyage. Our argosy was only a big skiff owned by the fisherman father of one of our crew, and our adventure was to go as near as we dared to a very strange ship newly come to anchor. She had only threescore oars, but very tall masts. While she could not run as fast as our centipede galleys when the wind failed her, when it blew fair I thought she could outfly them as an albatross does a gull. Her wings were folded now, but they must be as big as an albatross’s in proportion to her body, longer and sharper than any vessel’s I had ever seen.

“Now what do you reckon she is?” asked Felix the fisherman’s son, my best friend. We were resting on our oars a cable’s length distant.

“She’s a vile Infidel, and you can lay to that,” another answered.

“I’ll tell you what she is. She’s a zebec.” And my authoritative tone did not betray the wildness of my guess.

“How did you know?” one awed fellow asked.

“My papa and my uncle fought with them in the Sea of Marmara. They’re the swift war galleys of Algiers.”

Just then a black-bearded man on the deck, with a naked waist and a great, hooked sword, saw us and shouted something in an unknown tongue. At once a half-dozen of his fellows came pouring from the castle—tall, brown, some half naked and others fantastically dressed—yelling and gesticulating with what seemed extreme fierceness. My companions were so frightened that they were snatching up their oars, intending to run before the ravening crew launched their longboat.

I was somewhat less frightened, less because of a bolder heart than because of a cooler head. These bearded sunburned sailors were the wildest I ever saw loose on a ship deck, but I had seen men of their dress and complexion chained together after galley fights on the eastern seas. I could not believe that they had brought their war vessel into the lagoon without the consent of the harbor master, or would dare shed Christian blood in sight of the Lion of San Marco. Their shouts sounded more frantic than ferocious, and their beckonings might indicate distress.

“I don’t think they’ll hurt us,” I told my mates. “Let’s go up——”

“And have ’em snatch us aboard and clap us in irons?” one of them screeched, desperately plying his oar.

“They’ll whack off our stones and sell us for harem slaves,” added Felix, the lively witted fisherman’s son.

One of the turbaned crew was holding up a small, bright object that I took for a silver coin, meanwhile clapping his other hand on his heart. This did not cinch my decision as much as a passion that had mastered me before—extreme curiosity. I had more of it than any boy I played with. I would take greater hazards to have it gratified.

“If you won’t come alongside, I’ll swim for it,” I said.

My friends looked glum and Felix shook his head.

“I’d go with you, Marco, if this was my boat,” he told me. “But it’s my father’s boat.”

At that I slipped overboard into what I thought would be warm water. It seemed to have chilled as by some treason of nature. Only devilish pride, for which more sinners have died than saints have for piety, kept me stroking. The ship began to loom high and sinister. My heart lay so heavy it was a wonder I did not sink. Saracens were notorious slave-catchers—bold as sharks—and it was told on the Rialto that they performed Satanic ceremonies with Christian children....

Yet my leaden arms kept flailing, and suddenly I became aware of a splendid victory.

With joyful faces, two of the Infidels threw down a rope ladder. Others held out hands to give me a lift—all were exclaiming pleasure and praise. One cried “Bravo!” quite like a Venetian, strutting the accomplishment before his fellows. This last touch of nature did more to reassure me than all the rest.

When I had soared over the rail, the men gathered about me, their faces sober now, while their leader tried to tell me something. I could not understand a word of the heathen lingo, but he shouted and sweated like a Christian; and when he was struck by an idea and beckoned me to follow him down a dim hatch, I did so without much fear. He led me into an incense-scented room lighted by an oil lamp. I became aware of a great heap of multicolored rugs, and then of a human form. The flickering light revealed a brown, bony face, snowy eyebrows and beard, and white raiment.

“Mustapha Sheik?” my guide called in a reverent tone.

“Yea, Kemal Capudan,” the old man answered feebly.

After a brief conversation, the lamp was brought so that the gaffer could see me better. Thereby I discovered the most wonderful face that my eyes had ever lighted on, though I could not tell where its wonder lay. Although he wore no gold or jewels and his garments appeared to be white cotton and the only indication of luxury in the room was his heap of rugs, I believed that he was as great a lord as the Doge of Venice.

“So you’ve come to help me,” he said in my native tongue. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Marco Polo, your Honor.”

“Your speech is not in accord with your habit. Of that, I must know more later. Marco, we’re anchored here by the sufferance of the harbor master, under orders that no man leave the vessel until certain papers are issued by the Council. Meanwhile I have come down with an old sickness, and without my medicine—our store of it was stolen at Malta—my good mariners are afraid I may succumb. I will not, but almost wish I might, so great is my pain.”

“If you’ll tell me what it is and give me the money, I’ll get you some.”

“We call it bhang, or hashish, and savants know it as Indian hemp. But I fear it will be hard to find in Venice.”

It was then that I thanked my patron saint and namesake, San Marco, for knowing so well the city that he guards. Among my favorite resorts were the apothecary shops, with their strange wares. Now and again I had eked out pocket money by selling toads, snails, glowworms, and snake eyes, and even more gruesome objects.

“Doubt not I can find you some, your Honor,” I told him.

The piece of gold that he handed me was not as beautiful in my sight as his brightening face. The quest of the medicine became a glorious emprise. The fleet pike would be hard put to it to beat me back to the boat.