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Title: Caravan to Xanadu, A Novel of Marco Polo
Date of first publication: 1953
Author: Edison Marshall (1894-1967)
Date first posted: Nov. 2, 2020
Date last updated: Nov. 2, 2020
Faded Page eBook #20201103
This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Al Haines, Jen Haines & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net
CARAVAN
TO
XANADU
A Novel of MARCO POLO
EDISON MARSHALL
FARRAR, STRAUS and YOUNG
New York
COPYRIGHT, 1953, BY EDISON MARSHALL
All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduce this book in any form.
MANUFACTURED IN THE U.S.A.
TO AGNES
CONTENTS
Prologue
BOOK ONE
1. The Old Arab
3
2. The Young Father
18
3. The Leper
36
4. The Pearl
61
5. The Challenge
77
6. Temptation of Beauty
92
7. The Parchment
107
8. Departure
124
BOOK TWO
1. Toward the Rising Sun
147
2. The Arghun Woman
157
3. Lord of the Ruins
171
4. King of the Snows
182
5. Voices on the Desert
193
6. The Strangers
208
7. The Temple of Swasti
226
8. The Magicians
245
9. The Fallen God
258
10. Road to Xanadu
272
11. The Chasm
280
12. The Court of Kublai Khan
295
Notes
305
PROLOGUE
When Marco Polo, a famous traveler and noble citizen of Venice, had come to ripe years and pleasant fortunes, he was summoned to the ducal palace and honorably received by the Doge, Pietro Gradenigo.
“I have just read a manuscript describing the lands and peoples visited in your travels,” the Doge remarked, “and I had a curiosity to look into your face.”
“I thank your Grace,” Marco Polo replied with a courtly manner, “and I hope my humble recital gave you pleasure.”
“It did indeed, as well as instruction. Thereby I learned of the customs and commerce, climate and politics, of many kingdoms and cities that I didn’t know existed under the sun. I took pleasure in reading of the wondrous sights, such as broad seas, cloud-capped mountains, deserts, palaces, and wonders past counting that you beheld, and of the soul-stirring sounds, such as the voices of demons amid the barren sands and the blare of trumpets and cymbals of mighty kings as they rode forth to battle, which you heard with your own ears. I took note of the sweet perfumes that came to your nostrils, as well as the grievous stinks, and of the exquisite viands and heavenly wines that pleased your palate. I marveled over the furs, silks, gold, and jewels that passed through your hands. But I couldn’t share with you these rare and enthralling experiences, because you did not give me leave.”
Marco Polo gazed half in bewilderment, half in consternation, into the Doge’s countenance, which was half clouded, half lighted, by a faint smile.
“Your Grace, I’m not sure that I understand you,” Marco said.
“You didn’t make me your companion, Marco Polo. It was as though you didn’t trust me to share your joys and sorrows, victories and defeats, let alone the more delicate sensations of your body and soul. Indeed, you didn’t even let me see your face.”
“It’s the face of an aging and tired traveler——” Marco Polo began, in his perplexity catching at the straw.
“It was not so when the great journey began or even when it ended,” the Doge broke in. “Even now, your brow is high and noble, your eyes are sparkling with the zest of life, your nose is long and strong and fit to follow through the world, your mouth at once delicate and firm. Your body is sturdy and retains vestiges of youthful grace. Marco Polo, are you a merchant before you are a man? I don’t believe it. Did no poetic feelings rise in your soul when you gazed upon rivers so great that in comparison with them the Po is no more than a mountain brook? Weren’t you frightened of the dangers along the road? Did not many times your life hang by a hair?”
“Truly it did, but——”
“Did you sometimes laugh? Did you never weep? Did no fires kindle your liver when you gazed upon the beautiful maidens of the Kashmir?”
“I conceive you now, your Grace. Since the scenes themselves were so strange and new to my fellow citizens, I thought best to describe them as mundanely as possible, for credence’ sake. And while a great many remarkable adventures were inherent to my journey, I thought that their narration would bring upon me the charge of self-glorification, and thus make suspect the whole writing.”
“Seen in that light, Messer Polo, your restraint was wise. The ignorant, the narrow-minded, and the crass are by nature skeptical, as well as stone-blind to the poetic turns of Fate. Still, I hope you will have leisure and inclination to essay another account of your great emprise, to be circulated only among the nobility, the gentry, and others of equal education and imagination. With them you may dare be honest. You may prove to us, even at this late day, that the world is more wide and wonderful than our fireside dreams envision, and that it’s still the oyster of the brave and resolute man.
“Marco Polo, you trusted in the old gods, the gods of Reward and Retribution, or you would have never set sail for Cathay,” the Doge went on, his eyes alight. “Tell us the fate of those who defy those gods! You sought Adventure, knowing she would yield to your rough wooing. Tell us of the bed you made with her, and what children were born. Reveal your secrets, Marco, my friend and fellow citizen! Lay bare your heart.”
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER 1
THE OLD ARAB
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?