Nicolo and Maffeo had known of this marvel ever since their previous journey to Cathay, but counted it so little compared with much else they had seen that they had never mentioned it in my hearing. Nor had they spoken of the paper money we began to see in the towns and posthouses—paper very like the Arabian sort, made from flax, cut into strips and bearing a writing designating a certain sum in silver as set by the Khan. Peasants in the fields accepted it as readily as silver, never questioning whether it might be counterfeit; thus a man could carry a fair-sized fortune in his bootleg, and a one-horse load would buy a thousand horses.
The season advanced, the road ran on, and by the end of April we were in northern Shansi along the great bend of the Hwang Ho. For many moons and a thousand miles I had heard mention of Kuku-khoto, the Blue City, the great mart of Middle Tatary above the Wall, and the abode of the Living Buddha. I had thought it would be so strange to come to it at last. But now we came to it and the merchants traded there and we saw the wondrous temples with their countless idols and after a while it dropped behind the horizon. We had come now to a populous plain, strewn with cities and towns, and paying immense tribute to the Khan in gold, silver, and paper money and in the stuffs of their manufacture, especially gold and silver cloth gorgeous beyond description. And far and wide, down every road and across every water, the name of Kublai Khan was a name to make men catch their breath and women turn white with awe and little children grow round-eyed. And as we moved eastward, it was around and about us like the bowl of the sky.
No name of mortal man that was ever breathed, I thought, held so many in such awe. In Christendom not even the name of God sounded and resounded with the same thunder, perhaps because His face and hand were hidden from mortal sight, and He dwelt in Heaven instead of in a man-built palace across a river, a mountain, or a plain. Indeed Kublai Khan was more than a name; it had become a watchword, an appellation at once terrible and sublime; millions upon millions of human beings pronounced it in their prayers.
His couriers rode furiously on every turnpike. From every lane came droves of horses, camels, cattle, and sheep for his use, and caravans and trains of carts loaded with the produce of the farms and factories bound for his treasure houses. There was no law but the Khan’s, no right or wrong except what increased or reduced his power and glory; every body and soul and stick and stone was his personal possession to do with what he pleased. The sun must shine or the rain must fall by his imperial leave, for if they balked, his horde of wild-eyed magicians from Kashmir and Tibet conjured them to his sway. This last was told us by the most learned men we met. After many tellings, I did not believe or disbelieve, only put it out of my mind. If I were to survive on some desperate day not far off, it must be not as a king-worshiping Oriental, but as a Venetian.
We journeyed to Siuen-hwa-fu, a considerable city devoted to making harness and leather and fur garments for the Khan’s troops, not far below the Wall in the far northeastern corner of Shansi. Three days beyond lay a country of far-flooded rivers and lakes, black with water fowl on the spring flight, and at a place called Chagan Nor, meaning White Pool, the Khan was having erected a hunting lodge, for his ease in hunting the birds with his thousands of falcons, and in hawking the pheasants, partridges, and cranes that swarmed the plains. The edifice would be of marble, and with its additions and outbuildings it would house ten thousand souls, the least number that accompanied him on pleasure trips, not counting the Imperial Guard, which would quarter mainly in the town.
From thence a great turnpike made for Peking, and in hardly a week’s easy march we could have laid eyes on the greatest palace in all the world. But we would not see the Sun of the World shining in glory there, for the sun in the sky told us this was May, and he and his train were making for Xanadu, his summer palace and pleasure dome ten days to the north in the province of Jehol. He would arrive toward the last day of May. A few days later he would hold a Fete of welcome, receiving emissaries and gift-bringers from all this corner of his empire. And since Nicolo and Maffeo were his accredited ambassadors whose duty it was to bring him tidings from Christendom, they too turned north. And since my slave girl was a prized attendant upon Nicolo’s slave girl, I followed them, walking in the dust.
On that ten-day march, it was as though we were drawing nearer some kind of heaven, where an infinite number of angels strummed harps and sang, and no shadow could exist in the manifold rainbow light, and every moment held more thrilling pleasure than a lifetime on earth. We heard no music, saw no radiance, but the converging caravans, loaded with gifts and tribute, and the travelers pouring from every lane and footpath, had the same effect in heightening our excitement. Hence came subject princes with their gorgeous trains, governors of provinces who swayed more power than many a king in Europe, barons bejeweled and bedizened, mighty captains of hosts with guards of honor, ambassadors riding fast with sealed documents and royal greetings, wealthy merchants from all lands, artists hoping for sudden fame, wandering players, jongleurs, and musicians, peddlers of all sorts, and, in ever increasing numbers, humble pleasure-seekers and sightseers. These last were spending in one fling their little stores of hard-earned coins and ill-afforded leisure. The greater part of every day they spent on the roadside, making way for dignitaries and their trains. Yet I saw no resentment in their faces; they gaped at every wonder and thrilled at the displays and aspired to no happiness better than merging with the laughing bright-eyed crowds, and dreamed no dream of glory greater than beholding, with their own eyes, the very Khan.
Some of the families had bullock carts in which the women and children rode, along with food for the journey, cooking pots, holiday clothes, and even a rude pavilion. Others had loaded their gear on a single animal, the parents and the older children walking, and usually carrying babes on backs, in arms, or in wombs. If they had no baggage except bundles, as was true of thousands of poor pilgrims, their cares seemed proportionately light. Why not? When their money was spent and their bellies were empty, the Khan would fling out largess. There was no danger of rain or any disagreeable weather, because the Khan would forbid it. And the little fields to which they must return would yield better crops next year because they had basked in the effulgence of the Khan.
The unexplainable rise and the swift flight of one rumor after another added to the general joy, and no one mourned the sudden death of its predecessor. The Khan would give away one hundred elephant-loads of silver alms. . . . The Khan would feed a hundred traitors to his hunting tigers. . . . The Khan would name which of his twenty-five legitimate sons would succeed him, and three would be thrown to death in carpets for gazing through a window into his harem. The Khan had a new drinking mug, to hold a gallon of mare’s milk, carved from a single diamond. . . . To my amazement, our caravan was the subject of one swift-winged tale—that Nico-lo-po, a great baron of Frankistan, was bringing testaments of surrender and subjection, along with vast tribute, from the Emperor of the West to be laid at the Khan’s feet. Only the Emperor’s name was in dispute. Some thought it was Richard the Lion-Hearted—the far-flung fame of that long-dead doughty Englishman had stirred me before now. Others maintained it was the Pope, and no few held it to be Prester John.