Laurence Bergreen Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue: The Commander

  BOOK ONE / Europa

  1 The Merchants of Venice

  2 The Golden Passport

  3 The Apprentice

  4 The Opium Eater

  5 High Plains Drifters

  6 The Secret History of the Mongols

  Photo Insert 1

  BOOK TWO / Asia

  7 The Universal Emperor

  8 In the Service of the Khan

  9 The Struggle for Survival

  10 The General and the Queen

  Photo Insert 2

  11 The City of Heaven

  12 The Divine Wind

  BOOK THREE / India

  13 The Seeker

  Photo Insert 3

  14 The Mongol Princess

  15 The Prodigal Son

  Epilogue: The Storyteller

  Acknowledgments

  Notes on Sources

  Select Bibliography

  A Note About the Author

  Also by Laurence Bergreen

  Copyright

  To my mother,

  Adele Gabel Bergreen

  Kublai asks Marco, “When you return to the West, will you repeat to your people the same tales you tell me?”

  “I speak and speak,” Marco says, “but the listener retains only the words he is expecting. The description of the world to which you lend a benevolent ear is one thing; the description that will go the rounds of the groups of stevedores and gondoliers on the street outside my house the day of my return is another; and yet another, that which I might dictate late in life, if I were taken prisoner by Genoese pirates and put in irons in the same cell with a writer of adventure stories. It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear.”

  “…And I hear, from your voice, the invisible reasons which make cities live, through which perhaps, once dead, they will come to life again.”

  —Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  WEST

  Marco Polo, Venetian merchant

  Niccolò Polo, Marco’s father

  Maffeo Polo, Marco’s uncle

  Teobaldo of Piacenza, papal legate; later Pope Gregory X

  Rustichello of Pisa, Marco’s cell mate in Genoa and coauthor

  EAST

  Genghis (or Chinggis) Khan, founder of the Mongol Empire

  Ögödei Khan, Genghis’s son and successor

  Kublai Khan, one of Genghis’s grandsons; the Great Khan of the Mongols

  Möngke Khan, one of Genghis’s grandsons

  Sorghaghtani Beki, mother of Möngke, Hülegü, and Kublai

  Chabi, Kublai’s principal wife, a Buddhist

  Ahmad, Kublai’s Muslim minister of finance

  Nayan, Kublai’s Christian rival

  Arigh Bökh, younger brother of Kublai Khan

  Kaidu, one of Kublai’s cousins

  ’Phags-pa, Tibetan Buddhist monk who devised a uniform Mongol script

  Bayan Hundred Eyes, Kublai Khan’s trusted general

  PROLOGUE

  The Commander

  IN THE SUMMER OF 1298, Genoa’s navy, one of the most powerful in Europe, gathered forces for an assault on the fleet of the Most Serene Republic of Venice. Despite formal truces, these two adversaries had been doing battle for decades, vying for lucrative trade routes to the East.

  Crafty and bold, Genoa usually enjoyed the upper hand in their bloody contests. In 1294, the Genoese had won a naval action by lashing their vessels together in an enormous square. When the Venetians attacked, the floating fortress shattered the would-be invaders and put them to flight. The following year, the Genoese again demonstrated dominance of the high seas by sinking the principal Venetian trading fleet, and when they ran out of targets on the water, they pursued the Venetians on land. In 1296, in Constantinople, the Genoese massacred their rivals, acquiring a reputation for cruelty and rapacity.

  Venice gradually rallied. Under the leadership of daring naval commanders, sleek Venetian galleys pursued the Genoese wherever they went, setting the stage for the Battle of Curzola, named for an island along the craggy Dalmatian coast, claimed by both of these arrogant city-states in their incessant maritime trade wars.

  THE IMMENSE Genoese fleet, eighty-eight ships in all, sailed under the confident command of newly appointed admiral Lamba Doria, who pursued a wait-and-see strategy, hiding behind islands, then sailing into warmer waters close to Tunisia, hoping to lure the impatient Venetians into his grasp. The Venetians refused the bait, and the forces of Genoa had to content themselves with random local skirmishes. Finally, Admiral Doria could wait no more, and he ordered his fleet north, into the Gulf of Venice. The ships met with no significant resistance as they sailed past cities and castles under nominal Venetian control. In the absence of the enemy, they dropped anchor off the coast of Curzola, four hundred miles southeast of Venice. At that moment, a violent storm claimed six of the fleet’s eighty-eight vessels, and when it cleared, the survivors proceeded to loot and destroy the island, offering what they assumed would be an irresistible taunt to the invisible Venetians.

  On the morning of September 6, 1298, amid gathering heat and humidity, the Venetian fleet suddenly appeared out of the mist: ninety-six galleys under the command of Andrea Dandolo, the scion of a prominent dynasty. The Venetian galleys, renowned for their speed, were slender, elegant affairs resembling giant gondolas, powered by pairs of straining oarsmen. The galleys could plunge into oncoming waves and, with equal confidence, turn to drive a spur projecting from the bow into an opposing ship. The moment this device was in place, Venetian forces rushed across to storm the enemy.

  Because oars work most efficiently when they enter the water at a shallow angle, the ships exposed less than three feet of freeboard. (Galleys could also travel under sail, although they were poorly equipped for this technology.) Existence aboard a Venetian galley was misery. Crews of about a hundred men were crowded into narrow spaces; food and water were in short supply. Galleys carried only a week’s worth of supplies; short rations for the exhausted rowers were the norm rather than the exception. To cope with these severe limitations, Venetian galleys put in at night, and kept their missions brief—three or four days, at most. With their shallow drafts, they hugged the shore—deadly but surprisingly vulnerable craft lying in wait to strike.

  ONE OF THESE ships was commanded by Marco Polo, a merchant who had returned from China three years earlier. At forty-four, he was among the oldest participants in the battle, and by far the best traveled. Marco headed into battle bearing the title of “noble” of Venice, financing his own ship and relying on experienced pilots to do the actual sailing. A global traveler since the age of seventeen, he felt most at home when abroad. Under siege, Marco Polo was in his element, confident and composed. Fighting in the Battle of Curzola was a way to surround himself with glory in the eyes of his fellow Venetians, who regarded his tales of China with skepticism.

  Andrea Dandolo led Marco and the other Venetians to the opposite side of Curzola, where his men disembarked—and promptly went into hiding. During the interlude, Lamba Doria had taken the measure of the enemy fleet, and had reached the erroneous conclusion that the Venetians were simply delaying engagement in battle out of fear. But the next morning—Sunday, September 8—the Venetians charged across Curzola toward the Genoese encampment.

  Eager to confront the Venetians at last, Doria led his men into an amphibious battle. On land, arrows darkened the skies; at sea, galleys rammed and set fire to one another.

  As Doria surveyed the scene at the height of battle alongside his son
Ottavio, a Venetian arrow struck the young man in the chest. Ottavio fell at his father’s feet, suddenly lifeless. Others aboard the ship attempted to commiserate with Doria, but he refused their pity. “Throw my son overboard into the deep sea,” he ordered. “What better resting place can we give him than this spot?”

  With the wind at their backs, the Venetians, under Dandolo’s leadership, seized the initiative and captured ten Genoese galleys, but in their enthusiasm they ran their ships aground. After nine hours of combat, the exhausted Venetians found themselves overwhelmed. The Genoese captured eighty-four Venetian galleys, sinking some and burning others to the waterline. Only a handful of the once-proud vessels escaped. The human toll proved even greater. In all, the Genoese forces captured 8,000 men—a breathtaking number at a time when the total population of Venice was scarcely 100,000. The defeat amounted to the worst setback that Venice had suffered during a decade of battles with Genoa.

  In disgrace, Andrea Dandolo lashed himself to his flagship’s mast and beat his head against it until he died of a fractured skull, thus depriving the Genoese of the satisfaction of executing him.

  THE SCALE OF the victory astounded the Genoese forces, who marveled at their good fortune as they led the captured Venetian galleys to a grim reckoning in Genoa.

  Among the thousands of wretched captives was Marco Polo, nobleman of Venice.

  FOR THE NEXT four weeks, the Genoese fleet with its captive vessels proceeded on a generally southerly course, and then turned west, under the heel of Italy, and finally north toward Genoa, where the vessels arrived on October 6, 1298. Marco Polo’s galley was towed into the harbor stern first, her sail luffing in the breeze, her banners askew, and her commander in shackles.

  Further disgrace awaited Marco Polo on land, where, according to some accounts, he was immediately confined to the Palazzo di San Giorgio. Despite its grand name, the structure had grim associations for Venetians because it was built (in 1260) from stones the Genoese had shamelessly stolen from the Venetian consulate in Constantinople. The result was a vulgar monument to Genoese military superiority, complete with ornamental stone lions taken from the original, the lion being the symbol of Venetian power, now tamed by her chief rival.

  Stung by the indignity, Venetians claimed that prisoners starved here, while the Genoese maintained that they were well fed and well cared for. The truth probably lay somewhere between the two. Prisoners wandered around the palazzo at will, and even sent for luxuries from home. Prominent detainees, such as Marco Polo, occupied apartments in which their beds were surrounded with curtains made of rich fabrics; it is possible that servants ran errands for them. Life in captivity consisted of tedium rather than cruelty, but it stretched on for years.

  Even in these degrading circumstances, Marco Polo kept his wits about him. As a Venetian commander, he was treated with deference. He made himself known throughout the prison, and then Genoa, as a teller of sensational tales of his travels in Asia, just as he had in Venice prior to his capture. He was able to attract attention and elevate his circumstances until he became regarded as a phenomenon. Displaying the same ability he had deployed to survive in the Mongol Empire and in India, he charmed and ingratiated himself with strangers. Eventually, the Genoese, his natural enemies, came to hold the distinguished and entertaining Venetian in high regard. “The whole city gathered to see him and to talk to him, not treating him as a prisoner, but as a very dear friend and greatly honored gentleman, and showed him so much honor and affection that there was never an hour of the day that he was not visited by the most noble gentlemen of that city, and presented with everything necessary for his daily living,” wrote Giambattista Ramusio, a Renaissance scholar who composed one of the earliest accounts of Marco Polo’s career.

  Freed from the constraints of his mundane commercial responsibilities, Marco did not merely survive in jail, he thrived, metamorphosing into a middle-aged male Scheherazade who earned his keep with tales of his adventures, and especially of the Mongol ruler Kublai Khan. The Venetian claimed to have seen him with his own eyes. “Messer Marco,” Ramusio wrote, “beholding the great desire that everyone had to hear of the things of the country of Cathay and of the Great Khan, and being forced with great weariness to begin his story all over again each day, was advised that he ought to put it in writing.”

  AS HE LANGUISHED in the Palazzo di San Giorgio, Marco encountered a prolific writer of Arthurian romances named Rustichello of Pisa, a favorite of King Edward I of England. The Genoese had captured the writer years earlier, on August 6, 1284, in the Battle of Meloria, while dealing a decisive blow to rival Pisa. Like the other detainees in the palazzo, Rustichello was looking for a means to cope with the enforced idleness, and Marco provided the necessary distraction. Eloquent and excitable on the subject of his travels, the Venetian talked volubly about his sojourn in the court of the most powerful ruler in the world, Kublai Khan.

  Kublai Khan was, at the time, a half-real, half-legendary figure to most Europeans, who considered the Mongol Empire the most savage and dangerous realm on earth. Yet here, in Rustichello’s presence, was a man who had not only seen Kublai Khan but appeared to know him well, and who in his service had traveled from one end of Asia to the other, and beyond.

  In Rustichello’s words, “Marco stayed with the Great Khan fully seventeen years; and in this time he never ceased to travel on special missions. For the Great Khan, seeing that Marco brought him such news from every country and conducted so successfully all the business on which he was sent, used to entrust him with the most interesting and distant missions.” Impressed, Rustichello continued, “The Great Khan was so well satisfied with his conduct of affairs that he held him in high esteem and showed him such favor and kept him so near his own person that the other lords were moved to envy. This is how it came to be that Marco observed more of this part of the world than any other man, because he traveled more widely in these outlandish regions than any man who was ever born, and also because he gave his mind more intently to observing them.”

  The palazzo’s better-educated inmates composed poetry or spun elaborate tales of chivalry as a means of diversion. At times the prison resembled a particularly well-guarded literary colony populated with aristocratic writers and would-be writers. In their midst was Rustichello, a quick-witted scribe with a talent for flattery, constantly on the lookout for a story—an adventure, a romance, a battle—to beguile his aristocratic audience.

  Hearing Marco Polo’s wondrous tales of the East, Rustichello realized he had come across the story of a lifetime, one of the most remarkable true tales ever told. Inevitably, the romance writer suggested to the world traveler that they collaborate on a popular account of Marco’s travels. Trying to inject a note of nonchalance into the grim circumstances that had led to the creation of their masterpiece, Rustichello explains, “When he was staying in the prison of Genoa because of the war, not wishing to be idle, he thought he ought to compile this book for the enjoyment of readers.”

  Marco knew well the uses of adversity, and had been turning them to his advantage during the whole of his extraordinary life. Here was his chance to memorialize his adventures. To refresh his memory, he sent for the records of his journey, and the collaborators set to work on a “Description of the World” as experienced by Marco Polo. It would come to be known simply as his Travels.

  BOOK ONE

  Europa

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Merchants of Venice

  Then all the charm

  Is broken—all that phantom-world so fair

  Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread….

  SHE HID from her enemies amid a seductive array of islands, 118 in all. Damp, dark, cloistered, and crowded, she perched on rocks and silt. Fortifications and spectacular residences rose on foundations of pinewood piles and Istrian stone. In Marco Polo’s Venice, few edifices—with the exception of one huge Byzantine basilica and other large churches—stood entirely straight; most structures seemed to rise uncerta
inly from the water.

  Marco Polo came of age in a city of night edging toward dawn; it was opaque, secretive, and rife with transgressions and superstitions. Even those who had lived their entire lives in Venice became disoriented as they wandered down blind alleys that turned without warning from familiar to sinister. The whispers of conspiracy and the laughter of intimacy echoed through narrow passageways from invisible sources; behind dim windows, candles and torches flickered discreetly. In the evening, cobwebs of mist arose from the canals, imposing silence and isolation, obscuring the lanterns in the streets or in windows overlooking the gently heaving canals. Rats were everywhere—emerging from the canals, scurrying along the wharves and streets, gnawing at the city’s fragile infrastructure, bringing the plague with them.

  The narrow streets and passageways, some barely shoulder-width, took bewildering twists and turns until, without warning, they opened to the broad expanse of the Grand Canal, which divided one-half of the city from the other before running into the lagoon and, beyond that, the expanses of the Adriatic Sea.

  In winter, the city hosted Carnival (literally, the playful “bidding farewell to meat” before Lent). Carnival became the occasion for orgies taking place just out of sight behind high courtyard walls and opaque curtains. Rumors of foul play ran rife amid the gaiety and sensuality of the Republic. Venetians bent on evil preferred quiet means of imposing death, such as poisoning or strangulation, and they usually got away with it.

  IN AN UNCERTAIN WORLD, thirteenth-century Venetians could feel certain of a few things. Two hundred years before Copernicus and three hundred before Galileo, it was an article of faith that the Sun revolved around the Earth, that the heavenly spheres were perfectly smooth, and that Creation occurred exactly 4,484 years before Rome was founded. Jerusalem was considered “the navel of the world.” Entrances to Heaven and Hell existed, somewhere.