faces with root dyes and walnut juice and oiled their hair and bound it back in bright cloth so they’d look like the men they’d be riding with. They wore Arab cloaks—but was anyone fooled by their costume? The desert Arab notices everything—the slightest variation in cloths, a mend in a foreign thread—he can spot a stranger just like that,” the doctor said with a snap of his fingers.
“The sheikh who led them,” he continued, “was a tall man in a loose tan jacket and a length of embroidered silk twisted around his head. He wore a broad green skirt with an elaborate woven belt. At his waist at the front he carried a
scimitar,
the curved dagger of the nomads as long as a man’s arm. His was inlaid with silver.”
Hornaday reached into his coat and pulled out a gleaming scimitar with snakelike curves worked into the shining metal.
“I found it in the Christmas market coming over here this morning,” he said, handing it to Mark. “Another piece of Marco’s world for you to go with your pillow. Merry Christmas!”
“Wow,” said the boy, studying the knife and testing the edge. “It’s really sharp! Thanks, Doc.”
“Let me have it back for now,” Hornaday said, standing up and tucking the knife into his belt. “It’s part of my costume.”
The dog looked up as the doctor wound his red scarf around his head.
“You give us a show?” the signora asked.
“Doc’s the caravan guide,” Mark explained. “He’s going to take Marco across the desert.”
“Good,” said the signora.
“Go!”
“To the clatter of leather drums strung with bells, the Polos set out,” the doctor said. “Marco was better mounted than most, on a dark orange camel with a rough, lurching gait. No camel is smooth-gaited like a horse. With her head high she shuffled along. To make her turn he was taught to tap her head gently in the direction he wanted to go; to get her to stop and let him down, he would rap her neck until she sank to her knees.”
I’ve seen that camel!
Mark thought.
On the front of that building!
“That first day Marco was really sore,” the doctor was saying. “A camel’s back is broad—broader than a horse’s—so he had to spread his legs wide. They rode until late.
“When at last the halt was called, Marco dug ashallow hole in the sand, rolled up in his cloak against the sudden cold, and lay down. Three hours’ sleep, then the boom of the sheikh’s gong and off again.
“As he got up, Marco rolled on a scorpion that had come close in the night for warmth. The bite left him sick for days, his shoulder swollen—”
“Hold it, Doc,” Mark interrupted. “Are you making this up?”
“I’m imagining how it might have been,” Hornaday explained. “I’m imagining from how it was for me when I was on the desert going to Kirkuk.”
He went on. “The Polos were traveling with a merchants’ caravan. Nowadays, we have goods from all over, things so cheap and plentiful it’s hard to imagine how eagerly villagers in Marco’s time listened for those travelers, and the cheers that went up when they heard the traders’ camel bells clanking miles away.
“Wherever they stopped they’d hand out treats of dates and dried cherries to the children and let the women admire themselves in Kublai’s mirror. For the men there were pinches of clove and cinnamon, for every girl a tiny drop of oil of rose from Persia to dab behind her ears. For the little ones they’d knot twists of brightly dyed wool into tiny figures.”
“To make friends as they went along,” Mark said,getting the idea. “They were outnumbered. They needed friends to watch out for them in case they got in trouble. Dad brought trinkets with him to give away too.”
In case he gets in trouble,
he added silently.
“The villagers didn’t have money,” the doctor continued. “The few things they bought, they traded for—eggs, cheese, and chickens in exchange for needles from England and a few bright glass
“The sheikh who led them,” he continued, “was a tall man in a loose tan jacket and a length of embroidered silk twisted around his head. He wore a broad green skirt with an elaborate woven belt. At his waist at the front he carried a
scimitar,
the curved dagger of the nomads as long as a man’s arm. His was inlaid with silver.”
Hornaday reached into his coat and pulled out a gleaming scimitar with snakelike curves worked into the shining metal.
“I found it in the Christmas market coming over here this morning,” he said, handing it to Mark. “Another piece of Marco’s world for you to go with your pillow. Merry Christmas!”
“Wow,” said the boy, studying the knife and testing the edge. “It’s really sharp! Thanks, Doc.”
“Let me have it back for now,” Hornaday said, standing up and tucking the knife into his belt. “It’s part of my costume.”
The dog looked up as the doctor wound his red scarf around his head.
“You give us a show?” the signora asked.
“Doc’s the caravan guide,” Mark explained. “He’s going to take Marco across the desert.”
“Good,” said the signora.
“Go!”
“To the clatter of leather drums strung with bells, the Polos set out,” the doctor said. “Marco was better mounted than most, on a dark orange camel with a rough, lurching gait. No camel is smooth-gaited like a horse. With her head high she shuffled along. To make her turn he was taught to tap her head gently in the direction he wanted to go; to get her to stop and let him down, he would rap her neck until she sank to her knees.”
I’ve seen that camel!
Mark thought.
On the front of that building!
“That first day Marco was really sore,” the doctor was saying. “A camel’s back is broad—broader than a horse’s—so he had to spread his legs wide. They rode until late.
“When at last the halt was called, Marco dug ashallow hole in the sand, rolled up in his cloak against the sudden cold, and lay down. Three hours’ sleep, then the boom of the sheikh’s gong and off again.
“As he got up, Marco rolled on a scorpion that had come close in the night for warmth. The bite left him sick for days, his shoulder swollen—”
“Hold it, Doc,” Mark interrupted. “Are you making this up?”
“I’m imagining how it might have been,” Hornaday explained. “I’m imagining from how it was for me when I was on the desert going to Kirkuk.”
He went on. “The Polos were traveling with a merchants’ caravan. Nowadays, we have goods from all over, things so cheap and plentiful it’s hard to imagine how eagerly villagers in Marco’s time listened for those travelers, and the cheers that went up when they heard the traders’ camel bells clanking miles away.
“Wherever they stopped they’d hand out treats of dates and dried cherries to the children and let the women admire themselves in Kublai’s mirror. For the men there were pinches of clove and cinnamon, for every girl a tiny drop of oil of rose from Persia to dab behind her ears. For the little ones they’d knot twists of brightly dyed wool into tiny figures.”
“To make friends as they went along,” Mark said,getting the idea. “They were outnumbered. They needed friends to watch out for them in case they got in trouble. Dad brought trinkets with him to give away too.”
In case he gets in trouble,
he added silently.
“The villagers didn’t have money,” the doctor continued. “The few things they bought, they traded for—eggs, cheese, and chickens in exchange for needles from England and a few bright glass
Similar Books
