Maybe, Leonard whispered.
Nothing is more terrifying. It was like this for hours, days perhaps — it is hard to know because there was no night or day there, or maybe I was unable to discern the difference. A minute felt like hours, an hour passed like a drop of rain. The sunshine felt like mud, I could barely lift my feet. I walked, or maybe I sat, I dreamed, maybe I was covered with sand, or maybe the wind uncovered me, I do not know. I may even have died: this is not impossible. It is possible to die, then live again.
Leonard didn’t know what to say.
I opened my eyes, and there they were. The people whose name I dare not mention, of whom I have not spoken.
Even Leonard dared not say the Tibetans.
Yes, Mill said, as if reading Leonard’s mind. They were many. They wore silks, they wore garlands, they were like angels, riding on steeds with hooves adapted to the desert, steeds that flew across the sands. They took me to their tents, their huts, oh I’m too tired to properly describe them, but maybe you can see them, dear Leonard.
I can!
They administered potions and unguents, they put drops in my eyes. I saw things, dear friend, too horrible to mention, too beautiful to describe. My waking hours were as sleep, my sleep more vivid than any life. It was then that they taught me, or rather it was through their example that I learned, for they assumed I already knew. They saw how strange I was, how I had come from far away, they assumed I was like them. They are separated from their kind by vast distances, you see. But I think that is all I will say for today. Leonard?
Yes, Milione?
I have been in battle, I have crossed the raging seas, I have relied on my fellows and with them I have survived every hardship known to man, sorrows such as I hope you never experience. But you alone have become my friend.
Really? Leonard said.
You have an ability …, Mill said.
To listen? Leonard asked.
Yes, Mill said. To listen.
Rusty’s manner
Mill had all but abandoned his nighttime tales. These days he spoke only of Rusty, the poncy blowhard who’d undertaken to write his history.
I do not like his manner, Leonardo. He will not speak plainly. With him it is always You must take it as a fact, or I assure you most heartily that, or I will give over my wife to you should you find that it is not as I say … When a man speaks in such a manner, I know he lies!
His ideas about what might interest a reader are most peculiar! he said on another occasion. I promise you, the only thing worth recording is these desert adventures of which I have not yet fully spoken. Others will soon return from the lands you have heard me describe; they will recount the customs there — this will happen sooner than you think, and quickly my little book will disappear. But only I can describe the marvels I saw in that desert place, the things I learned to do there. Rustichello is stubborn, however: he will not hear of it! If I write what you say, says he, the world shall call us crazy and foolish and, he is at pains to remind me, he is neither crazy nor a fool. What he wants, though he will not admit it, is to win back his place at court. He cannot stop talking about Edward of England, though what a king would want with such a man, I cannot say.
What does he want to write about? Leonard asked.
Frippery! This is his entire interest! Wealth, excess, opulence — any evidence of riches. Ordinary riches are not sufficient. If I speak of a tower made of silver, he wants one made of gold. If I speak of a palace, he subdivides it into a fantastic number of rooms, each filled with gemstones and silks, the finest paintings, porcelain, and napery. A dinner for one thousand in his telling becomes a ten-day feast for ten thousand. The world knows ordinary riches, says he. No one wants to read about ordinary riches!
Who wants to read about any kind of riches? I reply.
But I misspeak. The knave has another interest. He wishes scandal, he wishes … but my mouth can scarcely form the words!
Try, Leonard said.
He wishes …, Mill had started whispering. He wishes … an affair of the heart. He wishes an amour! Preferably with the wife of the Khan. But I would never! Molesting the wife of my liege would mean death! Do not fear, says he. I shall write it so that you may escape his clutches. In the dark of night! Yes, the dark of night! Wearing the garments of a lady-in-waiting!
I punched him, of course. What choice had I? Despite what he might now say, he landed nowhere near the spittoon, but it is his manner to tell tales that cast himself as victim.
He also has that fascination with war that afflicts those who have never experienced it. He quizzes me most intently about battles I did not witness, battles with no bearing on my tale. It must have been like any other war, I venture. There were elephants, of course, and arrows. People were betrayed, people died. His face turns an unhealthy red when we discuss slaughter on a large scale; he goes into his dank corner, breathing heavily, and scribbles.
There are some things he will not write about, of course. He will not believe that Cathay is bounded by a long, tall wall, fully the length of the country, so he will not write of it. He believes me when I say that cultured folk in Cathay drink an infusion of sticks and leaves, but he finds the practice disgusting and will not describe it. He will not write about foot shrinking …
Foot shrinking?
In Manzi, they swaddle a girl’s feet so tightly her feet will not grow, but instead bleed and exude pus and foul odors until they shrink to the size of an apple. It is on such feet that the poor creature must hobble the rest of her days. The women do this willingly because their men prize small feet. This is the truth, I have seen it! But we must not write such things! he says. Stories such as this will upset the ladies! We must not upset the ladies!
He is a liar and knave, and would make of me the same! Mill stormed.
We can’t have that, Leonard said.
We cannot! Mill cried.
Leonard has a subtle mind
It is an outrage, Mill reported to Leonard a day or two later. The man has been in his corner for days, his back to the rest of us, scribbling. I sensed some outrage was afoot, so when he was on the piss pot, I grabbed his vellum. Do you know what he has written there?
I do not, Leonard said.
It is too shocking to say!
Please try, Leonard said.
You shall take it for the truth! Mill said.
I shall not, Leonard said.
He has heard rumors of Princess Kokachin — all of them untrue! We delivered her intact to Arghun — or rather, to Gha-zan, for by the time we arrived, as I’m sure you know, the lord of the Levant was dead. It is true that she and I developed a rare friendship, it is true that she was young and fair like a rose and we were many months at sea and she wept copiously at our parting, but there was no amour! The prince’s women confirmed that she was whole!
And Rusty?
Rustichello has contrived scenes in which I look at her longingly and she at me; according to his tale, we sleep on the deck of the ship separated only by a sword (dulled, of course, in bloody battle), and that in the midst of a squall, when it seemed we might die — but it is too despicable!
He has gone too far! Leonard said.
I drowned his vellum in the piss pot, I had no choice, but the man is crazed, he says he does not need me. Did he need King Arthur’s approval to write about him? Oh, Leonard, what shall I do? If the world believes I have betrayed my sovereign, I shall never work again!