The servant hurried from behind Marcia to beat Hunter to the front door. He flung it open and stepped aside, bowing again as his guests entered. Another servant, a young woman with long braids, held the door inside, also bowing.
The servants led them through a foyer into a large sitting room. Large tables of Chinese rosewood, small ones of black lacquer, and rosewood chairs lined the room. The chairs were padded with embroidered silk cushions; porcelain vases on the tables held green plants or flowers. Chinese landscape scrolls hung on the walls.
A European man of average height entered. He had curly brown hair and a neatly trimmed matching beard, and he wore a plain blue Chinese robe. Steve judged him to be in his late thirties.
“Welcome,” he said in formally in Italian. “I am Marco Polo. Do you understand Italian?”
“Yes,” Hunter responded in that language. “I am Hunter, a trader. My companions are close friends.”
“Welcome,” Polo said to Steve and Marcia in Chinese, with a slight bow.
“Thank you,” said Steve, bowing. In the rear of the house, he could hear other footsteps and muffled conversation. Obviously, Polo employed many servants.
Next to him, Marcia also bowed but said nothing.
Switching back to Italian, Polo added, “I am not fluent in Chinese, but I have picked up a few words.”
“You have done very well here,” said Hunter.
“By your accent, you are not Italian,” Polo said to Hunter. “Where are you from?”
“Switzerland.”
“Switzerland! I have heard it is beautiful there. My travels never took me that direction.”
Steve glanced quickly at Marcia. He did not recall Hunter discussing this detail of his role. She did not react, so Steve decided that Hunter knew what he was doing.
“However, I have traveled a great deal,” said Hunter. “I have not been home for many years.”
“Have you been to Venice? Can you bring me news of my home city?”
“I can tell you a little.”
For the first time, Polo smiled broadly. “Excellent! Please sit down.”
Steve waited for Hunter to move first. Hunter accepted a large rosewood chair. A small black lacquered table inlaid with abalone shell separated it from a matching chair that Polo took. Steve and Marcia then sat down on a small couchlike seat with a straight, uncomfortable back.
Polo turned to the servants, who were standing attentively to one side.“Cha, dian xin.”
The servants bowed and hurried away.
“He knows more Chinese words than you thought,” Steve whispered. Polo had ordered tea and the brunch more commonly known in Cantonese as dim sum at home in their own time.
“So tell me about Venice,” Polo said in Italian. “Is it still the premiere city in Italy?”
“It is proud and splendid,” said Hunter, “the finest city in all of Europe.”
“And Venetian galleys still sweep the Mediterranean of pirates?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad. I left when I was still young. My father and uncle are jewelers. They live in this neighborhood, too.”
“How did your family first come here?”
“My father and my uncle had a house in Soldaia, on the Black Sea.”
“That city has an entire colony of Italian merchants, doesn’t it?”
“Yes! You’ve been there, I take it?”
“No,” Hunter said. “I have heard of it.”
“Oh. Well, it is a fine city, though not the equal of Venice-and certainly not the city that Khanbaliq is.”
Steve relaxed, leaning back in his seat as Hunter and Polo discussed more events in Venice. He sneaked glances at Marcia, who did not react outwardly in any way. Steve realized that Hunter was using the information he had accessed from the Mojave Center library to convince Polo that he knew Venice.
20
Polo paused in the conversation as the servants hurried into the room with a big brass tray holding a porcelain teapot and four cups. Steve saw that Hunter followed Polo’s lead and did not speak. The servants poured tea for everyone and handed them the small cups.
“Is the tea to your liking?” Polo asked. “The food will take a little longer, I fear.”
“It is excellent tea,” said Hunter.
Polo glanced at Steve and Marcia and spoke in Chinese. “Good?”
“Very good,” said Steve.
Marcia nodded, smiling.
“Well, where was I?” Polo said, speaking Italian again. “My father and uncle journeyed from Soldaia to the land of the Golden Horde when I was a child.”
“Much of modern Russia,” Marcia whispered almost inaudibly to Steve.
“From that land, they came here to see Kublai Khan,” Polo continued.
Hunter nodded, sipping his tea.
“When the khan heard of our religion, he asked them to return home and have the pope send a hundred men learned in Christianity back with them, along with oil from the sacred lamp at the sepulchre in Jerusalem.”
“Really?” Hunter asked politely. “Where were you during this time?”
“I was still in my youth. However, when my father and uncle returned, they invited me to travel back to China with them.”
“I see.”
“We took a couple of friars-the pope would not send a hundred-and some oil and started our journey.” Polo smiled and shook his head. “The friars turned back out of fear, and we could not stop them. But we brought the oil, and we have been in the khan’s empire ever since.”
Steve took a deep breath and fought his impatience. This was mildly interesting, but accomplished nothing he could see. As Polo and Hunter continued to talk, he whispered to Marcia in Chinese.
“Why doesn’t Hunter get to the point?” He spoke into her ear, still watching Polo and Hunter.
“This kind of slow exchange to get acquainted is part of business in this era,” she whispered back. “In fact, as a social mannerism, it lasts largely up to the middle of the twentieth century.”
“What’s going on?”
“Business is very personal in this time. Certainly Polo knows Hunter came to ask for a favor, and he wants to get a sense of who the stranger is before he asks what Hunter wants. And Hunter seems to know this.”
“Why doesn’t Polo ask first what Hunter wants, and then decide if he wants to help?”
“That’s considered rude.”
“Oh.”
“We’ll just have to wait.”
“If Polo continues to do most of the talking, though, I don’t see what he can learn about Hunter.” Steve straightened again and listened to Hunter and Polo.
“I have told my friends here a great deal about Europe and the lands between here and there,” said Hunter, nodding toward Steve and Marcia.
“Kublai Khan is the greatest man of our time,” said Polo. “Possibly of any time.”
“Don’t buy it,” Marcia whispered to Steve in Chinese. “Polo never saw the large picture.”
Steve remembered that when Marcia had first briefed the team, she had told them how the money had been devalued several times because the economy was poor. He also recalled that most serious crimes received the death penalty. This empire appeared prosperous, but economic mismanagement and rule by fear underlay life here.
The servants entered again, this time carrying two brass trays with dishes of steaming dumplings and noodles. They set the trays down on a large table and placed individual servings on small plates with chopsticks. Then they brought the servings to everyone.
Hunter and Polo resumed their conversation in Italian.
“Smells familiar,” Steve whispered to Marcia. “It even looks the same as in our time.”
“Much of the dim sum has been unchanged for centuries,” said Marcia.
“Wait a minute. How do you know?” Steve grinned. “Food doesn’t keep that long.”
“Old recipes are still on record,” said Marcia. She paused to blow on a hot dish. “Some dishes appear in paintings; relief sculpture; and book illustrations.”
“Well, here’s the real proof.” Steve paused to eat.
“I’m fascinated just by meeting Marco Polo,” said Marcia softly. “I just…”
“What?”
“I wish I could tell him about his book.”