My name is Marco, son of Polo; my father is a travelling merchant. I was born in the year 1248 AD. But my Mamma’s birth records had alterations as the date and month of my parturition were missing. I grew up in one of the several family palaces, ' Polo Palazzo Bianco' with cousins, nephew, nieces and aunts. I never had a lot of friends. I never understood why, but I felt happy and made people jovial. I was lucky to have a beautiful Michelle and Rikki, as my close cousins: the daughter and son of uncle Maffeo respectively. We would swim in the shallow canals and build sand sculptures on the man-made beaches of Venice. To the family, it was a common habit for cousins to stay the night, could sleeping where they last dozed. We all loved this place we called home.
We had servants for all family chores, cooking and cleaning. We each had a room with a queen-sized bed, study desk, a chair and wall wardrobe. We shared a common bathroom and a kitchen with a large table, where all family meals were served. Each aunt had her day of duty as per the timetable with a stipulated menu. As we ate, our aunties would tell us the Byzantine conquest narratives as we swallowed our ‘Venetian pasta’ with ‘rissotto broth.’ Our pet poodle, Izrael and his feline friend, Hazel never gave us any peace. They would quickly scamper under the table to scramble for food crumbs, purring and barking a cognizant sweet music to our young ears.
Despite all the wealth, Aunt Gracia Maffeo and my sweet, beautiful Mama, Signorina Anna Defuse Nicolé Niccolo, were lonely hearts. As their husbands Maffeo Polò and Niccolo Polò respectively were always away from home, their wives had to nurse the toddlers single handedly but no one talked about it: a Polò family proibiozione (taboo).
For months the family physician Signora Pomelo would pass me on the stairway as I examined the hand sketched portraits, especially one of my absent father, ‘Padre assente.’ The photos were drawn courtesy of Venetian architect and fine artist, Palladio.
***
During the winter of 1258, Momma, Signorina Anna Defuse, daughter of a famous Venetian legendary merchant, succumbed to pneumonia chills. The private funeral ceremony was attended by a Doge, a leader from noble council, and the presence of clergy from the church of Santa Maria Gloriasa Dei Frari. All clad in funeral dark toned dressings, we laid the remains of dear Mamma in an ivory alloy casket in the sludge at the edge of a canal next to the gondola squeri. As the Italian sun hung over the tropic, the sea breeze balancing the temperature, my eyes enjoyed the view of Venice; the lovely ‘la serenissima’. A network of most serene and sublime canals, bordered a group of over 118 islets, separated by a grand canal thoroughfare and lined with Renaissance and gothic palaces.
Our storied mansion stood behind Ca'd'Oro and Ca' Loredan, resplendent with its shining, pointed arches, tracery stonework and the stained window glasses overlooking the grand canal. White stone columns and Romanesque arches intricately carved and beautified by decorated facades led to the flight of stairways to the narrow canal. A huge marble Venetian lion with wings holding a book the symbol of Venice Republic graced the top of the building. The seagulls squeaked as the Andriatic sea roared and raged.
“ Live your life Marco,
Die and they’ll mourn,
Slip to Newfoundland,
For farewell they come,
On ships and horsebacks,
Dedicating the body to Earth,
They eat and dine,
“‘Our son write to us.”’
The last words,
Sorry, Those last words,
With wind gone,
Sun will shine every day,
The wind will blow,
Tidal waves shall flow,
Don’t live for fools,”
“Live your life, Marco.” were my Mamma's words that made me cry as I watched the foot tall Istria marble epitaph reading.
* “Qui giace una Bella Signora,
Anna Defuse Nicole Niccolo do nobile nascita,
do alto grado di brividi e febbre morì, Niccolo Polò.
La gioia del marito,
Delle zie e do in maschio sopravvissuoto di tre anni,
Marco Polò.
NATO:1200AD.
MARTO: 1258 AD.
In ambre e grande onore abbiamo detto,
Dio riposi la sua anima.” *
***
“Marco he's here!”
“Who ?” I asked.
“ They are back…!”
Pointing towards the courtyard was Andrea Gabrielli, our family cook. His job was to prepare family meals, which we all loved. Born in northern Italy he loved cooking Italian dishes; a man of awesome skills: always smiling and a positive mien.
“ Marco they’re here! ”
“ Who! Gabrielli?”
He walked hurriedl, catching everyone unawares as his flip flop squeaked. On the courtyard stood Uncle Maffeo and father, Niccolo: we embraced each other with big hugs for thirty minutes; the room was full of ineffable joy. Between dancing and celebrating, we burnt the midnight candles as we listened to their silk journey narratives. Then, secretly, my father went to mourn alone at his wife’s graveside.
***
After two months, as all our goods were securely packed on the gondolas, Grandfather Polo Marco, an octogenarian, sat in a reclining chair on the mansion’s balcony. He watched as the servants parked goods on the water crafts adjacent to the canal. With my few possessions, some change of clothing and a perfumed body lotion, I joined my father and uncle on the gondola. The gondoliers, all men in their mid-thirties, were clad in tight fitting black pants with red striped shirts and knee-high closed dark boots; a few wore nose-low banded straw hats. Michelle was sobbing, and Izrael, our poodle, was busy growling.
With four gondolas packed with goods, leather saddles, riding racks, dried grapes, animal fur and skins, the craft were ready to hit the water. We were to catch a sailing ship at Santa Marta port, a connection to Constantinople.
After much concerted effort at propelling the man-made crafts and the will of the long oars to displace water and move the gondolas forward, we arrived at Santa Marta at midday. Our sailing ship had “S.V.Andriatika” in big bold black letters inscribed on the hull. With its large canvas sails suspended from a boom attached to a tall support rig, it blossomed at the dock, swaying like a lily, with its several sails and stays arranged as flower petals. With its deck full of goods, we entrusted our lives to this old sea vessel, to carry us to the next port.
At noon the wind currents pushed us to the vast sea. As waves rose, mountain high, we were cold and seasick. As dusk approached, the weather became calmier and smooth momentarily. There was a gush of wind and chit chat from the passengers as the ship sailed along. Father smiled as he watched the eastern horizon.
“ To stay safe, hold the railing to avoid being injured,” the old Captain yelled as the waves rose and fell, rocking the sea vessel from prow to stern in a wavy rhythm.
***
After the sea, we hit the Old Silk Road that my great grandfather travelled through, encountering different cultures and religions, meeting both friendly and hostile people. It took us through the following countries, (detailed in “My Journeys”) Constantinople (Turkey) Azerbaijan, Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Kazakhstan, Turkemenistan, Ukraine to name but a few.
As we entered Mongolia, our goods and all our possessions were taken away from us. I was overcome by fear as I looked at the guard’s eyes. He was wearing a white, religious Mongol robe covered by a black woolen trench coat. “ These are orders from the Emperor: we want to verify your passport!” The guard yelled. “What if you came to spy?”
He opened the door and motioned us to enter. My heart sank. I thought of all things that could happen in such a place. A cold prison dug on the side of the slopes of Himalaya mountains. The rocky walls could not hold a prayer, but I called on God of the universe and promised Him all the good things I would do when we were released. So that the promises made to Mamma may also materialize.
Inside the air was stale, I could not catch my breath. There was no idea of how many minutes had passed, but we had expectations of a written order from the Emperor Kublai Khan, for we suspected something was wrong. “Would we be safe? Would history see us successful? Time would tell.”
** English Translation.
"Here lies a lady of perpetual noble birth, Anna Defuse Nicolé Niccolo.
From high degree of chills and fever she died, the delight of her husband Niccolo Polò, her aunts and a surviving male,Marco Polo.
À BORN: 1200 AD
DIED:1258 AD
In love and great honour we bade,
God rest her soul.”
Bio.
Peterson Maina Kinyua is a protestant Christian from the East of Africa, Nairobi Kenya. He is a college graduate who is a “Tactician:” an electrician, plumber, painter. He has a lot of passion for writing, something that he has found healing since childhood. He is a regular contributor to AWS.