Marco Polo's Fantastic Journey to the East
The most famous travel book of the Middle Ages was actually dictated in a prison to a writer of romance novels! Marco Polo shared the breathtaking wonders of the East, famously stating on his deathbed that he hadn't even described half of what he had seen.
In 1254, the waterways of Venice sparkled in the light, gondolas swayed gently, and a baby boy was born in a house beside a narrow stone alley. His name was Marco Polo. Sadly, his mother died when he was very young, so little Marco grew up with relatives. His father, Niccolò Polo, and his uncle, Maffeo Polo, were two experienced jewel merchants who traveled far for many years, even reaching the East. They had seen Kublai Khan with their own eyes and brought home many strange and wonderful stories. Every evening, little Marco loved to sit by the window and listen to the grown-ups whisper about legends of the East: palaces there shone with gold, their roofs tiled in gold; marketplaces there bustled with life, spices and silk piled up like small hills; and rivers there were as wide as the sea, with boats coming and going. Once, he could not help asking, "Did Father really see that Great Khan?" A relative smiled and patted his head, saying, "He did, he did, and he even brought back spices from the East!" These stories fell into his heart like seeds, slowly growing into a wish—one day, I will go and see that faraway, magical East.
In 1269, the sea breeze of Venice carried a salty smell, and a merchant ship slowly came to shore. Marco Polo met his father, Niccolò Polo, and his uncle, Maffeo Polo, for the first time. He looked at these two travel-worn relatives, feeling both nervous and excited, and for a moment he could not speak. His father smiled, opened his arms wide, and hugged him tightly: "Child, you have grown so tall!" Two years later, in 1271, seventeen-year-old Marco Polo decided to set out with his father and uncle for the faraway East. They carried the Pope's letters and precious holy oil, hoping to bring the gospel to Kublai Khan. At first, two priests traveled with them, and everyone looked after one another and prayed together along the way. But the journey was truly too dangerous—high mountains, distant waters, and bandits lurking about. The two priests grew more and more frightened, and at last they stopped midway and decided to turn back. Marco Polo felt a little disappointed, but he did not shrink back. He and his father and uncle kept going forward, their hearts full of expectation for the unknown world.
The three of them set foot on the famous Silk Road, following this ancient trade route that linked East and West, walking forward step by step. They crossed the high mountains of Persia, where the mountain wind howled, the rocks were steep, the days were hot, and the nights were cold. Marco Polo wrapped his coat tightly around himself and could not help asking, "How much longer must we walk?" His uncle smiled and answered, "As long as we keep going forward, we will get there in the end." Then they began to climb, step by step, up the Pamir Mountains, the "Roof of the World." All around them were endless, steep snow mountains, their white snow glittering in the sunlight, and the air was so thin it made people gasp. The journey was long and hard. Sometimes for several days they could only eat dry rations and drink snow water, and sometimes they had to pitch tents in the wilderness to spend the night. Yet young Marco Polo always kept his curious eyes wide open, carefully watching the wonderful sights along the way: flowers in the valleys, wild sheep on the plateau, and distant glittering icy peaks. He stored all of it in his heart, as if every stretch of road were a page of an adventure story waiting for him to turn.
Farewell to the busy markets of Persia, Marco Polo followed his father Niccolò Polo and his uncle Maffeo Polo into the endless Gobi Desert. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but yellow sand stretching to the edge of the sky — not a single tree, not a single house in sight. In the daytime the sun hung overhead like a giant ball of fire, baking the sand until it was scorching hot; the air was like a huge oven, and even breathing burned the throat. When the camels' hooves pressed down, the sand seemed to sizzle. But as soon as the sun set, a howling cold wind rose, and the temperature dropped sharply, so cold that everyone's teeth chattered. They had to wrap themselves tightly in blankets and huddle close to the fire for warmth. Even more frightening was the sandstorm: when it came, it looked like a walking yellow wall, blotting out the sky and turning day into dusk, the sand stinging their cheeks. The caravan could only stop and crouch behind the camels until it passed. Once, Marco Polo's water bag was almost blown away by the wind; he chased it a long way before catching it, and, panting, he laughed and said, "This desert is truly a teacher who loves to play jokes!" The camel caravan moved forward step by step, slowly, for many days. Marco Polo learned the survival wisdom of the desert caravans: save your strength in the daytime, follow the stars to find direction at night, drink water in small sips, and always tie the water bags tightly so that precious water would not be dried up by wind and sand. On the long journey he also made many new friends from different places: a Persian merchant who loved to tell stories, a guide who knew the stars well, and camel drivers who sang songs of their homeland. Around the campfire they exchanged news from far away, making the lonely desert nights warm and lively.
After more than four years of long journeying, crossing high mountains, walking through deserts, and fording great rivers, in the year 1275, Marco Polo's family finally arrived at Kublai Khan's summer palace — Shangdu. The palace stood on the grassland, its white roofs shining in the sunlight, surrounded by green pastures and galloping herds of horses, with banners flapping in the wind and the scent of green grass and milk tea drifting in the air. Marco Polo raised his head, his heart beating fast and hard, because he was about to meet the great ruler of the vast East, the one spoken of in legends. He secretly straightened his clothes, took a deep breath, and told himself not to be afraid. When Kublai Khan entered the great hall, everyone fell silent. He wore a splendid robe, his gaze sharp yet gentle, and he carried an air that inspired awe. Marco Polo stepped forward with his father Niccolò Polo and his uncle Maffeo Polo, bowed respectfully, and offered with both hands the Pope's letter and the precious holy oil. Kublai Khan took the letter, smiled and nodded, then turned his gaze to this golden-haired, blue-eyed boy. "What is your name? Where do you come from?" he asked kindly. Though a little nervous, Marco Polo answered clearly, and he described the mountains, rivers, cities, and people's lives he had seen along the way so vividly and amusingly that Kublai Khan listened with great delight, laughing again and again, and was deeply impressed by this clever, brave, and curious boy. He said happily, "Welcome, stay in my palace. I want to hear more stories about the Western world!" Hearing this, Marco Polo felt as if a flower had bloomed in his heart, and he was so happy he almost jumped for joy.
Afterward, Marco Polo followed Kublai Khan to Dadu, the capital of the Yuan Dynasty — today's Beijing. Even from far away, he saw the tall, thick city walls, with banners fluttering above the city gates and long lines of carts and horses coming and going, dust rising behind the wheels. Once inside the city, Marco Polo could hardly believe his eyes: magnificent palaces stood one after another, their roofs covered with golden tiles that shone in the sunlight like a golden sea; the red pillars were tall and thick, carved with exquisite dragon patterns, so imposing that people dared not speak loudly. The courtyards in the palaces were big enough for horses to gallop, and the gardens were full of all kinds of flowers he had never seen before, their fragrance drifting over in waves. What amazed him even more were the bustling markets. The markets were so large that one could never finish walking through them; stalls stood side by side, filled with silk, porcelain, spices, jewels, and all sorts of curious goods. The cries of vendors, laughter and chatter, and the sound of hooves all mixed together, incredibly lively. People in the streets wore clothes of every color — Han Chinese, Mongols, and merchants from far away, with different skin colors and languages. Marco Polo looked east and west, his mouth wide open, his eyes unable to take it all in. He whispered to his father, "I never imagined there could be such a magnificent place in the world!" Quietly, he made up his mind that he must look carefully at this magical city, remember everything here in his heart, and someday tell his friends back home.
Kublai Khan liked the clever and eager-to-learn Marco Polo very much. This young man from Venice not only learned the Mongol language quickly, but also understood many wonderful things, and could even say a few words about astronomy and geography. Sitting in his glittering golden hall, the Khan looked at him and thought to himself: "A talent like this is wasted staying by my side. He should go and see my whole empire!" So Kublai Khan smiled and appointed Marco Polo as his envoy, sending him to handle matters in every corner of the empire. Marco Polo put on his envoy's clothes, mounted a fine horse, and felt both nervous and excited, while the horse's hooves made a light, cheerful sound on the grassland. Every time he returned from a mission, he would vividly tell Kublai Khan all the things he had seen along the way: where the mountains were tallest, where the rivers were widest, where the people sang the best songs, and where the fruit was sweetest. The Khan always listened with great delight, sometimes clapping and laughing, sometimes stroking his beard and nodding, saying: "Marco, you tell it even better than a storyteller!" Hearing this, Marco Polo felt warm inside, and felt that he had truly become a part of this great land, and he grew to love this vast and magical country more and more.
During his journeys as an envoy, Marco Polo saw many amazing things. One day, he walked into a bustling market where the stalls were piled high with fruits, spices, and shining silk, and the cries of vendors rose and fell all around. Suddenly he discovered that when people bought things, they did not use shiny gold or silver coins, but beautiful pieces of paper! He opened his eyes wide and asked a merchant beside him: "Is this... is this really money?" The merchant smiled and nodded: "Of course! This is paper money issued by the Great Khan, and it is used throughout the whole country! Look, it even has the Khan's seal printed on it." Marco Polo carefully took a piece and found it both light and magical, and could not help turning it over and over to look. Later, he saw people throwing black stones into fire, and the stones actually burned, giving off warm heat — that was called coal, and it burned much longer than firewood. He also heard stories about the postal relay stations: fast horses there relayed messages, faster than the wind, covering hundreds of li in a single day, delivering news from far away into the Khan's hands. These things, unheard of in Europe, opened his eyes wide, and he could not help exclaiming in his heart: "This Eastern world is truly wonderful!"
He also visited the magnificent Grand Canal. That canal was both wide and long, like a glittering silver ribbon, stretching from south to north and connecting the whole empire, and at a glance one could hardly see its end. On the water, countless boats shuttled back and forth: some carried white rice, some carried silk, and some carried spices and fruits, their sails swelling full in the wind. The boatmen sang loud work songs, and the sound of oars mixed with the singing, making everything lively. Marco Polo stood on the bank, staring in amazement, and thought: "So the grain from the rich harvests in the south is transported to the north by this canal! If only Venice had a waterway like this, how wonderful it would be." He took out his small notebook and carefully wrote down these wonders one by one, even secretly learning a line or two of the boatmen's tunes. As he wrote, he thought in his heart: when he returned to his hometown of Venice in the future, he must tell everyone these stories, so that all people would know what an amazing world existed in the East.
Day after day passed, and Marco Polo, his father Niccolò Polo, and his uncle Maffeo Polo had already lived in China for seventeen years. They had walked through the streets of Dadu, seen the rice fields of the south, and tasted strange and wonderful foods from many places. But whenever night came, Marco Polo would think of the winding canals of Venice, the pigeons flying in the square, and the warm sunshine of his homeland. His father Niccolò would often stroke his beard and say, "I wonder if our house is still there? Do our neighbors still remember us?" Uncle Maffeo would nod too, his eyes full of longing. So they came before Kublai Khan again and again, bowing respectfully and asking, "Great Khan, we are very grateful for your care, but we are growing old and wish to see our homeland again." Kublai Khan sat on his golden throne, shook his head, and said with a smile, "You are my good friends, and this is your home. I cannot bear to let you go!" He gave them even more gold, silver, and jewels, hoping they would stay. Marco Polo felt thankful, but he missed home even more. He said softly to his father, "The Khan is so kind to us, but I cannot forget the call of our homeland." The day of returning home seemed as far away as a cloud that could never be reached.
In 1292, unexpected good news arrived! Kublai Khan called Marco Polo to the palace and said to him, "I have a Mongol princess, Kokachin, who is to be married far away in Persia. The sea route is long and dangerous, and I need trustworthy people to escort her. You are experienced travelers and trusted friends—will you do me this favor?" When Marco Polo heard this, his heart beat fast. This was the perfect chance to go home! He immediately knelt and answered, "Great Khan, we are most willing!" His father Niccolò and uncle Maffeo exchanged a happy glance, unable to hide their smiles. The three were overjoyed at the thought of finally heading home. They immediately began preparing for the long sea voyage: checking the ships, loading food and fresh water, preparing gifts for the King of Persia, and specially selecting fourteen sturdy great ships. Princess Kokachin arrived at the harbor with her attendants and maids in a grand procession. The docks were crowded with people seeing them off, and flags fluttered in the wind. Marco Polo stood at the bow, gazing at the vast sea, feeling both excited and nervous. He said to his father, "We are finally going home! Though the sea route is long, as long as we keep the right direction, one day we will return to Venice." The fleet slowly sailed out of the harbor, heading toward the sunset, beginning a brand-new adventure.
The fleet sailed on the sea for a very, very long time, passing many strange islands and hot coasts. Finally, they reached Persia. Marco Polo delivered Princess Kokachin safely to her destination, fulfilling Kublai Khan's trust. Next, they switched to land routes and continued westward. This journey was not easy: sometimes they had to cross high mountains, sometimes cross deserts, sometimes face fierce storms, and sometimes take detours to avoid danger. Their clothes were torn, their shoes worn through, and their faces were tanned and wrinkled, but their determination to go home never wavered. After countless hardships, in 1295, they finally saw in the distance the familiar bell towers and domes of Venice. They had been away from home for a full twenty-four years, and even their neighbors could not recognize them! Friends and relatives looked at these three strangers in strange Eastern clothes, their faces weathered, and at first thought they were foreign merchants. Marco Polo smiled and invited everyone to a meal. At the banquet, he took out his treasured gems, cut open the seams of his clothes in front of everyone, and one by one, sparkling jewels tumbled out, lighting up the whole room. Only then did the neighbors know that these people really were the Polo family! They cheered and hugged tightly. The legendary twenty-four-year journey had finally come to a perfect end.
After returning to Venice, Marco Polo thought he could live a quiet life and tell his neighbors about his journey. But soon, in 1298, Venice and Genoa fought a fierce Battle of Curzola over sea trade. On the warships, masts were dense as a forest, arrows flew wildly, and battle cries deafened the ears. Though a merchant, Marco Polo bravely took up arms and fought. Sadly Venice lost, and he was captured and locked in a prison in Genoa. The dark cell was cold and damp, with only a small iron window letting in sunlight. He was sad but did not lose hope. In the same cell lived a writer, Rustichello da Pisa, who loved strange stories. He asked, "Why do you always stare at the iron window?" Marco Polo sighed, "I fear those Eastern tales will be locked away and never known." Rustichello's eyes lit up: "You speak, I'll write, and together we'll make it a book!" So the prison days grew busy. Marco Polo closed his eyes and memories poured out like a river: Kublai Khan's smile, camel caravans on the Silk Road, snow on the Pamir Mountains, wind in the Gobi Desert, the busy streets of Dadu, paper money and coal, postal relay stations and the Grand Canal… He spoke sentence by sentence, and Rustichello wrote stroke by stroke, shaping the famous book, The Travels of Marco Polo. The book spread quickly through Europe, and readers' eyes shone, for they had never known the East was so vast and wondrous. And so Marco Polo became the most famous great traveler in history.
