Zephyr Dorsey

“The Royal Dinner” from The Fantastical Adventures of Marco Polo

The banqueting hall of Prince Edward is well-lit by torches mounted along the wall, as well as by two large chandeliers hung from the ceiling over the long dining table.  Bread and cheese and sausages are already laid-out upon the table when the Polos arrive, and the attendees, mostly male, are gathered in various groups around the room.  Instead of wine, barrels of ale are set-out for drinking, with wooden cups available.  Draperies of sky-blue colored cloth, depicting various scenes from nature or from battlefields, adorn the walls.  On the wall behind the head of the table, where presumably will sit the Crown Prince, the draping depicts Edward’s sigil, a dragon having his head chopped off by a knight with a glowing head.

The Polos grab their three ales and stand along one of the walls.  Marco watches his father and uncle.  Both seem to be surveying the room, examining the people.  Marco sips his drink– and has to resist the temptation to spit it back out.  Maffeo notices his nephew’s grimace.

“No substitute for good Italian wine is it, my boy?”

“Do they not have any wine here?” Marco asks, trying not to sound like a petulant child.

Maffeo laughs and takes a drink from his own wooden mug.  “No.  The English are Northmen.  They like their ale.” 

“What am I to do for drink?”

“I am sure there is water somewhere, but I advise you to learn to drink the ale.  English ale is by far not the worst drink you will be offered on your journey to the East, my boy.  You must begin widening your palette, grow accustomed to a wide variety of dish and drink.”

Marco nods and takes another sip, a small one. 

The musicians begin, a quartet of pipers and pluckers, and shouts of approbrium go up from those in attendance, and Maffeo turns his head toward the musicians with a smile.  From the corner of his mouth he tells Marco, “Hold your breath when you eat or drink distasteful things.  It helps.” 

Marco dutifully tries again, taking his uncle’s advice, and he finds that it really does help. 

Watching the musicians play, Marco wonders what it is about music that Man likes it so much.  Why do certain sounds in a certain pattern cause him to want to pat his foot or clap or nod his head in time– or even dance?  And the effect on the spirit… It is like a form of magic.  Marco looks around the room and sees the people already acting more gayly, more enlivened– speaking with more emotion and excitement– laughing easier– calling out to one another across the room in a way they would not normally do.  Marco has seen the effect of music his whole life.  He has seen sad music  (and there!–  how can music be “sad?”)  bring tears streaming down his mother’s face.  He has seen men sailing off to war to the accompanyment of drums and pipes, their martial spirit roused by the assertive rhythm.  Perhaps God has given us some small power to cast spells down here, he thinks.  We need only know the proper sounds to make, in the proper order, and with the proper volumes and spacings… and we can change the way a man feels.  It is a form of communication and manipulation rolling beneath all the other more superficial words and phrases of Man, like an undercurrent passing forcefully but with little obvious sign beneath the water’s surface.  Music communicates in a way more real and direct than mere human speech.  A deeper language than language.      

“Am I wrong, or do I smell a fellow Italian?”

The Polos turn toward the booming voice, speaking not French, the language usually used in Acre, but Italian– albeit a strangely accented one.  Marco sees a man, slightly shorter than the average, with ample girth, wearing a big smile between his pink, glowing cheeks.  His clothing is colorful, not just bright, but possessing many different hues, giving him almost the appearance of court jester, at least as those have been described to Marco.   

“Rusticello, my friend!” says Maffeo handing-off his mug to Marco.

Maffeo and Rusticello grab each other’s fore-arm. 

“Rusticello,” says Niccolo with a small smile, nodding his head and raising his cup as if making a toast.

“Niccolo,” returns Rusticello, releasing Maffeo’s arm.  “What brings you greedy merchants back through town?  You know Acre is little more than a camptown now.”

“Things do look a bit worn down,” says Maffeo.  “Are things going so badly?”

Rusticello looks suddenly serious.  He leans toward Maffeo and dramatically speaks from the side of his mouth.  “The Mamluks of Egypt nearly rolled right over us but six months ago.”

“No!” says Maffeo.

Rusticello nods solemnly toward the large sigil hung on the wall, his thick lips pursed between his big cheeks.  “If not for the leadership and war-skills of the prince, Acre would have fallen.”

“My God!”

Rusticello leans away and the smile returns to push back his fat cheeks.  He takes a huge gulp from a large mug he has procurred from somewhere– one not only twice the size of the other mugs, but made of pewter, not wood.  He eyes Marco over its rim.  When he takes the mug away, a thin froth glistening on his thick upper lip, he asks,  “But who is this well-built and bright-eyed young fellow here?  Handsome enough to be another Polo, I dare say.”

“Rusticello, meet Marco, my brother Niccolo’s son.  Marco, meet Paolo Rusticello– the greatest storyteller this side of Persia.”

They smile and briefly grasp arms.  “Very pleased to meet you,” says Marco.

Rusticello turns toward Niccolo, the ale sloshing in his big pewter mug.  “You never told me you had a son, you old dog.”

“Marco has come to help us on our return-journey East,” says Niccolo.

Marco notices that this was not exactly a confirmation on Niccolo’s part of his paternity.

Rusticello glances back and forth between Maffeo and Niccolo, increduality plastered across his pink face.  “You– you must be joking.  You are going back again after such the time you had of it before?”

“Aye,” Maffeo says, taking back his mug from Marco.

“My God!  Hardship and an early death!  Some of us spend our lives attempting to avoid those things, you know.  But not you Polos.  No.  You head right for them, again and again, as if Death were a comely maiden, and not the black-tooth old crone that She is.”

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” says Niccolo.  “I see one of Teobaldo’s associates at the cask, and must speak to him.”

“Aye, where else would he be, the godly bastard?” says Rusticello, downing another gulp of ale.

“Rusticello, good to see you again.”

“Equally, Niccolo.” 

Niccolo moves away, and Rusticello sidles closer to Maffeo.

“What fool game has your brother got you into this time, Maffeo?” he asks, his voice, for the first time, appropriately low.  “You are a nobleman of the great Venetian Empire.  You should be at home… luxuriating, making babies”– here, he gives Maffeo an elbow to the ribs, causing Maffeo to spill his drink slightly– “Growing fat and rich.”

“There will be time for that.”

“There is no time for anything, my friend.  Life is over before you know it.  But bird flying through a room, as the saying has it.”

“Well, in truth, I will not be going all the way to Cathay with my brother.  That is why he has brought along his son here.”  Maffeo clamps Marco on the shoulder for a moment.  “I am going only so far as Jerusalem.”

“Well, at least one of you has some sense.”

“I am married now.”

“I spoke too soon.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, praise be to God!” says Rusticello.  “So they have blind women in Venice, do they?”

“All are blind when it comes to love,” returns Maffeo.

The music stops.  The crowd moves slowly toward the large table. 

Marco looks to his uncle.  “What is happening?”

“The prince is soon to make his entrance.”

“Well, I should go to my seat,” says Rusticello. 

“Yes, you should certainly go to,” jokes Maffeo.

“Welcome to Acre,” Rusticello tells Marco, and then turning to Maffeo, “Good to see you, old friend.”

Niccolo returns just after Rusticello has left.  He sips his ale, scanning the crowd over the rim of his cup.  He speaks to Maffeo without looking at him, keeping in Italian.  “We will not be getting much of anything from Teobaldo.”

“The clergyman was not encouraging?”

“No.  At most, we will be given a small delegation to bring greetings from the latest squatter upon the Throne Of Saint Peter.”

“Perhaps we should turn back.”

“Never.”

“But this is no longer the mission we started on.  We were to bring one-hundred scholars to Kublai, full of the fruits of Western knowledge.”

“We made an oath to Kublai.”

“You made an oath to Kublai.”

Niccolo eyes his brother hard for a moment then turns so that he is facing the doorway nearest the head of the banquet table.  “You will be turning back at Jerusalem.  It is all the same to you.”

“All the– all the same?  Why being separated from my brother and my nephew for only the Lord knows how long– that is not all the same to me.”

Marco is surprised to see that Niccolo appears touched by this.  He grins slightly and reaches awkwardly side-ways to pat his brother on the back.  “And I will miss you, brother.”

“Well, consider.  No admiral keeps to the old battle-plan after conditions have altered.”

As Niccolo and Maffeo fall silent, Marco looks around the room.  He notices there are no girls his age.  Indeed, he is the youngest person present of either gender, perhaps by as much as ten years.  He wonders if this will be the fate of his years abroad– to see very few beautiful girls– of which Venice was full to bursting.

His attention is caught by a small group only now entering the banquet hall.  He can hardly believe his eyes.  A real live Knight Templar!  He is dressed in the universally recognized short white tunic with a red cross on its front.  He wears also black leggings and square, scuffed boots, with a glimmering sword hung along his hip.  The hair on his head is cut very short, so that it stands up on end, and his face is shaved smooth.  His head is noticeably elongated, with a tall fore-head, a long chin cleft in the middle, and a sizeable expanse between his eyes and his mouth, in the middle of which is placed a long thin nose.

Maffeo notices Marco’s amazement.  “That is Roger Deflor, one of the most famous of all the Templars.”

“Deflor?  Is he Spanish, then?”

“Well, somewhat.  He is from that ancient population living on the border of Spain and France.  The Basque they are called.”

“Interesting.”

“They say he is from a family of heretics, but noble ones, with male relatives on one side being knighted by the Spanish king, and on the other, by the French king.”

Marco freezes in place.  The knight, who had been taking-in the entire room and all its inhabitants, has spotted Marco, a stranger among them.  He holds Marco’s gaze for a moment, then nods his head in the way of a subtle greeting.  Marco nods in return, and the Templar’s gaze moves elsewhere.

“Someone said that Acre is the base of the Knights Templar?” asks Marco.

“Yes.  In the Holy Land.  Their presence here is probably the main reason Acre has held out this long against the Saracens.  Of course, it is also the reason the Saracens can never let it stand.  The other Templar base is in France.  It is said they send much wealth back there, although you could not tell it here, for they live as ascetics.”

Trumpets blare, their harsh sounds echoing harshly off the stone walls.  Marco winces.  All eyes turn toward the arched doorway near the head of the table, and Marco turns with them.  Entering briskly, and on long strides, comes a tall, well-fashioned man, a smile upon his pale face, finely attired, with a sleeveless robe trailing after him.  He begins around the room immediately, the music restarting as he does.  Along the way, he takes the time to greet each guest, sometimes slapping him on the back, sometimes grabbing his arm, sometimes pausing a moment to exchange remarks.  With the women he usually gently raises one of their hands to his lips for a quick kiss, saying something to each that makes her smile.  The young prince, full of vitality, has created a social whirlpool at his entrance, and he has stayed its swirling and hypnotically engaging center ever since. 

“That the old Pope died just when we needed him, is to our great misfortune,” says Niccolo, seemingly the only person in the room not under the prince’s royal spell.

“Aye, and to his,” returns Maffeo with a grin, earning a decidedly un-amused glance from his brother.

Marco sees that both his uncle and father set their cups behind them, and realizing that they are doing this in expectation of a greeting from the nearing prince, does the same.

“My God!  The Brothers Polo have returned!” booms the English prince in French, holding his hands aloft before swooping them down to grab Niccolo’s arm. 

“It is our honor to see you again, Prince Edward,” says Niccolo, the conversation remaining in French.

“I would like to talk to you both about what you have seen and heard since last you were here,” says Prince Edward, now grabbing Maffeo’s arm.

“Of course,” returns Maffeo.

Edward comes to Marco and pauses, looking the young man up and down.  Marco is one of the tallest men in the room, and yet the prince remains head and shoulders over even him.

“Allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Prince Edward,” says Maffeo.  “This is Marco Polo.”

“Welcome to Acre, young Marco Polo,” says the prince.  He looks to Niccolo.  “So this is your son, then.”

“We needed an extra pair of hands for our journey, my Prince,” answers Niccolo without answering. 

The prince moves on down the line.  Once he has made the full circuit of the room, he arrives back at the head of the table where he remains standing as the music stops again and another fanfare is played.  A young woman now stands at the doorway, and Marco knows immediately from her attire and bearing, and the homage paid to her, that this is the princess, wife of Edward.  She is exceedingly fair, with long, curly blond hair.  Her gown, reaching down to the floor, is peach-colored, and she is obviously with child.  Smiling, she walks over to Edward, and she places her hand on top of his, shoulder-high between them.  She then looks out over the crowd, and with a sweeping gesture of her other hand says sweetly, in a voice barely carrying to the end of the large table, “Please, ladies and gentlemen, be seated.” 

Everyone gathers around the table, but, just as Marco is about to sit, for he has been standing a long time now and his legs are tired, he notices that no one else is seating themselves yet.  All eyes are toward the prince and princess, as their chairs are gently pulled out and they sit.  Then everyone noisely pulls out their own chairs and seat themselves, and the music starts up again. 

The guests speak softly to each other at first, but as the cup-fillers do their work, and the mugs and heads are tilted, the conversation is soon boisterous.  Marco cannot help but notice that Rusticello, seated across from him, is the noisiest of them all, carrying on two conversations at once with women on either side, and turning his head right and left so fast and so often then Marco laughs silently at the idea of his head popping off under the stress.   

Niccolo, on the other side of Maffeo from Marco, says little to his brother, and even less to the man on the other side of him, although he does appear to politely answers questions put to him by those around him.

The main dish is eventually brought in, chunked beef and potatoes in a white sauce, without appetizer or lighter first course.

“Polo!”

All three Polos look toward the voice calling to them from near the head of the table.

“Deflor,” Niccolo returns with a nod.

The Templar’s long lower jaw is working a chewy morsel, though he does not allow that to stop him from talking, his eating knife suspended in the air, already holding his next piece of beef.

“I hear you are heading back to the Orient.  The heart of the Mongol Empire.”

“Aye, that is true,” answers Niccolo.  “We hope to leave within a fortnight.”

“But why return?”

Because Deflor and Niccolo are several seats away from each other, and on opposite sides of the table, several guests begin to follow their conversation.

“Another trade mission,” he answers.  “I will have to fill you in on the details later.”

Niccolo’s body language indicates he would have no more of this yelling across the table.

“Perhaps you could come with us, Deflor,” interjects Maffeo.  “There are many dangerous places between here and there.  We could use a good military escort.”

Deflor waves him off after taking another moutthful of food into his wide maw.  “Those in the Vatican already think we Templars spend too much time protecting Venetian trade.  I best stay here and protect our lovely damsels from the encroaching Saracen horde.”

He eyes a few of ladies around the table, who nervously giggle, flattered by the knight’s attention, and simultaneously unnerved at the idea of nearing Saracen armies.

“Here’s to the Knights Templar,” says Rusticello, holding his mug aloft.  “Protecting the pilgrim routes until the next Crusade drives the Mohammedans out of the Holy Land for good.”

“Hear, hear!” comes the many-sided response as the guests raise their cups and drink.

“We are hardly doing that,” says Deflor, looking irritated.  “The Hashasheen murderers and bandits control more routes than we do.  And as for another Crusade– well, I will not attempt to hold my breath until that day arrives.”

The prince looks displeased at this statement, as do the representatives present from the Church.  The conviviality of the table deflates.

“So tell me, Friar Bacon,” calls out the prince after a few moments, “what news in the realm of philosophy?”

Marco looks toward the far end of the table opposite of the prince, as does most everyone else.  There sits a thin man with a serious mouth, dressed in a plain robe, brown and coarse.  His thin fingers interlock on the edge of the table near to his untouched plate of food.  One side of his thin lips pull back, as if in a wince of pain– or perhaps a smile. 

“The more I learn, the more I understand,” he says, speaking very slowly, as if finding it necessary to flip through a mental catalogue of vocabulary in order to find each word he wishes to use.  “But the more I understand, the less I know I know.”

There is a pause.  Many heads turn back to the prince.  A nervous giggle, immediately stifled, is heard from somewhere down the table.  Marco watches the prince, his eyes narrowing.  Then both of Edward’s large hands slap the table at once and his face beams in a gigantic smile.  The princess jumps at the thunderous sound of her husband’s hands slapping the table, but she smiles and rests her hand upon her round stomach.

“By God, you have hit upon it, Friar!” shouts the prince.  He looks to his right and left.  “Now this man…”  He points his spoon at Bacon.  “This man is a philosopher.  You should spend some time with such a wise man, Rusticello.  Add some learning to your romances.”

“Yes indeed, my Prince,” returns Rusticello, smiling down at the friar, who offers no return smile.  Rusticello looks again to the prince.  “He is the Merlin to your Arthur.”

“Hardly,” murmurs the friar. 

“No?” says the prince.  “Then who would you be in Camelot, dear Friar?”

Bacon takes a moment to consider, then speaks in his deliberate manner.  “As for me, since the court of Camelot was a pagan one, my Prince, I do not think I could be anyone there.”  In the inevitable pause between thoughts, Edward starts to object, but Bacon makes bold enough to cut him off.  “But as for who among us would stand-in for Merlin– that honor goes obviously to Rusticello, whose magical way of writing stories creates out of nothing whole worlds of wonder.”

“Hear, hear!” says the prince, repeatedly rapping his knuckles on the wooden table.  Others begin doing the same, and shouts of “hear, hear!” roll around the table.  Marco raps the table as well when he sees his uncle Maffeo doing the same, although Niccolo chooses to refrain. 

The prince raises his cup.  “To Bacon and Rusticello,” he says, “the best philosopher and the best storyteller in the land.”

“Is there a difference?” Rusticello asks, and all laugh save Friar Bacon, and drink deeply of their cups.