Venice to Xanadu

Silks, salt, letters from the Pope. Seventeen and bound for China.

The last sight of the sea for a very long time.

Forty days climbing through the Pamir. So high the fires burn pale and dim and cook nothing properly. No birds. Just wind, and the long line of camels, and the road going on.

Water the camels, mend the loads, trade the news.

Kashgar's melons are, Marco notes, the finest in the world.

Forty days over the Roof of the World ahead.

Kublai Khan wants every road, every river, every city and what it trades. So I kept notes. Years of them. One day someone will not believe a word of it, which feels about right.

Three and a half years on the road. The Khan wants every detail.

Marble halls and a pleasure-dome, on the grasslands of Shangdu.