Enjoy the first pages of my novel!

Map of the Hungry Heart, Marco Polo’s World

Introduction

 Marco Polo’s book, The Description of the World later known as The Travels of Marco Polo (Il Milione), and a Venetian legend inspired me to write this historical adventure romance novel.

Marco Polo was born in 1254, the son of Niccolò Polo, a Venetian merchant. When he was five, his father, Niccolò, and uncle, Maffeo, left Venice and traveled to Constantinople. From there, they continued their journey on the Silk Road, hoping for substantial monetary gains. With great determination and luck, their travels led them to Cathay, also known as the End of the World, where they met Kublai Khan—the man who controlled one of the largest empires in history. 

Niccolò and Maffeo became Kublai Khan’s emissaries, employed to return to Venice and return to Cathay after completing Kublai Khan‘s requests for the pope. Marco Polo was 15 by then and Niccolò’s wife had died. Several years later, his father and uncle, with Marco in tow, left for Cathay, having fulfilled most of Kublai Khan’s requests. That was 1271, the beginning of Marco Polo’s great adventure that lasted twenty-four years: traveling thousands of miles over lands and sea only a few people had seen.

In 1295, after seventeen years as an emissary for Kublai Khan, Marco performed his last duty escorting Princess Kokochin, Kublai Khan’s daughter; Princess Li of Manzi (Song Dynasty); and 100 attendees to Arghun Khan, the fourth ruler of the Mongol Empire’s Ilkhanate. Completing this mission in three incredible years, Marco, with his forbidden love, his father, and his uncle, continued to Venice, arriving in Mongolian rags and barely able to speak their native language. It took a banquet and the unveiling of many jewels sewn in their coats to prove their story. 

Unfortunately, a war raged between Genoa and Venice, battling over trade and control of the Mediterranean Sea. Marco became a Venetian ship commander, and in the Battle of Curzola in 1298, the Genoese captured him. While imprisoned in Genoa, Marco Polo and Rustichello of Pisa­, a medieval romance writer, wrote the book A Description of the World, a remarkable travelogue that covers Asia, which even Christopher Columbus used.

My book is fictional; however, it is based on the authentic accounts of his travels. Throughout the chapters, the indented and italicized sections are partial excerpts from his book. The three and four dots in these sections indicate the omitted writings of Marco. I read two versions, one by Ronald Latham and the second by Nigel Cliff. Marco Polo’s book did not include personal history except for small hints in the prologue. Taking these small hints, I wrote an imaginary tale using history as one of the main characters, along with notable nonfiction and fictional characters. I wove together a compelling and complex story using the tales Marco told Rustichello about his twenty-four years of travel and the Venetian legend that tells of his first love, Princess Li of the Song Dynasty, whose ghost haunts the Milion Courtyard to this day, reminding Venice that she existed and should not be forgotten.

My chapters are divided between the main characters: Marco Polo, the main thread bringing alive the remarkable times of thirteenth-century Asia; Li, the Princess of Song, who breathes life into Venice and Kublai Khan’s palace; Kim Chin-hae, a royal Goryeo general and Marco’s business partner and friend, who tells the history of his conquered country––a vassal of Kublai Khan; and Lis, Kim Chin-hae’s Miao shaman wife who possessed the ability to enter one’s dreams. This novel describes their daring adventures, war, discoveries, forbidden love, and friendships. My characters are a perfect example of the Human Compass—the spiritual meaning of a compass—a reminder that you are in control, free to choose the course of your life as you wish.

PROLOGUE: The Venetian Legend

Matteo, an enthusiastic gray-haired tour guide, slowly began the bel canto, his imperfect rendition of his best-loved opera, Turandot-Nessun Dorma. His favorite stage­ stood against the backdrop of two little squares, Milion Courtyard near the Church of San Giovanni Crisostomo and the Teatro Malibran Opera House near the Rialto Bridge.

Over the years, Matteo discovered his serenade would easily lure his wandering flock back to reality as Venice can magically absorb them in her past with its car-free cobblestone streets and courtyards, the gondola rowing by, and women hanging clothes on their flower-filled balconies of homes extremely worn and scarred. With one's imagination, you seem to hear the homes call, “Come and let me tell you my untold secrets.”

When Matteo was young, he would sing at his Parrish, but as he grew older, he took over his father’s gondola and his favorite theater became the canals of Venice. With a beautiful voice and handsome face, his reputation grew as he sang, flirted, and told fascinating stories to the passengers. Long lines of visitors waited just for him. But as his father before him, old age won, and now his son rowed the gondola. Retirement didn’t suit him, so he continued with a more relaxing job­­––a walking tour specializing in mysterious legends and the colorful history of his beloved Venice for the curious tourists who stayed longer than a day.

When he completed his first verse, his audience surrounded him. Turandot Nessun Dorma was a fitting opera about a strong female warrior who lived on the steppe when Marco Polo lived in Cathay­­––China. He smiled, proud of himself. It was time to tell his treasured yet sorrowful legend. In a smooth, distinct Italian accent, he began.

“It was the midnight hour and a soft mist lingered. I was a young man returning home through this courtyard. The fractured stucco walls, with ornate, protruding lamps that glowed gold, reflected long streaks of glittering light on the canal below. The silence of the night was suddenly interrupted by alluring, strange music––not Italian, but Chinese. It called to me. Stunned, I stopped and listened. I swear it came from that building."

He stopped and pointed at a top window facing the canal. “There.” He pointed to Teatro Malibran, which shares the foundation of Marco Polo’s home, destroyed by fire centuries ago.

His voice changed and became theatrically dramatic.

“I froze; a ghostly girl figure, floating above me, weaved in and out of the misty air as her white, flowing dress intertwined with the sad, crying music that filled the empty Milion courtyard.”

His audience gasped, and he continued.

“Still frozen, her transparent body swooped in. For only a minute, her beautiful face with half-moon eyes glared into mine, then disappeared.

“From that day, I truly believed the legend I had heard my entire life… When Marco Polo returned from China, he brought home jewels, gold, and a wealth of knowledge, but his most prized jewel was his Chinese Princess. They say Marco left her to fight a war and disappeared for a year. In her sorrow, she would sit at that window and play her Chinese instrument, calling him home. Some say she jumped from that window, but no one knows for sure." 

His audience all shook their heads. Matteo began singing, and soon, the crowd forgot his sad story. Again, he smiled to himself as goosebumps covered his body.

Marco Polo: Chapter One: January 1324 Marco’s Presumed Lies

An elderly Marco lay on his deathbed staring at the colorful fresco ceiling. His room faced west, displaying beautiful sunsets, the Grand Canal, and, in the distance, the Rialto Bridge. He never shared this room with his present wife––only with his long-ago lover, his soul mate. The room had remained locked and only entered by Peter or himself when drunk and his mood was forlorn. Unique items adorned this room, keeping his memories and his sadness alive. It was not until he was dying that he moved back in.

In a dream state, he could hear his oldest daughter, Fantina. “Father, please retract your book. Tell us now, before you die; you lied. It will be so much better for us.”

His wife, Donata, walked over and sat on his bed. She placed her hand on his. Marco opened his eyes, looked up at her, and then around the room at his most precious assets: his wife, his daughters––Fantina, Bellela, and Moreta––and Peter, his trusted Chinese friend who had served him for the last forty-two years and had endured his constant drunkenness and boasting.

With a weak and crackling but gruff voice, Marco said, “No, no, no, I didn't lie; I have not told one half of what I have really seen and nothing of how I lived. “See that vase?” He pointed to a small, white vase with a pale blue hue beside his bed. I have never told you who gave this to me or why. There is so much more I haven’t told you. All these things in this room have stories; they are my memories.”

Everyone except Peter, who knew the story, looked around. What did he mean?  

It was the memories they couldn’t see. “Donata, I am so sorry. I never loved you as I should have. My memories hardened my heart.” Tears ran down his face. “I failed everyone, even myself. Please, please forgive me,” he pleaded.

Donata patted his hand. “You're mistaken, Marco; you loved us by staying with us."

In his weak voice, he continued. “I love you. I'm sorry I didn’t tell you enough.”

“We love you too, Marco,” she said as she reached over and kissed him on the forehead. 

Marco closed his eyes, remembering when he married Donata. Love for another had filled his heart. His uncle had pressured him to marry. Their business was suffering, and Donata's father was a wealthy merchant. “Besides, Donata loves you,” Marco remembered his uncle saying. "We will all benefit from this marriage; we will receive the money we need to continue, and they will gain our knowledge of the Far East and our connections."

Marco laughed inside and thought, The rich are the same, no matter what part of the world you’re from. They all sacrifice their children for wealth and power. But deep inside, he knew he was the same. He had sacrificed the love of his life.  He did not intend to, but it just turned out that way. 

Voices interrupted his thoughts. He opened his eyes, and Fantina spoke again: “Father, please take back your words.”

Donata stood up and gently put her arms around her. “Stop, daughter! Your father is telling the truth. Please, let's leave and let your father rest.”

Marco spoke up. “Guo Yu, stay, please.”

Only Marco called Peter that in private. It was his real name. Everyone else knew him as Peter.

Guo Yu came close with a tear-soaked face. He loved Marco, and Marco loved him. 

Marco whispered, “When night falls, and everyone sleeps, you must do something for me. Open the wardrobe’s bottom drawer. Look for a small bronze hook and lift the bottom of the drawer. There, you will find a gold box. Please place this with her. Please, Guo Yu! I don’t want anyone else to touch it.”

Guo Yu cried harder and nodded.

Later that night, Guo Yu went to the wardrobe and followed Marco’s instructions. When he opened the drawer, he found some primitive maps and set them aside. He searched and found the hook and pulled. The drawer's wood bottom lifted. Inside was the gold box as Marco said. He gently opened it. His body shook with emotion. Inside was a familiar scarf that was now old and tattered like the two men in the room. Picking it up, Guo Yu ran his fingers over Marco’s frayed, embroidered initials and realized it held something. He unfolded the scarf, and inside, a beautiful jade and gold binyeo*with two carved butterflies, a small knife with a pearl handle embedded with delicate diamonds, and an ivory comb with pearls and gold beads appeared.

Guo Yu held them in his hands and cried as memories flooded his mind. Continuing, he removed a layer of gold silk, revealing a garment. Guo Yu’s eyes were wide. He unfolded a delicate white V-neck silk top with long, flowing sleeves. Next, he found a long, fluid, multilayered white-and-gold silk skirt, topped with a band of gold silk. The band was stitched with genuine pearls and would sit just above a woman’s breast, tied securely in the back. Underneath, there was a gold silk scarf. It was circular and draped over the wearer's shoulders, falling down the back. The image of Li wearing this dress made him smile. He couldn’t believe Marco still had these. Guo Yu was not prepared for what he saw next. His red and swollen eyes suddenly filled with more tears. He bent down and picked up a gold tiara with small pearls. In a soft voice, he spoke to himself. “I gave her this when she was thirteen.” The following article brought more tears. It was a white baby dress. He lifted it and cuddled it close. Now, he understood what Marco had asked him to do. They belonged with her.

Late that night, Moreta, Marco's youngest daughter, stood, hesitating at Marco’s massive, carved door. Her hands rested on the grand, engraved bronze handles. Moreta recalled that these doors had been chained together her whole life. She quietly opened it. Peter was so immersed in his duty he didn’t hear the door open. Moreta silently watched as he pulled back the large, hanging Persian tapestry, revealing a door. Reaching into his long sleeves, he took out a gold key that glistened in the candlelit room. He opened the concealed door, gathered up the gold box, and disappeared. Moreta’s curiosity overtook her. Secretly, she followed him down the dark stone staircase, lit only by the glow of Peter’s candle, that led them to another locked door. Peter paused, unlocked it, and disappeared into the hidden room. Moreta paused momentarily as goosebumps and a chill ran through her body, then hastily opened the door.

Peter quickly turned and dropped the box, scattering the contents on the floor. Moreta squatted, apologizing for having scared him as she picked up the items. She stopped talking and held up the beautiful white-and-gold dress, then the tiara. Standing up, Moreta looked around the dimly lit room, realizing it was not an ordinary room but a memorial to someone. Behind Peter, she saw a table that held a large rectangular box. 

“Is that a coffin?”

Guo Yu said nothing.

Moreta asked again, this time addressing him by his name, Guo Yu. “That's what Father calls you?”

He continued facing the coffin and lifted the lid. Moreta watched as Guo Yu placed the items inside.

Moreta slowly walked toward him and peered inside. Stunned, she lost her breath and fell backward. Guo Yu caught her.

“Who is that?” Moreta asked in a quivering voice.

Guo Yu silently stared at her.

Moreta regained her composure and walked closer to the coffin. She peered down. It was a woman, even though her petite body was now petrified. Her long hair was pulled back with only thick strands brought forward over her chest, covering a small portion of a faded Chinese imperial coat. As Moreta stood staring, Guo Yu took the tiara from her hand and placed it on her head, saying, “I gave her this when she turned thirteen.” Then, he gently placed the other items he had found in the scarf on her chest, starting with the binyeo.

Moreta stuttered. “Was she your wife?”

Guo Yu looked at Moreta. “No, she was your father's.”

“The baby dress?”  

“Your half-sister,” Guo Yu answered. "She died eleven years ago.”

“What? Why was she kept from us? Why weren’t we told we had a sister?”

“Your father decided not to; we honored it.”

“Did Mother know?”

“Yes, they thought it was best. You should try to ask your father.”

Back at her father’s room, Moreta sat beside her father, sobbing. “Why didn’t you tell us we had another sister?” Marco remained silent.

Marco could hear someone sobbing as his mind drifted. He was unaware he was whispering out loud. “The moment the Genoese commander boarded my defeated ship––this one moment—changed the rest of my life. I had promised her I would return soon. I failed her.”

Marco remembered his desperation as the prison door closed.

He stood at the cell bars yelling, “Do you know who I am? I am Marco Polo, who traveled the Silk Road and became friends with the great Kublai Khan. I lived in Cathay for 17 years and know its secrets. It is imperative that I speak to your commander.” He kept repeating himself until he collapsed on the floor, and his thoughts drifted to his love, Li.

Li: Chapter Two: 1298 Princess Li and Marco, Butterfly Lovers

On the third floor of the magnificent palazzo, an exotic beauty sat at a large western window, one of the few that didn’t house stained glass. Patiently, she played her erhu––her string instrument––and waited for her love to return. This was her favorite room; it overlooked this strange city, surrounded by water, with small rivers running through it. As the sun set, intense light rushed in, illuminating the beautiful contents of her room: Marco’s Morin Khuur, Turkish carpets, Chinese porcelain, Syrian metalwork, Persian silk tapestries, vases, religious paintings, and statuary. The sun slowly disappeared behind the tall and thin structures topped with rounded arches. The structures were painted in rich hues of dark red, muted yellows, and bright blue, casting dark shadows on the courtyard and canal below, leaving only narrowly escaped light that lit the way for the hurrying Venetians returning home.

As she played, she reminisced and compared her homes. The differences were profound: the landscape, the symbol of wealth, the houses, the food, the dress, and most of all, their rulers––the merchants were Venice’s patrician rulers here. The other difference was the people's fear of someone who looked, dressed, and acted differently. Her country was diverse. Hundreds of merchants from around the world arrived via the Silk Road. They accepted everyone there.

But here it was different. She stood out. When Marco wasn’t here, she stayed mainly within the palazzo, where she felt safe.

"Our Venetian palazzo is an architectural marvel," Marco would tell her. “It reflects my family’s economic success.” 

Li always laughed at his statement; she would remind him she had lived in a grand palace in Cathay.

            The palazzo lay on the canal where the water ran underneath it. They had water gates that allowed merchant boats to enter the ground floor, where trade goods were stored. The upper floors were the lavish living quarters. Marco had chosen his room mainly because a secret door on the ground floor led to a hidden staircase that continued to his room. In between was a small room hidden among the foundations where he housed his most treasured things. He always used this door when he returned to her.

Li’s music was sweet and alluring, revealing her softer side. She played it, hoping it would call Marco home. However, this sweetness was a facade; she was strong and endured a lifetime of fear. 

As the sun set and darkness entered the room, a young servant girl walked in with a lit candle and began lighting the lamps and candles. Li had seen her several times and assumed she was about her age. She yearned for a friend, especially a female. In Cathay and on the long journey to Venice, she had Kokochin, whom she met at thirteen. Now, only Guo Yu existed in her life; Kokochin had been left with her new husband. Marco’s cousin, Isabella, who lived in the same palazzo, despised and ignored her as much as possible and only talked to her when Marco was around. Now Marco has disappeared, fighting in a war.

The young servant girl barely looked up as she bustled around the room. Only once did she hesitate to look at Li’s musical instrument, the erhu, which leaned against the back of the chair. It was the most unusual instrument she had ever seen. Gently, she ran her hand along the long, slender neck made from beautiful red wood. At the top, an exquisitely carved white jade dragon and two large wooden pegs sat. The neck was attached to a small hexagonal box made of red wood, its end covered in strange snakeskin. Two silk strings ran from the wooden pegs to the box. Next to it was a horsehair bow longer than the instrument itself. Once, she heard Li play. The sound was haunting and alluring, and Li seemed to make it cry. After her quick observations, she finished lighting the candles. She opened the door but suddenly turned and stared at Li.

Li’s traditional dress, stitched with gold thread, glowed with the backdrop of the dim sunlight and the flickering candles. The girl in her native tongue whispered, “Sei Bello,” and ran out the door. Li understood and smiled. She felt relieved; that was the first person who didn’t look at her as a barbarian. Li hoped she would return.

Guo Yu entered the room with her dinner. He had been her servant and friend since she was five years old. Now that Marco was gone, he became her protector. Guo Yu knew she chose wild game over seafood and made it his job to search out merchants specializing in meat from the mountains beyond Venice. At her home, seafood was a delicacy and served only on special occasions, but here, it’s an everyday occurrence. Luckily, one cook named Elena had ulterior motives and willingly prepared it for her. Li felt this person enjoyed Guo Yu's company, not necessarily to serve her.

Li preferred eating in her room. Guo Yu and she could talk freely in their native tongue and not feel restricted. She wanted to know all about the war, where Marco was, and if he had heard any news on the wharf regarding Cathay. The other reason is that she found Marco’s cousin's conversations in the dining hall frivolous. In Cathay, she was a healer and could enter many royal women's and men’s gers or chambers and eavesdrop on their secrets and fascinating conversations.

The evening grew late. Guo Yu knew she wasn’t like the other princesses; she preferred not to be pampered. Others demanded assistance with the bedtime ritual, but not Li; she only preserved this for Marco.

Guo Yu stood and said goodnight. 

Li grew forlorn. She undressed slowly, pretending Marco was there. She sat at her ornate dressing table and, with closed eyes, removed the pins that held her long, thick hair. Li imagined Marco standing behind her, sweeping her hair from her neck and kissing her gently while caressing her shoulders. Tears swelled and rolled down her cheeks as she opened her eyes and looked at the single face in the mirror. She stood, slowly picked up her erhu, and returned to her window. Darkness had wholly consumed the streets below. She watched through weeping eyes for any glimmer of light he was returning to her. Li played her erhu as her heart and music cried. Overwhelmed with loneliness, she went to bed, longing for sweet dreams. 

As she slept, her dream seemed so real: She could feel his hands on her thigh, softly moving up to the arch of her back, then the weight of his body on hers and his face touching hers. Her body trembled, waking her from her sweet slumber.

Marco gently kissed her and whispered. “I missed you.”

Li slowly opened her eyes and smiled. It wasn’t a dream; Marco was indeed there. Li forcefully flipped him in a quick combat maneuver. A move that her friend Kokochin had taught her. She was on top, holding his hands to the bed, her hair in his face. Marco smiled, his eyes full of surrender; Li had captured him. 

Feeling scorn for her display of weakness the night before, her sweet face transformed to hardness, and she slowly spoke quietly and powerfully.

“My name is Li; I am your Chinese Princess. My father was the Emperor of the Song Dynasty. You are mine. I traveled half this world with you. Our love doesn’t come without guilt. Everything we were taught and understood we denied and forgot. We didn’t care. We just wanted each other. Don’t die and leave me alone in your world.”

Marco understood.

Her anger eroded when she saw his dirty, bruised face. She quickly released his hands and slid from his body. Li gently removed his dirt-stained clothing. He laid still, watched her, and only rose when necessary. Her hands softly followed the contours of his muscular body, examining every inch, finding only deep scratches, dirt, and bruises. Again, her eyes welled with tears, but this time with joy. She kissed him.

There was a quick knock at the door, a signal that his bath was drawn. Guo Yu had heard the water gates open. 

Marco and Li rose holding hands, and entered the next room. The fireplace was roaring, and a large steaming tub awaited them.

Guo Yu knew the routine; he would prepare, and Li would continue. He greeted Marco and bowed, saying in Mongolian, “We are happy you returned.” He turned and left.

Marco entered the tub with his bruised body, holding out his hand. Li walked over, undressed, and entered. Li felt an electric bolt flow through her as he pulled her to his body.

He whispered in her ear. “I missed you.” He opened his mouth to continue. Li's love engulfed her. Her heart coveted his lips, body, and soul. There was no more speaking. Li knew he couldn't stay long; he had his duty to attend to. 

After a night of love, Marco and Li rose early just as the sun peeked over the horizon, Li’s favorite time. Silence surrounded them, and only they existed in their world. She knew it was the only time he entirely belonged to her. In the afternoon, he would go to his uncle, Maffeo, to discuss the war. Marco’s father had died the year after their return from Cathay. 

When the sun fell, he returned to her, only to leave when the sun’s light fully brightened the room––a time she began to hate. 

Li had to be strong. This was Marco. Her whole life, he had disappeared for months at a time––his longest, a year––but he always returned. But this was different. She tried to understand why Marco had to fight. Why couldn't he let the others do the fighting? They had fought so hard to be together; why would he take the chance of dying, leaving her in his world?

Marco stood at the door with his captivating smile––a smile she could never resist. “I promise I will return soon.”

She ran to him, throwing her arms around him, refusing to let him go. He whispered in her ear, “I promise I will return, my love.” She slowly released him, and as he walked through the door, he paused, turned, and confidently said, “I Promise.”