In Xanadu (27 page)

But it is the
significance
of the gifts in Polo's Magi story that is one of the strangest aspects of the whole legend. In the West, the gift of myrrh has long been interpreted as a symbol of Jesus's mortality. This does not derive from any explanation in the Gospel, but because in the Old Testament myrrh is mentioned as an embalming herb. In Polo's story, however, myrrh is not presented in homage, as a symbol of Christ's humanity, but as a test. If the child accepted it, he would not be a king or a god but a physician. This idea makes perfect sense in a Zoroastrian context, for Zoroaster was seen as the Divine Healer. His earthly representatives, the Magi, developed this idea into a system of supernatural alchemy, practising medicine alongside their priestly functions. What is interesting is that the early Christian East also understood myrrh as a symbol of healing. While the Western Church went on to develop the concepts of Christus Rex, Christ the King, the Eastern Churches retained the old idea of Christus Medicus, Christ the True Physician. Polo's story appears to have retained the original, authentic symbolism of the three gifts, a symbolism which was very early rejected in the West - but miraculously retained by the fire worshippers near Saveh. Is it possible that Polo's story may thus preserve elements of an early Christian tradition of which St Matthew has given only an abbreviated version?

This passage of
The Travels,
above all others, cries out for proper scholarly investigation. What was the building that was described by Polo? Its significance was not understood by the local population, which suggests that it was not a Muslim budding. Zoroastrians do not bury their dead (they leave them on Towers of Silence to be consumed by vultures), so it cannot have been any normal Zoroastrian monument. Was it once a Ch ristian shrine? This, like many aspects of the story, raises far more questions than it answers. Nevertheless, the remarkable story told by Polo must at least open the
possibility
that the visit of he Magi to Bethlehem was an historical event, that these Mi.gi came from Saveh and that an independent tradition of their visit to Palestine was maintained in the observatory town from which they set off, and in which they were eventually laid to rest.

FIVE

I
awoke the following morning to find that Laura was up and dressed. She had her back to me and was poring over the map and her diary, tut-tutting to herself. Hearing me stir, she turned around.

'We're behind schedule,' she said. 'Look.' She pulled the map on to my bed. It's taken us nearly four weeks to get this far.' She drew her finger over the black line that represented our route.

"We're barely halfway to Lahore and I've got to be back in Delhi within the week. It's at least one thousand five hundred kilometres. If there's to be any hope of us making it we must leave this morning and travel nonstop for the next six or seven days.'

Nonstop?'

Yes. Nonstop. Day and night.'

Laura always struck the fear of God into me at moments like this.

In other words I suggest you get up immediately. I'll be downstairs and am going to set off in three minutes.'

She swept out. For a few seconds I toyed with the idea of letting her go, but decided against it and dragged myself out of bed. I pulled on some clothes, dashed downstairs and caught Laura just as she was marching off towards the bus station.

The place was crowded with piratical-looking Afghans. Given a few peg-legs, eye patches and macaws they could have happily stood in as extras for
Treasure Island
or
The Pirates of Penzance.
Yet although they all shared a look of unmistakable villainy, they were otherwise a remarkably diverse bunch. The most imposing was a six-foot-five giant who squatted against a wall of the bus station latrines, combing his flowing beard and peering down his long, aquiline nose at a tiny Iranian who was sitting nearby, nervously guarding a pile of belongings. He wore a smart double-breasted waistcoat, a voluminous
charwal chemise,
and over his shoulder he had draped a thick, brown
patou
blanket. He reminded me of woodcuts of young Hercules in the ancient Latin text books at school. Nearby stood a blue-eyed Rasputin with a shaven head, a thick, tangled beard and a malevolent grin. To his left were three much younger Afghans. They gathered around a large flap of bread, munching loudly and chattering away in guttural Farsi. They had downy, embryonic beards and all wore a style of
charwal chemise
that I had not seen before, buttoned at the shoulder like a dentist's smock and obviously
de rigueur
among the young bloods of the expat Afghan community. They differed only in their headgear. One wore a conventional turban of white muslin, another a wrap of brightly coloured printed cotton, the third an embroidered filigree cap, its front cut away in the shape of a double-cusped arch. I left Laura in their midst, looking after the rucksacks, while I went to find out about bus times.

My enquiries led me to the station manager's office, where I found a small officious man, his legs up on a table, reading a newspaper. Above him hung an outsized Ayatollah. He spoke perfect English.

'There is nothing going eastwards until tomorrow,' he told me without lowering his paper, 'but there are some Afghans who have chartered a bus to Zahedan. They are leaving this afternoon. You could try them and see if they have room for you.'

He lowered the paper to reveal a balding head and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles.

'Personally I wouldn't recommend it. Afghans are animals. I would wait until tomorrow. Quite apart from the smell, those barbarians are more than likely to rob you of everything you possess.'

'You don't like Afghans?'

'No,
I
don't like Afghans,'

He raised the paper. I returned to find Laura sitting on my rucksack, her hands folded purposefully on her lap. The group of young
Afghans
who had been sitting beside her had moved off to a safe distance, and it suddenly occurred to
me
how well
her
black uniform suited her. It brought out her more
Victorian
qualities. I debated whether to tell her so, but decided against it and instead reported the station manager's recommendations.

'William, you
know
very well we are not in a position to rick and choose our transport. These Afghans look perfectly nice and even if they didn't we would have to use their bus anyway. You don't seem to understand the timescale we're operating on. Go and ask the mullah over there if he'll take us; he appears to be in charge.'

The decision made, I trotted
off
obediently. The mullah was a smaller man than many
of
his flock, and
on
his nose perched
a
pair of enormous black spectacles. I addressed him in my best Farsi.

'I ... we . ..
bus
. .. Zahedan.'

'Do you speak Turkish?' asked the mullah.

I repeated the request in pidgin Turkish. He looked me up and down.

Where are you from?' asked the mullah. 'What is your job?'

I am from Scotland and I am a travel writer.' I replied. 'What is Scotland?' asked the mullah, i'It's a bit like Inglistan.'

This caused much excitement. The Afghans who had gathered around the conversation bobbed up and down crying, Inglistan! Inglistan!' in a loud stage whisper. But the mullah had not yet finished his interrogation.

What
is
"travel writer"?'

In Turkish, travel writing sounds a very sinister occupation. It's a man who travels for his living,' I said. ‘Like a bus driver?'

"Yes, like a bus driver.'

The mullah translated this for the Afghans. This went down well too; perhaps Afghans have a special regard for their bus drivers. There was a gleeful chorus of'Bussyman! Bussyman!' from their ranks.

'Come with us,' said the mullah. 'Our bus welcomes you.'

Then they were upon us. With excited cries of'Bussy! Bussy!' Rasputin and another Afghan with Mongoloid features hoisted me up in their arms and carried me towards the bus, and I had a last blurred vision of Laura fighting off a similar welcome before I was whipped up through the doorway, along the aisle and deposited in a window seat. Laura joined me seconds later. At least they were not expecting me to drive the thing.

It was a rather comfortable bus and the seat coverings were decorated with pictures of a single pink rose and a jumbo jet taking off. Proud Afghan faces beamed at us from all sides.

'I have never seen so beautiful a bus in Scotland,' I said.

They looked delighted. From a bus driver it was indeed a compliment.

The whole troup poured in, and while we waited, the mullah led a series of prayers. The men who recently looked as lawless as the Wild Bunch suddenly became as pious as a coachload of nuns. Bearded faces were lifted heavenwards and the bus echoed with the sound of
'At Hamdulillahl
Praise be to God!
Allah Akbah
God is all-powerful!' They then embarked on a spirited rendering of the
Kalimeh,
a short chant that sounds more like a rugby song than the Credo, its nearest Christian equivalent, and off we set into the dismal wastes of Baluchistan.