Free Looking for Marco Polo by Alan Armstrong Page B

tiny pieces of glass to make the ceiling mosaics. They did the same thing with the floor, cutting and fitting thousands of semiprecious stones into beautiful patterns.”
    Mark was walking faster and faster, his head filled with images of Venetian robbers staggering under sacks of treasure.
    “Why did they have to steal stuff?” he asked, breathing hard. “You said Venice was really rich.”
    “She wasn’t always,” Hornaday said, putting out his hand to slow Mark a little. “That’s why robbery figures so much in her history. She had a lot of catching up to do to become as grand as her rival, Genoa.
    “Genoa was in her glory and Venice was nothing more than a cluster of huts when marauders came out of the north and sent people fleeing here.
    “The newcomers looked around. ‘What do we have to work with?’ they wondered.
    “They sold fish, made salt, melted sand to make glass, and they built boats. They were soon sailing out into the Adriatic and down to the Mediterranean as merchant raiders.”
    Mark looked out over the water as if he expected to catch sight of one.
    “For all its elegance,” the doctor was saying, “there’s always been an air of stealth and thuggery about this place. It was never holy like Assisi or noble like Rome, but for the sake of their religion the Venetians pulled off their greatest heist when they stole the bones of the Apostle Mark.”
    “Stole his bones?” Mark exclaimed. “Why’d they do that?”
    “Folks believed they’d bring good luck,” Hornaday said. “Don’t you carry something for luck?”
    “Yeah,” said Mark as he felt in his pocket for the flint scraper he’d found on a trip with his dad. He didn’t know why, but he was sure it was lucky.
    “The saint’s remains were buried in Alexandria in Egypt,” the doctor explained. “When Alexandria fell to the followers of Islam, it was rumored here in Venice that the sultan had ordered St. Mark’s church pulled down and his bones thrown into the common garbage pit.
    “Two young Venetian merchants worked themselves into a frenzy over this. ‘Pitch the apostle’s remains into the garbage pit?’ they cried to each other. ‘We must save him!’
    “They set out in a borrowed boat. The pope had banned Christians from stopping in Muslim Alexandria, and the Egyptians weren’t exactly welcoming, so the Venetians broke up some of the ship’s rigging and limped into port, pretending to have been blown in by bad weather.
    “There was a long exchange with the port officials about the ancient rule that harborage and courtesies had to be afforded distressed sailors. Finally, with the passing over of a bit of silver, the Venetians were allowed to dock.
    “They went ashore and bought the tools they said they needed to fix their ship. Tools in hand, they sneaked over to St. Mark’s church and bribed the old caretaker to let them in. Once inside they tied him up, barred the door, and set to work getting Mark’s bones.
    “This took some doing. His bones and hair and the cape and crown and shoes he’d been buried in weren’t just sitting in a suitcase ready to go. It took hammers, crowbars, and chisels to tear down the altar and pry away masonry to get at the heavy stone box containing his body. They worked all night. Finally at dawn they cracked open Mark’s sarcophagus. A sweet smell filled the church and the neighborhood around. Nobody knew what it was.”
    “Huh?” Mark asked. “Wouldn’t old bones stink?”
    Hornaday laughed. “Maybe they did, but the legend has it that they smelled good. Anyway,” he continued, “the Venetians stuffed the saint’s remains in the sack they’d carried their tools in and hurried to the dock, pretending to be carrying stuff to fix their ship. The fragrance they’d noticed in the church surrounded them—an odor so pleasing, the story goes, it was as if all the spices in Alexandria had been tossed into the air.
    “Just as they got the bones on board, the sultan heard