ABSTRACT
Seven hundred years ago, three men stepped off a small galley onto the stone-paved quayside of Venice. They staggered slightly, their legs unused to firm ground after weeks at sea. There was no one to meet them and their home-coming would have passed quite unnoticed, had their tattered clothing not singled them out. They had 'a certain indescribable smack of the Tartar both in air and accent, having indeed all but forgotten their Venetian tongue'. 1 They wore filthy leather knee-boots and padded silk robes, bound at the waist with more silk, the shaggy fur linings visible through gaping tears in the once fine material. The ragged robes reached only to their knees and were fastened across the chest with round brass buttons, in the Mongol style.
