Empire of Dragons

  ‘You said it, I didn’t. The presentiment is yours alone. And this is a bad sign. On the other hand, the blood of the Han still runs in your veins, although their dynasty is lost.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Look inside yourself. See if there is a cause for all this. If there was an action that violated the harmony, that interrupted the flow of vital energy, and that has brought disorder and confusion, violence and war.’

  ‘I’ve always dreamed of bringing prosperity and order to my people. I dream of reuniting the country.’

  ‘Then why do you harbour doubt? What strange haste has driven you here so soon?’

  ‘Cast your bones, shaman, tell me who the usurper is. What hides behind his mask?’

  The shaman tossed a handful of leaves on to the fire and breathed in the dense yellowish vapour which rose from the flames. He then took the sacred bones from his sack and threw them to the ground three times, near the fire.

  ‘What do you see?’ insisted Dan Qing.

  ‘I see many lives sacrificed and I see hate that only death can extinguish. But I cannot see where it will strike . . . because you refuse to understand the signs. It is you who dares not look, and thus yours will not be the final blow. It won’t be you who cuts down your enemy. Someone else will have to do it for you. One who has done no harm in the Middle Kingdom. As far as you are concerned, if you have the courage to look into your soul, you will also see the face of the usurper. Farewell, Prince.’

  He closed his eyes and isolated himself in an impenetrable silence.

  Dan Qing remained still for some time as well, trying to make sense of the shaman’s message, but he realized that he was not ready to face such a revelation. Only his master, venerable Wangzi, could help him seek the truth.

  The prince started at the sound of his horse’s neighing. He took him by the reins and led him back to the village. The tower house was illuminated by coloured lanterns in celebration of his return, but there were no other signs of rejoicing. The bad news, perhaps, obscured the good.

  He dined alone, as befitted his rank, but it felt awkward after all those months of sharing his meals with his travelling companions, after all the trials they had faced together. He realized that despite the detachment he had insisted upon, there was something about their way of life that had remained part of him. Even something about their language. After dinner, he opened the door to the library and stayed awake until late, perusing an ancient text that had survived the destruction of the library of Luoyang. The text told the story of the ‘Mercenary Devils’, the foreign soldiers who had appeared suddenly at the western confines of the country three hundred and fourteen years before. No one knew where they had come from.

  Emperor Yuandi, who reigned at that time, gave orders to drive them away and to take back the land they had occupied, but his troops were defeated time and time again by those indomitable warriors who engaged battle on the open field and fought with their shields on their heads. In the end the emperor, awed by the valour of those men who had materialized out of nowhere, proposed that they enter his service as his personal guard. From that moment on, their bravery and loyalty became legendary. Many of them fell in combat in a number of military missions, until only three hundred of them remained, and that was the number that went down in history. It was said that if the dynasty was ever threatened with destruction, the Mercenary Devils would return from their tombs to fight their last battle.

  Dan Qing lay on the bed in which he had slept as an adolescent, where he had first dreamed of love, imagining the woman he would have at his side one day. His thoughts turned to his ancestors, and he entreated them to show him the way and to help him in an endeavour that appeared more desperate by the day.

  ‘HOW ARE YOU TODAY, Rufus?’ Metellus asked his wounded soldier.

  ‘He’s much better, Commander,’ replied Martianus for him. Rufus was, at the moment, immersed in a deep sleep. ‘One of their doctors came last night. He said that the prince had sent him to care for our comrade. I wanted to advise you, but then I thought that it would be discourteous to refuse their help and I gave him permission to examine Rufus.’

  ‘You did well. As far as I can tell, their medicine is probably further advanced than ours is.’

  ‘You could swear on it, Commander. The first thing he did was to pour a liquid on the wound. Then he treated it and sewed it up with a silken thread, with more skill than I’ve ever seen. Every now and then, I’d ask Rufus if it was hurting him, and he’d answer, “No, not in the least. I can feel the needle piercing my skin, the thread pulling, but no pain at all.” Imagine if I’d had something of the sort when I had to put our soldiers’ mangled limbs back together after a battle! Their screams, the agony . . . you never get used to it, Commander.’

  Metellus nodded his head, then put his hand on the wounded soldier’s forehead. ‘He has a fever, but it’s not high.’

  ‘He’s been sleeping for ten hours. It must be the potion that their doctor gave him. It was a dark liquid, very bitter, Rufus told me before he fell asleep, similar to wormwood. Sleep is the best cure for a fever. You’ll see, he’ll wake up with a roaring appetite, ready to start marching again.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Metellus turned to go.

  ‘Commander, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘When are we going to change direction? I mean, when are we starting back for home?’

  ‘I can’t say. We must have faith in Daruma and in the prince. I think we’re not too far from our final destination. A few days at most.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Daruma will have to see to his affairs, sell and buy his goods – that may take some time. And we must be certain that Prince Dan Qing is out of harm’s way before we leave him.’

  ‘I see. But then we’ll be leaving, won’t we?’

  ‘Of course. Why do you doubt it?’

  ‘Well, you see, the boys and I have been trying to figure it out. What we’re afraid of, Commander, is that by the time we arrive, the favourable winds will have changed, and the weather will be against us again, and we’ll have to wait six more months . . .’

  Metellus raised his hand and Martianus fell still. ‘Your destiny is dearer to me than my own, soldier. That will have to be enough for now.’

  ‘Yes, Commander,’ replied Martianus, and Metellus left.

  The sun appeared just then from the wooded hills that circled the village to the east and its clear light was reflected in the many ponds arranged in tiers around the town. Big grey herons took off from the placid sheets of water, and flocks of little white egrets left the branches of the trees where they had spent the night and took flight across the valley, like a joyous cortège greeting the morning.

  The farmers left their homes and walked down the paths that wound their way around the pools where each one of them had a plot for planting marsh grain, their most common food. They were followed by their dogs and their children, who delighted in playing in the water.

  Metellus ran into Publius, Septimius and Antoninus, who seemed very excited. ‘Commander, Commander!’

  ‘What’s the matter, boys?’

  ‘This place is incredible! Do you know that here the fish, instead of being grey, are the colour of gold?’

  ‘Are you sure? You haven’t been drinking already, have you, so early in the morning?’

  ‘No. Come on and see for yourself !’

  They took him to a fountain that flowed into a big stone basin. Inside were gorgeous fish of a golden-red hue with long tails as transparent as veils, wondrous creatures indeed. Metellus watched them swimming around for a while, then asked, ‘Where’s Daruma?’

  ‘He’s with Quadratus and the others down there, near those trees.’

  ‘I must speak with him,’ he said, and walked, followed by the other Romans, towards the group that was standing around a beautiful tree in a little orchard. Big round fruits, golden-coloured as well, hung from the tree.

&nbs
p; ‘Can you eat them?’ asked Antoninus.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Daruma. ‘Taste one. They’re ripe.’

  Antoninus picked a fruit and sank his teeth into it, but immediately spat it out, swearing. ‘Ugh! It’s bitter. It stings my tongue! You’ve poisoned me!’

  Daruma shook his head, smiling slyly. He picked another fruit, peeled it and showed them the inside, a kind of large juicy grape divided into slices which he separated and handed out to the men.

  Metellus tasted a piece. ‘It’s heavenly! The best fruit I’ve ever had in my life,’ he said. ‘But what is it?’

  ‘It’s an orange. It’s the symbol of fairness, because nature has divided it into absolutely equal parts, so that everyone can have exactly what the others have.’

  ‘What about these?’ asked Septimius, pointing to a similar fruit with an oval shape and a brilliant yellow colour. ‘Are they good?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Daruma again. ‘Taste it.’

  ‘You won’t fool me this time,’ replied Septimius, beginning to peel the fruit.

  ‘I see you learn quickly,’ commented Daruma in satisfaction.

  Septimius put two big slices into his mouth and his face contracted all at once into a grimace of disgust. ‘Ugh! It’s awful!’ he shouted, spitting it out.

  ‘It’s only different,’ replied Daruma. ‘You just have to get used to it.’ He took the fruit from Septimius’s hands, detached a slice and ate it with pleasure. ‘It’s a bit more acidic and a little bitter, but it has many virtues, as do many other bitter things.’

  Metellus continued scouting around until he found Severus at work in the village forge.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, Commander. I’m preparing the shields . . . a modification that will make them even more effective.’

  ‘A modification? What kind?’

  ‘You’ll know when it’s time, Commander. I want to make sure it works first . . .’

  Severus was still talking when a youth from the village came running up and told Metellus that Prince Dan Qing wished to speak to him.

  21

  ‘YOU HAD ME SUMMONED?’ Metellus entered the library accompanied by a servant. Dan Qing was sitting on a mat with his back turned to him. A table was balanced on his knees and he was writing on a sheet which looked like papyrus, although it was much finer and more flexible.

  ‘Why did you not pay me homage yesterday, like all my other subjects? I am the legitimate heir to the throne of this empire and all the inhabitants of this land owe me the act of veneration prescribed by a ritual that is thousands of years old. Your refusal humiliated me before my subjects and Commander Baj Renjie.’

  ‘I am in this land,’ replied Metellus, ‘but I do not belong to this land. My men and I are not your subjects.’

  ‘You are trying to make me believe that in your country you do not render acts of veneration to the emperor?’

  ‘We burn incense to his genius every year, on the day he was born, but we stand on our feet when we speak to him and call him by name. During a military campaign, he eats the same food as us, drinks the same acidy wine and sleeps on the ground like the most humble of his soldiers. That doesn’t mean that we’re not ready to die for him if necessary. The only relationship that you can have with me is one of equality: one man to another.’

  Dan Qing got to his feet and turned to face him. ‘Here, a person’s devotion towards his emperor is seen as a virtue. It is called yi, signifying what is “just”. The only relationship we consider in terms of equality is the bond between friends. It is called xin, which means “loyalty”. I can treat you as a friend, Xiong Ying, but are you prepared to be loyal?’

  ‘I believe I am,’ replied Metellus, ‘if you tell me that you are.’

  Dan Qing nodded slightly, then sat down again and continued writing. Metellus drew closer, curious to see what was taking form on the white sheet.

  ‘Are they magical signs?’ he asked. ‘They look like the ones carved into the bones that the shaman used to pronounce his oracles in the caravanserai.’

  ‘They are not magical signs,’ replied the prince. ‘It’s the way we write.’

  ‘Complicated. No sign is like another . . . Our system is much more efficient. With twenty-three very simple symbols you can write any word.’

  ‘In what language?’

  ‘In our own, in Latin.’

  ‘And so anyone who wants to understand what you have written has to learn your language.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘In this country we speak a hundred different languages. Each one of these signs expresses a concept of the mind, like “man” or “house” or “tree”, and can be recognized by all, although every person pronounces the corresponding word in his native tongue. No one has to bend to learning the terms of a foreign language. These signs respect our freedom of mind, more important still than the physical freedom which is so important to you. Why does it seem so terrible to you to bow before a sovereign?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a Western king, a great young conqueror named Alexander?’

  ‘Yes, I heard tales of him in Persia, where they call him Iskander and consider him a demon, and news of his exploits reached our land in the past.’

  ‘When he arrived at the confines of India, he had already inherited the crown of the Persians and had decided to adopt their customs as well, so he demanded that his companions bend their backs to him when they greeted him. They refused to do so and an irremediable rift opened between them. Some of them even plotted to kill him. This tells you how important the dignity of a single person, no matter how humble, is to us.’

  ‘Do you have slaves?’ asked Dan Qing.

  Metellus hesitated a moment, taken by surprise, then answered, ‘Yes, we have slaves.’

  ‘Here slavery was abolished by the decree of Emperor Wang Mang more than two centuries ago,’ replied Dan Qing, and said no more.

  Metellus didn’t have an answer and remained to observe the prince as he was writing. ‘Where do you find such white papyrus?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘I don’t know what this . . . “papyrus” is,’ replied Dan Qing. ‘This is paper.’

  ‘Paper?’ repeated Metellus.

  ‘Paper,’ confirmed the prince. ‘We make it by soaking rags. We whiten them with lye and sometimes we perfume them with jasmine or with roses or violets.’ He extracted a sheet from a drawer and held it under Metellus’s nose.

  Metellus breathed in the delicate fragrance, then took it into his hands and held it up against the sunlight, admiring its marvellous transparency and homogeneous consistency. ‘Scented sheets,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘For love letters. Your beloved recognizes your missive from the fragrance it gives off even before she reads it. Charming, wouldn’t you say?’

  Metellus nodded, his eyes misting over.

  ‘You are thinking of her, Xiong Ying, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The favourite among your concubines?’

  For a moment, Metellus’s gaze and the mysterious anguish evoked by those words were mirrored in the inscrutable eyes of the prince.

  ‘My bride, Prince,’ he replied. ‘A Roman has only one wife, usually for his whole life.’

  ‘How barbaric,’ observed Dan Qing. ‘But if it pleases you . . . Do you miss her very much?’

  ‘Terribly.’

  ‘Would you like her to read your words?’

  Metellus bowed his head and remained in silence for a few moments. Then he said, ‘I’d give anything for that to happen. But I fear it’s impossible: there is no message that can reach the kingdom of the dead.’

  ‘Is no one left to you?’ asked Dan Qing.

  ‘My son. A boy of seven. I did not even say goodbye. And I do not know what has become of him.’

  Dan Qing lowered his head. According to the mechanisms of power that he was accustomed to, that child would already be dead.

  Metellus sighed and
said no more as Dan Qing began to write again, using a slender brush to draw the elegant signs of his script.

  ‘What does Flying Foxes mean?’ asked Metellus after some time.

  ‘They are animals that live in the great forests of the south. They resemble little foxes, but they have a membrane between their front and back paws that stretches out when they jump from one branch to another and allows them to soar and wheel through the air, like birds.’

  ‘But when you spoke of them you were referring to men, not to animals. To the men who attacked us in the valley.’

  ‘Garbed in black,’ continued Dan Qing, leaning his brush on a lacquered wooden stand, ‘implacable, swift as lightning, peerless combatants, fanatically devoted to their chief and to their mission. Whoever has them on his side can be certain of victory.’

  Metellus neared a stone wall on which the shell of an enormous tortoise hung, so large that he had never seen anything like it. He stroked the smooth, shiny surface; it seemed like polished ebony. ‘We defeated them, though.’

  ‘Because they did not expect such resistance . . . forces arrayed in a way they were totally unfamiliar with.’

  Metellus stroked the big burnished shell. ‘We call the technique testudo, which means tortoise. A tortoise beat the flying foxes . . . Although perhaps our tactics are more like a porcupine’s. It’s strange how men so often compare their behaviour to that of animals . . .’

  ‘Don’t delude yourself, Xiong Ying. When they have your strategy figured out, they will find a way . . .’

  ‘That may be. But you see, we have an ancient proverb, coined by a great poet of the past: “A fox has many tricks. The porcupine just one, but a good one.” ’

  Dan Qing turned to face him and a slight smile crossed his lips. ‘That’s a good proverb,’ he said.

  ‘But who are they, in reality? Where do they come from?’

  Dan Qing rose to his feet, uncrossing his legs with the fluid elegance of a serpent or a fish gliding through water. He went to a cabinet built into a wall, opened it and extracted a bundle of reed canes tied with laces. He unwound one of them on the floor and a text written in their script appeared.