The Silk Tree Page 12

  The last of the smudge of blue-grey that was Arabia had lessened by the hour until it had disappeared, and now all that was left was a blazing sun high in the sky and sea – an alien, watery expanse that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction.

  ‘Where are we?’ he croaked, every legionary sense of place and purpose now irrelevant.

  ‘The captain knows what he’s doing,’ Nicander replied, feeling none too brave himself.

  But they were heading straight out into open waters instead of hugging the coast as any prudent Roman would have done. The Arab captain, in broken trading Greek, had said only that they were following the season’s winds that blew always from one direction in summer and in the opposite in winter, and this was what provided their direct route to Taprobane.

  Nicander had never heard of such a regularity of nature and immediately distrusted him. In the Mediterranean everything from calms to storms could be expected from any direction at any time at the whim of the gods.

  The captain also talked darkly of the perils of the deep: the monsters surging out of the depths with no warning, the giant rocs that plummeted down from invisible heights to snatch unfortunate sailors from the decks to take back to feed their chicks. And an immense white octopus that rose up at night and ate ships whole.

  Nicander had additional anxieties. The Erythraean sea was in the centre of the world; in the north was the land mass of Asia and the further you went the more frigid it got, until past Thule the human body froze in its last posture like a statue for all eternity. In the south there was no land, therefore it stood to reason that in that direction, in which it got progressively hotter, it would reach the point where the sea itself started to boil. No one had ever returned from the burning region to tell the tale.

  What if there was a storm and the mast broke? Without sail they would be carried before the wind. And no one had ever worked out where the winds blew to in the end – it was quite possible that they would be driven ever further south, to end in a dreadful fate as they reached the boiling sea.

  He decided to keep his concerns to himself. ‘We’ve a stout enough ship,’ he added in half-hearted encouragement.

  ‘You think so?’ Marius hissed. ‘Look! Look at this – did you ever come across such shite workmanship!’

  To his horror Nicander saw that there was not a nail anywhere. Even the hull planks were held together with nothing more than twisted fibres and thongs. They were trusting their lives to a seagoing vessel that was just sewn together.

  Nicander glanced back at the Arab captain at the steering oar, his unfocused eyes on a distant horizon as he chewed some kind of dried leaves. ‘But that’s the least of our problems. This voyage is only going to end in one of two ways: we’re going to be shipwrecked or worse – or we’re going to safely arrive at Taprobane. If we get there, those bastards forward will be watching very carefully while we carry out the plan we set before Justinian, which, if you remember, calls for us to wave our magic letter and demand the nearest trader of Sinae to take us there.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Damn it, Marius. There’ll be nobody from Serica there and the people of Taprobane will soon tell them so. We’ll be exposed, unmasked – they’ll take us prisoner back to Justinian as frauds and no doubt we’ll be entertained by Marcellus again.’

  ‘We’ve got to get away, then,’ Marius said.

  ‘Tell me,’ Nicander said, glancing pointedly out over the vast, empty sea. ‘Just how you propose to do this?’

  The big man looked down.

  ‘Let me sum up for you. We’re no longer looking to flee with a chest of gold, we’re looking to save our very skins! Just that – anything that sees us disappear. Not a sesterce to our name, but still alive.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Yeh Ch’eng’s early morning light was delicate and pure, befitting an imperial city of China.

  It touched the myriad rooftops, their upswept eaves and finials slowly taking colour. Soon it streamed into the apartment of the Lady Kuo Ying Mei. She sat by the window while her elaborate hairstyle was completed, braided up into an elegant double knot and secured with pearl pins by Lai Tai Yi, her Gold Lily Lady-in-Waiting.

  A red-crested bulbul broke into song among the pink and yellow flowers of a nearby tree. Ying Mei sighed with contentment. ‘How enchanting, and from so tiny a creature!’

  ‘Your father would say that it is a sign of heaven’s blessing, my child, that daintiness is sent to bring beauty to strength,’ Tai Yi offered. The blossom of the plum was revered as a symbol of fortitude.

  ‘Just so, Ah Lai.’ She could use the familiar form of name, for Tai Yi had cared for her since birth and personally instructed her in the intricate ceremonial and etiquette expected of one attending on the Emperor himself.

  The mention of her father, however, brought a frown. An only child, Ying Mei had become his confidante. As grand chamberlain to the elderly Emperor Hsiao Ching, he was becoming more and more enmeshed in the intrigues and betrayals that were sapping the dynasty of the Eastern Wei. A Confucian scholar and accomplished calligrapher – and a deeply honourable man – Kuo Ming Lai took his duties seriously and was pained by the incessant rivalry and treachery, much of it centred around the ruthless and tyrannical independent warlord Kao Yang. His bellicose manoeuvring out in the eastern counties was unsettling the peasantry and tales of his bestiality and callous indifference were widespread.

  Why the Emperor had taken a course of appeasement and benevolence toward him was a mystery but he had, tolerating the military posturing for reasons which were hidden from mere mortals. She had heard that, in response, the warlord had sworn loyalty and promised to disperse his army at an early date.

  Ying Mei stood, quite unconscious of the swan-like grace of her figure as she extended her arms to receive the broad-sleeved cream silk robe of the Presence. It was sumptuously embroidered with flowers and motifs from nature, with contrasting panels of rich brocade. Tai Yi fussed at the garment then fastened a wide girdle in the golden yellow of the imperial court under her breast.

  With her fragrance pouch settled discreetly beneath her gown, Ying Mei went to a rosewood chest and carefully drew out a small case.

  Leaving by the lion-carved gate that led into a shady courtyard, she approached an ornamental pond with multicoloured carp swimming languidly among the lilies. She paused to offer them a tidbit. Then into the stillness came the summoning of the stone chimes; she hurried on toward the Inner Court.

  It had been a long time since her father had first presented her but she still felt a thrill of anticipation as she waited by the door of the Throne Room. A blank-faced eunuch in a cream and chocolate-brown robe with an elaborately embroidered breastplate and peacock feather cap motioned her in.

  With quick, dainty steps she took her place before the Celestial Throne and knelt deeply, head bowed, arms extended to each side. A yellow gauze hanging from the gold ornamented canopy hid the Emperor from mortal gaze; she knew, however, that he was there, able to discreetly observe all that went on.

  An incense brazier sent gentle spirals of smoke up into the lofty expanse above. On either side, Imperial Guards in rich surcoats with burnished halberds stood at attention and to the right was Grand Chamberlain Kuo Ming Lai, in full court gown and scholarly cap, his hands clasped within his sleeves, his countenance impassive.

  She waited, her head touching the ground until, at a word from him, she rose and extracted a richly ornamented loose-stitched book from the case.

  It was Emperor Hsiao Ching’s practice before the business of the day to listen to five verses from the Analects of Confucius. Ying Mei’s task was to read these passages, carefully chosen by the Grand Chamberlain.

  Lifting the book with dignity and reverence she found the first selection and paused. As usual, her father had chosen a generality to begin.

  To one side the soft reverberation of a gong sounded. In a courtly high-pitched chant she began: ‘The Master says: he who govern
s by his moral excellence may be compared to the Pole-star, which abides in its place, while all the stars bow toward it.’

  She inclined her head and waited.

  The gong reverberated again.

  ‘The Master says: “I will not grieve that men do not know me; I grieve that I know not men.”’ Ying Mei’s gaze remained resolutely on the parchment: this was a scholarly admonishment at the Emperor’s recent leniency toward the warlord Kao Yang. It could only bring trouble, for the man was an unprincipled viper and—

  Another soft boom.

  ‘The Master says: “Observe what he does; look into his motives … can a man hide himself?”’ She remained bowed; it was a call to take heed of the reckless vainglory of the man, his barely concealed ambitions and dark streak of cruelty.

  The melodious note from the gong never came. Instead there was a strident triple strike as a dusty messenger ran in, throwing himself prostrate before the throne.

  No one except an imperial herald with tidings of the utmost urgency came into the Presence without obtaining leave at the highest level. First Eunuch Yuan shot a glance at Kuo.

  ‘What is this news, that you disturb His Imperial Majesty so?’ the Grand Chamberlain demanded, ignoring Yuan, who stood tight-faced.

  ‘Great mandarin, General Wu desires you should be aware that Lord Kao Yang is under arms and advancing on the city.’

  Ying Mei caught her breath. Not only had Kao Yang betrayed the Emperor’s trust in refusing to disband but he was now insolently approaching the capital.

  ‘Sire, what I have feared has come to pass,’ Kuo said to the hanging gauze. ‘It is time to—’

  ‘Wu has six banners of Yeh spearmen. We are not concerned.’ The voice from within, however, was weak and elderly.

  The Grand Chamberlain persisted. ‘Do not underestimate Kao Yang, Sacred Ruler. His spies and agents are everywhere and they cry disloyalty and insults to your august name upon the common people. If we—’

  ‘Minister Kuo! The Wei Lord of Ten Thousand Years is not to be dismayed by mere posturing. Instruct General Wu to offer Kao Yang mercy. If he submits to me this day, then his life will be spared, and that of his family. If not, then the wrath of heaven will surely be called upon his head. That is all.’

  ‘Sire, it is essential that—’

  ‘Enough! Let the readings continue!’

  Ying Mei returned to her chamber shaken. The times were strange and disturbing. She recalled the portent of a golden eagle taking a fox within the imperial compound that had terrified many by its thinly veiled meaning; there were mutters that the previous month’s partial eclipse was the sun turning his gaze from horrors to come. Now, the warlord Kao Yang was not so far from the capital. Had he come to pledge fresh allegiance to the Emperor or was there a real threat? She knew much of the imperial army was away, dealing with an uprising among the peasants.

  She busied herself and tried not to worry: in China’s long history there had been other disturbances and challenges to an emperor’s rule, this would not be the last.

  Within the high walls of the palace, the morning wore on in its usual measured calm and after a delicate midday repast the Emperor honoured his court by attending a recital of music on the pipa, a five-stringed lute, played by his ladies at the Hall of Tranquil Longevity. Despite a subdued atmosphere, Ying Mei brought smiles of delight with her gay, ‘White Snow in Spring Sunlight’, and then the more introspective ‘Flute and Drum at Sunset’.

  Another lady of the court stepped forward shyly to take her place, but in the stillness before she began, faint but insistent sounds of a disturbance came from somewhere out in the city. The Emperor frowned and Kuo immediately dispatched a uniformed eunuch to investigate. He returned minutes later, politely waiting while the pipa music drew to its close, then announced, ‘Sire, it’s nothing but the humble classes in a witless frenzy about the Lord Kao Yang.’

  The Emperor held motionless for a space then said calmly, ‘They are my loyal subjects and without understanding. It is within my power to ease their fears. Grand Chamberlain – this night I shall offer sacrifice before the people.’

  Emperor Hsiao Ching then retired to the Hall of Bright Holiness to contemplate and purify.

  The imperial palace meanwhile hastened to prepare. The Grand Master of Tao carefully cast his horoscope. It transpired that the hour before midnight was the most propitious. Heralds and runners fanned out to every office and department with orders from the Grand Chamberlain, others carried gongs and trumpets to announce to the populace what was about to take place.

  At the appointed time, on either side of the Imperial Way, thousands silently came up to witness the ritual that would see the Emperor join earth to heaven in personal supplication. The great families of state took position about the altar at the steps of the Supreme Temple in strict order of seniority. From her place in the centre, Ying Mei had a privileged view of the processional way, lined by the Imperial Guard in their finest robes with the Emperor’s insignia on their tabards. At the other end she caught sight of the ceremonial chariot being brought to the door, drawn by a pair of magnificent black horses.

  The people pressed forward: peasants, beggars, shopkeepers, entertainers, thieves, brothel-keepers, all eager to catch sight of their near-mythical emperor.

  Then, piercing the night, came the pure sound of trumpets, followed by shouts of command up and down the line of guards.

  Flares blazed into life at the gateway to the palace as Emperor Hsiao Ching of the Eastern Wei dynasty appeared in all his glory. Resplendent in his dazzling yellow robes embellished with the five-clawed imperial dragon, he gazed out on his people. A giant drum began pounding and all along the line of guards, kindled torches were raised in a stunning spectacle.

  The chariot ground off, the imperious figure of the Emperor looking neither one way nor the other. As he passed, his subjects fell prostrate and the air was wreathed with the fragrance of incense.

  At the steps of the temple the Emperor dismounted. Officials and noble families quickly knelt in obeisance. He progressed up to take position at the altar, then turned and faced the multitude.

  On one side of him Grand Chamberlain Kuo held the jade-bound Book of Wei, a compendium of proverbs and rules of the dynasty that came down from centuries past in the country’s long history, written in antique characters revered for the excellence of their execution.

  On the other, First Eunuch Yuan prepared the instruments of sacrifice.

  Ying Mei could sense the guarded hostility in the two men. She knew her father resented the privileged access the eunuch had by reason of his personal attendance on the Emperor; he suspected that much of what he counselled was being overborne by Yuan to advance his own interests.

  ‘My loyal subjects – listen now to your Heavenly Lord’s words!’ A spreading sigh came from the people who flung themselves down again in kowtow.

  ‘We are gathered to offer sacrifice in order to gain the smile of benevolence from heaven in our need and …’

  He finished and motioned for the people to rise, then beckoned to the Grand Chamberlain. Kuo stepped forward and opened the precious book. In a commanding voice he read the passages he had painstakingly selected, nodding in satisfaction at the humility and trust they were evoking.

  A bronze libation vessel was brought forth; three-footed and of great antiquity, it was filled with precious wine and placed before His Imperial Majesty. With the utmost dignity, he raised it and drank, first to the heavens, then to the august earth, and finally, to the ancestors – and it was time.

  At a discreet signal, a small pure-white goat was led out, bleating piteously in its anxiety. The creature was pinioned in front of the Emperor. A reverent hush descended on the crowd as the sacrificial knife – jade, with an obsidian blade – was presented to him. He raised it high, chanting sacred words known only to gods and emperors, and in the expectant quiet brought it down.

  But the sacrifice was fumbled by the old emperor.

&nb
sp; The kid screamed and kicked. In place of a clean slice across the throat the wound tailed off on one side. Spurting blood splattered those nearby as the animal, frantic with pain, went berserk. Unnerved, the Emperor stabbed and slashed until the creature finally gave up its life.

  When it was over the Emperor stood before his people, bloodstained and hesitant. Trembling, he was unable to take the ancestral Book of Wei in his hands. The Grand Chamberlain held it for him, expressionless, while he feebly pronounced the sacred words.

  The omens could not have been more dolorous. The Emperor mounted his chariot and moved off, a diminished figure. Down the torchlit way there was no doubt of what had passed: instead of the full-throated roar of acclamation due an emperor – Wan siu! Wan siu! Wan wan siu! Live ten thousand times ten thousand years! – there were only thin and fitful cries. The act of intercession and reassurance had failed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The captain announced that they would raise Taprobane in a day or so, save no monsters of the deep should appear in the meantime.

  ‘We’re never going to get away, not with those two around our necks,’ Nicander said bitterly. ‘And Taprobane – what in Hades is it like? Do they speak half-decent Greek? Or Latin? If we make a run for it, how do we survive without means – let alone get back to any kind of civilisation!’

  ‘You want me to tell you?’ Marius said.

  ‘You’re not saying we should give up, turn ourselves in?’

  ‘No, sort it out now. They’ve got their orders. Get the seeds at all costs, then get rid of us.’

  ‘You mean …?’