Creation (67 page)

“Have you consulted the shell of the prescient tortoise?”

“The shell has been prepared. But only the duke can interpret heaven’s message.”

At moments of crisis in any Cathayan realm, the outer side of a tortoise shell is coated with blood. The chief augur then holds a rod of heated bronze to the inner shell until fissures or designs appear on the blood-coated surface. Theoretically, only the ruler may interpret these signs from heaven. Actually, only the chief augur knows how to interpret the pattern, a process even more complex than the Middle Kingdom’s usual form of divination, which involves the throwing of yarrow sticks. Once the sticks are thrown at random, their hexagonal relationship to one another is duly looked up in an ancient text called
The Book of Changes
.
The resulting commentary is not unlike the sort of thing the pythoness at Delphi produces. The only difference is that the book does not demand gold for its prophecies.

The chamberlain assured us that as soon as Duke A5 had fulfilled his ceremonial duties, he would receive his ducal uncle. Although the ducal uncle hinted broadly that an invitation to stay in the palace would not be rejected out of hand, the chamberlain chose not to understand him. In a bad mood, the duke withdrew.

We then went to the central market, where the duke’s steward was already negotiating with the dragon’s-bone sellers. I cannot think why I so much enjoy Cathayan markets. Obviously, the sheer foreign-ness must have something to do with it. After all, a market is a market anywhere on earth. But the Cathayans are more imaginative than other people. Their displays of food resemble exquisite paintings or sculpture, and the variety of things on sale is infinite: baskets from Ch’in, banners from Cheng, silk cords from Key—ten thousand things.

The duke was too important to speak to the retailers of his commodity but he did acknowledge their deep bows with a series of hieratic gestures. Meanwhile, under his breath, he was saying to me, “I knew we should’ve gone south. If there’s a real war, we’ll be caught in it. Worse, my nephew will be too busy to look after me properly. There will be no official reception, no acknowledgment of esteem, no place to stay.” This last concerned him most. He hated to pay for lodgings—or anything else, for that matter.

I noticed that the war interested the market people not at all. “Why aren’t they more excited?” I asked as the duke and I made our way through the crowded market, all things marvelously vivid beneath the low sky. For some reason, the Cathayan sky seems closer to earth than it does elsewhere; no doubt heaven is constantly peering at the dukes, trying to decide to whom to give the mandate.

“Why should they be? There’s always some sort of war between Key and Lu. Terrible nuisance, of course, for the duke and the court but of no real concern to the common people.”

“But they could be killed. The city could be burned ...”

“Oh, we don’t have that sort of war here. This isn’t Ch’in, where war is a bloody business because the Ch’inese are wolfmen. No. We are civilized. The two armies will meet at the Stone Gates—as usual. There’ll be a skirmish or two. A few hundred men will be killed or wounded. Prisoners will be taken and held for exchange or ransom. Then there will be a treaty. Our people love making treaties. At the moment there are ten thousand treaties between the states of the Middle Kingdom, and since each of those treaties is sure to be broken, that means yet another treaty to replace the old one.”

Actually, affairs of the Middle Kingdom are not as bad or as good as the duke led me to believe. Sixty years earlier the prime minister of the weak state of Sung had arranged for a peace conference. As a result, an armistice was declared. For ten years there was peace in the Middle Kingdom. Ten years is quite a long time, as human history goes. Although there have been many minor wars in recent years, the principles of the armistice of Sung are still given lip service by everyone, which explains why no single ruler has yet thought the time auspicious to seize the hegemony.

The duke proposed that we go to the great temple. “I’m sure we’ll find the Chi family there, committing their usual blasphemies. Only the legitimate heir of Duke Tan can speak to heaven. But the Chi family do as they please, and the head of their family, Baron K’ang, likes to pretend that he’s the duke.”

The great temple of Duke Tan is as impressive as the temple at Loyang, and much older. Duke Tan founded Lu six centuries ago. Shortly after his death, this temple was built to his memory. Of course, the actual age of any structure anywhere is always moot. Since most Cathayan temples are made of wood, I am fairly certain that even the most ancient temple is simply a phoenixlike recreation of a long-vanished original. But Cathayans maintain—as do the Babylonians—that since they are always careful to duplicate, exactly, the original buildings, nothing really changes.

In front of the temple a thousand foot soldiers were drawn up in battle array. They wore leather tunics. Elm-wood bows were slung over their shoulders. Long swords were attached to their belts. The troops were entirely surrounded by children, streetwomen, food vendors. At the far end of the square, sacrificed animals were roasting over altar fires. The mood was more festive than warlike.

The duke asked one of the guards at the temple’s door what was happening. The guard said that Baron K’ang was inside, addressing heaven. The duke’s mood was definitely sour when he rejoined me in the crowd. “It’s really frightful. Sacrilegious, too. He’s not the duke.”

I was curious to know just what was going on inside the temple. My master did his best to explain. “The pseudo-duke is telling the ancestors, who are not
his
ancestors, that the realm has been attacked. He is saying that if heaven and all the ancestors smile upon him, he will stop the enemy at the Stone Gates. Meanwhile, he is offering the ancestors all the usual sacrifices, prayers, music. Then the commanding general will cut his nails and—”

“He will what?”

The duke looked somewhat surprised. “Don’t your generals cut their nails before battle?”

“No. Why should they?”

“Because whenever someone we know dies, we cut our nails before the funeral, as a sign of respect. Since men die in war, our commanding general prepares in advance, as it were, for the funeral by putting on a robe of mourning and cutting his nails. He then leads his army through an ill-omened gate—that’s the Low North Gate here—and takes to the field.”

“I’d have thought that a general would want to associate himself only with good omens.”

“He does,” said the duke, somewhat irritably. Like most people who enjoy explaining things, he hated to answer questions. “We go by opposites, as does heaven. Leave by the unlucky gate, return by the lucky gate.”

I have learned in my travels that most religious observances make no sense unless one has been accepted into the inner mysteries of the cult.

“He will also address thirteen prayers to the number thirteen.”

“Why thirteen?”

The duke bought a small fried lizard from a vendor. He offered me no part of it, which I took to be a bad sign; doubtless he would have thought it a good one. “Thirteen,” he said, mouth filled with lizard, “is significant because the body has nine apertures”—I thought of Sariputra’s gruesome description of those orifices—“and four limbs. Nine and four make thirteen, or a man. After a celebration of the number thirteen, which is man himself, the general will pray that his men be free from death spots. A death spot,” he said quickly, before I could ask another question, “is that part of the body
least
guarded by heaven, and so, most susceptible to death. Years ago I was told where my death spot was and I’ve been most careful never to expose it. In fact—”

But I was to hear no more of the duke’s death spot. At that moment the bronze temple doors swung open. Drums were pounded with jade sticks. Bells were jangled. Soldiers waved bright silken banners. All eyes were now upon the doorway, in which stood the hereditary dictator of Lu.

Baron K’ang was a small fat man with a face as smooth as that of the shell of an egg; he was draped in a robe of mourning. Solemnly he turned his back to us and bowed three times to the ancestors within. Then a tall handsome man came out of the temple; he, too, wore a robe of mourning.

“That is Jan Ch’iu,” said the duke. “The steward of the Chi family. He’ll lead the Chi army to the Stone Gates.”

“Is there no Lu army?”

“Yes. The Chi army.” Like most Cathayans, the duke had no conception of national armies. In almost every country, each clan has its own troops. Since the most powerful clan will have the most troops, it exerts the most power in the realm. The only exception to this rule is Ch’in, where Baron Huan had managed to bring together in a single army not only all the troops of his fellow nobles but every able-bodied man in the land. The result is a Spartan military state, an anomaly in the Middle Kingdom.

In order to ensure victory, the dictator and his general performed a number of arcane rites in full view of the people.

“Who,” I asked, “will win the war?”

“Key is a richer and more powerful state than Lu. But Lu is peculiarly holy and ancient. Everything the people of the Middle Kingdom regard as wise and good is associated with the founder of this city, Duke Tan.”

“But to win a war, it’s hardly enough to be wise and good and ancient.”

“Of course it is. Heaven decides these things, not men. If it were left to men, the wolves of Ch’in would enslave us all. But heaven keeps the wolves at bay. I suspect that this will be a brief war. Key would not dare upset the balance of the world by conquering Lu, even if it could, which is doubtful. Jan Ch’iu is a fine general. He is also devoted to Confucius. He even went into exile with him. But seven years ago Confucius told him that his duty was here, and he has been the Chi steward ever since. In my view, he has many good qualities, even if he is a commoner. That is why I have
always
been polite to him.” The duke bestowed his highest accolade.

The dictator embraces his general. Sacrificial flesh was then offered to each soldier. When the roasted meat had been bolted down, Jan Ch’iu shouted a command, which I did not understand. From the opposite side of the square, a chariot containing two men clattered toward us.

Needless to say, the duke recognized the officer in the chariot. He always said that more people had been presented to him than to any other personage in the Middle Kingdom. “He’s the second in command. He’s also a disciple of Confucius. In fact, the Chi family is administered by Confucius’ protégés, which is why Baron K’ang has sent for him after all these years.” The duke stared at the second in command, who was now saluting the dictator. “I can’t remember the man’s name. But he’s a dangerous sort. I once heard him say that none of us ought to live by the work of others. I was stunned. So was Confucius, I am happy to say. I remember his answer, which I’ve often quoted. ‘You must do what you were meant to do in your station of life, just as the common people must do what they are meant to do. If you are wise and just, they will look to you, their babies strapped on their backs. So don’t waste your time trying to grow your own food. Leave that to the farmer.’ Confucius also made the very good point ...”

I had ceased to listen. I had recognized the second in command. It was Fan Ch’ih. I thought rapidly. Should I go to him now? Or should I wait for him to return from the war? But suppose he was killed? If he was, I knew that I would spend the rest of my life as the slave of the mad duke of the holy ground. During our stay at Loyang I had come to realize that the duke was far too scatterbrained to undertake the long and hazardous journey to Magadha. I would remain his slave for the rest of my life, following him from place to place like a pet monkey to be shown off, having my cheek pinched so that the Cathay men could see the red come and go. Between such a life and death, I chose death—or escape. I made my decision in that crowded square before the great temple of Lu.

I shoved my way through the crowd; ducked between a line of soldiers; ran toward Fan Ch’ih. As I was about to speak to him, two members of the Chi guard seized my arms. I was only a few yards from Baron K’ang, whose face was expressionless. Jan Ch’iu frowned. Fan Ch’ih blinked his eyes.

“Fan Ch’ih!” I shouted. My old friend turned his back to me. I was terrified. According to Cathayan law, I was now a runaway slave. I could be put to death.

As the guards began to drag me away, I shouted in Persian, “Is this the way you treat the Great King’s ambassador?”

Fan Ch’ih swung around. He stared at me for an instant. Then he turned to Jan Ch’iu and said something that I could not hear. Jan Ch’iu motioned to the guards, who let me go. Cringing in the Cathayan manner, I approached Fan Ch’ih. I had not been so frightened since I was a child squirming on Queen Atossa’s rug.

Fan Ch’ih got down from the chariot, and my heart, which had stopped its beating, started again. As Fan Ch’ih embraced me he whispered in my ear in Persian, “How? What? Be quick.”

“Captured by the Ch’inese. Now a slave of the duke of Sheh. Did you get my messages?”

“No.” Fan Ch’ih broke the embrace. He walked over to Baron K’ang. He bowed low. They exchanged words. Although the egglike face of the dictator betrayed no emotion of any kind, the egg itself ever so slightly nodded. Then Fan Ch’ih got into the chariot. Jan Ch’iu mounted a black stallion. Commands were shouted. Half walking, half running, the Chi family troops crossed the square in the direction of the ill-omened Low North Gate.

Baron K’ang’s eyes were upon his army. I did not know what to do. I was afraid I had been forgotten. As the last soldier left the square, the duke of Sheh was at my side. “What a display!” he said. “I am humiliated! You have behaved barbarously. Come away! This instant.” He pulled at my arm. But I stood as if my feet had been nailed to the packed red earth.

Suddenly the dictator looked at us. The duke of Sheh assumed his courtly manner. “Dear Baron K’ang, what a pleasure to behold you on this day of days! When victory is in the air for my beloved nephew the duke of Lu.”

Cathayan manners are nothing if not rigid. Although my master was little more than an impoverished scrounger, every Cathayan court received him as a duke; and although there is hardly a real duke in the Middle Kingdom who is not regarded with contempt by his hereditary ministers, there is not a duke who isn’t treated, both in private and in public, as a celestial figure, true descendant of the Yellow Emperor.