Empire of Dragons (29 page)

T
HEY RESUMED
their journey, Metellus and Dan Qing riding side by side, Severus and Martianus on either side of them in the forest and the others in a column, preceding Daruma’s caravan. They advanced for three days without encountering any difficulties. Rufus was treated every evening by Martianus, even though Daruma had offered the intervention of the Chinese doctor, who instead cared for the prince’s wounds with extreme discretion and solicitude. On the evening of the third day, they arrived at a point where the valley opened up all at once, revealing an enchanting landscape.

The wooded banks became less steep, widening out towards open meadows. The water of the torrent split up into dozens of artificial canals that filled wide basins extending over the slopes of the valley like an amphitheatre, one above the other in a descending array of sparkling mirrors, reddened by the light of dusk. Further down, nearly at the bottom of the valley, was a village of roof-tiled wooden houses surrounded by herds of grazing buffalo and flocks of sheep. At the very centre of the village, one building loomed over all the rest: a kind of fortified house in the shape of a tower, several storeys high. Each storey was separated by a projecting roof on four sides, and Metellus noticed that the rows of tiles ended with a decorated antefix, just like the ones used in the temples to the gods at home.

It was a magical vision that left the small group of foreigners at a loss for words. Leaning on their shields, they contemplated that idyllic image, the iridescent colours of the ponds that reflected the dying sun, the wood of cane stalks so tall and flexible that they seemed like a field of rippling green wheat bent by the wind. The cirrus clouds floating through the sky blushed in the sun’s last rays and smoke began to rise from the rooftops.

Dan Qing turned to Metellus. ‘It is here that I was born, Xiong Ying. My mother was travelling to join my father, who was engaged in a military campaign at the northern border, when she was suddenly gripped by labour pains and had to seek hospitality in this village. That house that looks like a tower was built by the inhabitants as a gift for me and no one can enter unless I inhabit it. The people are loyal and devoted to me, and I think we can consider ourselves safe here.’

Metellus wanted to ask if there wasn’t someone from the village who could accompany the prince to his master Wangzi’s fortress, so that the Romans could take their leave, but he realized that such a request would seem an insult, since Dan Qing had asked him to reflect for eight days. All things considered, Metellus was a little reluctant to leave so soon. In a place so far from home he found himself in a situation so similar to the one he had left behind: the chaos of the institutions, the disorder and precariousness of the state, which begged to be corrected by an authoritative ruler. By an incredible twist of fate, he found himself once again in the same role that he had held in his homeland: he was the emperor’s personal guard, the man the sovereign could trust in blindly.

Dan Qing called Daruma, shaking Metellus from his thoughts. ‘Send someone to announce that I am coming. The people will want to pay their respects.’

‘I will do so immediately, Prince,’ replied Daruma, and sent a messenger on horseback who spoke Chinese to inform the inhabitants of the village that their most illustrious son was about to honour them with a visit.

Dan Qing gestured for them to continue, and Metellus transmitted the order to his men.

If the spectacle of that enchanted village left the new arrivals dumbstruck, their appearance aroused no less amazement in the villagers still at work in the fields. They were bent low over pools in which the marsh grain was cultivated, assisted by buffalo with long, flat horns. The farmers wore curious head-coverings of a conical shape, made of braided wicker or straw. They raised their heads at the passage of that strange procession. Their curiosity was drawn by the soldiers’ uniforms. They’d never seen anything like them: their red tunics and polished armour, their embossed leggings and crested helmets. Where could such mighty warriors, so tall and so powerfully built, be coming from?

But some of them had already recognized the person riding erect next to one of the foreign warriors with the crested helmet – it was Dan Qing! They prostrated themselves before him, foreheads to the ground, as he passed. This demonstration of profound respect did not escape Metellus; it was more like adoration, and helped to explain the condescension with which Dan Qing had treated him until that moment.

As they approached the village, they noticed a swarming of inhabitants at the gates, a bustle of people coming and going, of children running to and fro despite their mothers’ attempts to stop them. Standards began to flutter in the breeze, weapons gleamed in the setting sunlight, brightly coloured clothes enrobed dignitaries who, until a few moments ago, had been wearing the humble garb of farmers. It was as if a god had descended from the sky to visit that place, and Metellus was struck to see the enthusiasm and the delight of those simple people at the arrival of a sacred figure.

When they reached the entrance to the village they dismounted from their horses. Dan Qing handed the reins to a stableboy who had just run up, and proceeded on foot. Metellus and his men did the same, following him at a certain distance.

The dignitaries, although taken by surprise by such an unexpected visit, were all lined up in the main square awaiting their guest. They wore dazzling silken tunics decorated with dragons or flowers. When Dan Qing stopped in front of them, they all prostrated themselves to the ground, and once again Metellus felt uncomfortable, although not inclined to imitate their behaviour.

Dan Qing made a slight gesture with his hand and they all got up and then, one by one, approached the prince to render him homage personally.

They suddenly heard horses coming at a hard gallop from their left. A group of armed men was arriving at great speed, in a cloud of red dust.

Metellus drew his sword but Daruma sternly shook his head: these were local militiamen, loyal to the prince, otherwise they never would have been able to approach without warning. At a certain distance they stopped, and the man who seemed their commander leapt to the ground, followed by the others.

Their armour was generally not much different from that of Metellus and his soldiers: they wore a particular style of helmet with fins at the neck and on their cheeks, a breastplate of bronze scales linked with iron rings, a knee-length leather tunic, stiff trousers and leather boots with pointed toes. A handkerchief knotted at their throats prevented friction with the breastplate.

At just a few steps from the prince, the squad commander dropped to the ground with his forehead in the dirt, as did all his men, and when Dan Qing motioned for them to rise, he glared at Metellus with a hostile expression and spoke briefly in a curt tone.

The Roman could not understand his words, but their substance was clear.

‘What did he say?’ he asked Daruma.

‘ “Why don’t the foreign devils prostrate themselves before His Majesty?” ’

Dan Qing responded to the officer who had spoken so that even Metellus could understand. ‘They will do so, now that they have arrived in this land.’ He looked straight into Metellus’s eyes with the expression of a man expecting confirmation and a gesture of obedience.

Metellus responded to his look with a respectful but firm expression, and said in Persian, ‘A Roman soldier prostrates himself before no man, Prince . . .’ As he pronounced those words a memory flashed through the mind of each man and their eyes locked as they had at the moment in which Valerian had been forced to his knees before Shapur. A fleeting image, a painful contraction of Metellus’s features. He concluded, saying each word distinctly, ‘. . . not even before a god.’

Dan Qing said nothing.

T
HE VILLAGE DIGNITARIES
accompanied the prince to his residence, where it was their intention to prepare a banquet in his honour, but Dan Qing dissuaded them.

‘My esteemed friends,’ he said, as soon as they were inside, ‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience or to disturb your work in the fields, which I see is well under way. I desire only to confer with you: to know what has happened in my absence and to decide along with you what must be done.’

They had reached the audience chamber. Dan Qing sat at the centre of the main wall on a silken cushion. The others took their places, one by one, to the prince’s left and right, alternating on the basis of their rank and according to the degree of intimacy each individual had with Dan Qing. The officer who had arrived with his squad of horsemen remained on his feet at the entrance door until the prince motioned for him to approach. ‘Come forward, Baj Renjie.’

The officer took a few steps, prostrated himself to the ground again, and then got to his feet and drew a bit closer, stopping at five paces from his lord.

‘As you will have heard,’ began Dan Qing, ‘my prolonged absence was due to betrayal. What I do not know is who was responsible. I left more than three years ago for Persia at the head of a legation with the mission of establishing direct relations with Emperor Shapur, but when it was time for me to return I was held back on a series of pretexts that had no justification, except for the fact that – as I imagined it – something had changed at Luoyang – that is, power had passed into someone else’s hands.

‘I attempted several times to ask Emperor Shapur for an explanation, but it was like speaking to the wind. His responses were always extremely courteous, but just as evasive. My presence was continuously requested at official ceremonies and even on expeditions of war, my treatment was always worthy of the most illustrious guest, but I was never given the opportunity to leave . . .’

A group of servants entered, carrying beverages and refreshments on small rosewood trays. They lay them at the feet of the prince and his dignitaries.

Dan Qing had a sip of the infusion of leaves that he had been accustomed to drinking on Daruma’s boat and continued his story, ‘It was not until the beginning of this year that I received a message detailing a plan for my liberation. My range of action was quite limited, but I had to find a way to join up with a certain caravan that would bring me back here. It was not easy. I risked my life several times, but in the end I have managed to return and it still doesn’t seem true that I am back here among you, after all this time. The merit lies with my faithful Indian friend Daruma and the soldiers you saw at my side.

‘Just three days ago, we were violently attacked by the Flying Foxes, and if it hadn’t been for those men, I would not be here with you planning the future. They too have survived an imprisonment much harsher and crueller than my own, thanks to a strength of spirit that we may have much to learn from ourselves . . .’

Baj Renjie could hardly contain a disparaging smirk, but Dan Qing continued unperturbed, ‘They come from the powerful empire of Taqin Guo, which today finds itself in conditions no better than our own, and I can assure you that they do live up to the legend born at the time of Emperor Yuandi.’

‘Are you alluding perhaps to the legend of the three hundred Mercenary Devils?’ asked one of the dignitaries.

‘I am,’ replied Dan Qing.

‘With all due respect,’ intervened Baj Renjie, ‘it’s nothing more than a legend, and three hundred years have passed since then. If I may be allowed to express an opinion, My Lord, it does not seem right that you humiliate your own faithful servants by preferring foreigners whom you don’t even know, and who are nothing but mercenaries.’

‘The great Emperor Yuandi did so. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I do not wish to humiliate anyone, but only to honour these men who have risked their lives and suffered injury to save me. You should be grateful to them as well. But perhaps you are blinded by envy, Baj Renjie.’

The officer could barely suppress his indignation, but held his tongue.

‘What are your intentions, My Lord?’ asked another dignitary.

‘To reach the secret refuge of my master, Wangzi, and to consult with him. But I would like you now to tell me what has happened in my absence. Who ordered that I be held prisoner in Persia? I can’t quite make sense of what I have learned. You must be privy to other information. Please, tell me what you know.’

The elders and dignitaries glanced back and forth as if not one of them dared to speak first.

‘What is it? What stops you from speaking?’ demanded Dan Qing.

An old white-bearded man with a venerable appearance finally spoke up. He wore a pale yellow silk tunic, adorned with the signs of the zodiac. He was the keeper of the house, a position that had been created by the empress herself after she had given birth. He knew many secrets of nature and many secrets, also, of the human heart.

‘Shortly after your departure,’ he began, ‘your father’s health, already so precarious, worsened. He was confined to the care of his doctors and servants, and was practically never seen outside his palace. The regency, as you know, was in the hands of the sage Yangming but as time passed he too began to appear less frequently in public and the rumour spread that someone else had taken power, certainly someone who enjoyed his trust, someone whom he had protected and whom he esteemed. There’s not much more I can tell you. This village is so isolated that by the time any news reaches us, it is often distorted. What does seem certain is that your father has joined his ancestors in the celestial kingdom.’

Dan Qing bowed his head at hearing those words and only after a long silence said, ‘Then you cannot tell me who had me detained in Persia.’

‘Whatever I told you,’ replied the keeper of the house, ‘might not be true and, when in doubt, it is best to hold one’s tongue. The only unquestionable fact is that whoever it is, he is your enemy.’

‘Three days ago, as I was telling you, I was attacked by a group of Flying Foxes, who would probably have killed me if it hadn’t been for the warriors in my service. This event, unfortunately, means two things: first, that the usurper has strong ties with the Flying Foxes or is even their leader; second, that he knows I am back.’