Daruma stood in front of the newcomer, folded his hands on his chest and bent his torso down to the level of his waist in a deep bow. The mysterious being stretched into an erect position and joined his closed left fist to his open right hand with a very slight nod of his head. He then walked towards the bow and remained there, staring at the horizon.
Metellus’s men looked at each other wordlessly in astonishment.
‘I told you it was him,’ Publius broke their silence.
‘Him who?’ asked Rufus.
‘The man who was following us in the desert.’
‘That may well be,’ retorted Rufus, ‘but who is he?’
‘I’d say “What is he?” ’ broke in Lucianus, without taking his eyes from the unmoving figure at the bow.
‘A man, by Hercules! What else might he be?’ replied Antoninus.
‘What if he were a god?’ said Severus. ‘I’ve never seen a man dodge arrows like that and . . . fly.’
‘He did not fly,’ shot back Antoninus. ‘He jumped.’
‘Oh, yeah? You call that a jump? You try. Let’s see if you can do it.’
Metellus cut their argument short and gestured for them to quieten down. He approached Daruma. ‘Is it really him, then?’
‘Praise the Heavens, yes. I’d lost hope.’
‘But who is he, if I may ask.’
‘A prince.’
‘From what country?’
‘China.’
Metellus looked at him in surprise. ‘China? What’s that?’
13
‘CHINA?’ REPEATED DARUMA with a smile. ‘China is the Land of Silk, the country you call Sera Maior on those very approximate maps of yours.’
‘Actually they say that some of my countrymen have been there,’ said Metellus. ‘Merchants, mostly, but perhaps even a delegation. I’ve heard tell that at the time of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, a magistrate of the equestrian order and a couple of centurions got all the way to their capital. But as far as I know the account of their journey has been lost. Do you know the country well?’
‘Fairly well. I go there every two or three years to buy consignments of silk that I resell on the Persian and Indian markets. When the goods get to you in the West, they’ve already been through many hands and each of us has earned our share.’
‘Is that where you met him?’ asked Metellus, nodding towards the man sitting at the bow. He was wearing a grey-coloured tunic edged in yellow that ended in a little collar at his neck. He also wore wide trousers and the strangest footwear Metellus had ever seen, similar to what women in Phrygia and Cappadocia wore. He still hadn’t got a good look at his face, which was covered by the black veil that was wound around his head as well.
‘Yes,’ replied Daruma. ‘That’s where I met him, many years ago.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Metellus again.
‘A prince. A prince of his people, the son of the emperor.’
Metellus thought of Gallienus and a shiver ran down his spine. He felt destiny looming over him, an alien destiny that he wanted to reject but that he was strongly attracted to at the same time. ‘And just how was a simple merchant introduced to the sovereigns of that land?’
‘It’s a long story that I’ll tell you some day . . . if we have time.’
‘What was he doing with Shapur?’
Daruma hesitated an instant before answering. The boat slid through the water between ever more distant shores. As the width of the river grew, the speed of the current decreased, also slowed by the wind blowing from the south.
‘He was sent there as an ambassador,’ said the Indian after a long pause, ‘and guest. He was to spend several months at the court of the king of the Persians. It had never happened before, but it seemed a very wise initiative. All of the caravans that bring silk to the West pass through Persia, and it could have been very useful to establish a direct relationship between the two countries . . .’
‘And since you deal in this sort of commerce, you encouraged the initiative,’ commented Metellus without ever taking his eyes off the prince.
His men were watching as well: stealthily, as they spoke among themselves in low voices, or openly and without embarrassment, as one would observe an exotic creature that had come from a distant land. But the alien continued to stare at the horizon, apparently closed in a solitary dimension. As if he had not nearly escaped death just moments ago, as if he had not just done something that no mere mortal could ever do. What kind of man was he anyway? What blood flowed in those veins?
Daruma fell into silence again and the voice of the wind made itself heard, making the ropes vibrate like harp strings. ‘The weather’s changing,’ he said then, as if thinking aloud, before resuming his words where he had left off. ‘Yes, I did, but anyone would have done so . . . I suppose. In any case, two years passed and there was no news from the prince.’
‘Two years . . .’ thought Metellus. More or less the length of time he was in prison at Aus Daiwa. He asked, ‘When were those two years up?’
‘A few months ago. That’s when I set off to seek this . . . encounter.’
So, the day on which Valerian was taken captive outside the walls of Edessa, the prince was a guest, or perhaps he had not yet realized he was a prisoner.
A crewman approached Daruma and pointed at a rise a few miles beyond the western bank. Dromedaries, moving at a run.
‘Do you think they’re following us?’ asked Metellus, turning his gaze in that direction.
‘You’re asking too much. All I know is that the great king uses dromedaries to send urgent messages through the desert. They’re much more resistant than horses and don’t need much water. If those men are carrying messages, they may very well concern us, and in that case I’d give every penny in my purse to know what they’re saying. But I’m afraid I don’t have the gift of second sight.’
Metellus asked nothing more, but his heart sank at the idea that there were still obstacles that could separate him and his men from freedom. They’d certainly find a port at the mouth of the river, a port where ocean-going ships loaded and unloaded goods destined to be transferred to river craft or to land caravans heading west.
West. That had become his overriding thought and his gaze turned insistently towards the path of the setting sun. Towards the west, towards his land.
Edessa: would he ever see her again? Would he see his son? What would he find on his return? He reflected on what might have happened inside the city walls and he thought that his life would be just as much in danger there, in his homeland, as it was now in this foreign land. He would have to use stealth, operate in the shadows, strike with ruthless determination. He was going back to keep a promise, to make up for the error he’d committed. He had acted in good faith, certain that Aurelian would perform his duty and that Silva would be equal to his task as commandant. But he knew all too well that if he had obeyed the emperor, who had asked him to stay inside, he would perhaps have been able to avert the disaster. He could have led troops out to rescue Valerian, or set him free after he had been made prisoner. Or who knows what else.
Alternative, parallel destinies passed through his mind continuously, fed by the remorse that usually remained at the bottom of his conscience, like a crocodile nesting in the slime for as long as the surface was rough, only to rise to the surface and wound his spirit when the waters calmed.
Valerian had entrusted him with an impossible task: to return and re-establish the authority of the state. But he had promised, giving his word to dying Caesar . . . He knew that taking on an endeavour that was too difficult usually meant sacrificing one’s life, but he was a soldier and was accustomed to the thought that death is a lesser evil than losing one’s honour.
The speed of the current continued to diminish and Metellus watched as the group of dromedaries gained ground to the south and then disappeared over the horizon. There were a great number of boats on the river now, large and small, and traffic increased as they sailed on. Some, like theirs, went w
ith the flow, while others pushed their way upstream, their unfurled sails exploiting the wind blowing from the south.
At a certain moment, when the sun was beginning to set, Metellus saw the prince get to his feet, flexing his limbs in a way he had never seen: his legs and arms straightened out alternately while he opened his hands and extended his fingers first in one direction and then in the other. What strange kind of movements might these be? A dance? A way of stretching one’s muscles after long periods of inactivity? And why had he remained so utterly still for so long?
Metellus looked at his men: each one was intent on some small task. Publius was carving a piece of wood with his dagger. Uxal was making spoons out of an acacia branch. Lucianus was mending his clothing with a fisherman’s needle. Severus and Martianus had laid out the disassembled segments of their loricae and were checking them one by one and nipping the rings with pincers so none would get lost. Rufus was sharpening the blade on his javelin. Antoninus was making a rudimentary fishing line, aided by Septimius. Balbus was honing his sword with a slow alternating motion and speaking softly with Quadratus.
Inertia was a punishment for them, a source of tedium. The fixed immobility of that alien prince seemed totally unnatural and nearly impossible to them, proof of how the world was infinitely bigger than the Romans imagined it to be, so big that the empire of the Caesars – which extended over all the lands of the Internal Sea – seemed quite a little thing. Such diversity was bound to grow and accumulate in the endless spread of territories, under the bending sky and the changing constellations.
Perhaps, in such distant lands, even the rules of life were different. Perhaps what was good in Rome and Alexandria was no longer good in the land of those small men with their oblique eyes. Perhaps they saw reality in an oblique way as well, according to their own way of understanding and considering. Certainly, such reflections didn’t have much to do with him, although he would have liked one day to talk to his son about them, when everything was over.
Daruma’s voice distracted him from his thoughts: ‘It’s ready, Commander.’
‘What’s ready?’
‘Can’t you smell it? Dinner, that’s what’s ready.’
‘Gods . . . it’s already evening. I hadn’t even noticed.’
‘You’ve been absorbed in your own thoughts for a long time. I didn’t want to disturb you. When a man has been held prisoner so long, his mind needs to expand its faculties – through imagination, fantasy, dreams. Lack of freedom squashes intelligence, and annihilates any plans you thought you had. The first thing that comes back to you is the past . . .’
‘That’s true,’ replied Metellus, ‘with all its ghosts.’
‘But the future as well, with all its hopes,’ pointed out Daruma.
‘Hopes . . .’ muttered Metellus. ‘I don’t have many of those left. But even the faintest hope means life. You can’t imagine how we feel, my men and I. We’re just slowly emerging now from a deathly torpor. We’re gradually regaining the awareness of what we’ve become, of what remains to us and what has been taken away . . .’
‘Eat now,’ said Daruma. ‘Life will seem better on a full stomach.’
They sat in a circle along with the crewmen who were not involved in operations. The young alien came to join them, sitting on his heels as was his custom. He removed the black veil and revealed his hairless, almost childlike face. His long hair was incredibly black and straight, collected at the nape of his neck with a short leather lace. His mouth was small and well defined and his skin was ashen, with a strange overall pallor. A face that could not redden. Metellus wondered whether that meant it was impossible for him to lose his temper or feel strong emotion. Perhaps he possessed an inborn imperturbability: the ataraxy conjectured by western philosophers.
Uxal came forward and started handing out the brand-new wooden spoons that he had just carved. A galley boy passed out plates and then went round with a big pot full of a stew made from fish, vegetables and legumes, seasoned with oil, saffron and pepper.
The men started to eat hungrily, but Metellus, seeing that the young man with the narrow eyes was not eating, handed him his own spoon with a slight inclination of his head. The other did not reach out his hand to take it, but said a few words in a quiet voice.
‘What did he say?’ Metellus asked Daruma.
‘If you like, I can ask him if he will agree to speak with you. He knows Persian.’
‘Who says that I speak Persian?’
‘I heard you exchanging words at the oasis with a mule driver.’
‘And you’ve had me speaking koinè all this time?’
‘I imagined that you wanted to keep a language in reserve, for reasons that did not concern me.’
‘What about me?’ Uxal broke in. ‘It didn’t concern me either? You’ve had me acting as your interpreter for nearly two years like an idiot without telling me that you understand Persian.’
‘I speak it as well,’ replied Metellus calmly, ‘but I wanted that to remain a secret. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, Uxal. When everything is at stake, you can never be too careful.’
Uxal mumbled something and stuck his head back in his plate.
Daruma spoke to his guest in a very respectful tone and then turned to Metellus. ‘I’ve asked him if he will agree to have a conversation with you.’
‘You have?’ replied Metellus. ‘And what was his answer?’
‘He agrees. You may speak to him. In Persian.’
‘A bizarre destiny . . .’ said Metellus to the prince, after having reflected for a short while, ‘that has brought us together.’
‘Not so bizarre,’ replied the prince. ‘People like us, who have high responsibilities, never meet by chance.’
‘Why do they meet, then?’
‘Because they share the same paths. It is easier for two kings separated by great distances to meet than for either one of them to bestow a single glance on the man who cleans his latrine.’
The prince’s tone was apparently cold and detached. Metellus tried to switch to a more familiar topic. ‘Won’t you eat with us?’ he asked.
The man answered: ‘The quantity of food contained in that utensil is unseemly for a person of good upbringing.’ He took two thin sticks from a pocket inside his tunic and began to eat, taking tiny quantities of food from his plate; they were so small that the movement of his jaw was nearly imperceptible.
‘By the gods!’ said Uxal. ‘He eats like a bird.’
‘He eats enough,’ said Daruma. ‘We’ve all seen how much energy this man has.’
‘Exactly,’ Metellus joined in. ‘I wonder where he gets it from.’
‘You’ll know in time,’ said Daruma.
‘Time?’ replied Metellus. ‘There won’t be much of that, I’m afraid. It won’t be long before we reach the Ocean shore.’
Daruma dropped the subject.
Uxal stopped talking as well, and for a while an uneasy silence reigned as the men continued to shoot furtive glances at the alien. They noticed that Commander Metellus had also begun to take much more modest quantities of food from his plate, with the tip of his spoon. Then they began to speak among themselves again, in low voices.
‘Daruma tells me you come from a great land in the Orient . . .’ Metellus began in Persian.
‘Zhong Guo,’ replied the prince.
‘Is that the name of your country?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And yours?’
Metellus hesitated an instant, then replied in Latin, ‘Imperium Populi Romani.’
‘Where is it found?’
‘In the far west. It contains an entire sea.’
‘It must be the land we call Taqin Guo. It means western country.’
Metellus thought that the word guo must mean ‘country’ or ‘land’, since it was common to both words. ‘So you know of our existence, as we know of yours. We buy a great deal of your silk. Daruma has also told me that you are a prince,’ he continued. ‘I would like you to know that
we are honoured to share this part of our journey with you.’
The prince acknowledged his courtesy with a slight bow of his head.
‘May I know your name?’
‘Dan Qing,’ replied the prince.
‘I’m Marcus Metellus Aquila.’
‘Everything seems very complicated in your tongue.’
‘It all seems much simpler in yours, but that’s surely a superficial impression, both on my part and on yours.’
Metellus noticed that when the prince spoke to him he never broke contact with his eyes, making the Roman feel ill at ease. The prince’s gaze seemed enigmatic and inscrutable.
A sudden gust of wind, quite prolonged this time, interrupted their conversation.
‘It’s coming from the west,’ observed Uxal.
‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Metellus.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Septimius.
‘Neither do I,’ replied Metellus. ‘But that doesn’t mean much. The wind is like the fate of man: it can change from one moment to the next.’
Daruma gestured for the galley boy to collect the empty plates and he passed around a jar of palm wine. Everyone took some except for Dan Qing, who drank only a few sips of water. He then stood, made a bow and disappeared below deck.
‘I haven’t seen the two of you speaking much,’ said Metellus to Daruma. ‘That’s strange for people who have to come up with a plan of escape.’
‘Not enough privacy here. I’ll go down now and we’ll be able to speak freely. Those of you who want to rest will be given mats and covers. It’s humid on deck at night, even though it’s hot. You don’t need me to tell you to keep your eyes open,’ he added. ‘Small pirate boats might draw up alongside our vessel during the night. They are very fast and very dangerous. And the threat we’re fleeing from has not disappeared either.’
Empire of Dragons Page 15