Empire of Dragons

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  At times, among these sensations emerged another, unexpected and disturbing: the feverish eyes and enigmatic gaze of Yun Shan, the girl with whom he’d exchanged a fleeting glance at the monastery before being dragged away along with Dan Qing. The thought of her gave him a strange feeling, a confused sense of fascination and even attraction.

  But then he realized that his thoughts could go nowhere in that desolate, silent place, and he tried to keep his mind occupied with other activities – calculations and memory games. He tried to recite the cantos from Virgil’s Aeneid by heart, calling upon his youthful studies, or the first chapter of Xenophon’s Anabasis in Greek, which he had so often read aloud from his desk in school.

  His only contact with the outside world came when food and water were passed through a slot in the door and he could see the face of his jailer for a few moments: an old man, with a long white beard. One day he realized that he’d lost contact with his comrades. They weren’t answering him any more; he inferred that they had been transferred somewhere else, and he was seized by profound despondency. Now he was surrounded only by silence. The whole building seemed to be empty and his voice calling out to them was swallowed immediately in the darkness.

  After a few days of this non-living his mind began to waver. He realized that these conditions might last for months, even years, or perhaps forever, and he would not be able to bear it. He tried to imagine what he would do if he were in the place of those holding him prisoner, but every hypothesis seemed unlikely because he could not guess at how their alien mentality worked. He decided that when he could no longer bear that absolute nothingness, he would take his own life, honourably, as a Roman. But up until that time he was resolved to keep his mind sharp and his body fit. The strangest thing about the prison was the relative abundance and variety of food, the excellent quality of the water and even of the amber-coloured infusion that every so often was served along with a meal.

  One night, shortly before dawn, he heard noises – doors creaking, bolts being rattled. Then silence fell once again.

  He tried to feel his way to the door but he realized that he was no longer in the place where he had always been. He soon found the door on another wall. How could that be? He felt anguished and disoriented. Was he really losing his mind?

  He heard the same sounds again. He leaned his ear against the door to hear better and, to his enormous surprise, the door gave way under the pressure and fell open. Metellus found himself in a corridor dimly lit by a bronze oil lamp and started to advance cautiously. The corridor was quite short and led to a large room lined with other cells. There appeared to be no way out. How could he make sense of this absurd situation?

  He went to one of the doors and touched the bolt.

  A voice in Latin asked, ‘Quis est?’

  He recognized Martianus’s voice. ‘Is that you?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s me, Commander! What are you doing out there? And where did you go to? We haven’t heard your voice in days.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘My door was open.’ He tried to draw the bolt. And found Martianus standing in front of him, incredulous.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Metellus. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hey!’ came the voice of Quadratus. ‘Commander, is that you?’

  ‘We’re here!’ other voices exclaimed.

  Metellus unbolted the doors one by one and liberated his men. They embraced. It seemed impossible that they should find themselves together again after such total, distressing isolation.

  Balbus slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘What a pleasure, Commander. But now what happens? It doesn’t look like we can get out of here.’

  ‘I think not,’ replied Metellus. ‘But at least something will happen. If they’ve reunited us, there must be a reason.’

  Lucianus started to inspect the walls painstakingly, swearing in Greek as he realized that the building was a box of stone without entrances or exits. ‘Does anyone remember how we got in?’ he asked.

  Rufus scratched his reddish hair. ‘May I drop dead if I’ve ever seen a single corner of this hole before.’

  ‘It was dark when they brought us in,’ recalled Septimius.

  Publius approached Metellus. ‘Commander, how can you explain this situation? None of us recognizes the place we find ourselves in. No one remembers how we got here and there’s no apparent way to get out. Yet someone left the door of your cell open. Whoever that was must have got in and out somehow.’

  Metellus reflected in silence, then said, ‘There’s only one explanation: we’ve been transported to a different place from where we were brought at first.’

  ‘Commander,’ replied Antoninus, ‘I wake up if a cockroach crawls across the floor.’

  ‘Not if they’ve narcotized you,’ retorted Metellus. ‘It wouldn’t have been at all difficult for them to put something in our food or water.’

  He hadn’t finished speaking when they heard a sound coming from one of the open cells, a kind of squeaking like stone rubbing against stone, and a man appeared dressed in a long green silk tunic. It seemed to all of them that he had materialized before them in that very moment, like an apparition.

  ‘Which of you is Commander Xiong Ying?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Xiong Ying,’ said Metellus, stepping forward. ‘How do you know my name in Chinese? Has the prince sent you? Have you come to free us?’

  The man in the green tunic did not answer his questions, but motioned for him to follow and went back into the cell he’d come from.

  Metellus and the others followed him into the cell where Septimius and Rufus had been locked up and saw that the back wall was open: the entire wall had rotated upon itself on a hinge, like a door, and opened up on to another space beyond it. Having crossed the stone threshold, they stopped short and considered the amazing vision before them. Lined up alongside each other on wooden hangers were their suits of armour, in perfect condition. The red crest and shiny metal of Metellus’s helmet made it stand out from all the rest.

  ‘What does all this mean?’ asked Metellus in Chinese.

  ‘That I’m here to offer you your freedom,’ replied the man, saying the words one by one so he was certain to be understood.

  ‘Explain yourself better,’ Metellus insisted. ‘Do you mean that we’re free to leave?’

  ‘Freedom is a precious possession,’ replied the man, ‘and must be earned.’

  Metellus understood that they could hope for no good to come out of this strange situation.

  ‘Tomorrow we celebrate our New Year. Our lord, the most honourable Wei, has decided to revive an ancient custom from the first years of the dynasty: foreign prisoners fighting in a contest against our best combatants. If they win, they are granted their freedom. If they lose, they are buried in the cemetery of foreigners with their armour and their weapons.’

  Metellus drew a long breath.

  ‘What is he saying?’ asked Rufus.

  ‘He’s saying that we’ll have to fight against their best warriors if we want to regain our freedom. In a kind of gladiatorial battle.’

  ‘Tell him we’re ready,’ said Quadratus. ‘We’re not afraid of anybody.’

  ‘That’s right. Better the quick blow of a sword than rotting away in this hole,’ confirmed Publius.

  All the others nodded.

  ‘We’re ready,’ said Metellus. ‘What are the rules?’

  ‘No rules,’ replied the man in the green tunic. ‘It’s a fight to the death. There will be no interruptions until the last of you, or the last of your adversaries, is dead.’

  Metellus translated these words and looked into the eyes of his men, one by one, the best men he’d ever had under his command. He studied them as if he were inspecting them for the first time: the senior centurion, Aelius Quadratus, centurion Sergius Balbus, optio Antoninus Salustius, legionaries Martianus, Publius, Septimius, Lucianus, Rufus and Severus, good with their swords and with their javelins,
fine marchers, undaunted by hardship, lovers of wine and women, tough-skinned and tough-souled. Soldiers.

  He had no doubts when he turned to the man in green and answered, ‘We accept.’

  The man nodded in acknowledgement of his decision and left. A massive bronze door opened at the end of the room and he disappeared through it.

  ‘That’s why they were feeding us so well,’ said Martianus. ‘I don’t know whether the rest of you have noticed, but we’ve been given a fighter’s diet: marsh grain, meat, vegetables, fish, eggs.’

  ‘I noticed that it was all good, but that had me worried. A man condemned to die can usually expect a good meal,’ commented Rufus.

  ‘What shall we do, then?’ asked Severus.

  ‘We’ll prepare for combat,’ replied Metellus. ‘Don’t be deceived. They’re going to put their best up against us, and you’ve already had a taste of how indomitable they are.’

  ‘Are you talking about the Flying Foxes, Commander?’ asked Balbus.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Metellus. ‘Listen, the only reason they’ll have us fight is because they are sure we won’t win. They may very well pitch us against a superior force. We may be outnumbered, or their martial skills may be far better than ours, or perhaps both things together. But we’re soldiers and we’re not afraid of death. Refusing to do battle would certainly not save us, while we can’t rule out the possibility of surviving the fight and regaining our freedom. Our only option is to fight with courage and tenacity. The worst that can happen is that we’ll sell our lives dear and have been granted a soldier’s death. The best that can happen, as I’ve said, is that we walk away from the battle free men. Does anyone have anything to say?’

  Balbus and Quadratus looked at their men and replied, ‘I think we all agree with you, Commander.’

  ‘Fine. Then you centurions will prepare your men for battle.’

  Quadratus nodded and turned to his comrades. ‘First of all, each man must inspect his armour, his sword, his long arms. Everything. We can’t exclude some hidden trick on their part. Then we’ll have to establish a battle plan. I fear that the most difficult test of our lives awaits us.’

  Severus and Antoninus, the two fabri, picked up the shields and examined them.

  ‘Good,’ said Severus. ‘It seems they haven’t noticed anything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Metellus.

  ‘We told you we had a surprise for you when we rebuilt our weapons in the caravanserai at the border. Here it is: a little improvement that we finished when we were at the prince’s village. See this small lever behind the straps?’ he asked, turning to the other soldiers. ‘Well, all you have to do is pull it and eight steel spikes poke through the leather exterior and stud the whole surface. Our enemies won’t know what to expect because they’ve never seen us in action, and this will really take them by surprise.’

  Balbus was about to pull the lever but Antoninus stopped him. ‘Don’t do that now, Centurion. It’s a spring mechanism that can only be used once. When the leather is pierced, you can see the hidden spikes and then, “Goodbye, surprise.” At that point we’d have to take the shields apart and replace the leather. All we can do is hope that our trick will work when it’s time to use it.’

  ‘I see.’ Balbus nodded. ‘All right, men, as soon as you’ve inspected your arms, we begin training. We’ll form two units and fight each other. We must prepare for the incredible speed of our adversaries. Our defence must be impenetrable. Remember the words of the poet, whose name I can’t remember just now: “A fox has many tricks. The porcupine just one, but a good one.” ’

  ‘Archilocus,’ suggested Metellus.

  ‘Right,’ replied Balbus. He went on: ‘It’s not important that each blow be lethal. Every wound inflicted is an advantage for us because it will disable the enemy, slowing down their movements and their reaction time. It will weaken them and make them more vulnerable. I don’t think we’ll be able to use our bows, but our javelin-throwers will strike whenever the enemy tries to attack from above. Rufus, you’re the best. Every throw must hit its mark.’

  Metellus watched them all day from a corner of the room. Towards evening the bronze door opened again and two servants came in with food. He signalled for the training to cease and the men sat down for their meal.

  ‘Why do you suppose they transferred us from one place to another after narcotizing us, if that’s what actually happened?’ asked Martianus.

  ‘To prevent anyone from noticing us during the transfer. Our appearance attracts a lot of attention,’ replied Metellus. ‘That makes me think they were afraid that someone might try to free us. Perhaps we haven’t been forgotten. We must not lose hope. And what we’ve been asked to do, men, is what we’ve been training for our whole lives: combat.’

  The man in the green tunic appeared later and accompanied them to another room beyond the bronze door, where beds had been prepared for the night.

  The men lay down one after another and Metellus listened at length to their subdued conversations. Martianus and Antoninus were very quietly playing mora. Quadratus was pacing back and forth along the external wall, his hands folded behind his back, while Balbus ran a whetstone up and down the length of his sword. He wore the stone at his neck, hanging from a little iron chain, as if it were a pendant.

  Metellus thought at length about the ups and downs of fortune over the last years: how fate had inflicted defeat and imprisonment upon him, then offered him his freedom, only to cast him into prison again, and demand this final test of him. The last, perhaps. But who could say? He knew that he would go into battle accompanied by the thoughts of those he loved and had loved and that there could be no better viaticum. He would face destiny under the protection of his ancestors, the Aquilas, renowned for their virtue and their devotion to what they believed in. It was they whom he asked for assistance and protection, not the gods, to whom he hadn’t prayed since he was very young. There were too many of them, almost as many as there were men, and this meant, for him, that if God had to hide behind so many faces, he didn’t deserve to be sought out. He fell asleep, finally, and slept peacefully until dawn.

  A servant brought them breakfast and they all sat on the floor to eat, conversing in a relaxed fashion as if this might not be their last meal.

  Metellus stood up first and began to put on his armour, but Antoninus came to his aid and helped him to fasten his shoulder straps and his lorica. He slung the baldric over his commander’s shoulder and hooked on the scabbard. Metellus hung the second gladius from his belt: the finest of weapons, passed on from father to son for seven generations, made of excellent steel with an oak hilt. It made a hard metallic sound when Metellus slipped it into its sheath. Last of all, he put on his helmet and tied the cheek-pieces under his chin.

  The others donned their armour as well, helping each other to do so, and when they had finished they picked up their heavy curved shields. Martianus and Rufus took their javelins and clutched them to their shoulders. They were ready. Septimius kissed the amulet he wore at his neck. Severus, who had once been Christian, made a hurried and almost secretive sign of the cross. Antoninus lay his forehead against the wall, softly murmuring words of ancient magic. Then the bronze door opened and the man in green motioned for them to follow him.

  They marched down a long corridor two by two, behind their commander and the centurions. The rhythmic sound of their nailed boots made their courage rise within them. Roman soldiers on the march: who could stop them?

  Another door opened suddenly at the end of the corridor and they were momentarily blinded by the sun. Then they came out into a square flooded with light. And full of armed men. There were two rows of soldiers on horseback decked out in full armour, bows slung over their shoulders. Metellus recognized the mercenaries who had escorted them to Luoyang.

  As they proceeded down that garrisoned path, they neared a massive gate with three doors through which they could see a blackish blur and hear a loud hum of voices. Many
people were still trying to get in, but the arena seemed to be packed. When Metellus arrived at the entrance he felt a shiver run down his spine like the first time he went into battle. It seemed strange but then, as he looked around him, he realized where the sensation was coming from. He locked into two dark, shiny eyes with a penetrating, enigmatic gaze. The same gaze that had moved him at the monastery before they had taken the road to imprisonment: Yun Shan was here!

  He exchanged her look with soulful intensity, without understanding what message he was transmitting, without knowing whether her presence represented hope or the final seal. For an instant, he had the feeling that she was trying to get closer, but he soon lost her from sight.

  Contrary to what he had expected, they were not led directly into the vast arena that could be seen beyond the triple door, but taken to a side entrance inside a kind of a guardhouse adjoining the big square, from which they could watch what was going on through large windows.

  They saw dancers enter in marvellous silk costumes, waving long coloured banners tied to poles that they twirled to create beautiful designs in the air. Cloth dragons then made their appearance, twisting as though they were alive and blowing smoke from their nostrils.

  The square seemed huge. It was flanked on either side by tiered seats and closed off at the end by a large stage on which they could make out a figure dressed in black seated under a red canopy. Standing alongside him were more men, dressed in black as well, wearing gowns that came down to their ankles, topped by short, long-sleeved tunics.

  Once the swirling of the dancers and dragons had finished, wrestlers were led in. They performed a number of spectacular holds with great flair and skill. This was followed by sword duels between Chinese warriors and barbarians from the north, the notorious Xiong Nu. Almost all of the duels ended with the deaths of the barbarian combatants and Metellus and his men had the chance to closely observe how the Chinese used their swords, how they feinted, how they struck and how they managed to dodge their opponents’ blows.

  After the last battle was over, a gigantic Mongolian seized a mallet and forcefully struck a big bronze bell. Upon hearing that sound, which echoed throughout the whole city, the officer who had been guarding Metellus and his men pushed them towards a door that led into the square. Metellus understood that the time had come, and signalled for his men to follow.