Jack nodded. “The coastal route down western India was too treacherous. The author of the Periplus makes that pretty clear. It was like the Skeleton Coast of west Africa, beset with reefs and infested with pirates.”
“So for half the year Arikamedu and the other south Indian ports are empty of business. But it’s crucial that they operate during the sailing season. You need people there during the off-season, your own people, people you trust. That’s my point. If you’re going to search for fellow Romans in India, you go south, not west. That’s what our traveler would have been told. And that’s what this is all leading to, isn’t it? We’re talking about a grizzled old legionary who wants to make contact. Maybe he’s too ashamed to go home, but something drives him to try, some hope, a dream.”
“Maybe he had a family, all those years ago in Rome before he marched off to war,” Aysha said. “They were citizen-soldiers. They had a life before joining up.”
“We can only speculate,” Jack said. “Maybe he had a dream, cherished over all those years of captivity. Going to Barygaza might have put him on a ship to Egypt, yet with little foreknowledge of what to expect, committing him to discovering a truth he may never have wanted. But going to the south of India, to Arikamedu, would have put him directly in contact with other Romans. They would have told him of the civil wars, of the new order, the sweeping away of all that had been before, the passing of the Rome he had known. Maybe he would have had some hint of this from traders they’d encountered on the Silk Route, but he needed to know for certain. Maybe he knew all along that a return voyage could never be more than a fantasy, laden with disappointment and grief. But he still had to make contact, a yearning that could only be satisfied by talking to those who had come from the world he had left.”
Hiebermeyer peered at Jack. “It sounds as if Katya’s colleague might have been following this trail. Did he go farther south?”
Jack pursed his lips. “He was planning an expedition to the tribal peoples of eastern India. Katya said he’d had a revelation about some character in Hindu mythology, a Roman connection. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, but he was secretive about it, didn’t want her to get involved. Katya thinks it was here, just in from the Godavari River Delta.” Jack pointed to a spot north of Arikamedu, in from the east coast of India. “He was going to reveal everything to Katya when he got back. He was due at the Transoxiana Conference, but never made it. That was almost four months ago.”
“Is any of his research published?” Hiebermeyer asked.
“No. He was always secretive. Katya said he always seemed to regret anything he revealed. He was suspicious of everyone around him. And it wasn’t just a scholar with unorthodox ideas battling against the academic establishment. She said it was as if he had some great secret. He thought he was being followed. He always seemed to be putting people off the scent. Katya said he’d been like that as long as she could remember.”
“So how can we trust what he told Katya?” Hiebermeyer asked.
“Because he’s her uncle,” Jack replied.
“Her uncle!” Costas exclaimed. “Good God. This gets more mysterious by the minute. Uncles tell their nieces things, don’t they? And they’re both archaeologists, linguists. He must have let her in on a bit more of the secret. Didn’t she say anything to you?”
“She said he was like one of the Silk Route explorers of a hundred years ago, searching for an elusive treasure he could never seem to find.”
“What treasure, Jack?”
Jack paused. “You’re right. Katya knew more than she was letting on, but I wasn’t going to press her. One thing did happen, though. In the hotel at the conference she showed me her uncle’s work on Chitral. It was his doctoral thesis, one of the few times he wrote anything down. She hadn’t read the section before about the legend of the god-king called Haljit Singh, Tiger Hand. When she read that, she visibly paled. I told her about an artifact I had and where it came from, and she nearly fainted. After that she said nothing. End of topic. But she was more troubled than usual. I think there are dark forces at play. Someone who wants her uncle stopped. And that was when she began to get seriously worried about his whereabouts.”
“So is that really why we’re going to the jungle, Jack? To find Katya’s uncle? To find what he was after? The elusive treasure?”
Jack stared at the map for a moment, then looked out of the lab at the open door of his day cabin. “There’s more to it than that. A lot more.” He glanced at the clock. “We’re due at Arikamedu early tomorrow morning. Before that, there’s something I want you all to see. A little treasure trove of my own.”
THE GREAT BRONZE DOORS OF THE CHAMBER SWUNG shut, and the heat and smell of the desert were instantly gone. The man inside pressed the remote control, and a thin shaft of light lit up the long black slab of the table and the high recesses of the ceiling above. Then it was gone, and darkness enveloped him, a darkness so complete it seemed to suppress his very being, to make him at one with the elemental force around him. He was sitting cross-legged on the cool marble floor, his palms turned upward in the lotus position, the silk of his robe sliding against his skin when he reached down to the control pad. For years he had played, created, in front of a screen, always yearning to be within, and now he was here, controlling a world of imagery and sensation that seemed one step from the celestial existence that would soon be his.
He had already set the sequence in motion. It would prepare him for what was ahead, cleanse him, focus him, as it had done countless times before when he had come to this place. From somewhere in the darkness came a trickling sound, then the noise of a small waterfall, just enough to conceal the sound of his own breathing, to remove all sense of himself He felt the strength course through him, shuide, the power of water. He closed his eyes, and sensed them all, wu de, the five powers, earth, wood, metal, fire, water, each one overcoming the last, just as the dynasty of Qin had overcome the reviled Zhou, the power of water extinguishing the power of fire. And with the power of water had come darkness, a time of inchoate forms, of endless winter, of death, a sweeping away of all that had been. And into this emptiness had come Shihuangdi, the First Emperor, the Celestial One, who had remade the universe in his own image, a universe where his will was felt in every corner of existence, a will that none could escape. And now the Brotherhood, in the sixty-sixth generation since the tomb had been closed, prepared for the moment when the celestial universe of Shihuangdi would fold out into reality, when his earthly warriors would ride once again. But before then they had one final task. That was why he had summoned the others here today.
The man opened his eyes. A cool alpine breeze had come upon him, bringing with it the sweet fragrance of mountain flowers. The darkness was gone, replaced by a thin, crepuscular light, and he had the sensation of being raised high into the sky, of levitating. The image of a mountainous landscape appeared, projected as if wrapping around him, gnarled turrets of rock jutting out of a sea of cloud below, serried peaks visible in the distance, olive-green and pastel-brown, surmounted by leafy groves of emerald-green, coursed through with a fantastic architecture of villas and courtyards and pagodas, structures that blended in as if they were natural protrusions of the rock. This was what the First Emperor had seen. Shihuangdi, who went to the highest peaks in his realm, who claimed this space between heaven and earth as his own, who inscribed the rock with the record of his accomplishments, who proclaimed his power over earth and cosmos. The image receded into the background, and an inscription took its place, lines of white Chinese symbols against a dark background. The man began to whisper the words, sacred expressions of power:
Great is the virtue of our emperor
Who pacifies all corners of the earth,
Who punishes traitors, roots out evil men
And, with profitable measures brings prosperity.
Tasks are done at the proper season,
All things flourish and grow;
The common people know peace
And have laid aside weapons and armor;
Kinsmen care for each other,
There are no robbers or thieves;
Men delight in his rule
All understanding the law and discipline.
The universe entire
Is our emperor’s realm…
He repeated the final phrase. The universe entire is our emperor’s realm. His clipped accent and precise vowels sounded in keeping with the message, everything ordered, in its place, in control. He inhaled slowly, then relaxed completely. He hardly needed to breathe. He felt the blood drain from his heart. The power was within him, the power of shuide. He seemed to levitate again, far above the clouds and peaks, to the very edge of space itself, to the liminal zone between heaven and earth. Above him was darkness, suddenly suffused with a million brilliant stars, the constellations revolving in slow motion. Below him the earth was reduced to a featureless sphere. But then as he watched the surface began to sparkle, and was suddenly coursing with rivers, streams of quicksilver. The hundred rivers, the Yellow River and the Yangtse, and the seas surrounding them. The sparkle came from a thousand palaces and temples, from a million precious treasures. He seemed to swoop down, and to float above a misty stream, among geese and swans, cranes and herons, with tinkling music in the background. Then the scene disappeared, and the warriors were there, all around him, extending off in ranks as far as he could see, waiting. Some held spears, some wore armor. Generals stood in front of foot soldiers, cavalrymen held horses at bay. The protectors of the universe. The army of the Qin. They who would rise again, who would march forth when heaven and earth came together, when the power of water was replaced by the power of light. The power that he himself would wield.
The man tensed in anticipation. There was a blinding flash of green, then blue, as if the sun had been caught in a giant revolving prism in the darkness above. Then the two colors seemed to commingle and become a dazzling white. The rivers of quicksilver flowed again, sparkling and shimmering. Reeds shot up beside them, vivid green, trembling with life. Birds arched their necks upward, drawing in the light. And all around him the warrior army seemed to stir, the gray monotone becoming pastel, colors more defined with every second-flesh glowing, robes of vivid blue, armor shimmering silver, banners of red emblazoned with the roaring golden tiger that furled and rustled like the river reeds. He could feel the warmth. He reached out, exultant.
Then it was gone. He was sitting in a dark chamber again, alone in front of a low table like a raised tomb. He let his hands drop onto the surface. It was cold, hard, real. Everything before had been a phantasm. A phantasm he had created. But it was a premonition of what was to come. The celestial jewel would shine once again.
He looked at the low table, its polished surface gleaming. He could see the Chinese characters carved in front of each place, six on one side, six on the other. Xu, Tan, Ju, Zhongli, Yunyan, Tuqiu, Jiangliang, Huang, Jiang, Xiuyu, Baiming, Feilian. He reached out and traced his fingers in the lines, faultlessly cut by laser into the marble. They were the twelve, the Brotherhood, the trusted guardians of Shihuangdi, the First Emperor, those who awaited the return. One place would be empty. He clenched his fists until the knuckles were white. The one who had strayed. The one who had been tempted to search for the jewel himself, who had succumbed to his own greed, had taken his eyes off the true path. They had hunted him down, as they had hunted down all who had failed to follow the path of Shihuangdi.
He relaxed his hands and closed his eyes, suffused by the power of the Qin, the all-encompassing. Soon the empty place at the table would be filled again. They had found another whose ancestry traced back through the clan, to those who had ridden, armored, weapon-girt, over the steppeland from their homeland to Xian, at the side of he who would become Shihuangdi, First Emperor. The initiate had been taught the skills of zhishau, the swordsmanship of the Qin, how to strike mortal fear into the heart of all enemies of Shihuangdi, how to vanquish them. He would complete the murderous task that would assure him his place at the table. The place of the tiger warrior.
The man touched the control pad, and the thin shaft of light spread outward to reveal a crossed pair of swords lying in front of him, their blades shimmering as if they were speckled with a thousand jewels. He put his hands into the gleaming gauntlets, curling his fingers around the crossbars, feeling the power of the blades as they extended out from the snarling tigers that adorned each fist. He tensed, and he was suddenly there, among the heavenly steeds, thundering over the steppe, foam-flecked, cutting through the mist of red that streamed off their necks, the glistening sweat of blood. He felt the exaltation of the warrior, of knowing that all would be swept before him. He felt himself cry out, and all he saw was crimson, all he heard was panting, rearing, stamping.
Then the image was gone. He sat back, letting the swords down. Soon there would be a sixth power. The power of light. Just as water had conquered fire, so light would conquer darkness, the light of the celestial jewel, the light of his own soul, the reborn emperor. The man breathed in deeply, and pulled off the swords. Ahead of him a crack of light appeared in the doorway, and shadowy forms began to file in, silently assuming their places at the table. The Brotherhood was reunited. The jewel would be found. The tiger warrior would ride again.
Jack sat in his day cabin below the bridge deck of Seaquest II, his hands behind his head as he contemplated the old wooden traveling chest against the bulkhead in front of him. He had removed the wooden frame that had been used to batten down the chest during the monsoon, and had opened the third drawer down so he could see the contents. It was one of his most prized possessions, an officer’s traveling chest of the eighteenth century, made of camphor wood that still exuded a faint smell of the Orient. For generations his ancestors had taken the chest to sea with them, from the merchant adventurers who had built the Howard family fortune in the early years of the East India Company to his own grandfather, who had carried it with him through the Second World War and last brought it ashore more than forty years ago. No Howard had ever suffered shipwreck before the loss of the first Seaquest in the Black Sea two years before, and Jack had made the decision to install the chest when the new vessel was under construction. But the chest meant more than just good luck. It contained the clues to a quest that Jack had yearned to follow since he was a boy, when his grandfather had first shown him the contents of that drawer.
Jack felt a surge of excitement as he looked at the chest. Hanging on the wall behind it was an old East India Company musket, and below that was the sweeping steel blade of a tulwar, an Indian sword with a distinctive circular pommel and handguard. Both had been the possessions of the first Howard to live in India, the colonel of a regiment of the Bengal army at the time of the Napoleonic Wars. Below the sword were two Victorian photographs, one showing a woman and a child, the other a well-dressed young man with dark features and full lips, and a twinkle in his eye. The features came from the man’s Portuguese-Jewish grandmother, the wife of the Bengal army colonel. Below the picture in elegant handwriting were the words Royal Military Academy 1875, Lieutenant John Howard, Royal Engineers. It was the graduation picture of a young man brimming with Victorian confidence, about to set out on the greatest adventure of his life. Yet a mere four years later something would happen that would transform those eyes, and give them the unfathomable look that Jack sometimes saw in his own daughter. Finding out what happened to his great-great-grandfather had been a personal quest of Jack’s for as long as he could remember.
He glanced at the open drawer. On one side was a small stack of leather-bound books and a notebook, with the same handwriting on the spines. On the other side were two box files containing a mass of papers, letters, manuscripts, some of it material Jack had barely begun to delve into. And between were the artifacts he had just been unwrapping. He took out a small red box containing a brass pocket telescope, the ivory surround of the cylinder shrunk with age. For the thousandth time since he had been a boy he extended
the telescope to its full length, only a few inches, and peered through it. And just as he always did, he tried to imagine what John Howard had seen through it on that fateful day in the jungle. Jack shut his eyes, closing his mind off from the present, then opened them again, but the view remained the same. Yet he knew he was on the cusp of it now, only a helicopter trip away from the place where the history that he had spent years trying so hard to imagine might finally come to life.
“Cool telescope.” Rebecca had come quietly into the room and was standing beside Jack. He passed it to her, and she peered through it. “That was your great-great-great-grandfather’s,” he said. “He brought it back from India, where he used it in a war in the jungle not far from the Roman site we’re visiting tomorrow morning.”
Rebecca looked at the pictures. “That’s him, isn’t it, and his family? I can see you in him. I can really feel his presence, holding this. Whenever we do school trips to museums, I always want to touch things. I got into a lot of trouble at the Metropolitan Museum once. They don’t have to be great works of art, just little things. They seem to take me back into the past.”
Jack smiled at her. “Look around this room. There are artifacts from almost every expedition I’ve been on. Most of them are little things, just as you say, shards of pottery, worn old coins. But they’re what makes it real for me. When I sit here and write, I always have something in my hands.”
“Uncle Costas says you’re a magpie. He says you’re really a treasure hunter.” She passed back the telescope and traced her finger over the coat of arms carved into the front of the chest, an anchor over a shield with the Latin words Depressus Extollor carved underneath.
Jack laughed. “Uncle Costas had better watch what he says.”
“Uncle Costas says that without him, you’d be going nowhere in a rowboat.”
“And without me, Uncle Costas would be sailing a desk to nowhere in some technology park in California.”
The Tiger Warrior Page 8