Imperial Fire

by Lyndon, Robert

  Hero and Aiken exchanged squeamish glances.

  ‘What are the chances of success?’

  ‘Every case is different. I can show you testimonials from grateful patients. Of course I won’t show you the letters from patients I’ve blinded. All I will say is that I have had more successes than failures.’

  Hero linked his hands to stop them shaking. ‘And if I don’t have the operation?’

  ‘In two or three years, you will lose effective vision in your right eye. A few more years and the world will be just a blur. Let me suggest one possible course. The phlegmata in your left eye is soft and so can be removed more easily. Should you choose surgery, I can operate on that eye first. If my work is successful, we can consider removing the cataract from your right eye.’

  Horrid calculations coursed through Hero’s mind. He could still see tolerably well with his left eye. If the operation was unsuccessful, vision would be restricted to his right eye, which could barely decipher writing held to his nose. Since his right eye was already in such a bad state, perhaps it would be better to start with that one. If the operation didn’t succeed… He strained his mouth, casting a desperate appeal at Aiken.

  The youth spoke quietly. ‘Only you can make the decision.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide now,’ the oculist said. ‘Reflect on what I’ve told you. Consult me if you have any further questions. Perhaps you’d care for some chai.’

  He led the way into a snug chamber. A bronze statue of Shiva, Hindu god of destruction and renewal, stood on a table next to an inkstone and other writing materials. Examples of calligraphy hung on the wall.

  Hero pointed at one. ‘Your own work?’

  ‘My amateur scribblings are not worthy of your attention. I do them to keep my fingers deft for surgery.’

  ‘I think they’re wonderful,’ said Aiken. ‘Particularly that one.’

  The oculist removed it from the wall. ‘You do me great honour and you will do me even greater honour by accepting my worthless scrawl.’ He sat head bowed, covered in embarrassment.

  A young woman entering with the chai things broke the awkward silence. ‘My daughter,’ the oculist said when she’d retired. ‘My wife died last year.’

  It did occur to Hero that if the surgeon couldn’t save those closest to him, he might not be the best person to carry out a risky operation. Hero dismissed the unworthy thought, soothed by the fragrant tea and the room’s calm atmosphere. Evening was beginning to dim the light outside the window. A faint breeze carried the smell of rain-damped earth, transporting him back to an early spring day in England. He marvelled at how far he’d travelled and how much he’d seen since then. He’d stored up enough memories to pore over for a lifetime, thousands of images to revisit long after blindness had brought a veil down on the world. He hardly heard the oculist’s words of encouragement and farewell.

  ‘Take your time deciding. Even if you decide against the operation, please visit me again. I would very much like to hear about the medical techniques you practise in the West.’

  ‘I’ve reached my decision,’ said Hero. ‘I wish you to perform the operation.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No. I’m acting out of blind faith. Begin with my left eye.’

  The oculist took his hands. ‘Tomorrow is an inauspicious day. Return the following morning. Come prepared for a three- or four-day stay. Abstain from solid food tomorrow.’

  Rain was pelting the streets into slurry when Hero set off in a covered rickshaw for his operation. He watched porters dashing through the downpour holding makeshift canopies over their heads, and he wondered if they would be among the last sights he saw. His mood had see-sawed between optimism and despair. Now he was mired in a sludge of fatalism.

  Aiken squeezed his arm. ‘I know it’s cold comfort, but by the time this storm has passed, your ordeal will be over.’

  ‘Or just beginning.’

  The oculist’s warm welcome raised Hero’s spirits. He regarded with approval the warm, clean and sweetly scented operating room. The rain drummed on the tiled roof.

  As the oculist led him to a couch, Hero had just one question. ‘Do you sedate your patients? If you don’t, I have a mixture guaranteed to dull pain. Where such a delicate procedure is involved, it would help if the patient didn’t flinch or toss about.’

  The oculist indicated a mortar placed on a table beside a brazier. ‘I try to reduce pain as much as possible. If you wish to apply your own relief, please do so.’

  Hero was now lying on the couch, a serious-looking assistant standing behind the oculist.

  ‘I can’t trust in one of your methods while rejecting another. Let it be done your way.’

  ‘Lie back and close your eyes,’ the oculist said. ‘Try to empty your mind.’

  ‘Hold my hand,’ Hero said to Aiken.

  ‘Breathe deep,’ the oculist said.

  Hero inhaled heady vapours, and when the oculist spoke again, his voice reached him from far away.

  ‘Open your eyes.’

  The room swam.

  ‘Good. As you’ve probably discovered yourself, physicians rarely make good patients. Try to look at your nose and stay quite still.’

  A hand clamped over Hero’s forehead. He saw the oculist lean over, the blade bright in his hand. Moments later he heard and felt a snick as the oculist slit his left eyeball.

  ‘Excellent. You didn’t move a muscle. The success of that first procedure determines the outcome above all others.’

  Hero was only dimly aware of what followed. Something was applied to his left eye. The grip on his head tightened. Pain lanced his eye and he jerked.

  ‘It’s done,’ said the oculist. ‘I judge it a success.’

  Hero’s tongue was thick in his mouth, making it hard to speak. ‘In that case, do the other eye.’

  ‘Are you sure? Don’t you want to wait to determine the outcome?’

  ‘If the first cut failed, the second won’t remedy it. I’m resigned to a cure or blindness. If the latter, I attach no blame to you.’

  Once more the fumes made his head spin. The world dissolved in a spiral that sucked him into a white void. He didn’t feel the second cut.

  He woke in darkness, the taste of vomit in his mouth.

  ‘Aiken?’

  ‘I’m beside you.’

  ‘I can’t see.’

  Aiken laughed. ‘That’s because your eyes are bandaged.’

  ‘They hurt.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ the oculist said. ‘I’ve applied healing poultices. I’ll change them tomorrow. Try not to laugh or sneeze or cough.’

  Hero floated in and out of consciousness. In his more lucid states, he was convinced that the operation had been a failure. Aiken remained with him the whole time, reading to him or reminiscing about their journey.

  ‘What time is it?’ Hero asked.

  ‘It’s late. Well past midnight.’

  ‘I wonder how a blind man tells the time. I expect he uses his other senses.’

  ‘You’re not blind.’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘If you are, I’ll be your eyes.’

  ‘That’s what Wayland said before leaving us. I wonder where he is now.’

  ‘Back home, I hope.

  ‘Dear Aiken, thank you for your kind support. Leave me now and get some sleep.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’

  ‘But I am.’

  Hero lay awake for the rest of the night and heard the first cock herald dawn and the growing buzz of traffic outside his window. In mid-morning the oculist arrived to remove the bandages.

  ‘Don’t expect too much,’ he said. ‘The incisions will still be inflamed. It will be another week before we can assess the strength of your vision.’

  Light scalded Hero’s eyes when the oculist peeled away the poultices.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Shadows swimming in bright fog.’

  ‘That’s as much as I would expect at this
stage. Tomorrow I’m confident we’ll see an improvement.’

  Three more times the oculist dressed Hero’s eyes. The last time he removed the poultices, Hero sat up with Aiken’s assistance. Vallon, Lucas and Wulfstan stood at the foot of his bed, their expressions straining between anxiety and desperate expectation.

  ‘It’s me,’ Vallon said. ‘Can you see me?’

  ‘I can see you,’ Hero said. ‘I can see all of you as bright as day. Or at least I could if it wasn’t for these tears.’

  XXXIX

  Vallon and Qiuylue were taking a night-time stroll in the garden when Josselin found them. He saluted and bowed. ‘Forgive my intrusion, sir. Trooper Stefan has just reported something strange.’

  ‘In French, please,’ Vallon said. He knew that Qiuylue must report all his doings and it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that she understood Greek. ‘My dear, will you excuse us for a moment?’

  Qiuylue left them.

  ‘Well?’ Vallon said.

  ‘Some of the troopers went out on the town this evening. They were drinking in a tavern when a Chinese man speaking in Arabic approached Stefan and asked him to pass on a message to you. He spoke of you by name. You and Hero are requested to go to the Golden Phoenix eating house tomorrow at noon. The man said you must make sure no one follows you.’

  ‘Any idea who we’re supposed to be meeting?’

  ‘None at all, sir.’

  ‘Strange indeed,’ Vallon said. He could tell from Josselin’s manner that something more was called for. He’d rather neglected his military responsibilities the last few weeks. ‘Are the men content?’

  ‘Too content. It will be a devil of a job to tear them away from this Lotus-land. Half of them are planning to marry their Chinese doxies.’

  Vallon was familiar with the story of the travellers who, having eaten of the lotus tree, forgot their families and homes and lost all desire to return to their native country. ‘I dare say you think I’ve set a bad example.’

  ‘I won’t quarrel with that, sir. Can I ask when you intend leading us home? That is, if you do intend to leave. There are rumours that you’ve accepted a commission in the Chinese army.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Vallon said, smarting at the criticism. ‘We’ll leave in the autumn, when the cooler weather makes for easier travelling.’

  ‘I think by then it will be too late,’ Josselin said.

  Vallon watched the centurion walk away into the darkness and stood for a long time thinking about what he’d said. He started at Qiuylue’s voice.

  ‘Did the officer bring bad news?’

  ‘No, just routine business. I have to pay a call on Hero. I won’t be long.’

  He found the physician reading in his quarters. ‘How are your eyes?’

  ‘The soreness has quite gone and my vision is sharper than it’s been for years.’

  ‘Wonderful. Do you know the Golden Phoenix eating house?’

  ‘It’s on the corner of Beer Fountain Road and Toad Tumulus Street. It’s one of the most popular eating establishments in Kaifeng.’

  ‘We’ve been invited to dine there at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vallon said. He explained how the invitation had reached him.

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘I suppose so. It might have something to do with Fire Drug. The messenger stressed that we keep our visit secret.’

  ‘That might prove difficult.’

  Whenever any of the Outlanders left the compound, they were followed by not-so-secret agents. Their surveillance was quite blatant, the trackers staying in plain view and sometimes intervening to point out interesting sights to their charges or assist with bargaining at a food stall or shop. It was the authorities’ way of letting the foreigners know that their every move was watched, every contact reported. Vallon had experienced the all-pervasive power of the state when he tried to purchase firecrackers in an attempt to lay his hands on Fire Drug. His shadow had thwarted the attempt, telling him that fireworks weren’t allowed in the compound. To test how far state control went, Vallon had sent troopers to two more establishments whose proprietors had flatly refused to serve them.

  Allowing plenty of time to reach the rendezvous, Vallon and Hero left the compound and headed south. The day was mild and the streets bustling. They reached the river that flowed through the city from east to west and turned right.

  ‘Are they following us?’ Hero asked.

  ‘Two of them,’ said Vallon. ‘Don’t look back.’

  A high arched bridge congested by stalls and traffic crossed the river. A grain ship with lowered mast had misjudged the headroom and stuck halfway under the span. Vallon and Hero dawdled along the bank, pausing to examine stalls selling everything from horoscopes to steamed buns, jewellery to toys.

  ‘Beware that rogue,’ one of the agents hissed in Vallon’s ear. ‘If you want to buy gifts for your lady, I can take you to a far superior place.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Vallon said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  He and Hero resumed their passage, the two agents dogging their footsteps. Vallon paused on the embankment and pretended he’d seen something interesting on the other side.

  ‘That’s what we want.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down there.’

  Beneath them a man lay dozing in a skiff. Vallon dropped into it and thrust a string of coins at the startled boatman. ‘A thousand cash to take us across the river.’

  The agents didn’t shirk their duty. One of them tried to fling himself into the boat and fell into the river a foot short. The other sprinted back toward the bridge, its roadway now blocked by a crowd yelling advice and encouragement to the crew labouring to free their ship.

  Vallon and Hero disembarked on the other side with time to spare and made several false turns before reaching the Golden Phoenix just as distant drummers announced noon by beating a long tattoo. The restaurant stood on the corner of a busy junction criss-crossed by peasants shouldering bamboo poles strung with produce, sweating coolies carrying officials and ladies in litters, high-wheeled ox and donkey carts laden with wine tuns and sacks of millet… A group of scholars had chosen to hold a disputation at the centre of the crossroads. Children bowled hoops through the traffic. To one side of the restaurant, a crowd had gathered around a professional storyteller.

  Vallon and Hero picked their way through the streams and eddies of humanity. The restaurant stood three storeys tall, its two upper floors projecting in galleries so that diners could observe the street theatre. A doorman ushered the guests through the brightly painted entrance.

  They stopped, taken aback by the scale of the establishment. At least a hundred diners occupied the central banqueting hall and as many again sat in booths on each side. The din of conversation and busy chopsticks was deafening. An army of waiters darted about.

  A manager appeared in front of them.

  ‘Do you have a reservation?’

  ‘No. Our host made the reservation.’

  ‘Name.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the problem. It’s a surprise —’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Vallon.’

  The manager consulted a pad and clicked a finger at a hovering menial, who took charge of the guests. ‘Follow me, honoured sirs.’

  ‘This is rather exciting,’ Hero said, climbing a flight of stairs.

  On the top floor the servant led them to a nook on a balcony overlooking the crossroads and partly screened from below by fruit trees planted in tubs.

  ‘A good place to speak in private,’ Hero said.

  Vallon watched the comings and goings at ground level. ‘Or assassinate us.’

  He kept one eye on the road, the other on the entrance to the balcony. Beyond it the activity was frenzied. This diner wanted a hot and spicy dish, his companion something mild and cooling. One diner asked for his pork to be fried; his companion, after much dithering, preferred his meat to be
grilled. When a table had decided, the waiter darted to the kitchen, singing out the whole list of orders.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Hero. ‘They don’t write anything down.’

  One of these memory artists came bustling up to their table. ‘Ready?’

  ‘We’re waiting for our host. He must have been delayed by traffic.’

  ‘Very busy day,’ the waiter said. ‘You order now.’

  Vallon noticed a tall Arab crossing the street, dodging a Taoist procession. He wore a blue turban with one end veiling the lower part of his face.

  ‘Let’s go ahead,’ said Vallon. ‘The whole thing might be some kind of hoax.’

  The waiter teetered with impatience while Hero tried to make sense of the menu. ‘What do you recommend?’

  ‘You have hundred flavours soup and lamb steamed over milk.’

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ said Vallon.

  ‘Make that three,’ said the Arab, materialising behind the waiter.

  Vallon’s brain refused to believe his eyes. ‘My God.’

  Hero sprawled across the table. ‘Wayland! Oh, Wayland!’

  ‘Not so loud,’ said Wayland. He slid into a seat and smiled at his comrades. ‘Well, fate spares the undoomed man.’

  Vallon and Hero spoke at once. How had he arrived in China? What had happened on the journey through Tibet? Had he found the mysterious temple?

  ‘All in good time,’ Wayland said.

  Vallon regarded him through stinging eyes. ‘I thought I’d never see you again. I should have known that seas and mountains mean nothing to a passage hawk. You’ve lost weight.’ He displaced his emotion by summoning a waiter and demanding a flagon of the finest wine.

  A moment of hiatus followed, too many swirling questions to articulate.

  ‘Here’s my tale in brief,’ Wayland said. ‘I journeyed across Tibet and climbed the Himalayan passes into Nepal. I found the temple and learned something about its Christian hermit. Hero, I have a lot more to tell you about my discoveries when we have greater leisure. I reached India intending to turn west into Afghanistan, but found my way blocked by war and famine and ended up at a port near the mouth of the Ganges river. While I was there an Arab merchant ship put in with cargo bound for China. I was weary of wearing out shoe leather on foreign soil and I took employment as a sailor. After voyaging south around a great peninsula and passing through a strait, my ship sailed north until it arrived at a Chinese trading city called Canton. From there I continued north by sea and canal until I reached Kaifeng. I’ve been in the city for a month.’