by Sam Meekings
As the sticky, stewing heat had not dissipated with the sinking of the sun that evening, I had taken the opportunity to sit out and take solace in the comfort of the great canopy of stars lit across the dark. I was much amazed to see the moon looming closer than it ever had in Assisi, so that it seemed to fill almost a quarter of the sky, and I overheard some of the servants whispering that if the dark planet was truly tumbling down from the heavens then we were surely entering the end of times spoken of in the Book of Revelation. It was then that I heard Lovari’s booming voice ringing out to chide them for their ignorance.
‘I am afraid this is not the beginning of the Second Coming, my friends, for the Holy Bible says nothing of the lunar sphere crashing down upon us. No, what you are witnessing is simply a change of position. Just as the length of your shadow appears longer or shorter depending on the rotation of the sun across the sky above us, so the size of the moon appears to differ depending on its position as it roams across the heavens. Think on it, my friends, for the good Lord gave you heads that you might contemplate his work. Now go and tend to the night fires, for your companions are well in need of help.’
His argument was impressive – he had clearly studied the ancient logicians and come to conclusions similar to my own.
‘May I join you, brother?’ he asked.
I nodded my assent and he approached, gathering up the loose folds of his habit before he settled beside me upon the dry grass.
‘I am not usually one to devote my time to idle wonder-mongering, but the sight of the moon calls something within me to sit and look on. It is most calming, for it reveals to us how small our trivial problems are compared to the scale of the Lord’s grand design,’ he said.
‘I think we find it calming because it is a constant,’ I replied. ‘We see the same moon here in the dark mountains of the heathen land as we see back in our homes in Christendom. Just as Jesus Christ is with us wherever we go, so the light of the moon will not fail to guide us in even the most remote corner of the earth.’
Lovari turned to me and smiled. ‘I think you may be right. The natural world is full of signs and messages that the philosophers attempt to unravel. Yet all of them bring us back to the Lord, from the smallest creature whose physiology has been designed so painstakingly through to that great grey orb above us. We are truly blessed.’
‘Amen.’
We sat a while, staring upwards, and I found I was pleased by his company. It seemed that I had judged him too soon, and I silently chastised myself for my sin. Emboldened by his speech, I ventured to draw the older monk into further discussion.
‘Brother Lovari, may I ask you what your learned opinion is of the philosophers who would have it that the moon is populated, just as the earth is, with cities and animals and men such as ourselves?’
‘I fear it is an absurd notion, for it defies logic. It has long been established that plants need heat and light from the sun to grow, and that animals need these plants to eat in order to survive. Thus all forms of life are connected, and indeed depend on one another. Yet any farmer will tell you that if the weather is too hot, the crops will begin to shrivel and die, and the earth will harden to dust. Well, since it is obvious that the moon is closer to the sun than the earth is, since they both float high above us in their arcs, it is a logical supposition that the moon must be much hotter than the earth. No plants would grow under such unyielding heat, and thus there would be nothing for man or beast to feed upon.’
I nodded vigorously. ‘Why, I am of exactly the same opinion. I believe a man should strive to learn of the world around him before he begins making suppositions about the heavens.’
Lovari stretched backwards, reclining upon his elbows. ‘And yet the astrologers have done much work which truly stimulates the mind. Did you know that they have calculated that the sun is twice the moon’s distance from the earth – as even the amateur might attest when comparing their relative sizes as they appear to us. This must mean that the sun travels at double the moon’s speed, for both take exactly one day to complete their trajectory around the earth. It is truly fascinating.’
‘I am impressed at your most erudite knowledge, brother. If I may trouble you further, might you then tell me your own theory of the purpose of that great grey orb?’ I asked.
‘Certainly. I believe the moon functions in a similar way to a looking glass. Yet instead of showing us our reflection, it shows us that which we fear. It is a dark, oppressive place, oft bathed in the most impenetrable of shadows. We see a place that has not been visited by the Lord, and so must remain forever shrouded in the darkness that ignorance begets. It is a symbol of Purgatory, of the darkness of life without Grace, and as such would teach us much about our fallen state.’
We talked on for an hour or so, our conversation meandering across the strange bodies that fill the heavens, comparing theories and debating syllogisms, and I soon felt completely at ease in his company. For the first time in over a year I was filled with the warmth that good conversation brings, and I found I was able to think of the monastery back in Assisi with far less longing and homesickness.
Even after we had both exhausted our voices and had nothing further to say, we continued to sit side by side, staring up at the great moon above us. And as I stared it seemed for a while that I could discern great mountains, ruinous valleys, terrible dark rivers and huge desert plains chiselled across its surface. Yet all that seems now as nothing, for I have come to believe that there are no greater mysteries than the mysteries between men.
My eyelids feel fleshy, cumbrous, and I have to pinch my forearm to ensure that I do not drift into a light sleep. This would not have happened in the monastery – I worry that waiting in this accursed desert is affecting me as badly as it is the other men. I know I ought to rise and give victuals and prayers to the Tartar to speed his recovery, as well as check that the servants are not gambling away their rations, yet I cannot seem to rouse myself in this heat.
Many philosophers have remarked upon the strange hold that our memories have upon our person. What I find strange, as I lie here thinking on my relationship with poor, sickly Lovari, is how arbitrarily it picks what to keep and what to discard. It took another nine months from the time we entered the Khan’s vast continent to the day when the great stone walls of his capital came into view, and yet it now seems that even some of the strangest wonders of that trip are beginning to fade, to gather dust amid the restless clutter of my memory’s storeroom.
We navigated snowy passes and rested in cities conjured from mud and clay; we passed impenetrable walls and fortresses as well as ruins that the merchants told us had been sprawling towns only years before; we met with men who ate fire and others who fed only upon the lowliest weeds and muddy grubs they dug from the ground. We witnessed men born without bones who could thus twist their bodies into strange serpentine shapes, men who talked to stones and men who never left their steeds, even sleeping upon their saddles. We averted our eyes from women who carried their kin in wicker baskets set upon their backs and leather-skinned women who knew no shame and so paraded their wanton nakedness for all to see. We crossed ourselves when we passed red temples where men struck bronze bells and fell to pray to idols of war and gold, and stood agape when we saw whole cities drifting away down rivers, or sinking so deeply into their reflection that we could hardly tell which was real and which ghost. We drifted through storms of dust and storms of hail, passing men with red eyes, black eyes, amber eyes, copper eyes, and, most pitifully of all, a tribe of men who let themselves be ruled by women. We wept most bitterly for them.
Despite these most strange sights, it must be said that most of the travelling was dull. We stopped in cities and villages once every few weeks, and then only to replenish our supplies. Most of the days were spent in barren deserts, on rocky trails, or trudging across overgrown wilds. We lost some twenty-two men in total, including servants, from stomach sickness, heat fatigue, fever, boils, snake bites, bubbling blood and an exc
ess of melancholy humours. The journey was both physically and spiritually gruelling, and Lovari and I soon had our hands full either giving the last rites or listening patiently to increasingly fraught confessions.
Yet our relationship improved, and we were soon spending much of each day in conversation. We had grand discussions about how we might bring the heathens we encountered into God’s grace, about the sacred mysteries expounded by the Gospels, and about how we might keep our flock of merchants, workers and servants from falling prey to the many sins that tempted them in these barbarous lands.
Lovari also proved to be a keen botanist, and would often point out the many wondrous examples of the Lord’s design on our travels, from the tall green spray of gingko to the ancient bending cypresses and red birches, the hornbeam and the giant redbud, and all the other manifestations of God’s love for us, the branches and the leaves reaching out in rapture to their creator, and soon the days passed more quickly.
‘It should not be long before we reach the great capital of Dadu,’ Lovari told me one morning when we were taking a rest upon a low hill in the dusty fields of northern Cathay.
‘But if you are hoping to learn much of the history of these people, Rosso, I am afraid you will be greatly disappointed. From what the merchants have told me, the city is almost entirely new. The ancient dynasties had their capital at Changan, far south of here. The Mongols were naturally keen to make their capital in the north, yet had burnt the great city of Yanjing to the ground during their invasion. From its ashes, they built Dadu. As you can see, it is a city of many names, and the Mongols themselves call it Khanbaliq, the city of the Khan. Be wary, my friend, for cities with many names often have many different faces and, like men, they rarely show their true visage to strangers.’
I had nodded pensively, rather irritated that he had managed to glean more information about our destination than I had.
‘Look yonder! Where the great river tempers down to the east. Can you see? Can you see?’ the chief scout called out.
Lovari and I were soon at his side, staring down into the hazy distance.
I was initially too embarrassed to admit that I could see nothing save for the blur of the river as it tripped into the horizon. And so I nodded along with Lovari as he exclaimed with joy that we must have finally reached our destination. It was hard not to let some of his excitement infect me. We returned to our horses and, for the first time in many months, we began to move at a vigorous pace, buoyed by the possibility of ending our epic journey before nightfall.
As we began our descent, however, I slowly began to make out the high stone walls of the great city ahead of us. When we drew nearer, the incomparable scale of the city became clear. We joined a wide road and found ourselves milling slowly among traders, messengers, diplomats, soldiers and noble families borne upon great litters, all queuing to enter through the towering city gates.
‘It seems you need not worry about your fiery hair being stared at, Rosso,’ Lovari said as we joined the long line. ‘Look around you – the place will be full of foreigners and strange-looking fellows.’
Though I did not appreciate the joke at my expense, I saw that my companion was right. I could see men of all colours, from all corners of the earth. There were the blackened grub-eaters from the land behind the mountains, Persians with their cropped beards and their covered women, hordes of beggars so scarred from pox or plague that their features were barely distinguishable beneath scabby, sunken flesh, and of course the Tartars themselves, babbling away in their strange, birdlike language. The city, it was told, drew people from across the world: dancers, doctors, drifters, dreamers, painters, poets, musicians, merchants, missionaries, apothecaries and architects, each one desiring something different of it. The great noise that rose from the bustling crowd brought to mind the ceaseless clamour of languages that must have been heard in the tower of Babel.
‘It might be said that the Khan himself is a foreigner in this vast country,’ Lovari continued, his voice lowered. ‘His grandfather was born in the northern plains across the border – he was by all accounts a most fearsome man, leading his band of warriors on horseback through every city in Cathay until each one either surrendered or was razed so completely that nothing of it now remains. He thus created this whole vast empire in only a matter of decades. And so the Khan has inherited the largest kingdom in the world.’
‘And now look at all the men waiting to honour him. He is accumulating the whole world’s knowledge, and all without having to venture beyond his palace,’ I replied.
‘As the Book of Proverbs tells us, “A wise man hath great power, and a man of knowledge increases his strength.”’ Lovari said.
We cut short our exchange there, for we had finally reached the yawning mouth of the city, and the guards – their chests buffed in great scales of leather armour – set about checking our documents and seals.
Never in my life has my mouth been so agog as when I entered that city and stared around in amazement. The streets were divided into narrow lanes, many of which themselves split into alleys and courtyards, and my senses were so assailed that I imagined at first that we had been led into a gargantuan labyrinth. It was truly the most crowded place I have ever ventured into. There were people everywhere: market traders unfurling rugs and exotic fruits upon the street; the natives going about their daily business dressed in the most gaudy cloaks; rust-skinned children skipping naked through dirty puddles; the Mongol guards, with their long manes of knotted hair and thick brown beards, parading around on horses, as is their wont; and many thin, barefoot men swathed in saffron robes, with heads so cleanly shaven that they seemed to glint like polished bronze in the sunlight.
A man with a drooping grey moustache sidled up to me and began shouting ‘Hsschshii chiir! Hsschier chiir!’
I leapt back, tumbling into Lovari, for the man was brandishing a pair of squirming adders. As I stood up, I crossed myself and said a quick prayer that Saint Christopher might protect me from these diabolical creatures.
‘What manner of place is this?’ I stuttered as we pushed and elbowed our way through the narrow, crowded streets. I kept my hand upon the flanks of the pack mule in front of me, lest I should be prised from our party by another madman adamant on practising his witchcraft on a true believer.
We turned a corner and I was amazed to see, rising above the single-storey houses and taverns, a great tower rising in the distance. From somewhere within its confines there burst forth the sound of a mighty drum, sending out deep, trembling notes that rippled through the streets and seemed to linger upon the air far longer than one might countenance.
Lovari shouted above the din that swelled about my ears. ‘The drum tower is said to stand at the centre of the city, and it sounds each hour to let the populace know the time.’
‘How on earth do they contrive to measure time so exactly when the sun burns upon them without respite from dawn till dusk?’ I shouted back.
‘It is said to be some trick with water, though that may just be another of the fantastical rumours going around. But look how straight this road it, my brother. The whole city is set out upon the fundamentals of mathematical logic, with streets and precincts arranged almost like a chessboard. It is a wondrous act of design, truly wondrous.’
I could not share his enthusiasm, for I had heard that the people of Cathay put much faith in geomancers, and it made my flesh shiver to think that the city had been arranged using the principles of such black magic, with some heathen magician divining the direction of streets and the most prescient sites for building upon the whim and call of demons and malicious spirits. However, I did not wish to dampen Lovari’s high spirits, so I said nothing.
Like the rest of our party, I was soon pushing myself up on my toes and craning my neck in an attempt to view the top tiers of another huge building soaring up through the centre of the packed city. This time I could not hide my amazement. The walls of the great palace – for what else could it possibly be? �
� were gold and silver, and even from a distance the shapes of the dragons, firebirds and great beasts adorning it were clearly visible. Each successive level was narrower than the one below, and the roof was decorated with vermillion and yellow and blue and many other unnameable hues, so that the place seemed to be aglow in the afternoon light. At the edge of the roofs were great swelling grooves, like curling lips rising up in the beginnings of a sneer. The tiles had been varnished to such a lustrous sheen that the sun seemed to dance upon them.
‘The Khan’s palace,’ Lovari said. ‘If we are lucky, we may get to see the great hall, though most of the complex is reserved for the great leader and his concubines, and no other man may enter upon pain of death.’
‘What of his advisors?’ I asked.
‘I am informed that the government is held in a number of stately halls in the outer courtyards. It is rumoured that instead of knights and gentleman from the great families advising the emperor, the men of the Khan’s government are chosen by examination alone.’
‘I would not trust such foolish gossip,’ I replied. ‘I cannot imagine a leader would heed the advice of the son of, say, a fish-seller, no matter how well he had learnt to write!’
The guide leading us called out and we turned a corner, taking us onto a wide, open street, lined with wiry trees the likes of which I had never seen before. I looked to some of the buildings, and noticed the signs outside. I was transfixed, and could not but stop and stare. I had encountered the strange, indecipherable language of the Cathaians before, but seeing it so large and so close – the great brush-strokes of bold black ink smeared in dabs and crosses above shop fronts and inn doors – reminded me how far we were from Godly men. Their language is one of smears and smudges, of shadow and swirl. One of the words seemed to depict the ravages of a storm, while in another I thought I could discern the outline of some hellish black beast.