Vallon relaxed. ‘That doesn’t matter. Whatever crimes you might have committed in the past are of no interest to me. In the Outlanders every man starts life afresh. Even I once went under a different name.’
‘Guy,’ said Lucas.
Vallon knocked over his beaker. ‘What was that?
‘Guy. The same name as mine. Guy de Crion.’
The blood in Vallon’s head seemed to drain away. ‘What?’
Lucas looked up. ‘I’m your son. I’m sorry if it upsets you. It upsets me, too.’
Vallon couldn’t breathe. He pawed the table and would have fallen if Josselin hadn’t borne his weight. He clawed at the centurion, struggling to speak. ‘Is this some terrible falsehood?’
‘I don’t know. I’m as shocked as you.’
‘It’s true,’ Hero said. ‘Lucas is your first-born son.’
Vallon looked in dawning horror at the youth, awful implications rising. ‘That means… that means you were there on the night…’
‘… you killed my mother. Yes, I was there.’
Vallon covered his eyes. ‘Oh my God.’ He sat, guts writhing. He breathed in through his nose and tried to recover his composure. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I met a soldier in Aquitaine who told me you were serving in the Byzantine army. The day after, I set off walking. By chance I sailed from Naples to Constantinople on the same ship as Hero. I almost told him who I was looking for. If I had, you would have known from the start. It was Pepin who directed me to your house.’
Vallon panted. ‘That was more than six months ago. Why didn’t you tell me when I took you in?’
‘I wasn’t sure what your reaction would be. I was uncertain about my own feelings and… No, that’s not true. I hated you. I wanted to take revenge. Then… I didn’t know what to think, so I kept the secret to myself.’
‘You told Hero.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ said Hero. ‘Wayland did, in a letter he gave me before he left us.’
Vallon looked at Lucas. ‘You confided in Wayland?’
‘He guessed who I was, but I made him swear to keep it to himself.’ Lucas slurred his feet. ‘I don’t expect you to treat me as your son. I find it hard to look on you as my father. The whole situation is very strange and painful.’
Vallon swallowed. ‘I’m not sure what to call you.’
Lucas squared his shoulders. ‘I’m more comfortable with “Lucas”. And I would feel more comfortable addressing you as “sir”.’
Vallon realised that he was only just uncovering the surface of the pit. ‘Your brother and sister?’
‘Dead.’
Vallon covered his eyes. ‘I’ll have to tell Aiken. God knows how he’ll take it. I’ve been a poor enough father to him as it is.’
‘We’ll come with you,’ Hero said.
Vallon walked in a sick daze to Aiken’s tent and found the youth reading. He set down his book and stood. ‘Who’s dead?’
Vallon could find no way of varnishing the truth. ‘Lucas has just told me he’s my son. I haven’t investigated the claim, but I have no reason to doubt it.’
Aiken looked from Lucas to Vallon and back again, then burst into cackling laughter.
‘It’s not a matter for levity.’
Aiken wiped his eyes. ‘That’s not laughter. That’s the male equivalent of hysteria.’ He shook Lucas’s hand. ‘Congratulations. Now your harsh behaviour makes sense.’
‘Of course I still consider you as my son,’ Vallon mumbled.
Aiken looked away. ‘Actually, I’d rather end the pretence. I know I’ll never live up to your aspirations for me, and I… my feeling for you is one of respect rather than filial devotion.’
‘You still need a guardian until you come of age.’
‘Let me assume that privilege,’ said Hero. ‘With your agreement, and Aiken’s of course.’
‘I accept with pleasure,’ Aiken said.
Vallon couldn’t bring himself to look at Lucas. ‘If the prospect isn’t too painful, perhaps you would accompany me to my quarters. I don’t know if we can mend such a bloody rift, but I’m prepared to try if you are.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The news spread through the camp, causing great astonishment and glee. Wine flowed and many a cup was raised in celebration.
Gorka was drunk. ‘I knew the lad was better bred than he let on. As soon as I saw him, I said to myself, Gorka, here we have an officer in the making. That’s why I took him under my wing and gave him my special attention.’
‘Ran him ragged you mean. He’ll make you pay for all that “Yes, boss. No, boss. Kiss your arse, boss.”’
‘Well-forged steel needs tempering in a hot flame.’
‘I seem to remember you telling him that you’d be mewed up in a monastery before he killed five men.’
‘It was my way of encouraging him to achieve his goal. And he did. Today, with me riding at his side like I did with his father at Dyrrachium.’
Wulfstan joined them.
‘Are they still talking?’ Gorka asked in a hushed tone.
‘Ten years is a lot of time to make up. And there’s more than time to bridge. You’ve probably heard that Vallon killed Lucas’s mother.’
‘To protect his honour,’ Gorka said.
‘I know,’ said Wulfstan, ‘but the boy might not see it like that.’
A trooper broke the brief silence. ‘The general will have to promote him. He can’t have his son slumming in the ranks.’
‘Don’t be so sure. The general doesn’t have favourites.’
‘He’ll make him his shield bearer at the very least.’
‘I thought that was Aiken’s rank.’
‘Come on, the only weapon that lad can wield is a pen. Don’t get me wrong. I like Aiken, but he’ll never make a soldier.’ Gorka poured another cup. ‘What a day. Here’s to victory over our enemies, and Vallon and Lucas reunited by the grace of God.’
XXXV
From Xining, a Tibetan-controlled outpost in the Hexi Corridor, the Outlanders travelled by stages to Lanzhou, a Chinese frontier town and provincial capital on a bend in the Yellow River. They drew up before a battalion of soldiers waiting to meet them outside the city’s western gate. Vallon wore his suit of lamellar armour and his men had polished their equipment until it dazzled. Above them, rippling in a cutting wind, flew the black two-headed eagle of the Byzantine imperial banner.
A corpulent general acknowledged Vallon’s bow. His uniform seemed better suited to the theatre than the battlefield, consisting of a moulded bronze breastplate emblazoned with a fire-breathing dragon, a calf-length plate apron worn over three martial petticoats, the ensemble topped off by a plumed and winged helmet and a spiked ruff at the back of the neck.
The general bowed again. Shennu translated. ‘He asks if we have travel permits.’
Vallon was tired and cold. He caught Gorka’s eye and the corporal rode up, reached for a cotton bag, untied it and dropped a black and rotting head on the frozen ground in front of the Chinese general. The commander’s horse stepped back.
‘Old Two-Swords don’t improve with keeping,’ Gorka said.
‘Two-Swords Lu,’ Vallon said. ‘The garrison he was terrorising requested your help in bringing him to heel. We saved you the trouble.’
The general exchanged wondering looks with his officers before turning back to Vallon. ‘Can I see the sword that slew this devil?’
Vallon handed it over with both hands. The general tested its edges, held it to the light, made a few trial swishes.
‘I imagine it’s one of a pair – male and female – worked by a virgin boy and girl who forge blades as dragon spirits and producers of lightning that can cut through jade.’
Vallon reclaimed his battered weapon. ‘I don’t know about that. It does its job, and that’s good enough for me.’
The general with all formality bade Vallon to accompany him into the city. The column rode through streets under the gazes of an amazed citizenry, chased by grubb
y children with pates shaven to the crown or wearing pigtails sticking out at right angles.
The Outlanders fetched up at a dismal barracks. Before leaving them, the Chinese general promised to arrange an audience with the provincial prefect. Snow swirled from a stone-coloured sky and Vallon took refuge in his quarters – a room furnished with a clay-brick sleeping platform called a k’ang, heated by a brazier from beneath. After months of sleeping on frozen ground swaddled in as many layers as he could pile on, he had to shed most of his garments to make himself comfortable.
During his wait for the summons to the prefect’s residence, Vallon saw Lucas only in passing, both of them exchanging stilted greetings. What was there to say? What kind of memories could you share with a son who remembered you best from the night you murdered his mother? Tossing and turning in the small hours, Vallon sometimes wished that Lucas had never found him, almost wished that the youth had died along with his brother and sister, leaving only an indelible stain on the conscience. In some ways, that would have been easier to live with.
Four days passed before the prefect granted Vallon an audience. Shennu told the general that the delay wasn’t meant as a slight. The Chinese bureaucracy passed memoranda up from one tier of officialdom to another, the response then filtering back down, usually with requests for additional information or clarification.
The prefect, a distinguished-looking aristocrat with ascetic features, questioned Vallon in a courtly, rather cooing tone, asking him about Byzantium, the journey, the nature and temper of the people he’d met on the way. Shennu spoke for the general, but Vallon had worked hard on his Chinese and found he could understand much of what the prefect said. Once or twice he answered before Shennu could speak, eliciting smiles from the prefect’s staff.
‘I applaud your efforts to learn our language,’ the gentleman said.
‘Thank you for making the most out of little. I made the effort out of respect for your ancient civilisation. The Chinese empire is a counterweight to our own, twin mirrors at the ends of the earth, separated by sea, deserts and barbarians, yet united by reverence for good governance. I’ve told you why my emperor despatched me on this mission. Having come so far and lost so many men, I implore you to use your office to send us on to the capital with all speed.’
Groups of officials conferred, knots of bureaucrats forming in one place before unravelling and gathering in another. Finally they assembled behind the prefect.
‘Do you have the emissary’s bronze fish?’ he asked.
Vallon looked to Shennu for enlightenment.
‘It’s one of the twelve diplomatic credentials,’ the Sogdian said, ‘taking the form of a fish in two parts. The Chinese government despatches one half to the country wishing to send an envoy, and retains the other. Both halves have a number specifying the month in which the envoys are permitted to enter the capital. If an envoy arrives in the third moon with a tally denoting the second moon, the emperor would refuse to receive him. If he arrives too early, he’s obliged to wait until the specified time.’
Vallon ground his teeth. ‘It’s worse than Byzantine bureaucracy. Tell the prefect I don’t have half a bronze fish. State my credentials as follows. First, I’m the ambassador of His Majesty the Emperor of Byzantium, God’s representative on earth. Second, I brought the head of Two-Swords Lu, which is worth a bucket of bronze fish.’
The prefect deliberated with his officials before announcing his decision.
‘I will forward your request, together with copies of your credentials to the Court of Diplomatic Reception. Until I receive a reply, you and your men will remain in Lanzhou as honoured guests. We will see to all your needs, providing lodging, food and fodder, sleeping mats and medicine – even funerals should any of your men pass away.’
‘How long do you expect a reply to take?’
‘It’s winter. Even if the court decides to admit your embassy, you won’t be able to travel before next spring.’
Vallon couldn’t restrain his dismay. ‘Having crossed the world in eight months, I’m not going to kick my heels for the next three. I’ll go on without permission if necessary.’
‘General, you’re a brave and resourceful man, but I must point out that you’re now in the Celestial Kingdom and therefore subject to its laws. I have stated my conditions and you would be wise to observe them. Your party numbers less than one hundred. The Chinese imperial army is more than a million strong. You will not leave Lanzhou until the court has examined your request and informed me of their decision.’
Vallon stormed out of the residence to be met by a group of his men.
‘We have to wait for pen-scratchers in Kaifeng to decide if we can proceed,’ he told them.
Waving away the palanquins set at his disposal, he strode fuming through the streets.
‘A season in Lanzhou might not be time wasted,’ Hero said. ‘It will give us time to polish our Chinese and learn more about their culture.’
‘I for one would appreciate a rest,’ Aiken added.
‘The devil with that. I didn’t come all this way to be stalled on the border.’
Vallon’s blind march took him through the North Gate and onto the south bank of the Yellow River, about a hundred yards wide at this point.
Hero advanced to the water margin and peered across the cold and slatey current. ‘It doesn’t look yellow to me.’
‘The river still has two-thirds of its course to run,’ Shennu said. ‘It gathers sediment as it flows. By the time it passes Chang’an, it resembles liquid mud.’
On the other side of the river a temple complex climbed a cliff capped by a pagoda. Downstream three waterwheels as tall as churches rotated with stately slowness, the foreshortening effect of distance making them look like meshed gears. A few fishermen cast their nets in the shallows. The Outlanders watched the river roll past.
‘You wouldn’t get me on one of them things,’ Wulfstan said, nodding at a primitive craft bobbing along in mid-channel. It was some sort of raft lashed together from what looked like four giant udders with elongated teats uppermost. Three men crewed it, one of them plying a large steering oar.
‘They’re made of ox skins stuffed with straw,’ Shennu said.
Wulfstan spat. ‘I thought the Chinese were a clever race. Why don’t they build proper ships with tight clinkers and a sail?’
‘They build very fine ships where the water suits navigation. Up here the winds won’t take you where you want to go, and the current is too strong to row against. Those rafts aren’t as primitive as you think. The men who ride them drift downriver until they reach a market and then they dismantle the rafts, pack the hides on a donkey and return to their villages with the profit they’ve earned.’
‘What do they carry?’ Hero asked.
‘Fleeces, hides, timber, coal – goods too bulky to be transported overland.’
‘What’s coal?’ Aiken said.
‘A rock the Chinese burn as fuel.’
The Outlanders pondered this oddity without following it up. Hero tracked the raft diminishing downriver and spoke without knowing where his question would lead. ‘How far do they travel?’
‘Only a few days downstream, until they reach a trading post. From there another crew carry the goods to the next landing, and so it goes on, stage by stage, until one day, months later, the goods reach Kaifeng.’
‘A lot of effort for a small return.’
Shennu pointed at the bobbling craft. ‘That one’s tiny. They can be any size to suit your purpose. I’ve seen some as large as a field, constructed from hundreds of skins with a platform laid on top and huts for the sailors to sleep and cook in.’
All this Vallon had been taking in. He raised his head and looked at Wulfstan. The Viking massaged his stump and chuckled.
Shennu interpreted the looks. ‘Oh no. You won’t reach Kaifeng that way.’
‘You said the rafts travelled all the way to the capital,’ Vallon pointed out.
‘By short stages. Y
ou can’t just follow the river and hope it will take you to Kaifeng. No.’ Shennu cast about and picked up a driftwood branch. ‘The Yellow River is China’s water dragon.’ He drew a squiggly line on the foreshore. ‘Here’s its tail, wriggling down from Tibet.’ He jabbed with the branch at the base of the tail. ‘Lanzhou. From here its back arches north and then east for thousands of li before descending to the neck. Kaifeng lies half way along the neck, the dragon’s jaws gaping towards the Yellow Sea. The river passage must be twice as long as the land route.’
Vallon looked at the hide raft, now only a distant blip. He addressed himself to Wulfstan. ‘I’d say the current’s flowing at two or three miles an hour. If we travel for all the hours of daylight, that means at least twenty miles a day – every day, without effort.’
‘Why stop at nightfall?’ Wulfstan said. ‘The river doesn’t. We could cover fifty miles between sunrise and sunset.’
In his anxiety, Shennu almost ran on the spot. ‘You don’t know the dangers. The river flows north beyond the Great Wall through deserts controlled by Khitan nomads. Somewhere along its course it plunges over a terrible waterfall.’
Wulfstan’s expression grew dreamy. ‘Like old times, General.’
Vallon took Shennu’s arm. ‘Where do the rafts come from?’
Shennu shook himself loose. ‘The prefect has forbidden you to advance without permission.’
‘I’m paying for your services, not the Chinese.’
‘The river freezes in the New Year.’
‘Then the sooner we get underway, the better. Where can we find a raft?’
Shennu kicked over his tracing. ‘A village two days west, at the confluence of two tributaries that flow into the Yellow River. That’s where goods from the highlands are brought before being shipped on.’
‘Look into it,’ Vallon said. ‘Take Wulfstan and a squad of troopers. We’ll tell the Chinese that you’re returning to pick up a sick comrade we left in a monastery.’
‘What about Hauk and his Vikings?’ Wulfstan said.
‘I’d rather leave them behind, but since they’ve come this far, they might as well go all the way. Try to buy or charter two rafts large enough to carry all the men, horses and baggage.’
Vallon 02 - Imperial Fire Page 49