“You! Stop looting the dead, and gather your spears! The Chinese are retreating!”
It was true. Betrayed by the Qarluqs, Gao had decided to withdraw beyond the river Talas. However, he did not bother to discuss his plans with his Farghana allies, who were defending the river crossing. In the confusion they were unable to organise their own withdrawal, nor to get out of the way of the Chinese. Gao’s second in command, Li Siye, ordered his men to chop them down if they blocked the retreat.
So it was that the great army of Chinese, Ferghana and Qarluqs destroyed itself, and we won a famous victory for minimal losses. Unfortunately for me, that was not quite the end of that bloody day. The commander of the Chinese reserve sent a message to Li Siye reproaching him for his cowardice in fleeing. Stung by these words, Li rallied a group of volunteers and made a stand to cover his general’s escape.
The first I knew of this development was when a bullet from a sling hit my right eye, crushing the delicate orb. We had struggled across the river, along with thousands of other Muslim troops, and chased headlong in pursuit of loot and honour. Our leaders had for the most part lost control of the situation, and we simply blundered into Li’s rearguard.
When the bullet hit me I fell to the ground shrieking. Between the blood and the pain it was hard to follow what happened next, but I guess my comrades must have fallen back and left me lying there. A few of the more courageous, or greedy, Chinese came forward to search my pack, and found al-Shatranj. Curious about these strange objects, which they thought must be some new form of divination or secret battle plan, they carried both my pack and me to their general. I passed out along the way, and by the time I regained consciousness I was a prisoner of Gao Xianzhi.
Thirteen
Concluding, The Tale of the Game of Four Divisions, and, The Tale of The Great Demon Time, Devourer of All Things
“I hope you are feeling better.”
The voice spoke in cultured Arabic, with only a slight accent. I opened my eyes. My right eye was hard and sore, and covered by a bandage. I reached up to touch it.
“I advise you not to do that. I am afraid your eye was dead by the time you got here. We had to take it out, for fear that the rot would spread into your brain. We have replaced it with a globe of glass.”
With my one good eye I looked around. I was in a tent, lying on something like a farsh which had been placed on a low platform. A man stood over me. He was Chinese, with the trimmed beard and long moustache of that land. He wore long silk robes trimmed with fur, and a tall, cylindrical hat.
“My name is Wang Wei. Please consider yourself my guest. I hope you will not make it necessary to treat you as a prisoner.”
I croaked something at him, and he had water brought for me. The servants also carried in the Sindi’s battered old pack. Wang Wei gingerly pulled out the square board and stone pieces that made up the game of al-Shatranj.
“Now, when you are ready, you will please tell me what this is.”
I did not have the strength to refuse him, even if I could think of any reason why I should. I set out the stones on the wooden grid, and explained to him how they moved. At first he was suspicious, then disappointed when he realised I was telling the truth, then intrigued, as we casually fell into playing a game.
Wang Wei visited me every day, and interrogated me, gently and politely, about the Khalifate and its military power. I felt some guilt at giving intelligence to the enemy, but consoled myself with the thought that I knew very little of any value. If anything, I exaggerated the might of the Muslim armies, and perhaps I played a small part in convincing them that full scale war would not be in their interests. Increasingly the questions were only a pretext for the games of al-Shatranj.
I asked some questions too, and learned that we were in an army camp somewhere in the land of the Uyghurs. Ibn Salih had not advanced since the battle of Talas, and Gao had no intention of provoking him. It had begun to seem that the lands of the Silk Road were too barren, too distant from supplies and reinforcements, for either side to fight a real war there.
On one occasion Wang Wei brought with him a long embroidered bag. It contained a qin, a stringed instrument similar to the qanun. My captor played it with considerable skill and sang songs, which he told me he had composed himself. I asked him the meaning of the words and he told me, although he insisted they would lose all beauty in the translation. Unlike the bravado and heightened emotions of our poetry, his songs described moments of stillness and calm:
“Empty hill, no man seen
Yet we hear men’s voices.
Sun returns to deep forest;
Again glistens the green moss.”
After a couple of weeks, I was summoned to the presence of General Gao. I had been well treated and was recovering quickly, so that I could walk virtually unaided, with an escort of guards around me. His tent was as grand as many a rich man’s house in Merv, and he sat on a raised dais at the end of a long carpet. Wang Wei interpreted for him.
“So, what is this Game of the Four Divisions, of which I have heard so much?”
Gao Xianzhi did not look like his troops, being darker of skin and squarer of face. I learned later that he was not Chinese, but from Goguryeo, a kingdom far across the vast lands of China. He learned al-Shatranj quickly and enthusiastically, commenting only that it might be better if one could turn an opponent’s captured pieces against him. I wondered if he was recalling the way his own allies had betrayed him in the Talas valley. He had an ivory board made for him, and pieces carved from jade and quartz.
Then word came that ibn Salih had withdrawn from the land of Qarluqs, and returned to Khorasan. Despite his stunning victory at the Talas River, he knew that the Chinese still outnumbered him, and would not be so easily caught out a second time. More importantly, however, among the prisoners captured was a maker of paper. The secret skill of turning old rags into a substance cheaper and lighter than parchment, and more durable than papyrus, was of far more value to the Family of Islam than shaky conquests in hostile lands.
The war was over. But when Gao marched back to Kucha, I went with him. Perhaps he would have let me go home, if I had asked. But life as the favourite of a provincial governor was infinitely preferable to poverty in Merv; and he did not insist on the other duties which a Khorasani man would demand from a young protégé. The Chinese were fascinated by my black skin, and treated me with respect.
I learned to speak some words of their language, although I never truly mastered the tones which distinguish between otherwise identical sounds of very different meaning. For example, while playing al-Shatranj one day, I tried to say that I had gained an advantage over Gao; what I actually said was that I had caught a carp. This caused enormous hilarity, and my inability to grasp what seemed childishly obvious to them endeared me to them all the more.
I lived in Kucha for four years. China was a land of wonders to me, and its scholars were capable of such feats that at times I thought they must possess captive Jinni. Among the other miracles I saw was a device crafted of wood and metal which told the hours of the day more accurately than any sundial; and a magical bar of iron, which, when placed in water, always pointed to the north.
But there was a sickness at the heart of the empire that was to destroy my new life. In the capital city of Chang’an, the Emperor Tang Xuanzong, who had reigned over forty years of prosperity, was growing old and foolish. He had fallen in love with his son’s wife, the lady Yang, and forced them to divorce so that he could take her as his consort. He disarmed central China, ordering all spear and arrow points to be melted down. Then he withdrew increasingly from public affairs, devoting himself to pleasure with his young bride.
When a ruler is absent, scum rush to fill the gap like water seeping into a hole in the ground. Provincial governors like Gao, who already wielded enormous power, became virtually independent now that the Emperor had no armies to keep them in line. At court, Lady Yang’s favourites gradually replaced competent and conscient
ious officials.
One such favourite was An Lushan. He was a sheep rustler from Bukhara who had run away to join the army in order to escape the law. Cunning and brave, he had risen through the ranks to become Governor of Manchuria. As his wealth grew he became obscenely fat, and his rivals in Chang’an thought him a fool. An Lushan had no qualms about acting the buffoon; on one occasion he allowed Lady Yang and her entourage to dress him up as a giant baby. However all the time he was using his reputation as unofficial court jester to conceal his ambition.
This dangerous state of affairs was held in delicate equilibrium by the Chancellor, Li Linfu. Chancellor Li was a shrewd and experienced administrator, who occupied a position similar to the Khalifah’s Wazir. His sober influence balanced the excesses of Lady Yang, and kept in check her relatives and sycophants, particularly her dissolute cousin Yang Guozhong. When Li Linfu died, Yang Guozhong took over his office, and the Empire began to unravel. Yang’s first act as Chancellor was to have Li’s body dug up and beheaded for treason.
The new Chancellor was jealous and frightened of the provincial governors, and particularly An Lushan. He began to make unsubtle hints that the fat man was plotting treachery. The fact that this was true, and that he had spent ten years perfecting his plan to seize the throne, did nothing to lessen An’s indignation at being accused. Yang had provided him with the excuse he needed.
An Lushan marched from his provincial capital of Beijing with over a hundred thousand men. Having no armies of his own, Yang recalled all the loyal governors. Gao returned to Chang’an, and I went with him. With no opposition, the Tibetans gleefully seized the Silk Road kingdoms that had been so hotly contested a few years earlier.
I can tell you little of the capital, or the vast plains of central China. All I saw were endless camps and councils of war. By the time we arrived, An Lushan had captured the eastern capital of Luoyang, and proclaimed himself the first Emperor of the Great Yen dynasty. Gao was ordered to defend Chang’an.
Despite Gao’s efforts, Yang’s military incompetence allowed An to capture the capital. The Emperor and his retinue fled the city. However, his guards had had enough. They stopped along the road, and refused to march another step until they were given the head of Yang Guozhong. The terrified Emperor complied, and the Chancellor was executed at the roadside. Unfortunately this did not satisfy the soldiers, who now demanded the head of Lady Yang. The old man refused, but his consort, seeing her world collapsing around her, hanged herself from a tree.
The Emperor Tang Xuanzong, consumed with grief, abdicated in favour of his heir. This was the turning point in the rebellion. An Lushan’s obesity was making him increasingly unwell. He was nearly blind, and began to believe everyone was plotting against him. His ravings scared those around him, and he was murdered by a eunuch slave on the orders of his own son.
Nonetheless the anarchy in the Empire continued. I had no suspicion of how bad things were until the night a servant came to my tent with two horses and supplies for a long journey.
“General Gao Xianzhi orders you to take these mounts and flee the country. He thanks you for the gift of al-Shatranj and wishes you a long and prosperous life.”
One of Gao’s subordinates had accused him of embezzling supplies. In the fervid atmosphere of the court, allegation was as good as evidence. His subordinates offered to testify on his behalf, but he refused, fearing that they too would be accused. He was arrested and executed the day after I fled the camp.
I did not stop riding until I was a hundred miles from danger. That was when I found, stuffed into a saddle bag, the battered old game set I had inherited from the Sindi. Even the harsh wind in my face was insufficient to dry my tears as I galloped on.
I headed north-west, hoping to find the Silk Road and follow it back to the Land of Islam. The Empire I travelled across had been devastated by the civil war. Crops were ruined, villages burned, and hungry bandits roamed the countryside. I heard later that over half of the population died, in battle or from disease or famine, before order was restored.
The journey would have been dangerous for a Chinese man. With my poor linguistic skills and obviously foreign features, it was deadly. My supplies were soon gone, and in a starving land food was hard to come by. One of the horses went lame, and I killed and ate it. The second was still strong and healthy when we arrived at a range of hills, and I wept as I cut its throat.
I still believed that I would find the Silk Road on the other side of the range, and this kept me going as I struggled up the slopes chewing on rotten horse meat. However, the hills went on and on, each higher than the last. Finally I admitted to myself the truth. I was hundreds of miles too far to the south, and had wandered into the foothills of the Himalayan mountains.
It was too late to turn around. I knew I would never survive the journey back to China, and there was nothing there for me in any case. I aimed north, inasmuch as I could choose my direction over the difficult terrain, and pressed on.
When I saw the flags I thought I was hallucinating, or dead. They ran along a gulley that cut between two inclines, a row of identical orange banners hanging from sticks and flapping in the stiff wind. I staggered towards them and they seemed to form a path, leading me upwards, as if to heaven. I remember following the waving guides, which nodded at me as my feet dragged in the rubble. Then there is only darkness.
Later, I thanked Yeshe Torma for saving my life, and he answered that he had not. He said I had died on that day, but had been reborn. Certainly he nursed me with the milk of yaks, as if I were a newborn whose mother had died during the labour. He also said that it was not chance that had led me to him, but the gods, so that their ways could be preserved. He even claimed that he had been waiting there for me, that his divination had foretold my coming.
He was a small man, who seemed always to be smiling. I could not tell how old he was. His face may have been prematurely lined by the sharp mountain air, or his hair might have stayed black into old age. I questioned him once, and he simply asked me why I wanted to know. I could not think of an answer, and that was an end to the matter.
From the moment I was born into my new life, Yeshe Torma began to teach me the ways of Bon. The only language we had in common was Chinese, which was no more Yeshe’s native tongue than it was mine. However I understood Bon as easily as if I were recalling something I had known long ago, but forgotten. He taught me about the spirits of the stones and rivers, and the gods of the household. He taught me about the sacred symbol of the crooked cross, the sauwastika. And he taught me about the terrible demons who, unseen, plague mankind. I thought about the blasted landscapes of China, over which I had ridden. And I decided that, although the demons themselves were invisible, it was not hard to see where they had passed by.
Later, he taught me the rites by which demons are summoned, controlled and turned against one’s enemies. I am forbidden to disclose these secrets, and I will not, regardless of what you do to me. There are worse things in the universe than physical pain and death.
I lived for twelve years in the mountains with my teacher, and would be there still, if he had not instructed me to return to the west. I begged him to let me stay, but he told me that it was my fate.
“The old ways are dying in the mountains. From the west comes Islam, from south and east comes Buddhism. Now the King of Tibet has converted to the Dharma. You were sent here to learn Bon, so that you can take it to new lands, plant the seeds of knowledge in fresh soil. Return to the land of your birth, my son, and fulfil your destiny.”
I trudged away down the old Silk Road. When I got to Merv I kept walking. After spending half of my life in the east, there was nothing for me there. I set myself to finding the captain of my old company. I finally tracked him down in the new city of Baghdad. It took some time to persuade him of who I was; he thought me long dead, and when he had last seen me I had been a youth with two eyes. In the end it was the Game of Four Divisions that convinced him.
I told a tale of l
ong captivity by yellow devils, and as a veteran I was able to claim a small pension. I settled in Harbiya, where I dedicated myself to finding pupils worthy of the secret lore. Of the rites I will tell you only that we sacrificed animals, but I have never harmed a child in my life. Now I am to die. Whatever demon you have working for you, it is more powerful than any protecting me. I have failed my master, and failed in my destiny, and because of me the ancient teachings too will die. There is no torture you can inflict that would be worse than that knowledge.
***
Al-Takht was unimpressed.
“A pretty tale, but it will not help you. One of your acolytes has just confessed that you sacrificed the porter’s son to your demon god.”
I was relieved when Abu Nuwas led me away from the Watch House. I could not bear to look at ibn Bundar’s battered face any longer. Even though he had tried to kill me, I could not escape the thought that it was my fault he was facing execution – if, that is, he survived questioning by the police.
“Do you think he killed those children, master?”
Abu Nuwas pondered before replying.
“In truth, I know little of Bon – its followers guard its secrets carefully. However I have never heard of human sacrifice forming part of the rites. I imagine the heavy handed approach of the police will produce the confessions it seeks, whether or not the suspect is actually guilty. Some of those acolytes were so scared, I think they would admit to stealing the moon from the sky if you put it to them.
“Still, let al-Takht go on believing he’s got his man. It keeps him from bothering us, at least until the next child disappears.
“Now we must go to cleanse the filth of this shabby business from our bodies. I have to dress for an evening drinking with the Khalifah. You, on the other hand, must don your best burgling attire.”
“You still wish me to search the house of the merchant ibn Zaid?”
The Father of Locks Page 17