‘I know,’ replied Metellus. ‘We won’t be taken unawares.’
Daruma went below deck as Metellus rallied his men and assigned the guard shifts. A big red moon hovered over the river, creating a long golden trail on the water, while to the west only a faint reflection of the vanished sun remained.
Dan Qing reappeared around midnight and went to the bow, where he took up the same immovable pose as before. There he remained until dawn. Metellus observed him several times but could not tell whether he was awake or asleep. His position, with his head slightly reclined on his chest, would have allowed either one or the other, but certainly, if he fell asleep from time to time, his was a vigilant rest. No movement escaped him, no change of direction or vibration in the air.
THE NIGHT passed tranquilly. The moon waned after the second guard shift, leaving a sky teeming with stars of a luminosity never seen before, crossed from one end to the other by the white veil of the Milky Way. Metellus took the last shift before sunrise himself, together with Quadratus, and he noticed that at dawn Dan Qing had leaned his head on a coil of ropes, permitting himself a little rest. He showed an almost infantile fragility at that moment, but the bow-shaped curve of his reclining body gave the impression that he could lash out at any moment with the same power he had shown in that astonishing jump on to the boat.
Metellus would have liked to speak with him, to learn more about that remote land from which he’d come, travelling all the way to the confines of the Roman empire. He’d have liked to ask him about the origins of silk. All sorts of nonsense circulated in the West, but the most absurd claim of all was that the fabric was woven by a worm. But he felt reluctant to disturb the prince’s intense solitude, although soon each one of them would be going his own way, each towards the world he had left so long ago, and they would never have another chance to talk.
Daruma reappeared at daybreak, wearing floor-length robes made of a light-coloured cloth similar to linen but much thinner. The river was even wider now and the low, sandy banks were even further away.
‘We’ll be able to see the Ocean in a couple of hours,’ Daruma said.
‘And our roads will part. I can’t tell you how grateful we are . . .’ replied Metellus.
‘I don’t think so,’ interrupted Daruma.
‘What do you mean “I don’t think so”?’
‘That we will not part. You will come with me and the prince.’
‘You’re joking. But we . . .’
‘We had an agreement. Is this how a Roman stands by his word?’
‘You can’t expect us to stay with you all the way . . .’
‘To China? Exactly.’
‘Of course it was. I hired you as my guard until the end of the journey.’
‘This is the end of the journey. The Ocean shore. Even Alexander stopped at the Ocean shore. Daruma, I have left a son, alone, without his mother, in the hands of enemies. Don’t you understand? My thoughts were with him when I agreed to your terms. In good faith, I agreed to come with you as far as the shores of the Ocean, and by this good faith I shall feel free of any obligation as soon as we reach the mouth of this river.’
Daruma bowed his head and seemed to reflect for a few moments in silence, then said: ‘You owe me your lives, you Romans, and I now demand payment of this debt. And since there is nothing in this world as precious as life, you will have to do what I ask, to repay me at least in part. But . . . this is philosophy! If you set foot in this port, how far do you think you’d get, anyway? You don’t have enough money to pay for passage with a caravan.’
‘We’ll go by sea.’
‘But the Persians control all the shipping wharves.’
‘It’s a risk we’ll have to run.’
‘If you come with me,’ continued Daruma as if he hadn’t heard, ‘you’ll see things that you’ve never even imagined might exist. You’ll see a world that no one from your land has ever seen nor perhaps ever will. You will be paid with such generosity that you won’t have to worry about earning money for the rest of your lives. And when it’s over, I’ll accompany you back to the confines of your world myself. I’ll come with you personally or hire trusted guides to do so in my place.’
Metellus’s men had gathered at a short distance and watched with apprehension as their commander argued with Daruma. Even Dan Qing had turned towards them with an expression that finally hinted at something like emotion. Misgiving, perhaps, or disappointment.
The helmsman began to turn the boat towards the western bank, abandoning the centre of the current.
14
THE BOAT SLIPPED TOWARDS the western shore and this seemed like a positive sign to Metellus, but Daruma’s fixed look did not bode well, and Dan Qing’s expression was ureadable. The heat had suddenly become oppressive. The damp air rising from the river was suffocating and a line of low, swollen clouds advanced from the west.
A port came into sight, with a great number of ships at anchor. A wide array of vessels were seething with half-naked sailors loading and unloading, sewing and mending sails, repairing and checking oars and helms, yelling out in every language, their calls mixing with those of the gulls that flew low over the surface of the water, swooping after the refuse tossed from the boats.
Metellus scanned all the vessels in search of some shape that looked familiar to him, a ship from Alexandria, for example, which might be persuaded to offer them passage. He thought he could take advantage of his military rank: the captain of a merchant ship might even consider his request an opportunity to jump at, if nothing else for the benefits he would stand to gain once back at home.
Balbus approached him. ‘What are we doing, Commander?’
‘Going home,’ replied Metellus firmly.
‘What about him?’ added Balbus, casting a sideways glance at Daruma. ‘He doesn’t seem to see things the same way. Am I wrong?’
‘No, you’re not. He insists that we escort him and prince narrow-eyes all the way to Sera Maior. China, that’s what the Indian calls it. There’s evidently been a misunderstanding, but he’ll just have to accept that he can’t force us into this.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He might report us, turn us over to the Persians. What’s to stop him doing that?’
‘Our guest. He’s being hunted by the Persians as well, and Daruma seems to be responsible for his safety. As long as he’s with us we have nothing to fear. It could become a problem after we’ve left . . .’
At that same instant, the voice of the sailor at the top of the mast rang out: ‘Warship to starboard!’
Daruma took charge immediately. ‘Oars in the water. Men, to your posts! Helm hard aport!’ he shouted.
The crew foreman passed on his orders and the rowers thrust the oars into their locks and began to row at full strength. Others unfurled the sail so it would be ready to hoist as soon as they were beyond the river estuary.
Metellus looked to where the sailor was pointing and saw a streamlined vessel manned by at least fifty rowers leaving the port at that moment, with another fifty or so soldiers aboard. The banner being raised at the stern bore a winged creature: the symbol of Ahura Mazda.
He turned to his men. ‘Prepare for combat!’
The men shouldered their arms and rushed to the starboard side. Uxal lined up courageously with his comrades, as if he could be of some use in a battle, but Quadratus shoved him back unceremoniously.
Daruma’s boat had the current and the impetus of the oars in its favour, but the warship maintained its route and speed, intent on cutting them off.
‘Evidently someone beat us here,’ said Daruma.
‘Are you sure it’s us they want?’ asked Metellus.
‘Who else?’ replied Daruma. He watched with dread as the Persian ship advanced at an ever faster speed.
Dan Qing approached him. ‘The wind is coming. Raise the sail.’
‘But there is no wind!’ said Metellus, looking around.
‘Do as he says!’ ordered Daruma.
The sailors hoisted the sail. The great rectangle of cloth hung inert from its yard. Metellus shook his head and went back to join his men. The warship was nearly in the middle of the estuary and Daruma’s helmsman continued to haul starboard in the slight hope of escaping to the opposite shore before the approaching vessel completely cut them off.
‘Get ready,’ ordered Metellus. ‘It’s five to one.’
‘It won’t be the first time,’ growled Quadratus, ‘if I remember well.’
‘Ready to prevent the enemy from boarding!’ shouted Metellus to his comrades, grasping his sword.
He had not finished speaking when a strong gust of wind hit the boat and inflated the sail. It tensed, making the yard creak and bending the mast. The helmsman withstood the jolt, but couldn’t stop the boat from drifting sharply leewards, dangerously close to land. The boatswain increased the rowing rhythm for the men on the left side, who managed to correct the drift. The vessel sailed into the mouth of the estuary, where the wind, no longer buffered by the mainland, hit full force and carried the boat off at great speed.
The warship, which was unmasted, had to cut its mission short and gave up the chase.
‘We’re saved!’ said Daruma.
Metellus sighed in relief as the crew abandoned themselves to exultation. Uxal danced wildly on the deck, making everyone laugh.
The Roman commander approached Daruma and said, ‘You’re safe now and I’m sure you’ll find a way to hire new guards just as reliable as we are as you continue your journey. This is where our paths part. Haul to shore.’
‘How?’ asked Daruma. ‘Look for yourself. The shore is inaccessible, nothing but cliffs. And can’t you feel the wind? Don’t you know what it is?’
‘I’m not a sailor.’
‘It’s the monsoon that blows constantly east with unstoppable force, day and night, for the entire season.’
‘Pull in to shore,’ repeated Metellus in a tone of voice that did not allow for objections. ‘We’ll swim it if we have to. It’s just moving air. I’m accustomed to much worse.’
The wind was increasing in intensity and the cloud front was approaching now with frightening rapidity: a wall of black clouds shot through with continuous flashes of lightning, accompanied by the low threatening growl of thunder. The devastating power of such an alien, hostile nature made itself felt all at once. Metellus, used to the mild weather of the Mediterranean, watched the monster with sudden anxiety. A lightning bolt split the sky and plunged into the sea, shattering into blinding streams of fire, unleashing a deafening crash of thunder.
The boatswain shouted, ‘All men to their stations! Take in the sails! Bow to the waves!’
Metellus paled at that sight.
Daruma looked at him with a sarcastic smile while a violent gust of wind ruffled his hair. ‘What are you afraid of, Commander? It’s just a little moving air. Tell your men to find something to grab hold of, and not to let go unless they want to end up in the sea.’ He himself firmly gripped the railing.
The sun was being darkened by the menacing clouds, but before it was totally swallowed up it launched a last ray to illuminate the leaden, foaming surface of the waves.
‘This is the Ocean, Commander!’ shouted Daruma. ‘No one and nothing can resist her.’
Dan Qing vaulted over to the bow and seized the lines which bound the foresail to the boom like a horseman gripping the reins of a restive horse. Uxal curled up like a mouse in the forepeak, behind a coil of ropes.
Driven violently by the aft wind, the boat began to pitch, plunging into the hollows that yawned before it, then suddenly rearing up on the liquid slopes of waves nearly as high as hills.
Then came the rain, in torrential bursts. It flagellated the boat with unbelievable fury, as the waves joined in to sweep the deck from fore to aft. The water began to pour from the only hatchway into the bilge.
Daruma approached Metellus, without ever loosening his grip on the railing. ‘I need two strong men at the bilge pump,’ he shouted. ‘I can’t move my men from their stations. Hurry, or we’ll go under!’
‘Rufus, Septimius, to the pump, fast!’ shouted Metellus.
The two men rushed below and started to work the bar on the bilge pump – an exceptional machine, of Roman manufacture, as proclaimed by the brand name. Rufus brought the cloth hose outside and gave the end of it to Publius, who was completely soaked and hanging on to the starboard railing, then went back below and started pumping with all his might.
The pump struggled to expel the water that was pouring in continuously and the two men who were working it took advantage of the rare moments when the storm let up a little to gain a lead. It required enormous effort, and Metellus assigned his men to work in shifts so that the emptying of the bilge was never interrupted.
The storm went on for hours, exhausting the crew, who did their utmost to keep the craft afloat. Every now and then, Metellus would try to make out Dan Qing in the darkness. He never moved, straight as a rod at the bow, and watching him as he gripped the forward railing, Metellus had the strong sensation that it was he who was keeping the boat afloat, he who was guiding them through the tempestuous waves with a mysterious force that Metellus could neither perceive nor understand, but which seemed to permeate the hull and hold the planks and the mast together in that chaos of spray, thunder, wind and lightning. The darkness on board was nearly complete. A couple of lanterns hanging from the stays of the main mast spread a glimmer that made the men’s outlines just barely discernible. They seemed more like phantoms, guided by the shouts of the boatswain, who endeavoured to make himself heard over the din of the storm.
It was some time after midnight when, all at once, a wave much stronger than the others swept the deck all the way to the forepeak and dug Uxal out of the corner he was huddling in, dragging him towards the starboard railing. The planking on that side was not continuous; openings about two feet wide had been made to allow the water to drain off the boat. The old man was smashed against the planks by the force of the current and washed out, although he tried to grab one of the railing posts to avoid falling into the sea. He yelled ‘Help!’ with all the breath he had in him, but it was several moments before Metellus realized what had happened and rushed to his aid.
Uxal was hanging on with his right hand alone, which was slowly slipping. His legs were dangling over the open sea. Metellus seized the old man’s hand the instant before he fell, but a second wave took him by surprise and pushed him out through the same opening. He managed to grab the post, encircling it completely with his left arm, while he continued to hold on to Uxal with his right. He started to call out: ‘Over here! Fast! Over this way!’ But there was such a din, such immense confusion, that his shouts were not heard. A wave washed over the starboard side and ripped Uxal from Metellus’s grip. The old man disappeared amid the foaming waves with an anguished scream. Metellus held fast and tried desperately to grab the post with his other hand. He swung against the boat’s side, trying to achieve enough impetus to haul himself on board, but the waves hit him one after another and his energy was abating with every new surge. He felt the cold embrace of the Ocean pulling him under. He gave one last yell, before sinking beneath the billows, before falling into death’s arms.
At that same instant two steely hands closed around his wrists and lifted him out of the water. Dan Qing was hanging head down, grasping on to the railing posts with his feet. He waited an instant for another wave to arrive, then, exploiting its force, he transferred so much energy to the Roman’s body that Metellus was catapulted over the railing. Metellus grabbed it with both hands and hoisted himself on deck. He watched as Dan Qing gave a backwards spring by heaving the muscles in his back. He flew over the railing and landed squarely on the deck.
Metellus, astonished, managed only to mumble, ‘Thank you.’
D
an Qing acknowledged him with a slight nod, then returned to his place at the bow.
The storm did not begin to calm until dawn, when Daruma and the boatswain counted the survivors in the pale light that filtered through the tattered clouds.
Metellus joined his men. ‘Uxal is dead,’ he said. ‘Why did no one answer me when I was shouting for help?’
‘Commander,’ said Lucianus, ‘everyone was shouting, the sea louder than anyone else. There was no way we could distinguish one sound from another in that uproar. We were all hanging on to something for dear life, numb with cold and dazed with the strain, or else we were down below, pumping out the water. I’m sorry . . .’
‘Poor Uxal,’ said Balbus, who had just come up from the hold.
‘We owe our salvation to him,’ added Rufus. ‘Without him, we’d never have got out of that inferno.’
‘If I ever get back home to Spoletum,’ said Publius, ‘I’ll raise an altar to him in my courtyard and make funeral offerings to his shade every year, on the anniversary of his death. He was a good man and he’d grown fond of us.’
Daruma approached them. ‘I lost two of my crewmen last night,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost a man too, haven’t you?’
‘I did what I could to rescue him but I would have died myself if it hadn’t been for him,’ said Metellus, nodding towards Dan Qing. ‘I still can’t figure out how he heard me and how he managed to grab me by the wrists just as I was about to succumb to the waves.’
Daruma gave a slight smile. ‘Men like him have been trained in a very particular philosophy that makes them capable of perceiving every force that vibrates in the atmosphere and of distinguishing it from a thousand others. It’s extraordinary that he has mastered this skill so young.’
Metellus looked at him in disbelief without knowing what to say, then glanced over at Dan Qing. He had taken off his clothes to let them dry and was sitting cross-legged, dressed only in a small loincloth.
Daruma turned to the boatswain. ‘The wind has abated sufficiently. We can hoist the sail. Now we must ascertain what has been spared by the sea water, dry out everything we can as soon as the sun comes up and regain our strength.’ He went down to the hold and Metellus followed him. ‘Without this pump we would never have made it,’ said Daruma, pointing to the bronze machine fastened to a plank.
Empire of Dragons Page 16
