‘Why didn’t you contact us sooner?’ Vallon said.
‘I judged that I’d be of more use if I hid our association. The Chinese think I’m a lowly Arab mariner and pay little heed to me. I can come and go as I please. The man who passed on the invitation is my spy, cocking an ear at conversations in this tavern and that gambling den. From what I’ve heard, the Chinese are holding you prisoner.’
‘Hardly that,’ said Hero. ‘I’ve explored the city and seen wonders I never dreamed of.’
‘Wayland’s right,’ said Vallon. ‘The Chinese have penned us in a gilded cage, indulging our every wish. God knows, I’ve succumbed to their pampering. By the way, I’m sure we shook off our trackers.’
‘I know. I followed you from the moment you left the compound.’
‘What else have you learned?’ Vallon asked. ‘Do you know what the Chinese intend to do with us.’
‘You’ve already answered the question. They’re lulling you into a pleasant dream from which you’ll never want to emerge. The tavern gossip is that the emperor doesn’t want you to leave China. He hopes General Vallon will agree to command a regiment against the northern barbarians. He believes that Hero will choose to remain in the Heavenly Kingdom.’
The news sobered Vallon. ‘Do they know about our interest in Fire Drug?’
‘From the day you arrived, they knew what you were after and determined you would never find it.’ Wayland looked up. ‘Your concubine reports on your activities. Every servant is a spy.’
Vallon flushed. ‘Let’s eat.’
Hero took a few spoonfuls of soup. ‘Do you notice anything different about me?’
Wayland studied him. ‘Something about your eyes?’
‘A surgeon removed my cataracts. The operation was successful. I can see again – not as well as you, but well enough to read without discomfort. And I no longer walk past friends in the street without recognising them.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘And it’s wonderful that one of the first sights to greet my eyes is our beloved friend Wayland.’
Vallon laid a hand on Wayland’s. ‘I too have gained more from our journey than I could ever have hoped for.’
Wayland looked at Hero. ‘You told him?’
Hero beamed. ‘Lucas told Vallon himself – not without a great deal of encouragement and arm-twisting.’
Wayland hesitated. ‘And are father and son reconciled?’
Vallon pretended to give his attention to the food. ‘I pray we will be in God’s good time.’ He gave a desperate laugh. ‘My head’s still spinning. So much news to catch up on.’
‘My lodgings aren’t far from here,’ Wayland said. ‘We can talk at leisure after we’ve eaten.’
‘I’m afraid my curiosity must go unsatisfied a little longer,’ Vallon said. ‘I have a meeting with the deputy minister of war.’
‘Actually, what I wanted to discuss would interest Hero more than you. It concerns something I found in the temple in Nepal.’
‘Tell me,’ Hero said.
‘Later,’ Vallon insisted. He raised a beaker. ‘To old comrades.’
‘It’s best if we don’t leave together,’ Wayland told Hero. ‘Give me time to get clear then turn right at the entrance and stop at the first corner. My Chinese friend will be waiting for you.’
Vallon and Hero went their separate ways, Hero turning right as directed. At the corner where the storyteller had been holding forth, a crowd had gathered to watch a wrestling match. Hero stood on tiptoe to view the contest. On the other side of the crowd, two country boys spectated from the back of a buffalo.
Hero waved away a ruffian vending fake money for use at funerals and scanned the periphery of the crowd for someone who looked like Wayland’s agent.
The currency vendor gestured across the junction. ‘You see the merchant selling archery equipment?’ he said in Arabic.
Hero spotted a gentleman bending a bow on a veranda set up as a shooting gallery.
‘I see it.’
‘Wait until I’ve turned the corner. Stay well back.’
Hero watched him make his way across the street before following. His guide set a brisk pace heading along Beer Fountain Road and then turning into a side street. Hero had difficulty keeping him in sight. The lane was packed with off-duty soldiers, foreign seamen and young civil service candidates celebrating after examinations. Red silk lanterns hung above the doors of numerous wineshops, and heavily made-up women and a few effete boys struck provocative poses in the upper windows.
A gaggle of drunken students blocked his path, inviting him to take a cup of wine with them. When he’d struggled through, his guide had disappeared.
‘Sss!’
Hero glimpsed the guide at the entrance to an alley. He followed through a slum of ramshackle houses and courts. He reached a dead end. A door opened and he went in, the guide leading him up rickety stairs to a room where Wayland stood waiting.
‘I never expected to meet you in the Willow Quarter,’ Hero said. ‘Every second house is a brothel.’
‘It’s the foreign quarter. I blend in. Can I offer you chai? Wine?’
Hero was still stupefied by Wayland’s resurrection. ‘Nothing, thank you. I was so amazed to see you that I forgot to ask after your companions.’
Wayland poured himself a beaker of wine. ‘The Turkmen are dead. Two drowned in a flooded river. Toghan was killed by a wild yak.’
‘Zuleyka?’
Wayland closed his eyes and drank. ‘We parted in Nepal. She took my dog with her.’
A girl wandered into the room, her gown half undone, her make-up smudged. Wayland said something to her and she yawned and left.
Hero sat and composed his hands on his knees. It seemed to him that Wayland had changed during his absence. Hero had never seen him drink wine during the day. And the casual way he’d spoken to that whore…
‘You said you found the temple.’
‘It stands at the head of a valley above the treeline, overlooking a deserted village destroyed in an earthquake. Everything had been left just as it was, including the lama’s body seated before the altar. I found a sacristan who had stayed on as guardian. He confirmed that a Christian hermit called Oussu studied at the temple a thousand years ago.’
Hero smiled. ‘Even our most learned historians sometimes muddle chronology, and I suspect that untutored men in such a remote place would have a very hazy sense of time.’
‘That’s what I thought. But when I challenged the sacristan, he showed me a book listing all the lamas from the time the temple was built. Oussu arrived in the reign of the second lama. There have been at least fifty more since then. I counted.’
‘You said you found something there.’
‘Several things. The sacristan showed me the cave where Oussu meditated. On the walls were Christian symbols made by pilgrims who visited the temple a hundred years after Oussu left.’
‘Crosses?’
‘The outline of a fish. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘A fish was one of the earliest Christian symbols.’
‘Which suggests the sacristan was telling the truth.’
Hero hid his disappointment. ‘I was hoping you’d discovered something more tangible.’
Wayland picked up a bamboo tube and uncapped one end. ‘I took away a thanka and a scroll.’ He removed the painting and passed it across. ‘It’s a portrait of Oussu.’
Hero studied it. ‘The figure certainly has a Western countenance. How do you know it’s Oussu?’
‘It seemed different from all the other paintings. That’s why I picked it out. It wasn’t until later that the sacristan confirmed it was a portrait of Oussu.’
‘It doesn’t look very old. The colours are still fresh.’
‘They were even brighter the day I first saw it. Nothing fades in that dry cold atmosphere. The lama had been dead for two years yet his body was perfectly preserved.’
‘You said you took a scroll.’
/>
Wayland handed it over. ‘It was one of many I found in the cave where Oussu spent many days and nights meditating. I don’t know what language it’s written in.’
Hero unrolled it. He brushed back his hair. ‘It’s Aramaic.’
‘Who uses that tongue?’
‘It’s widely used in the empire of the Arabs. The Jews use it more than they use their native Hebrew. It was the language of Jesus.’
‘I thought the early Christians wrote in Greek.’
‘Most did, but for many their mother tongue would have been Aramaic.’
‘Can you read it?’
‘No, but I know someone who can. There’s a Jewish community in Kaifeng. They came from Persia more than five hundred years ago. I’m sure one of their rabbis or scholars will be able to translate the scroll. I’ll arrange a visit.’
‘Why don’t we go now?’
‘This moment?’
‘I’ve been hugging that scroll close for the last five months, protecting it against tempests and thieves, all the while wondering what it means.’
XL
The synagogue or kenesa called the Temple of Purity and Goodness stood behind high walls on Teaching Torah Lane, an affluent thoroughfare close to the imperial palace. Hero jangled a bell at the double-doored entrance and after a while a wicket opened and a man gave the callers a guarded appraisal.
‘You’re Westerners,’ he said in Chinese.
‘We’re members of an imperial embassy sent from Constantinople.’
‘Are you Jews?’
‘No.’
‘Then what do you want?’
Hero made his tone as pleasant as possible. ‘On our journey through the Taklamakan we acquired a scroll at a Buddhist temple. What excited my interest was the fact that it’s written in Aramaic. I was hoping that someone in your temple could translate it for me.’
The gatekeeper didn’t soften his stance. ‘We don’t use Aramaic. We never have. Our native tongue was Persian and the last Persian speaker died generations ago.’
Hero’s face fell. ‘No one can help?’
The gatekeeper held out a hand. ‘Give me the scroll. I’ll enquire if anyone knows of a scholar who understands Aramaic script.’
‘Don’t part with it,’ Wayland said.
‘He’s not going to run away with it,’ Hero said. He smiled at the gatekeeper. ‘Of course we would pay the translator a fee.’
‘Wait here,’ the gatekeeper said, shutting the wicket behind him.
‘You obviously think the scroll is important,’ Hero said.
‘I nearly killed myself getting it.’
The gatekeeper returned, his manner somewhat softened. ‘The rabbi will see you.’
The synagogue complex was built in Chinese style, the temple set in a pleasant garden. The gatekeeper ushered them in. Hero had visited several synagogues and found it strange to see the traditional layout grafted on to Chinese architecture. Beyond the entrance stood a table equipped with censer, candlesticks and bowls of oil. Behind it, enclosed in latticework, rose the pulpit-like Chair of Moses, on which the Torah had been placed for ceremonial reading. Two black lacquered columns flanking the chair rose to a dome in the roof – the only non-oriental feature in the building.
An elderly gentleman wholly Chinese in dress and appearance apart from a skull cap received the visitors.
‘Forgive the porter’s brusque reception. We rarely receive visits from anyone outside our community.’
‘Do the Chinese persecute Jews?’ Hero asked.
The rabbi’s waxy face relaxed. ‘They tolerate all faiths so long as they don’t challenge the state. After all, the Chinese themselves can’t agree if they’re Confucists, Buddhists or Taoists. We Jews, together with Nestorians and Zoroastrians, are minnows in an ocean.’
He led them into a chamber hung with inscriptions in Chinese.
‘Are those Jewish texts?’ Hero asked.
‘Yes, they are. That one is from the Book of Job. But I believe the text you have is written in Aramaic.’
Hero presented the scroll. The rabbi began to unroll it. ‘My companion at the gate wasn’t being entirely honest when he told you no one could read Aramaic. Realising that the fount of all things holy was drying up, I made it my business to learn Aramaic and Hebrew from the few souls who preserved those languages. My understanding of both scripts is poor.’
‘Keep a close eye on his face,’ Wayland said in French.
‘When I’m gone,’ the rabbi continued, ‘even that tentative link with our roots will be severed.’ His lips moved as he struggled to translate the text. He unrolled another section, holding it to the light. Then his brow furrowed, his eyes blinked and he gasped.
‘I told you,’ Wayland murmured.
‘Has something engaged your interest?’ Hero asked.
The rabbi forced his features into impassivity. ‘You said you acquired the scroll in the Taklamakan. Where precisely?’
Hero had prepared a story both plausible and simple. ‘On our Silk Road journey we visited the Buddhist cave complex at Dunhuang. Seeing that we were Westerners, a monk offered to sell me the scroll. He claimed it was a Christian text and therefore of no interest to him.’
The rabbi fingered his throat. ‘I imagine not.’
‘Can you tell us what it is?’ Hero said. ‘Perhaps you could read the first few lines.’
‘I told you my grasp of Aramaic is weak. I don’t want to confuse you with a garbled translation. It will take me at least a month to work my way through the text.’
Hero made a muted sound of disappointment. ‘As a scholar myself, I understand the need for an accurate rendering, but if you could just give us a précis…’
‘I’m not happy leaving it in his hands,’ Wayland said.
‘We won’t find anyone else to translate it.’
The rabbi smiled. ‘You’re impatient to fathom the meaning and your curiosity excites mine. I’ll give the scroll my urgent attention. Return in five days.’
The gatekeeper showed them out and bolted the entrance behind them
‘We should have made a copy,’ Wayland said.
‘The rabbi isn’t going to steal it.’
Wayland’s eyes had an odd glint. ‘He’s Jewish. Oussu was a Christian. Whatever is in the scroll might conflict with his own beliefs. It might not be something he wants to share.’
‘I’ve always found Jewish scholars tolerant of other religions of the book.’
The street was empty, the city settling down under the onset of evening. Wayland led the way. ‘I still wish we’d made a copy. My fault. Eagerness overmastered caution.’
Hero hurried to catch up. ‘It sounds to me as if you have an inkling of what the scroll contains.’
A hundred trumpets warned Kaifeng’s citizens that the evening curfew was approaching. Wayland stopped and placed both hands on Hero’s shoulders.
‘If I told you what I suspect, you’d think my wits were stolen. Perhaps they are. I can tell you one thing. I’m not the same man you bade farewell to all those months ago.’
When Hero and Wayland returned to the synagogue, the rabbi greeted them warmly and offered them chai.
‘Have you finished?’ Hero asked.
The rabbi picked up the scroll and a translation on paper. ‘I burned many a lamp on the task. The Buddhist who sold it to you was correct. It’s the Gospel of Saint John.’ His finger traced the first few lines. ‘“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God”.’ He smiled. ‘Only God knows how the scroll found its way so far east. You must be very excited.’
‘A remarkable find,’ Hero said, looking at Wayland.
‘Why would Oussu spend time writing out a gospel in the Himalayas?’
‘You don’t know he wrote it. Perhaps he brought it to spread the gospel of Jesus’s sacrifice and resurrection to the people of Tibet.’
‘To a tiny village high in the mountains? He wasn’t evangelising. The sacristan told me he spent his time learnin
g the law of Buddha and meditating. When he had achieved enlightenment, he left to return to the West.’
The rabbi intervened with tact. ‘Your friend seems upset.’
‘He was hoping the scroll contained an undiscovered text that would shed new light on the early history of Christianity.’
‘I think finding a copy of a Christian gospel so far from the Holy Land is noteworthy.’
‘So do I,’ Hero said.
The rabbi smoothed his gown. ‘I have to prepare for a wedding.’ He held out the scroll and translation. ‘For me it’s been a most interesting exercise. Perhaps you might like to make a contribution to the synagogue.’
Hero could tell that Wayland was downcast and chatted of other things as they returned to his lodgings. Back in the shabby room, Wayland unrolled the thanka and placed it on a table, weighting the ends down with cups. He studied the enigmatic figure. ‘You weren’t a copyist or a preacher.’
‘Who do you think he was, then?’ Hero asked.
Wayland didn’t answer. He took the scroll out of its tube and unrolled it. He gasped.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘This isn’t the scroll I found in the temple.’
‘But you can’t read Aramaic.’
‘I carried the thing for long enough to remember the pattern of the words.’
‘Give it to me,’ Hero said. He studied the characters. ‘You’re right.’
Wayland kicked the table. ‘I knew we should have made a copy.’
‘But why would the rabbi substitute a fake? The Gospel of Saint John wouldn’t be of much interest to a devout Jew.’
‘It wasn’t John’s gospel.’
Imperial Fire Page 55
