Vallon 02 - Imperial Fire

by Robert Lyndon

  ‘On this side of the world, all of us find the places we left remote. Your men regard you as their father. Look behind you if you don’t believe me. You promised to bring them to China, and you kept your pledge.’

  XXXVI

  Orders must have been given to bring the Outlanders to heel as soon as possible because soon after Jifeng made fast, a column of officials borne in litters and flanked by a troop of cavalry and puffing infantry clattered onto the jetty. Vallon and his leading men went ashore to pay their respects.

  Out from a gilt and lacquer palanquin stepped a gentleman wearing a purple gown that identified him as an official in the top three ranks of the Chinese civil service. Dark, bearded and hook-nosed, he didn’t look like a native of the country. He managed to suggest a bow without moving his head. Vallon returned the compliment with more conviction.

  Evidently he hadn’t shown sufficient deference because one of the official’s attendants upbraided him in a tone that set his teeth on edge. Shennu fell to his knees and began to knock his head on the ground. Vallon dragged him up.

  ‘Remember your dignity.’

  ‘He’s a very important official – Chamberlain of the Court of Diplomatic Reception in the Bureau of Receptions, under the Ministry of Rites, a division of the Department of State Affairs. He heads a team of twenty scholars who act as interpreters for foreign envoys. That official behind him represents the Secretariat, which translates letters carried by foreign envoys. They’ll be responsible for us during our stay.’

  ‘Welcome to the Middle Kingdom,’ the chamberlain said. ‘News of your arrival outran you. I have prepared lodging where you will reside while we examine your credentials.’

  ‘How did you know I spoke Arabic?’

  ‘Because it’s my job to learn everything I can about foreign visitors before they set foot on Chinese soil. Unfortunately, due to errors committed elsewhere, I have only skimpy information regarding your status and motives. In the next few days my officials will examine them in every detail. If you’re wondering where I learned to speak Arabic, my ancestors came from Baghdad. Most of the officials in my department have foreign roots. Their families were Koreans, Japanese, Khitans, Uighurs…’ The chamberlain pointed. ‘Who are those men?’

  Vallon looked over his shoulder and saw Hauk and his crew leaning splay-armed against the rail of Pleasant Clouds. ‘Viking traders who joined forces with us. They’re not members of my delegation and it was always our agreement that we would separate once we reached Kaifeng.’

  ‘Very well.’ The chamberlain indicated a squad of cavalry holding a string of spare horses.

  ‘I’d rather ride my own mount,’ Vallon said. ‘And I need to make arrangements concerning my ship.’ He heard murmurs of disapproval from the officials. ‘This journey has taken the best part of a year. I trust you won’t begrudge me a little time to compose myself.’

  The chamberlain made a scissoring gesture. Make it quick.

  The horses were already saddled, the troopers scrubbed and buffed for the parade ground. It didn’t take long to get them ashore. Vallon detailed Wulfstan and four troopers to remain on Jifeng. ‘You’ll be relieved in a few days. Meantime, don’t let anyone on board without my permission.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  Hauk hailed Vallon as he walked ashore. ‘What’s going to happen to us?’

  Vallon turned. ‘I don’t know and I don’t particularly care.’

  ‘Bad cess to you, Vallon. Without our help you wouldn’t have reached China.’

  Vallon didn’t look back. ‘Without your interference, Otia and four other troopers would still be alive.’ He mounted his Ferghana and rode away accompanied by the catcalls of the Vikings and a cacophony of drums, gongs and trumpets. Ahead of the Outlanders a soldier carried a pennant inscribed with Chinese writing.

  ‘What does that say?’ Vallon asked Shennu.

  ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Foreigners carrying tribute to the emperor.’

  Vallon gathered his reins. ‘I guessed it would be something like that.’

  Three walls defended Kaifeng. Inside the first lay a zone as much agricultural as urban. Beyond the second sprawled a slum with houses packed together as closely as teeth on a comb. Alerted by the drums and gongs, its citizens flocked to view the foreigners. Vallon caught the occasional remark, invariably phrased in tones of wonder mingled with disgust.

  ‘See how long the barbarians’ noses are.’

  ‘Urgh! Look at their red hair.’

  The inner wall was broached by a massive gatehouse constructed in the form of a truncated pyramid, with flights of steps rising to a concave-roofed tower and battlements lined with soldiers. As the Outlanders passed through the square arch, they had to give way to a train of camels shuffling in the opposite direction. Seeing the haughty indifference of the beasts, the casual yet determined strides of their handlers, Vallon felt an odd nostalgia for the desert that he’d laboured so long to escape.

  On the other side of the gate the road broadened into a thoroughfare more than an arrow-shot wide – so broad that the citizens strolling beside the merchants’ arcades on the far side looked tiny. Black-and-red-painted barriers divided the road, leaving an empty central passage that Shennu said was reserved for the emperor. Tier upon tier of upturned tiled roofs created a low skyline as undulating as the sea, broken at intervals by firefighters’ watchtowers and pagodas topped with yellow tiles.

  They crossed canals planted with lotuses, the banks lined by fruit trees, and clopped over an arched bridge spanning a river busy with vessels of all sizes. The escort turned right down a lively avenue crammed with stalls, shops, taverns and eating houses.

  ‘That’s ingenious,’ Hero said.

  Vallon couldn’t see what he was referring to.

  ‘That handcart,’ Hero said. ‘The single wheel at the front makes it easy to manoeuvre in tight spaces. Why didn’t we think of it?’

  Vallon smiled. ‘I suspect an interesting time awaits you.’

  Another turning brought them into a quiet residential quarter. The escort halted outside a high-walled compound overhung by trees. Soldiers swung open stout gates and Vallon passed through. He reined in, astonished. He’d been expecting a barracks with rough-and-ready accommodation.

  ‘It’s a palace,’ he said.

  The compound must have been more than three hundred yards square, subdivided into walled enclosures occupied by two-storey houses that were more windows than walls, with lattice screens to admit the weak winter sun. Under the chamberlain’s supervision, Vallon’s squadron peeled off into their allotted quarters until only he was left.

  The last gate opened and he rode into a garden laid out on formal lines – an orchard of plum and peach trees in one quarter, a bamboo grove behind a rock feature contrived to resemble a mountain, a water garden with a pond spanned by a zigzag ornamental bridge, an area of lawn with a belvedere artfully sited to offer views of the different landscapes.

  The sun was settling behind the tamped-earth walls, its rays lighting up a fairy-tale pavilion walled and roofed in vermilion and gold.

  The chamberlain leaned out of his litter. ‘The Palace of Peace and Friendship, reserved for honoured foreign delegations. You are the first guests to occupy it in eight years, so please forgive me if the arrangements don’t meet your satisfaction. If anything displeases you, tell the steward and he will endeavour to correct shortcomings.’

  ‘I’m sure it will meet my needs.’

  An army of servants stood outside the house and flung themselves down, banging their foreheads on the ground when the chamberlain alighted. He ignored them and led Vallon into the house, pointing out this room and that, explaining the functions of the various lackeys who scuttled at his side with expressions almost demented by the wish to please.

  Screens painted with landscapes and nature scenes decorated the rooms. Vallon felt too large and coarse for the house. He could ima
gine bringing down its walls with one clumsy movement. The last glow of sunset lit a window glazed with oiled paper. Fumes from a charcoal brazier made him light-headed. He took a short step to recover his balance and put a hand to his brow.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I slept under a roof.’

  The chamberlain laid a hand on Vallon’s arm. ‘Take all the rest you need. No one will disturb you until you’ve recovered from your travels.’

  Vallon missed a whole day in sleep and woke feeling soggy to the core under the anxious gazes of four servants.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Your spirit was floating. We thought it might leave you.’

  Vallon sat up. His tongue was furred and arid, his stomach hollow. ‘Bring me water.’

  A scullion darted off and returned with a bronze ewer. Vallon drank his fill, observed by the servants who apparently hadn’t seen a man drink before.

  Vallon wiped his chin. ‘Leave me while I dress.’

  They took some getting rid of, and even then they went only as far as the door, peering around it as if scared that Vallon might vanish in their absence.

  ‘I need some fresh air.’

  Trailed by retainers, he strolled through the gardens, stopping to listen to a bird whose familiar song sounded as if it came from the other end of the world. He was ravenous when he returned to the house and asked if he could eat.

  The steward took charge. ‘What food would give you most pleasure?’

  For the last four months Vallon had been subsisting on broth, tsampa and noodles. ‘I’m not fussy. Whatever you have ready.’

  An age passed before a relay of servants entered bearing trays laden with delicacies. The steward lifted each cover in turn – bear’s pads marinated in fermented soybean paste, bamboo rats stewed with jujubes, hornet larvae roasted with salt…

  Vallon settled for mutton and turnips.

  He slept again before dusk fell and rose at dawn and practised swordsmanship until he’d worked up a sweat. He returned to the ever-attentive household.

  ‘I need a bath.’

  The servants looked at each other. ‘A bath?’

  Vallon scanned their faces. ‘You do bathe in China?’

  After insisting that he could wash himself without help, he was allowed to soak in a tub scented with sandalwood and ginseng. Another thing he discovered about Chinese personal hygiene: they relieved themselves in privies and wiped themselves with paper pinned in sheets to the wall.

  Next evening he heard carriages draw up outside the house. The steward pulled him back from the window and settled him in a throne-like chair. The entire establishment crammed the antechambers. From their giggles and nudges, Vallon guessed that his visitors weren’t officials of state.

  Into the room glided or teetered a dozen women with downcast faces – tall and short, plump and slender, fair and dark. This one had plucked her eyebrows and created artificial ones like the wings of a butterfly on her forehead. That one had caked herself with so much white and red makeup that her face resembled an actor’s mask. Balsam, cloves and aloes scented the air.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ said Vallon, knowing the answer all too well.

  The steward bowed. ‘A virile lord needs a consort to maintain harmony of mind and body.’ Or words to that effect. ‘Please make your choice – one or several.’

  ‘I don’t want a woman.’

  Consternation ensued. At a command from the steward, a servant drove out the concubines and another lackey ushered in half a dozen simpering youths.

  Vallon’s eyes narrowed to quartz slivers. ‘Get them out of here. I don’t want women. I don’t want men or boys. All I want is peace.’

  On the Chinese side, spirits sank. The steward despatched a servant and after a fretful interval Shennu showed up. ‘General, it would be impolite to refuse a concubine. Your men have already taken partners. Whatever your proclivities, don’t be shy in your demands.’

  Vallon flushed with anger. ‘The devil take it. They keep swearing to satisfy my every desire – except my wish to be left alone.’

  ‘If you take a consort, she’ll protect you from the pestering. You don’t have to lie with her.’

  Vallon stalked across the chamber. ‘Very well, supply me with a quiet lady who can converse in my own tongue.’ Seeing the steward’s look of alarm, Vallon followed up. ‘Don’t tell me that in the whole of the Song empire, there isn’t a single woman who speaks Greek.’

  ‘We have mastered all known languages.’

  ‘Then bring me a woman I can converse with. Only beasts couple without exchanging words. I’m not a dog in want of a bitch.’

  A failure of translation caused confusion. ‘You want a dog?’ the steward said with polite disgust.

  Vallon’s roar made everyone jump. ‘Bring me a woman who can speak Greek.’ At the last moment he decided he’d pitched his demands too low. ‘Preferably a lady not too ill-favoured.’

  He was asleep in his chair when the steward returned, shooing in three women as if they were mice. Vallon blinked at them. One was squat and pitted with pox, one almost catatonic with fright. Setting eyes on the third, Vallon stood. Tall and slim, she had the high cheekbones, short upturned nose and almond eyes of the Turkmen, but her chiselled features and the delicate oval of her face suggested that her ancestry lay to the west, in Persia perhaps, or Circassia. Her skin was fairer than Vallon’s – a luminous golden hue, set off by sleek blue-black hair piled high on her head and secured with ivory combs.

  ‘Hellenika legete?’ he asked. ‘Do you speak Greek?’

  ‘Eulogemenos ho erchomenos en onamati kyriou.’

  Vallon recognised the biblical quote with some surprise. ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’

  He turned to the steward. ‘This lady will make an excellent companion. Thank you for your assistance and now leave us.’

  Eyes rolling in relief, the steward swept his staff away. Vallon stood looking at the woman, aware that the walls were too thin to shield conversation from eavesdroppers.

  ‘I expect you’ve been sent to report everything I say and do,’ he said in Greek.

  Her face took on a hunted expression.

  ‘Ti esti to onoma sou?’ he said.

  She cast desperate looks about as if searching for a way out. ‘Eulogemenos ho erchomenos en…’

  He tried again and received the same response. ‘That’s the only Greek you know,’ he said. He flopped into his chair, cupped one cheek in his hand and began to twitch with husky laughter. He stopped when he saw tears highlighting the concubine’s eyes. He pushed up and took her hands.

  ‘You don’t speak Greek, so we’ll have to try to get by with my atrocious Chinese. I asked you your name.’

  ‘Qiuylue,’ she whispered.

  ‘Autumn Moon,’ Vallon said. ‘It suits you.’ He thought of a harvest moon rising through evening mist.

  Qiuylue blushed. ‘You are very gracious to ignore my hideous disfigurements.’

  Vallon stepped back. ‘Disfigurements?’

  ‘My age and height. My clumsy hands and ungainly feet. I’m surprised you didn’t choose one of the maidens from the Willow Quarter.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  Qiuylue hesitated. ‘Twenty-six.’

  Vallon would have guessed several years younger and assumed she had shaved as many years again off her real age. Her fine bone structure would preserve her beauty into old age.

  ‘You’re no taller than many women in my own country and your hands are very elegant. As for feet, whatever size yours are, I prefer them to the stumps and tottering gait of those women whose feet have been bound from birth. It’s me who should apologise for inflicting a grizzled soldier on a young and beautiful woman.’

  She spoke as if by rote. ‘Youth passes. Beauty fades. Wisdom and courage never die.’

  ‘You don’t have anything to fear. I have no intention of imposing myself on you. I’m married with children. In my count
ry we stay true to our spouses. Or try to. Now, if you would excuse me, I wish to take a bath.’

  Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You bathe in water?’

  ‘Of course I do. At home I have a bath house that I use every two or three days. Why do you look surprised?’

  ‘I was told Western barbarians never bathe. My own people, the Khitans, are strangers to water from birth. It was only when I came to China that I learned the salubrious benefits of water.’

  Vallon slung a towel over his shoulder. ‘How often do you bathe?’

  ‘Every ten days, on the official holidays.’ Qiuylue must have noticed Vallon’s frown. ‘I bathed today when I was ordered…’ Her face crumpled. ‘When I learned what honour the chamberlain had bestowed on me.’

  ‘What circumstances brought you to China?’

  She looked down, apparently ashamed. Vallon raised her chin. ‘We’re strangers, so let’s be open with each other.’ He poured a cup of wine. ‘Here. It will help you relax.’

  She ignored the cup. ‘I was the youngest daughter of a clan chief who served at the Khitan Liao court. Seven years ago a Chinese military delegation arrived at court. Among them was an officer who admired me and wished to take me for his wife. My parents thought it would be a good match. Only when I arrived at my husband’s home did I discover that he was already married. His wife resented me. She had good connections and forced her husband to drive me out of the house. After that —’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me any more,’ Vallon said. ‘We’ll talk of other matters when I’ve bathed.’

  She followed him into the bathroom and chased out three servants waiting to attend Vallon. When they had left, she remained.

  ‘You can leave too,’ Vallon said.

  ‘But my duty is to serve you at all times.’

  ‘Your duty doesn’t extend to watching me wash myself.’

  ‘If you don’t want my hands to touch you, allow me to sing while you bathe.’