Empire of Dragons (26 page)

‘Help him!’ yelled Metellus, attracting the beast’s attention to himself. Just as the leopard had turned on him and was about to pounce, Metellus twisted around and grabbed the javelin of Rufus, who was right behind him, then spun back towards the leopard, running the beast through in mid-leap.

Publius was shouting, ‘Help me! I’m here, help me!’ and, as Metellus was extricating himself from the animal’s inert body, Quadratus, Balbus and Septimius formed a human chain to rescue their comrade, who was clinging to a rock spur.

Septimius managed to grasp his slipping hand a moment before Publius would have plunged into the abyss, and they hauled him up. Metellus drew the javelin out of the leopard’s body and contemplated the dying beast: clouds of steam puffed from its nostrils and its blood stained the white snow. He had never seen such a magnificent animal in his life: completely white, with only a few dark spots on its coat to distinguish it from the snow.

Metellus turned around and found Dan Qing standing behind him. Immobile as statues of snow, they stared into each other’s eyes without saying a word, then Metellus went over to Publius, who was still trembling with cold and terror, and he embraced him tightly, like a son who had escaped death. They began their march again in the raging storm and it wasn’t until after dusk that they reached their resting place: a hut made of tree trunks, flanked by a stable. Famished and almost completely dehydrated, the men managed to push the animals under the roof and drag themselves inside the shelter, where a big fire was roaring in a brazier in the centre of the room, below a hole in the ceiling from which the smoke escaped. The contents of a pot on the brazier were bubbling away and a smoking lamp, burning animal fat, hung from the ceiling beams.

An elderly couple sitting on a sheep’s fleece were holding bowls and seemed to be intent on the pot. Daruma said something to them and the old man gestured for them to join them. Dan Qing entered last and sat in a corner, on his heels.

The old woman passed out bowls, then took the pot from the fire and poured a ladle of broth with a few pieces of mutton into each bowl. The hot food restored a little life to the exhausted men, but also made them profoundly sluggish. No one felt like talking. As soon as they had finished eating, the Romans were undone by the warm atmosphere inside the hut and collapsed on to the sheepskins, one after another, falling instantly into a deep sleep.

More by habit than anything else, Metellus went out for a brief inspection. The moon was just appearing from behind a blanket of dense vapours, illuminating the mountains that were still being scourged by the storm with its ghostly light. The horses and pack animals were calmly browsing on the hay in the manger and in the distance the sobbing of a nocturnal bird wafted up from the bottom of the valley. He returned towards the refuge and found Dan Qing waiting.

‘Why did you do it?’ asked the prince in Persian.

‘I’m paid to do it,’ replied Metellus, and, without waiting for an answer, went in.

The next day, the world around them was completely transformed. The dawning sun tinged the snowy peaks pink and made the green fields covering the lower slopes of the mountains glimmer. The wind had dropped and an eagle was soaring through the sky in expansive, solemn flight. Quadratus was the first to rise. He stretched his stiff limbs and walked over to a drinking trough. He broke the ice and washed his face with the freezing water. Little by little, the others came out, last of all Dan Qing followed by Daruma. The drivers prepared the animals and the old couple distributed cups of warm milk. Daruma paid with Indian coins and the caravan set off again. They travelled all that day and all the next until they came to a vast area of level ground where they began to meet other caravans, smaller or larger than their own, proceeding in the opposite direction and loaded down with wares. Almost everyone they met up with resembled Dan Qing and Metellus realized that their destination must be not too far off. Calculating the time it had taken to get to where they were from the mouth of the Indus, he felt that it would be more or less another month to reach the point of arrival, after which they’d be able to undertake their journey home.

They advanced another twenty days, covering about twelve miles a day. They crossed a steppe and then an arid desert, which would have been impossible to negotiate without the local guides, who knew the trails and the location of the wells from which the men and animals could drink.

Now Metellus was certain that they were crossing lands that not even Alexander had encountered during his long march eastward; they had gone far beyond Maracanda and far beyond the last Alexandria. He was sure that they had passed the lands that Herodotus had attributed to the most remote populations, the Issedonians and the Hippomolgians. The very look of the sky and its constellations seemed to have changed. He remembered that Antoninus had served as a land surveyor in the army and wondered whether he might be able to draw a map of their route, but then he realized that they had no instruments, no reference points, no material for writing or drawing. Perhaps when they had arrived at their destination, they would be able to make a measuring instrument, a
groma
, and find the material they’d need to draw a map on their return journey. Such a map would be invaluable: the description of an unknown region, unwinding day by day under the patient, constant steps of his soldiers.

The sensation that dominated his spirit and that of his men was of crossing an endless region, of seeing their own world grow smaller and smaller as they moved away from it, like the sensation one had when looking at people and objects from the top of a high tower or the edge of a precipice.

The immensity of Asia took their breath away: the vastness of the deserts, the flat expanse of the steppe, limited only by the horizon, a land dominated by immeasurable silence or the repeated, monotonous cries of mysterious, hidden creatures. Sunset came abruptly, casting bloody streaks on the golden sands, then immediately yielded to a multitude of stars trembling in the infinite celestial vault. Sometimes, in the dead of night, they would abruptly hear a nearly silent beating of wings like flocks of winged ghosts passing over their heads in the darkness, traversing invisible paths. The moon rose like a great silver shield to illuminate the spectral landscape, awakening the prolonged lament of the jackals. At times, its thin crescent skimmed the wavy profile of the dunes, and when it finally set, the morning star alone remained to guard the threshold of the aurora.

They met other men, other convoys, crossing that vast land in one direction or the other, mostly caravans of camels that advanced with their peculiar swaying gait. Metellus often wondered why they were never attacked. Were there no brigands eager to seize their belongings? He concluded that it must be in everyone’s interest for the goods to reach their final destination; the profits to be had were too great for their journey to be disturbed.

During this interminable crossing, relations between Dan Qing and Metellus remained what they had always been, except for those first few days on Daruma’s boat. At first, Metellus had tried to make sense of the prince’s attitude, and he had come to the conclusion that the man was simply too different: his mentality and his manners were too dissimilar for the two of them to be able to understand each other. The distance between them seemed to become more marked instead of decreasing, and it appeared that not even Daruma was interested in changing the way things were.

One day the prince approached Metellus as they were making their way up to a pass where they had decided to make camp, a saddle between two rocky hills. ‘It’s time for you to equip yourselves with full suits of armour,’ he said. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘Why?’ asked Metellus. ‘We’ve had no problems until now in our light gear.’

‘Because we’ve almost reached the border of China. We must be ready for anything. At our next stop, we’ll be able to buy whatever you need.’

Metellus shook his head. ‘I don’t think we need anything. My men would never use weapons that they’re not accustomed to, while they know they can rely completely on their own arms. Don’t worry. We have our mail coats and all the segments of our
loricae
, ready to be assembled. We can make our own shields and helmets if we find a blacksmith’s shop. But how do you know that we’ve arrived?’

‘Do you see those two formations on either side of the pass?’ Daruma broke in.

Metellus had no time to answer. He watched as Dan Qing galloped off towards the spot Daruma had been pointing at. The prince leapt to the ground and bowed several times before an object that Metellus couldn’t quite make out.

Only when Metellus had drawn closer was he able to see what it was: at the sides of the pass were two gigantic stone sculptures carved in the rock, in the shape of winged monsters in a terrifying pose.

Daruma looked into his eyes and exclaimed, ‘Welcome to the Empire of the Dragons!’

T
HEIR FIRST STOP IN
Chinese territory was in a caravanserai where convoys carrying silk habitually stopped. It was a square-shaped construction with four towers, one at each corner, and a four-sided portico inside. A fountain set in a basin of carved stone stood in the middle. The inn was well served by a mill, a bakehouse, a forge and a sawmill, located on its sides. The first and last were fed by a torrent that descended from the mountains; its clear, rushing waters kept the mechanisms turning at a fast, constant rate. Severus and Antoninus were fascinated by those ingenious machines, and drew closer to watch them working.

Metellus joined Daruma, who was negotiating with the man in charge of the four shops to obtain use of the forge for the two Roman
fabri
. He also bought horses for everyone.

Publius and Rufus were assigned the job of reassembling the
lorica
segments and checking the coats of mail. Lucianus mounted the javelins on their shafts, and when Severus and Antoninus had returned from their round of inspection, he instructed them to make shields using wooden boards from the sawmill, and to forge new helmets. Metellus stopped later for a look and lingered to talk with Severus, who was making the shields. He was building them in his own way, in wood and iron.

During the days they remained in the caravanserai, fortifying themselves for what lay ahead, Metellus and his men began to form an idea about the world they were entering, its rules and customs, its currency, the people’s habits and ways of dressing and even their religion.

There was in fact a small sanctuary on the premises, built of wood and painted in bright colours: flame red, white, ochre yellow and green. A holy man, a priest or a soothsayer, perhaps, delivered oracles to the travellers who consulted him. Sitting on his heels, in the typical posture of the Chinese, he tossed bones with incomprehensible markings on to the ground. They were mostly animal shoulder bones, whose flat surfaces were suitable for drawing magical symbols.

‘It’s called ashagalomancy,’ explained Daruma. ‘Reading bones. Depending on how they fall, one face or the other comes up and the seer draws his conclusions from the symbols carved into them. Dan Qing is an expert in this art. He was taught by his master, the venerable Wangzi.’

‘Dan Qing . . .’ murmured Metellus. ‘It seems like a century has passed since he leapt on to our boat and yet I still know nothing about him. What concept of power do these people have that prevents a ruler from exchanging even the most modest conversation with a common person?’

As he spoke, he was watching the prince ride up the side of a chalky hill that stood behind the caravanserai.

‘I don’t know much about him either,’ admitted Daruma. ‘But I’ve heard stories that hint at something quite unpleasant, some unmentionable secret, hidden in his past. In this country, supreme power is often associated with forms of cruelty that you and I can’t even imagine.’

‘Power is the same everywhere, but I can see that this land is very different from my own. What is it that you mean exactly?’ asked Metellus.

Daruma smiled. ‘Well, for example, when the great emperor Huangdi ruled over this kingdom, he decreed that all the schools of philosophy should be closed and all books burnt, except for a single copy of each, to be preserved in the royal library. A certain number of wise men, philosophers and writers, expressed their dissent . . .’

‘And?’

‘Well, Huangdi had them buried alive, all four hundred and sixty of them, in a common grave.’

‘I can see how having to carry out actions of that sort would make even the most communicative ruler a bit sullen,’ replied Metellus sarcastically. ‘But what’s most difficult for me to understand is how a philosophy as advanced as the one you’ve described to me can reconcile itself with such a profoundly cruel exercise of power. You know, the best of our emperors was a philosopher himself. His name was Marcus Aurelius Antoninus and he was a wise, austere and valiant prince.’

‘I believe that his fame reached as far as China, where they call him An Dong,’ replied Daruma.

Metellus looked back towards the hill and saw the silhouette of Dan Qing on his horse, scanning the horizon and the forest-covered mountains that followed one another like the waves in the sea, sloping down towards other plains, other rivers, other mountains. This world seemed to have no end.

D
ARUMA HIRED
some porters, a couple of camel drivers and a Chinese doctor, and then they set off again. They marched for a few days until they found themselves in the middle of an oak forest, a place sufficiently isolated for the men to don their armour. They soon looked just like they had when they were on duty in their own units.

Sergius Balbus reported to Metellus, who was awe-struck. The senior centurion’s gear was perfect down to the last detail: the insignia of his rank, the horsehair crest on his helmet and the command staff. ‘Drawn up in full battle order, Commander,’ he proclaimed.

Metellus nodded and inspected them one after another, slowly, looking each man straight in the eye and observing every characteristic of his combat gear, from helmet to large square shield, perfectly reconstructed and even freshly painted, as was the custom the day before a battle. In the gleaming eyes of those veterans he saw a pride and emotion that brought a lump to his throat.