Creation (68 page)

Baron K’ang made the absolute minimum of those physical gestures that are required when a lowly baron, even if he be master of the state, finds himself in the presence of a duke. When Baron K’ang finally spoke, the voice was as expressionless as the face. “Your nephew whose slave I am should be here before nightfall. I assume that you will stay with him.”

“Actually, I’m not certain. I spoke to the chamberlain just now. He seemed most flustered, which is understandable. After all, this is a tortoise day, hardly an everyday experience. But then, a visit from the duke’s uncle is not an everyday experience either, is it, Baron?”

“Heaven does seem to want to spoil us, Duke. You are welcome to stay in my cheerless hovel.”

“That’s very good of you, Baron, I must say. I’ll find your steward myself. Don’t give me a second thought. I’ll manage.” The duke turned to me. “Come along,” he said.

This was the moment that I looked at Baron K’ang. He looked past me at the duke. “Your slave will remain with me.”

“You are gracious! Naturally, I had hoped that you’d let him sleep inside the palace, but I was not going to make a point of it.”

“He will stay in the palace, Duke. As my guest.”

Thus was I liberated. The duke of Sheh was furious, but there was nothing he could do. Baron K’ang was dictator, and that was that.

I was assigned a room in the Chi palace by a respectful under-steward, who told me, “The master will receive you tonight after the tortoise auguries.”

“Am I a slave?” I was to the point.

“No. You are an honored guest of Baron K’ang. You may come and go as you please, but since the duke of Sheh may try to get you back ...”

“I will neither come nor go. I’ll stay right here, if I may.”

It was after midnight when I was sent for by the dictator. He received me cordially, as far as I could tell: neither his face nor body betrayed any sort of emotion. When I had finished the prescribed series of bows, twitches and hand gestures, he motioned for me to sit on a mat to his right. Behind a feather screen two women played mournful music. I assumed that they were concubines. The room was lit by a single bronze lamp filled with what the Cathayans call orchid-perfume fat oil. Although not made from odorless orchids, this oil is delicately perfumed from some sort of flower; it is highly expensive.

“As you see, I have put you in the place of honor to my right,” said the baron.

I bowed my head. But I was somewhat puzzled. In the Middle Kingdom, the place of honor is to the left of the host.

The baron anticipated my bewilderment. “In peacetime the place of honor is to the left. In wartime, it is to the right. We are at war, Cyrus Spitama.” He said the strange name with no difficulty; reputedly, he had the best memory in all Cathay. “You are a slave no longer.”

“I am grateful, Lord Baron—” I began.

With a graceful wave of the hand, I was interrupted. “Fan Ch’ih says that you are related to the Great King beyond the western desert. He also tells me that you befriended him. So we can do no less for you than what you did for our friend and kinsman.”

Tears came to my eyes. I was overwrought, to say the least. “I am eternally grateful—”

“Yes, yes. In this matter, as a host, I do no more than follow the wisdom of Confucius.”

“I hear the praises of this divine sage wherever I go,” I said. “He is almost as admired as you ...” The baron then allowed me to flatter him at such length that I realized to what extent the expressionless face was indeed a work of art, not to mention hard work. Like most men of power, Baron K’ang could not get enough praise, and in me he had a panegyrist quite beyond anything he had ever encountered within the Cathayan four seas. In fact, I pleased him so much that he promptly sent for a wine made from fermented plums. While we drank he asked me innumerable questions about Persia, Magadha, Babylon. He was fascinated by my descriptions of court life at Susa. He wanted to know in detail how the satrapies are governed. He was delighted that I understood the art of smelting iron. He hoped that I would instruct his metal-workers. He asked me to describe Persian war chariots, armor, weapons.

Then, suddenly, he stopped; became apologetic. “It is unseemly that two cultured men should talk so much of war, an activity best left to the louts that excel at it.”

“But under the circumstances, our conversation is understandable, Lord Baron. Your country is at war.”

“All the more reason that I should let my thoughts dwell on those things which truly matter. Such as how to bring to the realm one single day of perfect peace. Should this ever occur, sweet dew, tasting of honey, will fall upon the land,”

“Has such a thing ever happened, Lord Baron?”

“All things have happened. All things will happen.” I
believe
that this is what he said. In a language without tenses, one is never certain. “How long will you honor us with your presence?”

“I should like to return as soon as possible to Persia. Naturally ...” I did not finish a sentence that only he could finish.

“Naturally,” he echoed. But he did not pursue the subject. “I saw the duke of Sheh at court tonight.” Something close to a smile began to alter the lower part of the egg. “He was most distressed. You are his friend, he said, as well as slave. He saved you from the wolfmen. He had hoped to travel with you to Magadha, where your father-in-law is the king. He had hoped that, together, as partners, you would be able to open a permanent trade route to Champa and Rajagriha.”

“He intended to hold me for ransom. There was no question of a trade route.”

Baron K’ang nodded amiably. “Yes,” he said informally. There are, by the way, two kinds of yes in the Cathayan language. One is formal; the other informal. I took it as a good sign that he chose to be informal with me. “I am most interested in King Ajatashatru. Early in his reign he wrote the son of heaven at Loyang. Copies of the letters were sent to each of the dukes. Your awesome father-in-law said that he was interested in trade with us. I assume that he still is.”

“Oh, yes. In fact, he had hopes that I might prove to be the link.” I could not believe what I was saying. Obviously, too long and close an association with the duke of Sheh had made me quite as fantastic as he; also, the plum wine was unexpectedly strong and deranging. I spoke at length of my mission to bring together in a single world Persia, India and Cathay. I described in detail a circular caravan route from Susa to Bactra to Ch’in to Lu to Champa to Shravasti to Taxila to Susa. I made no sense. But the baron was polite. Unlike most rulers, he listened attentively. In his own unemphatic way, he made swift judgments during slow speeches. He was always quick to detect the significant word not spoken, as well as the false note sounded. I came to admire, even to like him. But I never ceased to fear him.

When I finally gave out a breath, much to my own relief, he said that the trade route that I had envisaged was also a dream of his. This was polite. After all, it has been the dream of many travelers for several centuries. He knew little of Persia and the west, he said, but he did have some slight knowledge of the kingdoms of the Gangetic plain. He then described them in considerable detail, ending with “Ajatashatru is now universal monarch. He has destroyed Koshala. Except for a few mountain republics, he has the hegemony—” There was a pause; then he added, “—of India.”

“Ajatashatru is truly a marvelous warrior, a just ruler.” The plum wine produced a number of epithets more suitable for carving on a cliff to edify peasants than to decorate, as it were, a conversation with the man who appeared to be, thus far at least, my liberator.

“I find it curious,” said the baron, when I had at last stopped babbling, “that Persia and now India each has a monarch who has received heaven’s decree.”

“I thought that the decree could come only to the son of heaven, to the master of the Middle Kingdom.”

“That is what we have always thought. But now we are beginning to realize just how much world there is beyond the four seas. And I am beginning to suspect that we are but a single grain in the great barn. Anyway, I take it as a good omen that the mandate is once more being given, even if it be to barbarians in far-off lands.”

“Perhaps,” I said, too boldly, “it will come to the duke of Lu.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Or to another,” he added. A servant brought us eggs that had been kept underground for several years. We ate them with tiny spoons. The eggs tasted delicately musty. Although I was later to bury many eggs at Susa and Halicarnassus, they simply putrefied. Either Cathayan soil is different from ours or they prepare the eggs in some secret way.

The baron saw to it that I answered more questions than I asked. He was insatiably curious about the west. But then, he was curious about everything. He was like a Greek.

When I ventured to ask him about that evening’s tortoise-shell auguries, he shook his head. “I may not discuss this. You must forgive me.” But I could tell by the tone of his voice that the auguries had been excellent. “Usually our relations with Key are good. But when they gave asylum to Duke Chao—not a good man, I fear—a certain tension developed between the realms. We thought it most unkind of them to harbor our enemy so near to the Stone Gates, where he could act as a rallying point for every sort of malcontent. We protested. But the old duke of Key was a stubborn man. He was also fond of making trouble. So he encouraged the pretensions of our former duke.” The baron sighed softly, and belched loudly. “Fortunately, in the natural course, Duke Chao died. After that, all was well between our two countries. Or so we thought. But then ... Oh, we are living in a most
interesting
period!” Cathayans use the word interesting rather the way that Greeks use the word catastrophic. “Duke Ting succeeded his brother Chao, and my unworthy grandfather was commanded to take office as prime minister, a task he was as little suited for—or wanted, as I.” Thus do great Cathayan lords express themselves, rather like eunuchs getting ready to raid the harem larder. “When my grandfather died, one of his secretaries, a creature called Yang Huo, made himself prime minister. Since he was only a knight, this was not at all proper. Oh, we were deeply discouraged.” The baron put down his spoon. Together we listened to the workings of his devious mind. Then preserved apricots were brought us. Of all fruits in Cathay, this is the most esteemed. I have never liked apricots. But I consumed with apparent relish whatever the dictator offered me.

As usual I learned not from Baron K’ang but from others, the true nature of that deep discouragement. Yang Huo had seized the government. For three years he was absolute dictator. Like so many illegitimate rulers, he was enormously popular with the common people. He even tried to make an alliance with the duke against the three baronial families. “I serve Duke Ting as his first minister,” he used to say, “in order that the Chou dynasty may regain its rightful supremacy in Lu. When this happens, the mandate of heaven will descend upon our duke, heir of the godlike Tan.”

Duke Ting had sense enough to keep as much distance as he could between himself and the usurper. Literal distance: the duke was forever hunting. He only came to the capital when he was obliged to address the ancestors. I must say, if I’d been in his place I would have made an alliance with Yang Huo. Together they could have destroyed the baronial families. But the duke was timid. Also, he had not the imagination or knowledge to think of himself as an actual ruler. For five generations his family had been dominated by the three families. So he went hunting.

Eventually Yang Huo overstepped himself. He tried to kill the father of Baron K’ang. But the Chi forces rallied around their chieftain, and Yang Huo fled to Key with most of the national treasury. The government of Lu asked that the rebel be sent back, with the stolen treasury. When this request was ignored, relations between Key and Lu worsened.

The baron assured me that even as we spoke, Yang Huo was plotting his return, in order, as he said, to create “a Chou in the east”—that is, a restoration of the original celestial emperor. Yang Huo must have been a highly persuasive man. Certainly, he had many secret admirers in Lu, particularly among those who favor what they call the old ways. As far as I know, he never returned. The Chi family is much too powerful and Baron K’ang is—or was—too clever and formidable. When I met the baron, he had been prime minister for eight years. But though he was absolute dictator, he still feared Yang Huo. He had also been shaken by the recent revolt of one of his ablest commanders, the warden of Castle Pi.

Ever since the breakup of the Chou empire, the nobles have been building themselves fortresses. At first these castles were intended to provide protection against thieves and hostile armies. But gradually, over the years, the fortresses have become the visible and outward sign of a given family’s strength. Through marriage, treachery, all-out revolt, each family tries to gain as many fortified places as possible. Since the Chi family currently controls the largest number of fortified places in Lu, they govern one million people in an uneasy alliance with their rivals the Meng and Shu families. Needless to say, the duke has no castles. In fact, he owns nothing but his palace, for whose maintenance there is never enough money. Yang Huo had promised to change all that; he had even spoken of razing the Chi castles. I suspect that it was not the attempted murder of the old baron, but this threat to the fortresses, that caused Yang Huo’s downfall.

A dozen years before my arrival in Lu, the warden of Castle Pi went into rebellion against his Chi masters. For five years he held the stronghold. Finally he was obliged to give it up and take refuge in Key. It was no secret that Baron K’ang believed him to be the principal instigator of the war between Key and Lu, even though others felt that that honor should go to Yang Huo. In any case, the warden had shrewdly set himself up as yet another supporter of the ducal family. He, too, wanted to create “Chou in the east.”

The baron alluded to this rebellion. As usual, he was less than direct. “It is plainly heaven’s will that we are to be denied absolutely serene lives. Yet we propitiate heaven and we perform every traditional rite. Unfortunately, we have ill-wishers to the north ...” Baron K’ang paused to see if I had caught the double meaning. I had. Key is to the north of Lu, while the phrase “to the north” also means the celestial emperor. “You know our ways, I see. I meant, of course, Key, which harbors our enemies. I cannot think why. We have never taken in a single opponent of their government. Men are unfathomable, aren’t they?”