Creation (58 page)

At the beginning of spring I left Bactra for the rising sun. My description of the long journey east is kept locked in an iron chest in the house of books at Persepolis and only the Great King has the key to the chest, provided he has not lost it. In less than a year I found a way to Cathay that was not previously known to anyone in the west. But since I am a Persian and king’s friend, I have no intention of revealing to the Greeks
any
details of my journey to Cathay. Also, without the maps and the star sightings that we made, I could not give more than a vague description of a journey which took place—how long ago?—thirty-eight years by my reckoning.

After we crossed the Oxus River, we traveled through miles of grazing land. Here live the northern tribes. They attacked us more than once, but since I had a thousand Bactrian troops for escort, the tribes did us no damage. After all, the Bactrians are themselves closely related to those fierce nomads who inhabit the steppes. And the desert.

The desert! I should think that that eastern desert is the largest on earth. Certainly, it is the most deadly. All of our horses died. Fortunately, most of the camels survived. Many of the men did not. Of the two thousand camel drivers, soldiers, attendants who had left Bactra one bright spring morning, only two hundred survived the crossing of a desert that seemed never to end except, briefly and cruelly, in the most astonishing mirages. Suddenly, up ahead, we would all see a swift mountain stream or a waterfall or a cool snow falling in deep woods. Invariably, some of the men would throw themselves into what looked to be a refreshing lake or stream. Men died, mouths choked with scorching sand.

Although the eastern desert is filled with oases, one needs a reliable guide to find them. No such guide was available to us; the desert tribes saw to that. In fact, had we not known that Cathay was in the direction of the rising sun, we would have been hopelessly lost. As it was, our journey lasted a month longer than it needed to, and cost us many lives. Toward the end, in order to avoid the mirages as much as the heat, we traveled only at night. The moment the sun appeared over the flat gray horizon, we would make burrows in the sand like Indian dogs; and, heads covered with cloth, we slept like corpses.

Despite my long conversations with Fan Ch’ih, I knew very little about the geography of Cathay. I did know that most of the Cathayan states are located between the Yangtze and Yellow rivers, but I had no idea how far apart the rivers are or what sea they empty into. Fan Ch’ih had told me that his native country of Lu was located in a basin formed by the Yellow River. Beyond that, I knew nothing of Cathay, or its extent.

The desert ended in grazing land where yellow-faced herdsmen studied us at a safe distance. They made no attempt to molest us. Since there were numerous springs and much game, we lived well off the country. Finally, just as the weather turned cold, we came to the westernmost end of what proved to
be the Yellow River, a deep, dark, crooked stream flowing through low coniferous green hills which looked to us like the Aryan home of the fathers.

We made camp in a grove of bamboo trees at the river’s edge. While the men bathed and caught fish, I made inventory. We had lost many men and horses, but thanks to the indestructibility of the camels, we still had most of the consignment of iron as well as sufficient arms to protect ourselves from all but an army. During the week that we remained encamped beside the river, I sent out a dozen messengers. Only one returned—as the prisoner of an army, which proceeded to surround us.

A thousand cavalrymen astride ponies stared at us with the same wonder that we stared at them. Although I was used to Fan Ch’ih’s yellowness, these men were the color of dark honey. Their faces were round, noses flat, slit eyes aslant. They wore thick quilted tunics and curious riding caps. Each appeared to be a part of his short-legged pony. Thus, on a gray day, with the season’s first snow falling, I was introduced to the newly organized cavalry of the duchy of Ch’in, the westernmost of the Cathayan states.

For nearly six months my two Cathayan attendants had been teaching me the rudiments of their complex language; as a result, I was able to communicate with the cavalry commander. Not that there was much for us to talk about. As his prisoners, we were escorted, under guard, to Yang, the capital of Ch’in.

I don’t remember much about the journey, except that I was surprised that the cavalry commander had never heard of Persia. I also remember that when I told him that the shipment of iron was destined for Lu, he laughed and spat upon the ground, thus demonstrating Chin’s disdain for Lu.

I had imagined that the cities of the yellow people would be rather like those of the Gangetic plain. Instead, I was startled to find that the people of Yang were silent, even grim; and dressed alike in long gray tunics. The streets of the city reminded me of an army camp. All behavior is carefully regulated. Men are obliged to walk down one side of the street, while lower-class women must walk down the other. Upper-class women are properly sequestered. Even the central market-place is eerily quiet, thanks to a horde of inspectors who constantly check the weights of the sellers, the coinage of the buyers. Those who break any of the numerous laws are either killed or mutilated. What looked like half the population lacked an ear or a nose or a hand. I saw no one smile in public, including the troops who are everywhere.

During my first days in Ch’in I wondered whether or not Fan Ch’ih had deliberately misled me: this was not the Cathay he had described. Later I was to discover that Ch’in is not only unlike the rest of the Middle Kingdom, it resembles no other place in the world with the possible exception of Sparta.

My caravan attendants were confined to an empty warehouse just inside the wall of the city. I myself was escorted, more or less respectfully, to a low wooden building at the center of the city where I was—rather less than more—respectfully locked in a small cell.

I have never felt so entirely desolate. Although I could make myself understood in the language, no one would speak to me. Silent men brought me food. They tried not to look at me because when they did, they were plainly alarmed by what they saw. Blue eyes disturb Cathayans. Fair skin disgusts them. Fortunately, my hair was not red or I would have been immediately sacrificed to one of the so-called star gods.

I was not ill-treated. I was simply not treated at all. Once a day I was fed, either rice or a sort of meat soup. But when I tried to talk to the servants they seemed not to hear me. For a time I thought they were deaf-mutes.

Eventually, I was sent for not by the duke of Ch’in, to whom I was accredited, but by the chief of the council of ministers, a polite old creature who looked somewhat like the Cathay man that I had met in Shirik’s office at Babylon. The prime minister was called Huan something. I have forgotten his second name. But then, I was never able to sort out Cathayan names. Each man of quality has a public name, a private name, a secret name, an attribute name, all in addition to his various titles. Also, each dresses according to rank. Some wear fox fur; others wear lamb’s wool; others red silk. Each man of rank wears a girdle or belt from which hangs various jeweled ornaments denoting rank, family, country. It is quite a good system. Since one can always tell at a glance a stranger’s rank, one knows just how to treat him.

Huan’s audience chamber was like the inside of a beautifully polished wooden box. Most of the state buildings in Cathay are of wood while the houses of the poor are of mud brick with reed roofs. Only fortresses are made of stone; and very crude they are. All buildings are constructed according to the four cardinal points, north, south, east, west. Each of those points has its own characteristics: sleep with your head to the north and you will die, and so on.

Although I had not known it at the time, I had been confined in the prime minister’s house. As the principal officer of state under Duke P’ing, Huan presided over a council of six ministers, each from one of the six noble families who control Ch’in. Apparently Duke P’ing was addicted to a powerful drink made from fermented millet. As a result, he had spent most of his reign in seclusion at his palace, surrounded by concubines and drinking cronies. Once a year he would appear at his family’s ancestral temple and make sacrifice to heaven; otherwise, he might just as well have been one of those ancestors for all the influence that he exerted on the administration of the state.

Needless to say, I knew none of this at my first meeting with the prime minister, who greeted me with what I took to be the most exquisite Cathayan courtesy. Actually, he was treating me like an expensive slave.

Huan gestured for me to squat opposite him. Although I was to become fluent in the Cathayan language, I never ceased to be confused by it. For one thing, the verbs have no tenses. You never know if something has already happened, is happening, will happen; for another, since nouns are neither singular nor plural, you can never be certain just how many wagons of silk you will receive for your smelted iron. Yet, to be precise—unlike the language—the people of Cathay are not only excellent businessmen but often honest.

As I proceeded to set forth all the titles of the Great King and described briefly but vividly his power, Huan listened politely. Then he said, “You have come to trade with us, I would assume.” Each time he made a statement he would nod his head as if to make certain that we were in agreement.

“To trade with all the countries of Cathay, yes.”

The head nodded again, but this time the nod meant disagreement; the effect was unnerving. “Yes. Yes. But, again, no. There is only one Cathay. There is only one Middle Kingdom. Whatever divisions there might be within the Middle Kingdom are temporary and unhappy and”—he looked triumphant—“nonexistent.”

“Yes, yes.” I imitated him, even to the nod. “But I know that there is a duke here in Ch’in and a duke in Lu and one in Wei ...”

“True. True. But each duke reigns only at the pleasure of the son of heaven, who alone has the mandate because he alone descends from the Yellow Emperor.”

None of this made the slightest sense to me, but I persevered. “Yes, Lord Huan. We know of this puissant monarch. And the Great King sends him greetings through my unworthy self. But where, may I ask, is he to be found?”

“Where he is. Where else?” Huan’s head bobbed up and down. He seemed unnaturally happy.

“Then I shall go to him. I shall go to where he is.”

“Yes. Yes.” Huan sighed. We stared at each other. In the next few years I was to hear all sorts of variations on the theme of the emperor who is and is not where he is and is not. In actual fact, there has been no true emperor of heaven for three hundred years; although the duke of Chou styles himself emperor, he is scorned by all.

The Cathayans are nearly as vague as the Indians when it comes to the past. But they all agree that a long time ago there was a dynasty of emperors known as Shang. For a number of generations these emperors possessed the mandate of heaven or, as we would call it, the awesome royal glory. But seven or eight hundred years ago the mandate was withdrawn, as sooner or later it always is, and a western tribe of barbarians occupied the Middle Kingdom and established a new dynasty known as Chou.

The first Chou emperor was called Wen. He was succeeded by his son Wu. Two years after Wu received the mandate—that is, after he butchered the last of his Shang opponents—he became seriously ill and not even broth of dragon’s bone could reverse his illness. Finally his younger brother Tan, the duke of Chou, offered himself to heaven in place of his brother. The Cathayan heaven, by the way, differs from the Aryan heaven or any other sort of heaven that I have ever heard of in that it is a shadowy place presided over not by a god or gods but by the dead ancestors, starting with the first man, the so-called Yellow Ancestor or Emperor. Consequently, virtuous Tan did not cry out to a Cathayan equivalent of the Wise Lord; instead he addressed three earlier royal ancestors. It should be noted here that the religion of these people is a very peculiar religion if only because it is practically no religion at all. Although their so-called star gods are not unlike our devils, the worship of these minor deities is peripheral to the welfare of the state which depends upon maintaining harmony between heaven and earth. This is achieved by carefully observing those ceremonies that honor the ancestors.

The three dead kings were so charmed by Tan’s offer to take his brother’s place that they allowed Wu to recover from his illness; best of all, they did not demand Tan’s life in exchange for their benevolence. Tan is a hero to many Cathayans, as is his father, Wen. Since Wu is the epitome of military ruthlessness, he is not always admired. Needless to say, the dukes of Ch’in claim direct descent from Wu, and they deny the legitimacy of the Chou pretender who descends from Wen. The Ch’inese speak constantly of the hegemony, which they regard as rightfully theirs. In this case the hegemony means the overlordship of all the warring states that now make up the Middle Kingdom. Thus far, heaven has so loved the Cathayans that it has denied the dukes of Ch’in the mandate. As I later discovered, the rulers of Ch’in are hated by all Cathayans, including the Ch’inese, whom they oppress. When I say the rulers I don’t mean the dukes. I mean the council of six who govern Ch’in; and of the six I mean Huan, who was certainly one of the most remarkable men that I have ever met, as well as one of the very worst.

I was held captive for six months. My attendants were sold into slavery and the iron ore was confiscated. I managed to save my life by persuading Huan that I alone knew the process whereby iron ore can be smelted. Actually, I had learned a good deal about the making of iron from watching the smelters that I had brought to Magadha. In those days Persia was the most advanced of all nations when it came to smelting iron. The Cathayans were the least advanced. Now, thanks to me, the Ch’inese are competent ironworkers.

I was treated well enough. I often dined with Huan alone. Occasionally I attended him when he paid calls on the other nobles. But I was never presented to the duke.