Creation (70 page)

Democritus twits me. He has just asked me about those Persian adventurers who have overthrown Great Kings to whom they had sworn allegiance. This is not exactly comparable. True, we have had our share of usurpers. But I can think of no case where a disgruntled Persian of rank ever joined a foreign army in order to invade his native land.

I was treated as a guest of the Chi family; and given the title honored guest. I was also received at the ducal court. Even though Duke Ai exercised no power, Baron K’ang not only deferred to him ceremonially but consulted him when it came to matters of state. Although there is no recorded instance of the baron ever having taken the advice of the duke, their relations were superficially smooth.

When the victorious Chi family army returned to the capital, I attended a reception for the heroes in the Long Treasury, a building just opposite the ducal palace. As part of the prime minister’s entourage, I wore for the first time the court apron—a curious garment of silk that sweeps in a semicircle below a wide leather belt to which are affixed one’s various badges of rank in gold, silver, ivory and jade. Needless to say, my belt was plain except for a small knob of silver, which identified me as honored guest.

About fifty of us followed Baron K’ang into the main hall of the Long Treasury. Previously this building had been the stronghold not only of the treasury but of the dukes. When Duke Chao tried to regain his rightful powers, he took refuge in the Long Treasury. But the troops of the three families overwhelmed his guards and set fire to the building. Chao escaped the fire; the building did not. There was a good deal of debate whether or not to rebuild this symbol of ducal power. Baron K’ang finally gave permission, and the year before my arrival in Lu, the Long Treasury had once again risen from the ashes.

To the north of the room stood Duke Ai. He was a lean, well-favored man, with the legs of the dedicated huntsman; that is, the sort of legs which obligingly bend themselves in order to fit snugly the sides of a horse. He wore a startling robe of blue and gold, a garment that had once belonged to the legendary Tan.

The Meng and Shu families were already in attendance, as well as the ducal family and retainers. Amongst them I saw the glowering duke of Sheh. At least he glowered when he saw me.

Baron K’ang bowed to the duke; wished him long life; complimented him on
his
victory against Key. Then the baron presented Jan Ch’iu to the duke, who responded with an address that was so celestial and archaic that I understood very little of it.

As Duke Ai spoke I examined the long high room, an exact replica of the one that had been burned. A tall, rather crude statue of Duke Tan stood opposite Ai; otherwise, there were no furnishings except for the courtiers. In their brilliant robes they made a charming spectacle, and the room looked more like a garden in spring than a gathering of grimly ambitious men.

After the address from the north, there was music. And a ritual dance. And a good deal of millet wine, which everyone drank too much of. At a certain point the duke slipped away—a sad sign of power lost: universal protocol requires that no one may leave a room before the ruler. But Baron K’ang, not Duke Ai ruled at Lu.

Once the duke was gone, people began to move about. There was much bowing, cringing, trotting. I always found Cathayan protocol both ludicrous and nerve-wracking. On the other hand, Fan Ch’ih was not impressed by the way we order such things at Babylon.

Finally, as I knew he would, the duke of Sheh found me. He had drunk too much. “If I live to be ten thousand years ...”

“I pray that such is the case,” I said quickly, bowing and cringing as if he were a real duke.

“I hope never again to encounter such ingratitude.”

“I was helpless, Lord Duke. I was taken captive.”

“Captive.” He pointed at the silver knob on my belt. “Honored guest! You ... whom I saved from certain death ... are a slave.
My
slave. Paid for by me. Fed by me. Treated as something human by me. Now you have betrayed your benefactor, your savior!”

“Never! My gratitude to you is eternal. But Baron K’ang—”

“—has been put under some sort of spell. I can recognize the signs. Well, I’ve warned my nephew the duke. He’s keeping an eye on you. One false step and ...”

Where that false step might have taken me I shall never know because Fan Ch’ih came between us. “Dear friend,” he said to me. “Lord Duke,” he said to my former master.

“All honor for this day,” the duke muttered to Fan Ch’ih and walked away. I never saw him again. Yet I had been sincere when I said that I would always be grateful to him for having saved me from the wolfmen of Ch’in.

Fan Ch’ih wanted to know in detail everything that had happened to me. I did my best to tell him. He kept shaking his head and murmuring, “It is not seemly, not seemly,” as I recounted my numerous vicissitudes in the Middle Kingdom. When I had run out of breath, he said, “You saw to it that I got back here. I shall see to it that you go to Persia. That is a promise.”

“Baron K’ang has also promised to help me, thanks to you.”

Fan Ch’ih looked grave, an expression one seldom saw on that merry face. “It won’t be easy, of course. Not right now.”

“I thought I might find a ship that was going to Champa and—”

“There aren’t many ships that set out for Champa. And the few that do seldom arrive. Those that do arrive ... well, they arrive without passengers.”

“Pirate ships?”

Fan Ch’ih nodded. “You’d be robbed and thrown overboard the first night out. No. You’ll have to go on your own ship or a government ship with a cargo. Unfortunately, the state is without money.” Fan Ch’ih spread the fingers of both hands palm upward; then he turned his hands over, the Cathayan gesture for emptiness, nothingness, poverty. “First, Yang Huo stole most of the treasury. Then, there was the cost of rebuilding this.” He indicated the long room in which the flowerlike courtiers had begun to go, as it were, to seed. “Then there were the various troubles, and now, finally, this war with Key, which we did manage
not
to lose.” Cathayans delight in understatement; revel in the cryptic aside.

“You won a marvelous victory. You’ve added new territory to Lu.”

“But what we’ve gained is not equal to what we’ve spent. Baron K’ang will have to impose new taxes. That means you’ll have to wait until we have the money to send you back. Next year, perhaps.”

I did my best to look pleased. Actually, I was desolate. I had already been gone from Persia for nearly five years.

“For selfish reasons, I’m delighted you’re here.” Fan Ch’ih smiled; his face resembled the autumn moon. “Now I can pay you back for all that you did for me at Babylon.”

I said that I had done nothing, and so on. Then I asked, “Is there a banking firm like Egibi and sons in Lu?”

“No. But we have all sorts of merchants, shippers, sea captains, greedy men.”

Somehow or other, during this conversation, the name of Confucius was mentioned. I cannot remember in what context. But I do recall how Fan Ch’ih’s eyes suddenly gleamed with pleasure. “You remember all the stories that I told you about Master K’ung?”

“Oh, yes. Yes! How could I forget?” My enthusiasm was not feigned. I had a task to perform.

Fan Ch’ih took my arm and led me through the crowd of courtiers. Although their manners were as precise and exquisite as ever, their voices were now a bit too loud. It was all reminiscent of the Persian court, with one exception: the Cathayan ruler—or, in this case, rulers—leaves at the first sign of drunkenness, while the Great King stays to the end. Because of this ancient Persian custom, Herodotus now tells us that it is only while drunk that the Great King devises policy. Actually, the reverse is true. Every word that is said at a royal drinking party is recorded by a scribe, and any order that the sovereign gives while drunk is carefully scrutinized in the neutral light of the next day. Should the decision be less than coherent, it is quietly forgotten.

I followed Fan Ch’ih through the crowded hall. I noticed Baron K’ang slipping out a side door. He had taken the victory of his troops with the same equanimity that he took everything else. In many ways he was a model ruler. I shall always admire him, strange though I found him—and his world.

Beneath the somewhat ominous statue of Duke Tan stood Jan Ch’iu, surrounded by a dozen well-wishers. A quick glance told me that all were of the knightly class, including the general himself. Fan Ch’ih presented me to his commander. We exchanged the usual formalities. Then, most decorously, Fan Ch’ih turned me in the direction of a tall, thin old man with a pale face, large ears, bulbous forehead, scanty beard, and a mouth more suited for the dietary requirements of a grass-eating hare than a meat-eating man. The two front teeth were so long that even when the mouth was shut, the yellow tips could be seen shyly resting on the lower lip.

“Master K’ung, allow me to present my friend from Persia, the son-in-law of two kings, the—”

“—the honored guest,” said Confucius precisely: he had looked at my belt; seen the meager symbol of my entirely ambiguous rank.

“Premier Knight,” I replied. I was now a competent belt-reader. We exchanged the usual formalities. Although Confucius was meticulously correct in the way he spoke, he gave an impression of absolute straightforwardness. One has to know the Cathayan language to realize just how difficult this is.

I was then presented to a half-dozen of the master’s disciples. They had shared his exile. Now they were home again. They all looked very pleased with themselves, particularly a bent little old man who proved to be Confucius’ son, yet looked his father’s age. I cannot remember anything else of consequence that was said. The conversation was entirely about Jan Ch’iu’s victory, which he modestly ascribed to Confucius’ teachings. I think he was actually serious.

Some days later Fan Ch’ih took me to the master’s house, a nondescript building close to the rain altars. Since Confucius’ wife was long since dead, he was looked after by a widowed daughter.

In the mornings, Confucius would talk to anyone who came to see him. As a result, in no time at all, the inner court of the house became so full of young and not-so-young men that the master was often obliged to take the whole lot of them into the mulberry grove near the rain altars.

In the afternoons, Confucius received his friends or disciples. The two were the same because he was never not the teacher and the friends were never not disciples. Questions were constantly put to him about politics and religion, good and evil, life and death, music and ritual. He usually answered a question with a quotation, often from Duke Tan. Then, if pressed sufficiently, he would adapt the quotation to the question at hand.

I remember vividly my first visit to his house. I stood at the back of the inner courtyard. Between the sage and me a hundred students squatted on the ground. As I have already said, Confucius took little or no money from these young men. But presents were acceptable if they were modest. He liked to say, “No one who wants instruction from me has ever been denied it, no matter how poor he is—even if all he can bring is some dried meat.” But there was a corollary to this. He did not waste his time on the stupid. “I only teach someone who’s bubbling with eagerness, with excitement, who wants to know what I know.” He called both students and disciples “little ones,” as if they were children.

Since I had only the vaguest knowledge of the texts that Confucius quoted, I was not exactly an ideal, bubbling, excited student. Yet when the master spoke in his slow, rather high voice, I found myself listening carefully, even though I only half understood what he was quoting. But when he chose to interpret an ancient text, he was as clear as the waters of the Choaspes River.

I remember one question that he was asked by a definitely bubbling and overexcited youth: “If our Lord Duke should ask Master K’ung to serve in his government, what would Master K’ung do?”

Fan Ch’ih whispered in my ear, “This may be a clue.”

Confucius looked at the youth for a moment. Then he quoted some old maxim. “ ‘When wanted, then go; when set aside, then hide.’ ”

Fan Ch’ih was delighted at this elegant evasion. I was not much impressed. Everyone knew that Confucius had spent his life trying to find a ruler who would, at best, let him govern the state; at worst, listen carefully to his advice. Even at seventy, the old man’s ambition to rule was as strong as ever.

“Would you interpret that quotation, Master?” The young man was nervous. I wondered if Baron K’ang had told him to ask the question. “It is believed by many that you have been sent for in order to guide the state.”

Confucius smiled; he had most of his teeth. “Little one, I know you think that there is something that I’m keeping from you, some secret or other. Believe me, I have no secrets. If I did, I would not be me.”

“Excellent,” whispered Fan Ch’ih in my ear.

I remember only one more exchange from that morning. An earnest, dull youth said, “In my village they say that you are known to be very learned, but they wonder why you’ve never actually done anything in the world or made a real name for yourself.”

The other students gasped. Fan Ch’ih stiffened. Confucius laughed. He was genuinely amused. “Your friends are absolutely right. I’ve never really excelled at anything. But it’s never too late, is it? So I shall start practicing. Today. But what? Archery? Chariot-racing? Chariot-racing! Yes, I shall enter the races as soon as I am ready.” Everyone laughed with relief.

That afternoon I again joined Confucius. This time only a dozen of his closest friends were present. He seemed not to mind my presence. I remember thinking that perhaps it was true what he had said about having no secrets. But if there were secrets, it was my task to discover them and report to Baron K’ang.

Confucius sat on a mat in the guest hall. He was flanked by his oldest disciple, Tzu-lu, and by his most beloved disciple, the youthful but sickly Yen Hui. In the background lurked the prematurely aged son; in the foreground was
his
son Tze-ssu. Confucius treated the grandson as if he were the son, and the son as if he were an acquaintance, because the son was a fool. That seems to be a law of families. Whatsoever the father is, the son is not.