Authors: Robert Lyndon
When the envoys’ letters had been read out and their gifts laid on a yellow table, the chamberlain beckoned Vallon forward.
‘The emperor has graciously consented to receive you. Please observe the protocol.’
Vallon glanced round at his men. ‘You know what to do.’
In a move practised many times the Outlanders performed the kow tow, at the same time chanting the
Kyrie eleison
and ending by raising their eyes to heaven and crossing themselves.
Sharp intakes of breath from the court swelled into murmurs of indignation. The barbarians had insulted the emperor. The chamberlain stamped his feet in front of Vallon.
‘You broke your word.’
‘On the contrary. Since your emperor rules by the Mandate of Heaven, you can’t object if we address prayers to the Almighty who blesses both our realms.’
The hall grew still. Vapours from bowls of incense wafted up. A tiny gesture from Shenzong made the chamberlain gasp in relief. ‘The emperor has decided to overlook your crass behaviour on the grounds that you are not yet familiar with palace customs.’
Shenzong examined portraits of Alexius and the Byzantine empress. A flicker of amusement showed on his face.
‘His Imperial Majesty says your ruler is very hairy.’
‘In Byzantium a heavy beard is considered a mark of strength and virility.’
Tut-tuts of disapproval indicated that this might be taken as a slur on Shenzong’s masculinity.
‘His Imperial Majesty asks by what mandate does your emperor rule?’
‘By right of unbroken descent from the Caesars, by affirmation of his nobles and citizens, and by the grace of Almighty God who has appointed him His representative on earth.’
A few more questions followed concerning the route Vallon had taken and then the chamberlain said, ‘His Imperial Majesty is glad that your sovereign extends his friendship. He hopes that your stay will be a pleasant one and wishes you a safe return to your homeland.’
Vallon looked at Shenzong. The emperor’s face had lapsed into abstraction. ‘Is that it?’
‘The audience is concluded,’ the chamberlain said.
After backing out of the throne room, Vallon gave a hollow laugh. ‘We cross the world and for what? A few moments grovelling before a man who looks bored out of his wits.’
‘It’s an assumed manner,’ Hero said. ‘I imagine it never changes in public. The Chinese call him “the solitary man” and I understand why. He must be the loneliest man on earth.’
An official bustled up. ‘The chief minister wishes to have a word.’
Attended by a flock of officials, a rather unkempt gentleman in his sixties approached.
‘That’s Wang Anshi,’ Hero said. ‘The emperor’s closest advisor.’
Vallon made a cautious bow. Wang Anshi bowed back. His drooping eyelids and the bags under his eyes gave him a careworn look. At the same time his face projected intelligence and good humour. He waved his attendants out of earshot.
‘Your Grace,’ he said. ‘I would like to hear more about your country and the reasons for your mission. I would take it as an honour if you consented to receive me at your residence tomorrow.’
‘My lodgings, though opulent for an ambassador, are far too humble to entertain a personage as distinguished as yourself.’
‘My tastes and habits are simpler than you might imagine.’
Hero murmured in French. ‘He wants to speak in private, away from eager ears and prying eyes.’
Vallon bowed. ‘I suspect I will make a clumsy host, but if you are prepared to overlook my foreign ways, I will be delighted to receive you.’
‘How kind you are,’ Wang said. ‘I’ll call at the tenth hour if that isn’t inconvenient.’ Bowing, he returned to his staff.
‘That’s it,’ Hero squeaked.
‘That’s what?’
‘Don’t you see? The emperor is far too exalted to engage in diplomatic chit-chat. He leaves that to his ministers, none of whom is more senior than Wang Anshi. Tomorrow we’ll get down to matters of substance.’
Qiuylue bubbled with excitement when Vallon returned. She made him describe the audience a dozen times, each time from a different perspective. Her delight when he told her that the chief minister would be gracing their residence tumbled into shock and anxiety. Vallon only just managed to stop her rushing out to organise his reception.
‘Leave that to the servants. Tell me what you know about the minister.’
As the concubine of a senior officer she’d had many dealings with palace officials whose tongues had loosened after cups of wine. What she had to say about the minister worried and encouraged Vallon in equal measure. Wang Anshi was an enigma – a man born of low-ranking officials who’d risen to the highest office through the brilliance of his intellect. A Confucist who respected tradition, he was also a root-and-branch reformer. His attempts to overhaul the tax system, reorganise the military and create a bureaucracy based on merit had provoked furious opposition from conservative landlords whose interests he challenged, as well as intellectuals who on Confucian grounds preferred moral leadership to direct interference by a centralised government. Six years before, he’d been ousted from office, only to be reinstated two years later. He found solace from affairs of state in writing poetry.
The minister arrived at the appointed time with a modest retinue, bearers carrying his palanquin through an honour guard headed by Vallon. The general offered the minister his arm and together they went into the house. Wang Anshi subsided with a sigh onto a cushioned daybed. He dismissed all his attendants except a young clerk and a massive bodyguard who took up position in the doorway.
‘Will you take chai, Your Excellency?’
‘I drink only watered wine I prepare myself. I have to take precautions against poisoning.’
After a few pleasantries, Wang got down to business, beginning by explaining China’s situation. ‘Our greatest external threat comes from the Khitans. We have a standing army of more than a million, yet we pay the Liao empire an annual tribute of two hundred thousand bolts of silk and one hundred thousand ounces of silver.’ The minister smiled. ‘I believe a Khitan lady has infiltrated your own defences.’
Vallon blushed for the first time in decades.
‘Our army is composed mainly of foreign mercenaries, criminals and peasants forced off their land by extortionate taxes. I understand it’s the same in Byzantium. Does your military strategy work?’
‘It succeeds for the moment. Like China, Byzantium prefers to use bribes or diplomacy rather than warfare. It was different a century ago, when the empire was organised into
themes
– provinces governed by generals and defended by soldiers paid not in cash but by land grants. A soldier with his own patch of land will fight to the death to preserve it.’
‘I tried to introduce a similar system of local militia. I failed.’
They talked until noon before Wang stood. ‘It seems that China and Byzantium have many things in common – a costly army, an inefficient and iniquitous tax system, and a bureaucracy staffed largely by aristocrats selected regardless of character and merit.’
Vallon put the all-important question. ‘In your discussions with His Majesty, will you recommend that he draw up a formal alliance between our two empires?’
‘An alliance based on mutual weakness will assist neither side. Besides, China and Byzantium lie too far apart, separated not only by mountains and deserts, but also by at least three aggressive barbarian empires. Fine promises written on paper are worthless if they can’t be matched by deeds.’ Wang noticed Vallon’s disappointment. ‘At the very least you will return home carrying His Imperial Majesty’s formal declaration of friendship. That is,’ Wang said, ‘if you do decide to return home. There will always be a senior position in the Chinese army should you wish to remain in the Middle Kingdom.’
Vallon didn’t reject the suggestion out of hand. ‘Since you touch on the matter, I would very much like to have a first-hand look at Chinese military tactics and weaponry.’
‘I will arrange a field day.’
‘Thank you. I’ve heard stories of a strange weapon deployed by your soldiers – a powerful incendiary called Fire Drug. I’d be most interested to see it in action.’
Wang stood with his hands loosely clasped, rotating his thumbs around each other. There wasn’t much that escaped his sharp mind. ‘I will have to talk to officials in the War Ministry.’
A few days later Vallon and his officers rode out to watch the military stage manoeuvres. First they demonstrated the storming of a castle – a real castle, built for training purposes. A troop of infantry crept up under the cover of portable screens and raked the ramparts with bolts shot from heavy brass and wood crossbows. Then a team of engineers moved into place dragging trebuchets. They were smaller than the catapult Vallon had lugged from Constantinople, and instead of being powered by a counterweight, they were swung by teams of men hauling down on ropes secured to the short end of the throwing arm.
‘They don’t have the range or destructive power of Byzantine ballistae,’ Vallon said. ‘I’m surprised they don’t adopt our method.’
‘Their traction trebuchets are more manoeuvrable,’ Josselin said. ‘And they can discharge three or four missiles in the time it takes us to hurl one.’
The Chinese turned their attention to a wooden tower at one corner of the castle.
‘God curse it,’ Wulfstan said. ‘That’s a fire siphon or I’m a Frenchman.’
He was right. The Chinese pressurised a tank very similar to the one the Outlanders had brought with them and directed a spray of burning fuel onto the tower, reducing it to a blazing wreck.
Vallon applauded. ‘So much for our secret war-winner,’ he said.
In the afternoon they were treated to a display by cavalry units. One demonstration involved heavily armoured horse soldiers galloping down on an infantry position. From a distance the foot soldiers looked as if they were armed with nothing more than poleaxes, their position defended by thin, blunt-headed stakes fixed in the ground at an angle.
‘Those aren’t stakes,’ Vallon said. ‘The infantry are carrying fire-pots. Gentlemen, I think —’
Brazen blasts cut him short. The cavalry launched their charge. Fifty yards from their target, the infantry lit the heads of their staves. They exploded with pops and bangs, discharging invisible missiles that stung the horses into wild disarray.
Vallon rode through the stinking smoke and found the infantry commander. ‘I was sure the cavalry would sweep you aside like chaff,’ he said. He pointed at the smouldering staves. ‘What manner of weapons are those?’
‘Fire spears, your Grace. They shoot lead balls, pebbles and glass.’
Vallon rode back to his men. ‘It’s not a fiction. Fire Drug works.’
‘That was play-acting,’ Josselin said. ‘A quarter of the spears didn’t ignite, another quarter discharged too early or too late, and those cries you can hear tell us that some of the weapons injured their own side.’
Vallon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nevertheless, Fire Drug is worth having.’
‘How will you obtain it?’
Vallon sucked in his cheeks. ‘I don’t know, but I’m damned if I’ll leave China without achieving at least one of our goals.’
For Hero and Aiken, every day in Kaifeng brought new discoveries and delights. Escorted by officials they took in all the sights. They visited the two-hundred-foot-high Iron Pagoda and were only mildly disappointed to discover it was made of brick fired to the colour of metal. They were given a tour of a cast-iron foundry and made an excursion to the Grand Canal where they watched barges being lowered from one level to another by means of double-gated locks. They spent a day studying the mechanism of a thirty-foot-tall cosmic engine that told the time by puppet figures on revolving platforms, and which showed the movements of the heavenly bodies on a rotating globe. Its accuracy could be checked by actual observation of the sun, moon and planets with the aid of an armillary sphere supported by bronze dragons on the top of the tower.
All three instruments were driven by a single water-powered mechanism inside the tower. Hero’s guides allowed him to inspect the workings and even make notes and drawings. A constant-level tank fed water at uniform pressure into thirty-six scoops evenly spaced on the rim of a great escapement wheel. As each scoop filled and dropped down, it tipped a pair of levers that pulled down an upper beam and released a gate, allowing the wheel to move round for the next scoop to be filled. So simple and so ingenious.
The only thing that clouded Hero’s pleasure was his deteriorating eyesight. His right eye saw everything through a fog. Within days of arriving in Kaifeng he’d told the chamberlain about his condition and asked if anyone could cure it. The official sent him to three different hospitals, but at each one the physicians offered little hope, telling him that cataract surgery rarely worked and usually impaired vision even further.
‘They don’t want to take the risk of operating on a foreign guest,’ Aiken said. ‘If the procedure fails, they’ll lose face.’
‘And if I can’t find someone to operate, I’ll lose my sight.’
It wasn’t until some weeks later, at a banquet, that an official suggested Hero consult an oculist who had successfully treated his own eye ailment. The physician was a third-generation immigrant from India, where cataract surgery had been pioneered.
Accompanied by the inevitable escort, Hero and Aiken visited the oculist a few days later. Their bearers carried them into a street crammed with medical practices that offered to cure everything from baldness to impotence, indigestion to infertility.
‘Rapid Recovery Assured’ promised one sign. To Hero the whole place smelt of quackery, so he was reassured when he saw that the oculist’s surgery carried no advertising except for a painting of an eye.
A servant let them into a waiting room. Hero fidgeted on the edge of his seat. ‘Nothing will come of it,’ he told Aiken.
‘Your servant, gentlemen.’
A dark and gentle-looking man had entered the room.
Hero stood. ‘A palace official I met recommended you as a specialist in afflictions of the eye.’
‘You have cataracts,’ the oculist said, making the diagnosis from a distance of seven or eight feet. ‘May I examine you?’
Hero stood rigid with nerves while the oculist peered into his eyes. ‘The occlusion in your left eye is still at an early stage, but the one in your right eye is beginning to harden.’
‘Too advanced to treat, I expect,’ Hero said. He wanted to hear the worst and leave as soon as he could.
‘Obviously the thinner and softer the phlegmatic matter, the greater the chances of success. But it’s not too late to remove the cataract from your right eye.’
‘You mean you can restore my vision?’
‘There’s a good chance I can improve it. I cannot restore perfect sight.’
Hero was reassured that the oculist didn’t claim to be a miracle worker. ‘I ought to tell you that I myself am a physician, though not a specialist in eye ailments.’ He produced his copy of Hunayn ibn Ishaq’s
Ten Treatises of the Eye
. ‘Although the text is in Arabic, it contains many informative drawings.’
The oculist leafed through the pages. ‘The author has a good working knowledge of the eye,’ he said, suggesting that it didn’t quite match his own. He handed the book back. ‘As a physician, you will know what surgical techniques are involved.’
‘I’ve been told about the couching procedure, where the surgeon punctures the eyeball with a curved needle and pushes the opaque matter out of the line of vision.’
The oculist went to a table containing his instruments. ‘This is the type of needle you’re referring to. I no longer use it.’ He picked up a needle with a thicker, more flattened end. ‘It’s designed to penetrate the lens membrane and push the cataract into the vitreous body. I found it gave better and longer-lasting results. However, in many cases neither method corrects the condition, and in some they make it worse.’
‘To the point of blindness?’
‘Yes.’ The oculist put the needle down and returned with a lancet. ‘I prefer to use more extensive surgery. I make an incision in the eyeball about so long,’ he said, holding thumb and forefinger about one-third of an inch apart.
Hero swallowed. ‘You cut the cataract out?’
‘I suck it out. I used to employ an assistant with remarkable lung capacity to perform the task. Sadly he passed away some years ago. Unable to find anyone as good, I devised a machine that would do the job.’ The oculist showed Hero a suction pump with a narrow parchment tube at one end.
Hero and Aiken exchanged squeamish glances.
‘What are the chances of success?’
‘Every case is different. I can show you testimonials from grateful patients. Of course I won’t show you the letters from patients I’ve blinded. All I will say is that I have had more successes than failures.’
Hero linked his hands to stop them shaking. ‘And if I don’t have the operation?’
‘In two or three years, you will lose effective vision in your right eye. A few more years and the world will be just a blur. Let me suggest one possible course. The phlegmata in your left eye is soft and so can be removed more easily. Should you choose surgery, I can operate on that eye first. If my work is successful, we can consider removing the cataract from your right eye.’
Horrid calculations coursed through Hero’s mind. He could still see tolerably well with his left eye. If the operation was unsuccessful, vision would be restricted to his right eye, which could barely decipher writing held to his nose. Since his right eye was already in such a bad state, perhaps it would be better to start with that one. If the operation didn’t succeed… He strained his mouth, casting a desperate appeal at Aiken.
The youth spoke quietly. ‘Only you can make the decision.’
‘You don’t have to decide now,’ the oculist said. ‘Reflect on what I’ve told you. Consult me if you have any further questions. Perhaps you’d care for some chai.’
He led the way into a snug chamber. A bronze statue of Shiva, Hindu god of destruction and renewal, stood on a table next to an inkstone and other writing materials. Examples of calligraphy hung on the wall.
Hero pointed at one. ‘Your own work?’
‘My amateur scribblings are not worthy of your attention. I do them to keep my fingers deft for surgery.’
‘I think they’re wonderful,’ said Aiken. ‘Particularly that one.’
The oculist removed it from the wall. ‘You do me great honour and you will do me even greater honour by accepting my worthless scrawl.’ He sat head bowed, covered in embarrassment.
A young woman entering with the chai things broke the awkward silence. ‘My daughter,’ the oculist said when she’d retired. ‘My wife died last year.’
It did occur to Hero that if the surgeon couldn’t save those closest to him, he might not be the best person to carry out a risky operation. Hero dismissed the unworthy thought, soothed by the fragrant tea and the room’s calm atmosphere. Evening was beginning to dim the light outside the window. A faint breeze carried the smell of rain-damped earth, transporting him back to an early spring day in England. He marvelled at how far he’d travelled and how much he’d seen since then. He’d stored up enough memories to pore over for a lifetime, thousands of images to revisit long after blindness had brought a veil down on the world. He hardly heard the oculist’s words of encouragement and farewell.
‘Take your time deciding. Even if you decide against the operation, please visit me again. I would very much like to hear about the medical techniques you practise in the West.’
‘I’ve reached my decision,’ said Hero. ‘I wish you to perform the operation.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No. I’m acting out of blind faith. Begin with my left eye.’
The oculist took his hands. ‘Tomorrow is an inauspicious day. Return the following morning. Come prepared for a three- or four-day stay. Abstain from solid food tomorrow.’
Rain was pelting the streets into slurry when Hero set off in a covered rickshaw for his operation. He watched porters dashing through the downpour holding makeshift canopies over their heads, and he wondered if they would be among the last sights he saw. His mood had see-sawed between optimism and despair. Now he was mired in a sludge of fatalism.
Aiken squeezed his arm. ‘I know it’s cold comfort, but by the time this storm has passed, your ordeal will be over.’
‘Or just beginning.’
The oculist’s warm welcome raised Hero’s spirits. He regarded with approval the warm, clean and sweetly scented operating room. The rain drummed on the tiled roof.
As the oculist led him to a couch, Hero had just one question. ‘Do you sedate your patients? If you don’t, I have a mixture guaranteed to dull pain. Where such a delicate procedure is involved, it would help if the patient didn’t flinch or toss about.’
The oculist indicated a mortar placed on a table beside a brazier. ‘I try to reduce pain as much as possible. If you wish to apply your own relief, please do so.’
Hero was now lying on the couch, a serious-looking assistant standing behind the oculist.
‘I can’t trust in one of your methods while rejecting another. Let it be done your way.’
‘Lie back and close your eyes,’ the oculist said. ‘Try to empty your mind.’
‘Hold my hand,’ Hero said to Aiken.
‘Breathe deep,’ the oculist said.
Hero inhaled heady vapours, and when the oculist spoke again, his voice reached him from far away.
‘Open your eyes.’
The room swam.
‘Good. As you’ve probably discovered yourself, physicians rarely make good patients. Try to look at your nose and stay quite still.’
A hand clamped over Hero’s forehead. He saw the oculist lean over, the blade bright in his hand. Moments later he heard and felt a snick as the oculist slit his left eyeball.
‘Excellent. You didn’t move a muscle. The success of that first procedure determines the outcome above all others.’
Hero was only dimly aware of what followed. Something was applied to his left eye. The grip on his head tightened. Pain lanced his eye and he jerked.
‘It’s done,’ said the oculist. ‘I judge it a success.’
Hero’s tongue was thick in his mouth, making it hard to speak. ‘In that case, do the other eye.’
‘Are you sure? Don’t you want to wait to determine the outcome?’
‘If the first cut failed, the second won’t remedy it. I’m resigned to a cure or blindness. If the latter, I attach no blame to you.’
Once more the fumes made his head spin. The world dissolved in a spiral that sucked him into a white void. He didn’t feel the second cut.
He woke in darkness, the taste of vomit in his mouth.
‘Aiken?’
‘I’m beside you.’
‘I can’t see.’
Aiken laughed. ‘That’s because your eyes are bandaged.’
‘They hurt.’
‘Of course they do,’ the oculist said. ‘I’ve applied healing poultices. I’ll change them tomorrow. Try not to laugh or sneeze or cough.’
Hero floated in and out of consciousness. In his more lucid states, he was convinced that the operation had been a failure. Aiken remained with him the whole time, reading to him or reminiscing about their journey.
‘What time is it?’ Hero asked.
‘It’s late. Well past midnight.’
‘I wonder how a blind man tells the time. I expect he uses his other senses.’
‘You’re not blind.’
‘I might be.’
‘If you are, I’ll be your eyes.’
‘That’s what Wayland said before leaving us. I wonder where he is now.’
‘Back home, I hope.
‘Dear Aiken, thank you for your kind support. Leave me now and get some sleep.’
‘I’m not tired.’
‘But I am.’
Hero lay awake for the rest of the night and heard the first cock herald dawn and the growing buzz of traffic outside his window. In mid-morning the oculist arrived to remove the bandages.
‘Don’t expect too much,’ he said. ‘The incisions will still be inflamed. It will be another week before we can assess the strength of your vision.’
Light scalded Hero’s eyes when the oculist peeled away the poultices.
‘What do you see?’
‘Shadows swimming in bright fog.’
‘That’s as much as I would expect at this stage. Tomorrow I’m confident we’ll see an improvement.’
Three more times the oculist dressed Hero’s eyes. The last time he removed the poultices, Hero sat up with Aiken’s assistance. Vallon, Lucas and Wulfstan stood at the foot of his bed, their expressions straining between anxiety and desperate expectation.
‘It’s me,’ Vallon said. ‘Can you see me?’
‘I can see you,’ Hero said. ‘I can see all of you as bright as day. Or at least I could if it wasn’t for these tears.’