Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

‘On the road the cameleers will take care of him for you – but don’t let ’em treat him rough, he’ll never forget. And if ever it comes on to a sandstorm-’

The booming of a large gong sounded making conversation impossible. The boy shouted, ‘You’re leaving!’ and scurried away in a general movement to one side of all who did not belong to the caravan.

The noise became deafening with boisterous farewells, restless snarls of nervous camels and orders being shouted up and down the long snaking line.

And there was the Ice Queen, exchanging last words with her uncle. Nicander watched cynically as she finished, putting her hands together in a courtly bow. She straightened, turned quickly and went to her carriage without once looking back. She got in, followed by Tai Yi, and in one swift movement drew the curtains on the outside world.

Heartless bitch!

The little carriage was small and stuffy, worse when the veils were drawn.

Tears squeezed out until Ying Mei’s face, expressionless and rigid, dissolved into a rictus of grief and heartbreak. She surrendered to her emotion, weeping helplessly.

Tai Yi reached for her, held her close, whispering the same endearments she had so long ago when she had comforted a small child on the loss of her friend to banishment.

But then Ying Mei fought back – she was her father’s daughter and would never, ever, shame him. How could she? Such a wise, wonderful, perfect man… who she would not see ever again. It brought on terrible sobs welling up from her deepest being, a flood of pain and desolation that threatened her sanity.

The never-ending din outside beat in on her – but at the same time it gave her a focus. They might well have to face the world before they left and to be caught like this…

She brutally clamped a hold on herself, forced her body into a dignified position and managed a wan smile at Tai Yi.

Her father desired it, therefore there was no recourse to argument or self-pity. She was going to the far lands and that was an end to it.

After all, as she’d told her uncle, there were Chinese princesses who had gone this way before on their way to permanent exile, to be married for political reasons to some barbarian king. They must have gone through this agony but had nevertheless nobly complied for the sake of their country. At least she was not being dispatched to marry a horse-stinking nomad or mountain dwarf.

It made her feel better – but then again they knew where they were going, what their fate was – she didn’t. Would this far country be a terrifying place of witches and goblins, barbarous civilisations who despised the delicacy of Chinese thought and manners? Would the men…

She crushed the thoughts.

Whatever lay in the future she would face it as the daughter of a Kuo. And, she clutched close to her heart, she was a lady, high-born and with an impeccable education and would never let her standards slip whatever the situation. If she was confronted by barbarians then they would see her quality and respect her nobility…

Certainly she would maintain her distance from the holy men, uncouth and rough-tongued as they were, more or less barbarians themselves. Her father had shrewdly set limits on their familiarity: ‘wise direction’ she would only accept as a last resort and that properly, through her Gold Lily Lady-in-Waiting. They held the chest and means to pay their way through as well as the authority to draw upon her uncle’s account, quite sufficient to keep the holy men humble and supplicants for the length of the journey.

The passage would be long; she and Tai Yi would be in their company all that time and it would be essential to maintain a countenance.

From outside came a sudden massed tinkling of small cymbals and the acrid drift of incense sticks. The drone of chanting began from the Buddhists claiming protection for their journey. This was followed by the hearty thumping of drums and loud gongs calculated to keep the Taoist demons at bay.

They would be leaving very soon.

Deep within her, Ying Mei’s heart began to cry out in its desolation.

The order came down the line. ‘Mount up!’

Nicander swung up on to his horse. The saddle was not a supple leather one but a felted wooden frame, with a high crudely carved lion for its horn. What was so strange were the two foot supports dangling each side. He noticed others had put their feet in the iron loops and he did the same. It felt odd but remarkably steadying.

The crowds were thickening but kept at bay. Much of Chang An had come to see one of their famed caravans set out on their legendary journeys and he was one of the intrepid travellers! His excitement grew.

Marius, trying to control his horse which was gyrating and snorting at the noise, managed a quick grin.

Ahead there was definite movement, heads turning, gesturing. From over to the right people fell back quickly – and the head of a column of soldiers swung into view.

Nicander’s first instinct was terror – then it was replaced by anger that they had been so easily trapped.

Run? Hide? By now the caravanserai would be well and truly surrounded.

Dully he watched the soldiers tramp around to head off the line of camels, an officer on a horse accompanying them.

They reached the front of the line, then the tall gates of the western wall of the city opened up and the soldiers marched through.

‘It’s our bloody escort!’ Marius gasped in relief.

With a surge of shouting and cries and a tinkle and jingling of harness the front of the caravan set off through the gates.

The ripple of movement reached back to them, and in a haze of unbelief he felt the horse jolt into motion to follow the next ahead. A slight twitch at his saddle showed that their camel was beginning its plod behind them. The whole caravan was under way.

The wall neared, then the open gates – and they were through, in the outside world and on the road heading out.

In a line that stretched for over a mile the caravan wound down the dusty road, past the mean dwellings outside the gates of the town. Excited cries came from the local people.

Another drone of chanting accompanied by horns and cymbals arose from the Buddhist monks. Not to be outdone the soldiers marching in the van began a full-throated song and then the women and girls of the caravan started a spirited chorus with tambourines and drums.

The onlookers applauded, enraptured by the sight of a fabled caravan setting out for the vast unknown. Hundreds of camels mounted or led by as colourful and outlandish a mixture of races and dress as it was possible to be, all in gleeful celebration of their departing.

It stirred Nicander’s soul – these people would be going about their ordinary lives again once they had watched them disappear toward the far-distant mountains, but they were destined to go where very few did, to lands and wonders, adventures and perils that would only tempt disbelief – if they got through.

His eyes travelled to the far-off leaders, to the escort, with the easy swing of soldiers long inured to the march. They were followed by a single file of plodding camels piled high with goods, then a string of horses, more camels and then themselves, the travellers, perhaps no more than thirty.

He swung round; close behind was their faithful camel.

A shaggy merchant on a horse followed, his effortless sway showing an easy familiarity. Catching Nicander’s eyes the man launched into a raucous chorus of his own. Marius, beside him, suddenly bellowed out a legionary marching song: a relic of long ago, Rome defiantly rising up in the vastness of Sinae.

Picking up the rear trotted the squadron of cavalry, for the occasion fully mailed and with gaudy pennons a-fly. These were following behind to keep watch on the whole line such that if any point was threatened they could gallop up to be on the scene without delay.