Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

‘She’s been summoned by her father in Aksu who is in his final sickness.’

‘How sad.’ He paused, ‘But that’s funny – I know Aksu and there’s no P’eng at that level in the place.’

‘She was sent to live with her rich uncle in Chang An,’ Nicander said quickly. ‘Her father is not of that sort.’

‘Then why does she not travel in some style?’

‘I think she grieves for him and does not wish display.’

‘Hm. Once we’ve cleared Lan Chou the going’s rough for anyone, let alone a high-born. You’d think she’d be advised to take camels and attendants by the dozen. Odd.’

Korkut’s wife was in no doubt, however. ‘Can’t you see? You men are the last to catch on, as always.’

‘What do you mean, Zarina, dear?’

‘It’s obvious. She’s a princess being sent to marry a foreign king. They don’t want to risk that she’s captured in an official legation caravan so they send her in disguise. I’ve seen her face – she’s stricken to leave China for ever, poor lamb.’

She turned to Nicander with a big smile. ‘That’s so, isn’t it? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us – isn’t it, friends?’

The others murmured an agreement.

Lost for words Nicander could only stare back dumbly.

Then their meal arrived. Each was given a bowl and iron spoon, and the food was ladled out. There were appreciative murmurs as they tucked in.

After finishing off with melon, they sat contentedly watching the fire.

A night under the stars was not as bad as Nicander had feared. Marius had taken their padded capes and shown him how only the hips required softer ground for comfort, the head in its warm hood needing to be raised only as much as by a rolled-up day cloak.

It was almost sensual, the feel of the chill night breeze on his face, while the rest of him was snuggled into the strong-smelling oiled felt. He heard the soughing of wind and every snick and scurry of night sounds as though part of it, yet he was tucked up in his warm cocoon.

The next day it rained: a spiteful, blustery downpour that started up soon after they were on the road, and which tested their cloaks and bad-weather gear to the limit.

Cold and dispirited, they journeyed on, the road slippery with running yellow mud, horses snorting with their stumbling efforts.

The rain petered out in the afternoon but the mud persisted. Fortunately that night they arrived at a caravanserai – a roof over their heads, piping hot cabbage soup and an early night.

Under grey skies the next morning they resumed their journey, assured that they would not be troubled by rain once they reached Lan Chou, and in fact the sun did show itself towards the afternoon.

Each day saw them a little further on, the sounds of the caravan now familiar and comforting. Occasionally there were snatches of song, a plaintive flute or a flat nasal instrument that Nicander couldn’t place.

His horse walked on meekly, an occasional shake of its head and muffled whinny its only protest. Behind, their camel dutifully plodded in their wake.

One morning some weeks later, Marius spotted new mountains ahead, others to the left and then, unexpectedly, a wide river.

Swirling yellow-brown with silt, it was fast-moving – the Yellow River once more. Further along was the substantial town of Lan Chou.

The settlement had high, well-defended walls and was a frontier between the fertile plains they had been crossing and the route out into the borderlands. On the way to the caravanserai there were strange peoples with weather-darkened faces, market smells that were pungent but unknown and everywhere a restlessness, a feeling of transience.

They did not stay long. Su got them on the road as soon as he could, swearing that he would lose half his crew if they were any longer in such a town.

Not far upstream they arrived at a crossing point, under vertically fluted crags between two opposite flat areas. There were dozens of rafts manned by scores of small, muscle-hard peasants who jockeyed noisily for position, some joining several craft together to form larger rafts.

The rafts were supported by inflated sheepskins and had to be energetically paddled across against the swift-moving current.

The operation took some time; camels imperturbably standing until their turn came, precious cargoes given particular care and passengers marshalled in apprehensive groups.

Halfway across the river Nicander was fascinated to see figures in the cliff opposite – colossal carved statues ninety feet high. He hoped the Buddhas would look kindly upon their journey…

Their crossing complete, the mountains closed in: to the right a range of undistinguished crags with bands of red-brown, to the left a mighty rearing that had the far-off glitter of white snowcaps.

Slowly but steadily the camel train began an ascent on a stony track through the first pass. They were following a caravan route as ancient as time, out of China and into the trackless deserts and fearful wastes of the interior.

Nicander gazed out on a flatness so vast it was limitless. A deadness – where nothing lived, the eternal grey-brown dust and sand with occasional clumps and tufts of desiccated vegetation stretching out in ever-tinier detail until it dissolved into nothingness at the horizon where the desert met the hard blue sky.

And with it a silence descended that was so profound that his ears filled the void with a soundless screaming.

For weeks – and countless miles – they had travelled in company with a solid, reassuringly visible work of man – the Great Wall of China. The wall came to an end in a tall open structure with upturned eaves above a massive portal, the Jade Gate. The act of passing through this was the formal leaving of the Middle Kingdom, China.

After this point they were entirely on their own.

Near overwhelmed with the sense of desolation and loneliness he trudged back to the safety and familiarity of the caravan in time to farewell Wu Kuo Chin, the young officer, who took his leave with a wooden face.

‘A great honour for him,’ Nicander murmured to Korkut.

‘Ha! He’s going to a living death, and he knows it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s to command a band of criminals, slaves and broken-down misfits sent here for punishment. They have to man those watchtowers and shift for themselves, there’s nobody cares what happens to them. No glory to be won here, only sudden raids by brigands and those bastard Hsien Pei Mongols.’

‘The Great Wall, how long has it been here?’

‘Why, this part… from the time of Western Han. Five, six hundred years.’

Nicander shook his head at the thought that it had been manned continuously for centuries even before Julius Caesar had seized power in old Rome.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Marius, and gave a hail.

His friend waved, his clothes, like Nicander’s own, were now dust-stained and worn. ‘Just heard. We’ve been called up before Su. Wants to talk about what we’re going to face or something.’

It wasn’t a large, formal meeting. The camel-drivers and passage crew were busy at their preparations and knew what was expected but Su was taking no chances with the travellers.

He stood at the centre of a loose circle: Korkut, his lively wife, the monks in a group, others, some thirty in all – and the Ice Queen.

She had compromised her courtly appearance and was now dressed in a plainer robe with less ornately styled hair. Her expression, however, was the same – a patrician stare above the common herd, a controlled blankness.

Su’s bluff features had a serious cast. ‘You’re seeing me because I want you to hear me tell you what’s ahead. To leave you in no doubt what you have to do if it starts getting rough.