Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

Then the drums spoke with a soft but insistent beat underlying the music, steadily increasing in power until the dancer sprang to life. She threw out her arms and twirled about, setting off tiny bells on her arms and ankles, beginning a dance of sensuous whirling as the drums deepened and became more demanding in their rhythm.

At each turn she fixed her eyes on a different man who shouted encouragement until the room rang with whoops and calls.

Nicander’s attention was diverted by a sudden movement. ‘Come, My Lady, this is no fit place for a well-born!’

Tai Yi stood, her face tight. Ying Mei hesitated, an unreadable emotion passing across her face, then she rose and left.

The dance tightened, the turns became more abandoned, the drums deafening.

For Nicander the wine was having its effect but he was as much intoxicated with the sensual impact of the exotic scene. This was the reality now – not the desert, not the Imperial Palace, not the domes and columns of Constantinople, now but a faded dream.

The drums built to a furious climax, then without warning the dancer ran to Korkut’s table. With a deft movement at her blouse she thrust her bare breasts to Marius.

There was a roar of appreciation as the legionary huskily acknowledged her. She held her pose, then turned and left.

‘Don’t worry, there’ll be others on,’ chuckled Korkut, his hand busy inside Zarina’s bodice.

More wine came.

In his detached state Nicander saw Marius furtively show Korkut something.

‘An Imperial silver sycee! Where did you get this?’ the merchant demanded loudly.

Seeing Marius scrabble in vain for an explanation, Nicander leant over drunkenly. ‘It’s for doing a magical healing on the Emperor’s daughter,’ he burbled.

‘Yes, that’s right. So can you split it up, like. Coin or whatever?’

‘For you? I think we can do something.’

Nicander acknowledged his friend with a smile. ‘Been wondering when you’d get back.’ It was well into the morning and he’d been able to sleep off the effects of the previous evening enough to take in the day.

Marius grinned, then flopped down on his bed. ‘Hard work – the woman didn’t know a word of any civilised lingo.’

‘You’ve missed the excitement.’

‘Have I now?’

‘The caravan may be delayed.’

‘What a pity.’ The big man stretched lazily.

‘Seems the Tibetans are coming down from the mountains and causing grief between here and Khotan.’

‘How long?’ The eyes were closed, the speech slurred.

‘They’re sending a scouting party ahead to find when we can move out. Long enough, I would have thought, for you to spend all the Emperor’s silver – and half that’s mine, I’ll remind you.’

‘I’ll pass her across at the right time, don’t worry.’

About to give a hot retort, Nicander saw the cheeky grin. ‘Korkut says there’s some famous caves close by. Feel like stretching the legs?’

‘Not now, I’ve got some kip to catch up on. Have fun.’

Nicander demanded some coins and left him to it.

It was hot so he hired a donkey as the distance to the caves was considerable, the path winding between dunes and craggy passes for a dozen miles or more.

He went in company with five monks headed there on pilgrimage. They chattered in a barbarous dialect, completely incomprehensible to Nicander.

Left to his own thoughts he allowed it not impossible that he and Marius would make it through after all. The caravan was well organised, no doubt Su would be able to pay off the Tibetans to let them pass and then it was the lengthy journey to the mountains. There would bound to be some at that place who could tell them the direction to take next.

At least the Ice Queen was talking to him now. Never had he been completely ignored before like that. It had rankled more than it should have, the way she looked down on him.

The donkey stumbled, interrupting his musings and he saw that they had come to a winding valley with a flat floor. A shallow river meandered through and around a bend there was a little village, dominated by the pagoda of a monastery. The party drew closer; above the nestling trees there was a bluff stretching away and in its vertical face were regular square holes that must be the caves. At least a couple of dozen.

The monks disappeared into the monastery. Nicander found the path up to the cliff face. Stepped walkways projected out that led to the caves and he made his way along one.

In the first cave a scraggy, shaven-headed monk looked up and smiled. He was at work with a brush and a pot of pigment and stood back for Nicander to admire it.

It was a busy painting, full of detail. A Buddha with colourful haloes sat cross-legged, and flying above him were heavenly beings trailing swirling ribbons. Not angels as Nicander knew them, but much more full of life, so different to the static piety of Christian works.

On other walls were contrasting scenes of the Buddha’s life, which meant nothing to him but which held the same vitality.

He murmured some words of praise but the monk shook his head in incomprehension then returned to his work.

The next cave along was more spacious, with several separate chambers. Sunlight flooded the outer one but the inner room was in deep gloom, relieved by just a single lamp. There was no painter at work here, only a solitary figure sitting cross-legged in the centre, motionless.

The atmosphere was stark and mystical and something reached out to Nicander. He moved closer to one of the murals. The figures came to life in the flickering illumination of the lamp. The central Buddha was posed on a lotus blossom, a look of utter serenity on his face, hands raised in a blessing. Around him were maidens in flowing gowns, mythical beasts and leaping and flying ferocious demons and warrior gods that seemed to come out from the wall at Nicander personally.

A movement behind startled him. It was the man he’d seen when he entered.

Was he a monk? His face was in shadow but he had a full beard and thickset build.

The man growled some words at Nicander that he couldn’t understand. Shaking his head he said in Chinese, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, lao na.’

The man came out of the shadows and replied in Chinese, ‘I said, what does this hold for you?’

‘Why, it’s very well done.’

Nicander edged toward the doorway to the outer chamber, disturbed by the man’s aura. Pretending to admire the other frescos he emerged into the light. The man followed and stood watching him. Nicander glanced at him, meeting fierce blue eyes.

‘This one – I rather like the chorus of-’

‘They worship the bodhisattva.’ The voice was deep, commanding.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘You have no knowledge, no understanding of these mysteries?’

He moved closer, inspecting Nicander keenly. ‘You’re an outlander as I’ve never encountered before – and I’ve travelled to the edge of the world where the four winds do spring, and never have I met those who do not fear and respect these teachings.’

Nicander returned his gaze. ‘And I’d say you’re not a son of Han yourself.’

‘You interest me, barbarian. Where did you first draw breath? What do you here, that so few set eyes on these wonders?’

‘I’m – I’m a holy man from a far southern kingdom. I seek truths.’

‘The south, is it!’ the man whispered, then declaimed,

‘O Soul, go not to the South

Where mile on mile the earth is burnt away

And poisonous serpents slither through the flames;

Where on precipitous paths or in deep woods

Tigers and leopards prowl,

And water-scorpions wait;

Where the king-python rears his giant head.