He was, therefore, grateful for the interruption when, at the hour of the goat (an unheard-of time for an audience) he was summoned to the Governor’s
Nevertheless he waved his written authority under the noses of the guards and ushers and finally heard the great doors close behind him. The sun was halfway down: a shaft from the windows above the door cut across to the rectangular wall facing him, hanging in the air a beam of dancing motes whose end seemed to rest on the patch of brilliant light head-high in the contrasting darkness of the empty wall before him.
Han Im’s remembered voice said: “Turn to your right, walk ten paces and face to the North.” The voice seemed to come from the left, where Ah Lai knew that the Emperor would sit, as Emperors had always sat, their backs to the high lands of the border tribes, their faces to the warmer country of the black-haired people of the hundred surnames.
When Ah Lai had obediently done this, he saw that he was not alone, for beside him, cross-legged on the tiled floor, a Taoist priest sat. The long, coarse pin through his untidy hair, and the shapeless, brown robes of his order seemed in strange, undeliberate contrast with the shining buckles and glinting weapons of the guards, with the tall sacrificial tripods against the Eastern wall, and the four peacock-feather screens which moved, ever so slightly, in front of the throne before him. Only the base of the throne was visible: Ah Lai subconsciously wondered how such a throne had been found here in Cheng-tu, where no Emperor or king had sat since the dim days of the later Han dynasty. The peacock-feather screens seemed to have been brought from some dusty store: they bore no resemblance to the twice seventy-eight which, at Chang-an, drew colours from the air in a shifting spectrum of green and blue.
Nobody spoke. The bearers of the four fans lowered them towards the door. The Emperor was coming. Ah Lai, amused, saw the moving feet below the fans. Then the four fans were lifted and their bearers returned to their places by the two walls. The Emperor sat, revealed, upon his throne. A faint point of light played on the gold nail-covers of his left hand. The rest, seen through the sunbeam across the hall, was dark, was magnificence not visible. The Emperor spoke, broodingly.
“We have published an edict, recognising the poverty of Our virtue, regretting the ills of Our country, admitting that Our choice of officers was not wise, authorising the Heir to the Throne to undertake attacks upon Our enemies, and proclaiming an amnesty for prisoners. Our sorrow is great.”
Again there was silence: the motes danced, unheeding, in the sunbeam.
Han Im, near the throne, suddenly remembered his duty and intoned: “The Emperor has spoken.”
Then the priest, still sitting cross-legged, said: “To state the truth, when the truth is plain, is riot enough. To favour the Way of Tao, to transcribe in a new edition the works of our Master and to publish a commentary on the Classic of Filial Piety, are not enough. To seek for the Elixir of Life is not enough, though you have done all these things. It is the heart which matters.”
Ah Lai felt that he was more a spectator than ever in his life. Two thoughts strove for mastery in the darkened hall: he watched their strife.
The Emperor went on: “It is easy to silence for ever voices such as that.”
The priest replied: “The voice may be silenced, but the truth remains.”
Suddenly, horribly, laughter came from the Emperor. He cried in a loud voice: “We simulate here all. Our old ceremony, and a priest sits cross-legged, listening without being impressed. Should We be happier, were We that priest?” Again he laughed. “We do not dare, because We dare not understand. We do not understand, because We dare not dare.”
Han Im said: “Sorrow rides your Majesty hard.”
The Emperor replied: “It is not sorrow. It is frustration. Here We must plan, and issue edicts and send messengers. There, outside this hall, the people of the hundred surnames suffer. Of what avail is it to them that We should hold Our throne?”
The priest said: “You trust no one.”
The Bright Emperor answered: “We trust no one. Whom should We trust?”
Han Im reminded him: “Sire, there is the matter of the safety of the city of Sui-yang. Your Majesty was considering it.”
Irritably, the Emperor said: “Well? Must I sorrow and plan together?”
Then the priest rose to his feet. He appeared tall in the gloom. He said: “To put ‘I’ for ‘We’ is a beginning. Whom did you wish to send to Sui-yang?”