Lin was not with the horses, but had given the ostler a message that we were to set off and he would meet us soon enough. I pushed and prodded Alberoni on to the back of his pony, which we chose for him as the one looking the most docile, and the rest of us mounted more easily. The friar jiggled the reins, but could not make his steed start, so I moved my pony alongside his and gave it a kick. With a yell of horror from Alberoni, and a look of annoyance from his mount, the two of them moved away in more or less the right direction. The rest of us followed in his wake, keeping up the encouragement that Alberoni was unable to supply.
FOUR
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Our strange and erratic procession finally came together ten miles west of Khan-balik at the great marble bridge over the river called by some Pulisanghin. It was a big bridge with twenty-four arches and twenty-four piers because the river – that Lin called Hun-Ho – was a very big river that ran all the way to the ocean. The bridge was made of grey marble and ten horsemen could have ridden abreast across it. Our little entourage did not make such demands on it. While Gurbesu and I had ridden fast ahead of the others for the pure joy of it – and in my case to make sure I was well out of the reach of Mongotai – Tadeusz and Alberoni were plodding along at a more sedate pace. We had all arranged to meet up at the bridge, as Lin was to be coming from another direction in his carriage, according to the message sent by the ostler. Gurbesu and I knew we would have a long wait for the others to catch up, so we dismounted and sat in the shade of one of a row of columns along the bridge. Each one was set on the back of a marble turtle and topped by a lion. We sat fondling each other, watching the brown waters surge under the river.
Eventually, we could see the rest of our party arriving and rearranged our clothes. Lin must have encountered the slower riders some miles back, for they were all together now. Lin’s carriage was beautifully upholstered with fine-spoked wheels only marred by the mud they must have picked up from the building site that was Kubilai’s new citadel. Alberoni, uneasy on his docile pony, stared enviously at the ornate carriage. Lin, ignoring the friar’s stare, waved enthusiastically at me as he came closer. Gurbesu and I stood up and walked over to the carriage, leading our ponies by their reins.
Up front sat the driver of Lin’s carriage and his new servant, Po Ku. He was a tall, wiry young lad, whom Lin had personally selected from his own family’s province. Lin’s previous servant – Yao Lei – had been a two-faced traitor who had reported on his master’s activities to his real master, Ko Su-Tsung. Po Ku still had the scent of the farm about him, and was inclined to be clumsy. He had already driven Lin to distraction by breaking a fine bone-china plate that Lin treasured. But Lin bore the burden with stoicism in order to have a servant who, by virtue of his coming from Lin’s home region, he hoped had not infiltrated his household on the orders of his long-time enemy. Lin looked glad to see me again.
‘I have all the paperwork on the case right here.’
He patted at an ominously large heap of documents, some fastened with silk cords that lay on the seat next to him. My heart sank at the size of the pile.
With us all assembled together, Gurbesu and I remounted and, at the pace of Lin’s carriage, we began our long journey south-westward. Though I was all for pressing on, Lin insisted our first stop be a mere thirty miles beyond the bridge at Cho-Chau, where several fine hostelries were available. I think he was feeling the jolting of the carriage and wished to rest his back. Once we had settled in our accommodation, he and I decided to tackle the mountain of paperwork and plan our strategy.
Leaning back on a silk cushion to ease his backache, and picking diffidently at his rice-bowl, Lin began to tell me what he knew.
‘The accused is a girl of twenty, named Jianxu. Her mother-in-law, Madam Gao…’
I quickly interrupted.
‘Mother-in-law? Then this girl is married. Where is her husband?’
‘Dead. He died soon after their marriage apparently, leaving his mother and wife destitute. This was the beginning of their problems. In order to survive, the old lady agreed to marry a trader by the name of Geng Biao. He had a son – Geng Wenbo – who took a shine to the younger girl.’
‘The one found guilty of murder?’
Lin nodded patiently at this next interruption. I knew he liked to lay out the facts neatly and in chronological order, and I was for always irritating him by trying to cut to the chase. I raised both hands by way of an apology and let him continue. We had two weeks of travelling in which to examine the facts. There was no hurry. Though we also had to make a plan to extricate ourselves from the trap that Ko had driven us into. If we were to avoid putting ourselves between a rock and hard place, I would need to devise a strategy and soon.
‘I’m sorry. Go on.’
Lin smiled in that gentle but telling way of his, and continued his narrative. I could see that he was pleased at, once again, schooling the barbarian in the calmer ways of the Chinee. Outside, the sun was setting and the humidity of the day was falling away. A cooling breeze blew in through the open window. Lin carried on in that droning voice of his.
‘Jianxu, apparently, was reluctant to marry again. Maybe she was still mourning her first husband, maybe Wenbo was not much of a catch. The two ladies’ fortunes would, after all, be secured by the marriage of the older lady, her mother-in-law, to Old Geng Biao. There was no need for Jianxu to marry Geng Wenbo also.’
I was about to query Lin on his use of the expression ‘old’ in relation to Geng, but his raised eyebrow indicated to me that he would explain everything in time, and I needn’t interrupt again. I slumped back on to my own cushion and picked a pear off the low table at my side. Biting into it, I sucked up the juice noisily.
‘Old Geng is how he is called in Pianfu – P’ing-Yang-Fu – by his neighbours it seems. It is not a term of endearment, but accurate nevertheless. He is in his seventieth year. Or should I say he was, for he is our victim and therefore dead. Jianxu’s victim, if we are to believe the paperwork.’
He patted the pile of documents on the table then passed me a linen napkin.
‘Wipe your chin, Nick. I know a demon like Zhong Kui need have no manners, but I am determined to teach you some so you can carry them back to the barbarian West when you go.’
I laughed ironically.
‘If I go back. It seems I am not my own master any more, but the slave of Kubilai Khan. It is he who will decide if and when I can return to Venice.’ I was angered by the thought, but I wiped my chin as bidden. ‘But then his and my wishes coincide at the moment. I have no desire to return as yet. I am having too much fun.’
What I said was not entirely true. I yearned every day to return to La Serenissima, and Caterina Dolfin. But I had left under the cloud of an accusation of murder, and my safety, if I did return, was uncertain. I finished the pear, and wiped my lips with the back of my hand. Lin winced at the crudeness of my action, and continued.
‘Anyway, the question of Jianxu’s marriage to Wenbo became irrelevant a few days after the proposal was made. The old man suddenly upped and died. The details are unsavoury, so I shall not go into them now – you can read them for yourself.’ He waved at the pile of documents to indicate that the full gruesomeness of Old Geng’s death was recorded in detail somewhere in the heap. Lin did not like dwelling on the nastier aspects of death.