China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

After passing through the gateway, he and Wong continued due north on a raised causeway for another couple of miles towards the even more impressive four-mile-square enclosure of the Inner City, protected by its perimeter wall with mighty guard towers at each corner.

Dusk was falling as they entered, past bannermen guards in their Manchu hats, jerkins, and boots. The market stalls on each side of the wide road were closing, their signs being taken down. Refuse collectors, a few in wide-brimmed hats, most in skullcaps, were stooping over their shovels and spooning manure into big earthenware pots. A faint smell of dung, seasoned with soy and ginseng, filled the air.

This Inner City was by no means the center of Beijing. For within it, behind the colossal Tiananmen Gate, lay another walled citadel, the Imperial City; and within that, across a moat, hidden from almost all eyes by its purple walls, the golden-roofed Forbidden City, the innermost sanctum, the vast palace and grounds of the celestial emperor himself.

Their path this evening took them to the northeastern quarter of the Inner City, to a quiet street where, in a pleasant house beside a small temple, the scholar Mr. Wen resided. Jiang was tired and looking forward to a rest.

But no sooner had they entered the little courtyard than the old scholar hurried out.

“At last,” he cried. “You must go to the lord Lin. He leaves tomorrow. But he will see you tonight if you go at once. At once.” He thrust a written pass to the Imperial City into Jiang’s hand. “Wong will lead you,” he directed. “He knows the way.”

They entered on foot, not by the great Tiananmen Gate, but by a lesser entrance in the Imperial City’s eastern wall; and they soon came to a handsome government guesthouse with wide, sweeping eaves, where the lord Lin was lodging. And a few minutes later Shi-Rong found himself in a small hall where the lord Lin was seated on a big carved rosewood chair.

—

At first glance, there was nothing so remarkable about him. He might have been any thickset, middle-aged mandarin. His small, pointed beard was greying, his eyes set wide apart. Given his stern reputation, Jiang had expected the High Commissioner’s lips to be thin, but in fact they were rather full.

Yet there was something very dignified about him, a stillness. He might have been the abbot of a monastery.

Jiang bowed.

“I had already chosen a young man to join my staff as secretary.” Lord Lin addressed him quietly, without any introduction. “But then he fell ill. I waited. He grew worse. Meanwhile, I had received a letter about you from Mr. Wen, a scholar whom I trust. I took it as a sign. He told me about you. Some good things, some less good.”

“This humble servant is deeply honored that his teacher Mr. Wen should think of him, High Commissioner, and knew nothing of his letter,” Jiang confessed. “Mr. Wen’s opinion in all matters is just.”

A slight nod signified that this answer satisfied.

“He has also told me that you were traveling to visit your dying father.”

“Confucius tells us, ‘Honor thy father,’ High Commissioner.”

In all the Analects of Confucius, there was no more central theme.

“And thy father’s fathers,” Lin added quietly. “Nor would I hinder you in your duty. But I have called you here on a great matter, and my commission is from the emperor himself.” He paused. “First I must know you better.” He gave Jiang a stern look. “Your name, Shi-Rong, means ‘scholarly honor.’ Your father had high hopes of you. But you failed your exams.”

“This humble servant did.” Jiang hung his head.

“Why? Did you work hard enough?”

“I thought I had. I am ashamed.”

“Your father passed the metropolitan exams at his first attempt. Did you desire to do better than him?”

“No, Excellency. That would be disrespectful. But I felt I had let him down. I wished only to please him.”

“You are his only son?” He looked at Jiang sharply, and when the young man nodded, he remarked: “That is not an easy burden. Did you find the exams frightening?”

“Yes, High Commissioner.”

That was an understatement. The journey to the capital. The line of little cubicles into which each candidate was locked for the entire three-day duration of the exam. It was said that if you died during the process, they wrapped your body and threw it over the city wall.

“Some candidates smuggle papers in with them. They cheat. Did you?”

Jiang started. An instant flash of anger and pride appeared upon his face before he could control it. He immediately bowed his head respectfully before looking up again. “Your servant did not, High Commissioner.”

“Your father had a good career, though a modest one. He did not retire a wealthy man.” Lin paused again, looking at Jiang, who was not sure what to make of it. But remembering Lin’s reputation for rigid correctness in all his dealings, he answered truthfully.

“I believe, Excellency, that my father never took a bribe in all his life.”

“If he had,” the older man replied quietly, “you would not be here.” He gave Jiang another thoughtful look. “We are measured not only by our triumphs, young man, but by our persistence. If we fail, we must try harder. I also failed the metropolitan exams the first time. Did you know that?”

“No, Commissioner.”

“I took them a second time. I failed again. The third time, I passed.” He let that sink in, then continued sternly. “If you become my secretary, you will have to be strong. You will have to work hard. If you fail, you will learn from your mistakes and you will do better. You will never give up. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Commissioner.”

“Mr. Wen tells me that he thinks you will pass next time. But first you should work for me. Do you agree?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Good.” Lin nodded. “Tell me what you know about opium.”

“People who can afford it like to smoke,” Jiang offered. “But if they become addicted, they waste all their money. It makes