The Old Dragon's Head Read online

  Justin Newland was born in Essex, England, three days before the end of 1953. His love of literature began soon after, with swashbuckling sea stories, pirates and tales of adventure. Undeterred by the award of a Doctorate in Mathematics from Imperial College, London, he worked in I.T. and later ran a hotel.

  His taste in literature is eclectic: from literary fiction and fantasy, to science fiction, with a special mention for the magical realists and the existentialists. Along the way, he was wooed by the muses of history, both ancient and modern, and then got happily lost in the labyrinths of mythology, religion and philosophy.

  In 2006, he found his way to the creative keyboard and conceived his debut novel, The Genes of Isis (Matador, 2018), an epic fantasy set under Ancient Egyptian skies.

  The Old Dragon’s Head (Matador, 2018) is his second novel.

  His stories add a touch of the supernatural to history and deal with themes of war, religion, evolution and the human’s place in the universe.

  He lives with his partner in plain sight of the Mendip Hills in Somerset, England.

  The

  Old

  Dragon’s

  Head

  Justin Newland

  Copyright © 2018 Justin Newland

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  ISBN 9781789012828

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Nanjing, China.

  In the Chinese Year of the Goat, 23rd January, 1368.

  I, Zhu Yuanzhang, have expelled the Mongol invader. For too many winters, we have suffered at the hands of the barbarian. I will restore the greatness of China both in Heaven and on earth.

  While my followers exhorted me to grasp the Mandate of Heaven, I dared not do so without a propitious sign.

  Five days ago, on a cold, snowy day, I erected an altar of worship to the Supreme Cosmic Deity. I prayed that if the Lord on High approved of my new ruling house, then the appointed day of my enthronement – 23rd of January, 1368 – would be a bright day.

  Today is that day and, miracle of miracles, the warm rays of the sun pierce the gloom and have melted the frozen earth. The Lord on High has heard my supplication. The Yang exerts itself upon the Yin. The order of the Tao is restored. Thus, I take my seat on the Dragon Throne.

  As a bright day in Heaven means a bright day on earth, I name this the Ming – the Bright – Dynasty.

  Zhu Yuanzhang, the Hongwu Emperor.

  THE GREAT MING CODE

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  The Fortress of Shanhaiguan

  Shanhaiguan, the Eastern End of the Great Wall of China.

  In the Second Year of the Reign of the Jianwen Emperor.

  The Penultimate Day of the Year of the Rabbit, 1st February, 1400.

  Bolin swooned and propped himself up against the metal railings. He rubbed his temples, hoping it would ease the shooting pains in his head. It didn’t. His vision was as blurred as the mists that rolled off the sea.

  “Are you fit for work?” Wen railed at him. That was his new superior.

  “Why, yes, Master Wen,” he said, adding an obsequious bow.

  “Do you want to fail on your first day?” Wen snapped.

  “N-no, of course not,” Bolin stammered. Behind them, one of the donkeys brayed and let out a huge fart, bringing smirks to the lips of the assembled apprentices, all except Bolin. This headache was more than a pain.

  Wen scowled and said, “This is the most eastern end of the Great Wall of Ten Thousand Li and, in this province, I am its maintainer.” He puffed out his chest and crossed his arms. “This section, in the neck of land between the mountains and the sea, was built twenty years ago. Tomorrow is a special occasion and I want you to return it to its pristine condition.”

  The apprentices made approving noises as he went on, “The Great Wall is made of more than stone and packed earth. Woe betide anyone I hear say otherwise! It is host to a living, breathing entity, the Old Dragon Laolong, and we are standing on the Old Dragon’s Head, the Laolongtou. Below us, this end section of the wall protrudes right into the sea. The old dragon is taking a cooling drink. Make sure you pay him the respect he deserves.”

  That was Wen, the famous Master Builder. Folk said he breathed fire when raised to anger. Bolin wasn’t sure whether they were referring to Wen or the Laolong.

  Wen bent his neck and glowered at them from beneath his brow, taking them in one by one.

  “Other than me and the Laolong, the wall belongs to the military, the monks and the Great Wall Mummers. For you new conscripts, it’s the first time you’ve ever trodden its hallowed soil, so be warned. If you’re tempted to sneak your family up h
ere for a quick view of the land of the barbarians, I will haul you before the county magistrate, who’ll parade you around in a tight-fitting cangue. You wouldn’t want to suffer that shame, now would you?”

  While the workers hung their heads, Bolin wished he could appreciate the great honour of his newfound position. His headache was thumping like a gong in a Buddhist temple. Never before had he suffered like this.

  He patted the donkey. On the cart were buckets, carrying poles, wheelbarrows, rakes, spades, tampers, rammers, as well as bags of lime and sand and gourds of muddy water; all the paraphernalia of repair and construction. The donkey was ready for work – Bolin was not.

  A clutch of guards was clearing the twigs and leaves scattered over the road that ran along the length and breadth of the Great Wall, while another group furiously swept away the puddles deposited by the overnight storm. Some of the conscripts were gathering bits of wood and various belongings that lay strewn over the road, while others set about re-building the guards’ makeshift huts.

  It was bitterly cold and Bolin rubbed his hands. The sea mists swirled across the fortress in huge curtains of moisture. The garrison commandant eyed their group with an air of studied suspicion and asked, “What brings you onto the wall road today, Master Wen?”

  “Instructing more apprentices, Commandant Tung,” he replied with a curt bow.

  “They’ve much to learn to match your dedication,” the commandant suggested. “Every day, you inspect the wall and its fortifications.”

  “Thank you. I have to ensure that our defences against the Mongol horde are strong and impenetrable.”

  “Hah!” Tung declared. “We sent those barbarians scampering back to the land of the Blue Wolf and that’s where they can stay.”

  “Aye to that,” Wen nodded. “Today we are preparing the Great Wall for the New Year festivities.”

  “Indeed. The Year of the Dragon promises to be a splendid year.”

  “It would be even better if this work is finished today,” Wen added sardonically. Turning to the apprentices, he said, “Yesterday’s tempest tore into the cladding of the wall. The lights from tomorrow night’s fireworks will show up the tiniest cracks and holes. I want the blemishes smoothed, the crevices filled, the lichen and moss removed. Everything must be as auspicious as possible, with the stronger yang and weaker yin in their rightful places. Now, get to it.”

  Wen and Tung set off at pace. Bolin hurried at a respectful distance behind them, his feet slipping and sliding on the moist surface. It was curious, because as soon as he left the Laolongtou and ventured onto the main land-based part of the wall, his headache lifted. What a relief!

  For years, he’d lived in the shadow of the wall and now, for the first time ever, he was going to enjoy a panoramic view of the sheer scale of the fortifications. From the vantage point of the wall road, he could see the pale winter sun glistening in the cold, grey waters of the moat surrounding the square fortress. Next to that, walls as tall as trees and thicker than ten men standing side by side, as well as a frightening series of watchtowers, ramps and gates, protected the army and citizens of Shan-hai-guan, the ‘Mountain-sea-pass’. Rows of billets housed thousands of soldiers and enormous warehouses stocked supplies of food and armaments with which to send them to war. Fine stables for the cavalry horses sat next to the more rudimentary housing for the hundreds of oxen, donkeys and mules yoked to the supply wagons.

  A guard on the battlements of the east gate interrupted his awe.

  “Hi! Hi!” His cry resounded along the wall. He was pointing across the plain, where a rider raced along the coast road towards them. Bolin watched the horseman pull up on the edge of the moat, his horse panting as if chased by the hounds of hell. A small flag bearing the yellow-red emblem of the Prince of Yan protruded from his saddle.

  “The rider comes from our fief lord. Lower the drawbridge,” the commandant ordered.

  The soldiers clambered into the wheelhouse and the wooden drawbridge creaked open. Bolin leaned over the parapet to get a better view. The rider was soon over the drawbridge and through the outer gate. The sound of his horse’s hooves echoed around the arched tunnel that ran under the gate tower. Leaping off the horse and with barely a break in his stride, the rider knelt down on one knee, bowed low before the commandant and handed him a scroll.

  “A message from our prince,” the commandant’s voice boomed around the courtyard. “He’ll pass through the garrison with fifteen thousand victorious troops. Tomorrow.”

  The news was greeted with the customary waving of hands. That was a large army and Bolin had witnessed many troop movements in and out of the fortress, even more so since the death two years ago of Zhu Yuanzhang, the Hongwu Emperor. The prince consort had died, so Zhu had bequeathed the throne to his grandson, the Jianwen Emperor. Soon after, the new Emperor’s uncle, the Prince of Yan, had rebelled, precipitating a bitter war of succession.

  Bolin raised an eyebrow on hearing of the prince’s manoeuvre. Up to now, the battles between the prince and his nephew had taken place on home soil, so why was he picking another fight with the Mongols?

  He turned to his new friend, Cui. He would know.

  The old soldier screwed up his face into a frown and whispered, “With a civil war in full flow, the Mongols eye an opportunity to invade our borders and re-instate their reign of terror. The rumour is that the Emperor himself has urged the Mongols to harass our northern frontier – against our own prince. We’ve recently removed the barbarians and our new Emperor’s making them an ally.” His expression was suitably sour. “Our fief lord was having none of that, so he took an army up there to deal them a killer blow. Sounds like he’s succeeded.” Cui grinned revealing the blackened remains of his teeth.

  Master Wen added his own brand of chastisement. “With the prince arriving, there’s another reason to make the wall look its finest. I want teams of eight, each working on adjoining segments. Jump to it. No slacking, you hear?”

  Cui was in charge of Bolin’s group, which was stationed in the shadows of the Yanshan Mountains. They spent the rest of the day clearing debris from the wall road and cleaning its vertical faces. Both he and Cui descended on rickety bamboo cradles, roped onto the crenellated battlements. Hanging at precarious angles, they shovelled a lime mix into every crack and fissure they could find. Holes restricted the flow of ch’i through the wall and that was inauspicious. When the cold wings of dusk drew in, he and Cui made their way back to the east – the Zhendong – gate.

  Cui wandered off to the White Mulberry Inn. He went there so often, it was almost as if he was drinking to forget something from his past. Bolin hurried through the market place, where he joined the stall holders and shoppers scuttling off home before the dusk watch announced the locking of the city gates for the night.

  Swathed in the long afternoon shadows, he glanced back up at the wall, towering above him like the face of a cliff rising up to Heaven.

  That was when it happened – again.

  His temples started pounding. His eyes misted over. This time, there was more than the intense discomfort of before. Vivid images marched through his mind like soldiers in a line, forcing him to witness…

  Bamboo scaffolding reached from the earth to the great height of the wall road, entwined with the turrets like embracing lovers. Workers swarmed like ants over every part of it, lifting buckets, hauling tools and carrying hods of earth. He recognised the stone cladding on the wall. This was the Shanhaiguan Fortress under construction, twenty years before.

  It was early morning, the sun had risen and a little boy stood on the ground, bathed in the giant shadow cast by the Great Wall. Up above him on the east gate wall road, a worker was walking backwards towards an unguarded edge. The boy seemed to recognise him. With a smile like a spring flower, he shouted and waved up to the man, but his cry was lost amidst the clash of the hammers and the pounding of the earth works.
>
  The man cradled a plank of wood like he was nursing a child. Oblivious to his imminent danger, he took another step back.

  The boy yelled at the man, this time anxious, pleading.

  Too late. The man slipped and fell backwards. His scream rent the air. Everyone heard it. The little boy heard it. In his vision, Bolin heard it.

  In the air, the man turned a slow, elegant spiral, rather like those fireworks that Bolin had seen on New Year’s Day that whizzed round and round before fizzling into nothing, a light carried before being consumed by the darkness.

  On the ground, the boy stared up at the macabre sight of this man, this aerial apparition, plunging towards him. The air was disgorging the man and he was going to land on top of him.

  Get out of the way! Bolin screamed.

  But the boy’s feet had grown roots.

  Perhaps the gods would descend from their jade pagodas and reverse the irrevocable march of time. Perhaps karma would change the course of events.

  Neither of these things occurred.

  At the last moment, the flight of the man twisted in mid-air and he slammed into the cold, unforgiving earth. His head screwed round and faced the wrong way, staring obliquely up at the boy.

  The wall was silent. The earth drew breath. Even the gods missed a heartbeat.

  His eyes wide in terror, the boy mouthed a word as old as the human race.

  “Father.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Blue Wolf

  The Blue Wolf was born with a destiny from Heaven above.

  THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE MONGOLS

  The next day, Bolin forced himself to return to duty. Still marooned on the shore of his terrible vision, it was the last thing he wanted to do but as a new conscript, he knew absence was not tolerated. Scared and anxious, he made his way to the wall. It was karma, because he and Cui were assigned to work near the market which now occupied the place where the man had fallen to his death. Bolin shuddered to think about it. He was even stood in the shadows cast by the Great Wall, exactly where the boy had been. There was no escaping the dream. What had he done to deserve this awful fate? He grabbed a broom and swept away the fallen leaves with unbridled fury. If only he could sweep away his vision of the fallen.