Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4-7 2019 | Page 242

“Samudera’s current ruler is an imposter, and has refused to act as a tributary to our Emperor,” the
Admiral had said. “Under his Highness’ command, we shall fight with the true Sultan and depose of this
false king. Once we have ensured the throne’s legitimacy, we will establish a new trade port.”
Li can picture it vividly now – the locals cheering for their triumphant heroes, throwing
celebrations for him and his friends, as the true Sultan thanks him personally for his help…
“Welcome!” A figure scurries over from a distant ramshackle hut. This man is very broad and very
stout, with the beginnings of a paunch. His greying hair is slicked back from his flushed face, revealing beady
brown eyes. “You must be the army from the Emperor!”
The Admiral gives a curt nod in reply. “And you are the soon-to-be Sultan of Samudera.”
The portly man smiles broadly. Li shifts uneasily at the display of sharp, yellow teeth. “Yes. I’m
glad we understand each other. Please, call me Ratu!” The true ruler gestures at the small crowd of grim,
brawny men waiting behind him, all carrying sickle-shaped daggers curved like snakes.
“We’re ready when you are.”
*
For hours, the congregation of armed seafarers, revolutionaries, and eunuchs troop through the
jungle kingdom, their boots thumping out a steady staccato like the pounding of a war drum.
They march past wooden houses erected on rickety slats, past verdurous foliage buzzing with
strange noises, and past dozens of curious sun-kissed faces. Li stares eagerly at their unusual huts, with
lacquered roofs that arch towards the sky and striped walls that slope inwards, like oversized palanquins.
As they journey deeper into the thriving kingdom, the stifling foliage reluctantly gives way to a
bustling marketplace. Local tradespeople wearing long sashes, flowing robes, and embroidered headdresses
hustle around, dragging wicker baskets of dried beef and jars of aromatic spices. Li longs to stop and explore
the market, to taste the curried meats, to rub the smooth silk gauze between his fingers, but –
“Keep your hand on your weapon,” the Admiral mutters. Zheng He’s narrowed eyes are fixated
on the massive palace gates looming before them. Enormous eaves jut out over the structure’s gables and
overshadow the entrance, which is guarded by sentries in elaborate uniform. The tips of their spears gleam
in warning as the crew slows to a stop.
“We are envoys of the Great Ming from China. Under the command of our Imperial Emperor, let
us enter.” The Admiral’s tone brooks no argument.
The impassive guards, however, refuse them entry. “The Sultan does not recognize your Emperor
as his ruler.”
A troubling gleam enters the Admiral’s eye. “It isn’t a matter of if you recognize the Emperor or
not – it’s a matter of when .” He draws his blade. “Perhaps the Sultan simply needs some persuasion.”
The saber slices through the two guards with the ease of a needle piercing paper.
Li stares in shock, a silent witness to the sudden slaughter before him, although no one else appears
surprised. He sees the bodies crumple, like marionettes with severed strings, while time itself seems to slow
down. As if in a dream, he sees the blood bloom across their uniforms, dyeing the linen a deep wine red.
Vaguely, he senses his friends and crewmates raise their swords in warning.
The passersby sense it too. Slowly, whispers travel through the crowd, rippling through the
marketplace, gaining momentum. People begin to shift restlessly, uncertainly. Then, as more guards burst