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The Kangxi Emperor took three long strides toward Francesco and came to a stop. Through squinted eyes, he studied the Italian’s face for several seconds before speaking. Francesco was about to call for Hao to translate, but the man was already there, standing at his elbow and whispering in his ear: “The Emperor says, ‘Are you surprised to see me?’”
“Surprised, yes, but pleased nonetheless, Your Majesty.”
The question was not a casual inquiry, Francesco knew. The Kangxi Emperor was paranoid in the extreme; had Francesco not seemed sufficiently surprised at the Emperor’s early arrival he would have fallen under immediate suspicion of being a spy.
“What is this structure I see before me?” the Kangxi Emperor asked.
“It is a tent, Your Majesty, of my own design. It serves not only to protect the Great Dragon but also to shield it from prying eyes.”
The Kangxi Emperor nodded curtly. “You will provide the plans to my personal secretary.” With a raised fingertip, he commanded the secretary to step forward.
Francesco said, “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“The slaves I provided you have performed adequately?”
Francesco winced inwardly at the Emperor’s question but said nothing. Over the past six months he and Giuseppe had worked and lived with these men under hardship conditions. They were friends now. He did not confess this aloud, however. Such an emotional attachment would be a lever the Emperor would not hesitate to use.
“They have performed admirably, Your Majesty. Sadly, though, four of them
died last week when—”
“That is the way of the world, death. If they died in service to their King, their ancestors will greet them with pride.”
“My foreman and translator, Hao, has been especially invaluable.”
The Kangxi Emperor flicked his eyes at Hao, then back to Francesco. “The man’s family will be released from prison.” The Emperor raised his finger above his shoulder; the personal secretary made a notation on the parchment he cradled in his arms.
Francesco took a deep, calming breath and smiled. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for your kindness.”
“Tell me: When will the Great Dragon be ready?”
“Another two days will—”
“You have until dawn tomorrow.”
With that, the Kangxi Emperor turned on his heel and strode back into the phalanx, which closed in behind him, did a synchronized about-face, and marched from the clearing, followed moments later by the Home Guard soldiers from around the perimeter. Once the clomp of footsteps and the rhythmic grunting faded away, Giuseppe said, “Is he crazy? Tomorrow at dawn. How can we—”
“We will make it,” Francesco replied. “With time to spare.”
“How?”
“We have only a few more hours of work left. I told the Emperor two days, knowing he would demand the seemingly impossible. This way, we can give it to him.”
Giuseppe smiled. “You are a crafty one, brother. Well done.”
“Come, let us put the finishing touches on this Great Dragon.”
Under the glow of pole-mounted torches and the watchful gaze of the Emperor’s personal secretary, who stood just inside the tent’s entrance, arms folded inside his tunic, they worked through the night with Hao, their ever-reliable foreman, playing his part perfectly, haranguing the men to hurry, hurry, hurry. Francesco and Giuseppe did their part as well, walking through the tent, asking questions, bending down here and there to inspect this or that . . .
Ox-sinew guylines were unlashed, reknotted, then checked for tension; bamboo stays and cross braces were sounded with mallets to search for cracks; silk was closely examined for the slightest imperfections; the rattan-woven undercarriage underwent a mock attack with sharpened sticks to gauge its battle-readiness (finding it lacking, Francesco ordered another coat of black lacquer be applied to the walls and bulwarks); and finally the artist Giuseppe had hired finished the bow mural: a dragon’s snout, complete with beaded eyes, bared fangs, and a protruding forked tongue.
As the sun’s upper rim rose above the hills to the east, Francesco ordered that all work be quickly finished. Once this was done, he slowly circled the machine from bow to stern. Hands on his hips, head tilting this way and that, Francesco studied the ship’s every surface, its every feature, looking for the slightest flaw. He found none. He returned to the bow and gave the Emperor’s personal secretary a firm nod.
The man ducked under the tent flap and disappeared.
An hour later came the now familiar clomping and grunting of the Emperor’s retinue. The sound seemed to fill the clearing before suddenly falling silent. Now dressed in a simple gray silk tunic, the Kangxi Emperor stepped though the tent’s entrance, followed by his personal secretary and his chief bodyguard.
The Emperor stopped in his tracks, eyes wide.
