The night deepened. On the beach, the embers of the campfire emitted a final, faint crackle.
The previous "football evening" had ended in tumult, the team members had dispersed, and the camp had gradually returned to the calm appropriate for the night.
The Frost Moon and the Ash Moon, without anyone knowing when, had discreetly climbed, surpassing the high cloud layer. Like two immense eyes suspended in the inky vault of the sky, they coldly overlooked this sleeping island and the surface of the sea, subject to the tides.
"According to my grandfather's notes and these photographs, the discoveries made in Princess Zhaohui's tomb do indeed confirm certain accounts from historical chronicles concerning the Xu Dynasty. Particularly for the period before and after Emperor Wenguang, Chu Jin, ascended the throne, official chronicles are often vague, full of deliberate silences that awkwardly attempt to conceal the truth."
I slid my finger across the tablet screen, displaying a few images to show Anubis: "Look at this guqin (ancient Chinese zither) score notated in jianzipu (simplified notation for the qin). Its tonality is very particular; it bears a certain resemblance to some ancient melodies from the Western Regions that I know. I suppose this score transcribes a melody with rich Gönok accents, which Ardashir might have inadvertently hummed in Jinxiujing, and which Rong then notated."
My finger tapped lightly on the tablet, the screen displaying images of a few pages of poems:
「锦绣风雪锁重楼,宫墙深处起暮愁.
市集同游品胡果,笑语盈盈两心怡.
厝火积薪势已成,锦绣繁华梦一场.
多少兴亡皆过眼,徒留青史费评章.」
The wind and snow of Jinxiujing imprison the high towers, in the deepest part of the palace walls is born the sorrow of twilight.
Together at the market, tasting the fruits of the borderlands, laughter and smiles fill both hearts with joy.
Fire smolders under dry wood, the situation is ripe. The prosperity of Jinxiujing is but a dream.
How many glories and falls are but passages for the eyes, leaving posterity only the sorrow of commenting on them.
"And these, these are poems by Dugu Rong. In medieval Paichelan poetry, the choice of words and the construction of sentences are often rich in meaning; the significance is not always direct and transparent. It is difficult for me to guess precisely in what state of mind she wrote these verses, or what she truly wanted to express through them."
I swiped to the next image, that of a well-preserved letter, the seal intact: "There is also this letter which seems to have never been opened. According to the remaining characters and the form of address, it is intended for 'Lord Qiongliang,' and its content… strongly resembles a love poem."
Anubis stared at the screen, unconsciously rubbing his chin with his fingertips, looking thoughtful. He asked: "This 'Rong,' was she very famous in the history of Paichelan?"
I shook my head, a hint of regret in my voice: "In the official chronicles, one finds almost no trace of her life. But in my grandfather's notes, there are numerous annotations and research on these documents from the princess's tomb, written in medieval Paichelan. He supposed that many of these poems with delicate touches and rich emotions, and even these intimate narratives resembling a diary, were from Dugu Rong's hand."
Anubis remained silent for a long moment, continuing to flip through these documents, examining them attentively.
After a long while, he let out a slight sigh, breaking the silence: "My knowledge of many ancient Paichelan customs, particularly the rites and modes of interaction of the medieval period, is still very insufficient. Forgive me."
My heart skipped a beat. This guy was apologizing to me?! Apparently, it was only when faced with unknown knowledge and the mists of history that he abandoned that usual coldness and nonchalance that kept him at a distance from others, revealing his true nature as a "scholar" or "researcher." It was only at that moment that he resembled a "living being."
With the tip of his finger, he scrolled the tablet screen to another page, where the reception of a gift by Ardashir was recorded: "Ardashir received a precious gift," Anubis's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "It's a… a reference work, similar to a dictionary. The offering comes from Dugu Rong. The text here describes: 'Dugu Rong is an erudite woman, beautiful and elegant. Her kindness is like a fresh spring in the desert; she has refreshed my heart.'"
"Refreshed his heart!? Ardashir wasn't happy?"
"No, it's a way of expressing oneself. My translation might be too literal. For example, in Libélin, one would say 'you warmed my heart.' Because the weather in Libélin is perhaps generally very cold, and warmth is a comfortable sensation. The meaning is actually positive. But Ardashir's expression, it's because for a desert people accustomed to scorching heat all year round, coolness is the epitome of comfort."
I couldn't help but let out a "Wow…"
"Actually, the Saracen language has similar turns of phrase. The Paichelan civilization is truly astonishing, to possess such complete writings a thousand years ago."
I nodded and added: "You're right. At that time when printing was not yet widespread, copying an entire work by hand, one can imagine the value and effort it represented. One could say that this stone sarcophagus was like a private library from a thousand years ago, or rather, a treasure trove of memory condensing personal emotions and the marks of an era. And imagine, writing at that time, especially that of women, was often subject to many restrictions. Its content and form certainly couldn't be, like our driving recorders today, a detailed, objective, and neutral account of reality. Her writings were necessarily the fruit of mature reflection and emotional filtering, a form of extremely personal testimony."
Obvious admiration shone in Anubis's gaze. He tilted his head slightly: "She indeed seems to have been a woman of great talent and insight. This kind of personalized historical testimony, imbued with abundant emotion, if it was able to traverse the long ages to be preserved, its value is no less than that of those so-called 'official chronicles.' Especially when a person consciously records in writing their daily life and intimate emotions, especially when they think that the readers of these writings will only be themselves, or when they write in an absolutely private space, sheltered from prying eyes, while being able to maintain this acute observation of their real situation and this fidelity and frankness towards their own inner torments, that is even more precious. It is in itself remarkable lucidity and courage."
"That's correct," I said, deeply sharing his opinion, my mind evoking those ink traces as fine as hairs, only identifiable under a microscope. "It's radically different from a simple emotional outpouring. If it were only to vent, most people would choose more direct or more illusory means, like making vows to deities, or cursing in an isolated corner, or even, resorting to forms such as divination, writing prayers, as is still commonly seen in our time in some places, attempting through an external force to dispel inner anxiety or to hope for vain comfort."
An indefinable, wry smile appeared on Anubis's lips, his gaze tinged with a hint of mischief: "Sphinx, to hear you, one would think you are criticizing in passing certain… hmm, deeply rooted religious customs in Libélin. Be careful not to be overheard by fervent believers; they might accuse you of blasphemy."
"No, not at all, that's not my intention." I quickly waved my hands to explain, fearing he might misunderstand, and also that he might seize this pretext to elaborate on the subject. "Libélin's belief system has its own cultural roots and historical evolution, which are not entirely identical to Paichelan traditions. Paichelan, since antiquity, has possessed a deeply entrenched body of scholar-officials and a system of historiographers. Whether it's the rigor and grandeur of the official chronicles compiled by the state, or the enthusiasm for private writings, this has persisted for millennia. One could say that 'recording' and 'reflecting' have long been deeply rooted in its cultural genes, becoming a kind of quasi-instinctive reflex."
"Remarkable." Anubis's tone remained neutral, but also betrayed a barely perceptible admiring excitement. "If one considers the long river of human history, in many civilizations, the tradition of recording real events authentically, systematically, and continuously in chronological form, may have only reached full maturity and been fully preserved for a few hundred years. Not to mention private writings capable of finely capturing individual emotions and the pulse of an era."
His erudition and insight, which surpassed his age, surprised me again, and I couldn't suppress my curiosity, asking: "Forgive my indiscretion, Anubis. For these past few days, I sense that your understanding of history, artifacts, and even different civilizations, far exceeds that of ordinary mortals. If you haven't systematically received higher education, how is it that you… know so many things in such varied fields, and even, one might say, rather obscure ones? This doesn't resemble a depth one could achieve through mere interest."
Anubis remained silent for a moment, his gaze lost in the distance on the surface of the sea, whose silver contours were drawn by the moonlight. The waves beat against the beach, producing a dull, rhythmic sound.
After a moment, he finally spoke slowly, his voice a little floating in the night wind: "The acquisition and accumulation of knowledge, their paths… do not necessarily require those specific and conventional places called 'schools,' do they? However, if you absolutely insist on an explanation, then, you can understand it thus—" He paused, as if searching for the most fitting word. "There was once a library, which was my school."
"The collections of that library must have been extraordinarily rich, encyclopedic," I couldn't help but ask, imagining what temple of wisdom it could be. "Which one was it? Where… where was it located?"
Anubis slowly turned his head. He stared at me, and an extremely light, almost imperceptible sadness seemed to cross his gaze. "Perhaps…" he said softly, "it… no longer exists today."