flanks with sticks? One was a poet, ambitious to write a war song to which they might march. And there were potters, and merchants, carvers of jade, sages, sculptors and mountebanks.
Two or three of the pseudo-soldiers were half-witted beggars who leaped at the opportunity to associate with their Emperor. A moment before they had been less than the dust. Mandarins had spat at them as they passed. Now they were members of a hastily thrown together Imperial militia. The body of one was a mass of festering sores. Another had only one arm. The nose of a third had fallen in and there was a constant rheumy discharge from his all but sightless eyes. Nevertheless they rode in stench and grandeur and imagined that they were the focus of all eyes. Many were peasants who had left their paddy-fields unable to fathom the mystery that had sent their world askew. All they were able to comprehend was that they were needed by the Brilliant Emperor. Inarticulately, they heeded the call.
An old lantern maker had sat up all night to make a lantern that he claimed had magic properties. It would light the Emperor's path and make conquest definitely sure. He insisted on walking in front of the Emperor, and because Ming Huang was superstitious he acceded to his wishes, permitting him to lead the procession.
"If there were more lanterns of brilliant hue to banish the shadows of hatred," he said, "the hearts of men would be lighter."
Interspersed among the stragglers in the preposterous
army were a few of the soldiers of An Lu-shan, out
