Chapter 97 Feeding the Deer (Part One)

“This? Is this an auspicious beast?” At this very moment, within and without the hall, perhaps the only one who remained utterly unperturbed was Zhang Qian. The instant he laid eyes on the creature, he recognized at once what sort of animal it was, and nearly blurted out its scientific name—giraffe. Yet, recalling Zhang Jiuling’s earlier admonitions on the road, he forced himself to clamp his mouth shut, averted his gaze, and stilled himself like a figure of clay or wood.

“Seize it! Use ropes—lasso its forelegs!” A registrar of the Imperial Horse Administration, bedecked in his eighth-rank official robes, rushed in, barking orders to four stablemen wielding ropes, ready to subdue the giraffe as they would a runaway horse. But the giraffe, already driven to terror and fury, exploded in violence the moment anyone drew near—charging straight at them.

With a sickening thud, the registrar, hampered by his ceremonial robes, failed to dodge in time. He was sent flying, crashing into the wall, blood spurting from his lips, his fate uncertain. The stablemen, stricken with terror, dropped their ropes and scattered in flight, only to be overtaken by the giraffe, who, with powerful kicks, sent each man tumbling, bones shattering beneath its hooves.

A few palace guards, rushing to the scene, drew their bows and nocked arrows without hesitation. But before any could draw fully, an angry shout rang out atop the steps of the main hall: “Impudent fools, lay down your bows! Harm the auspicious beast, and would you bring calamity upon our Great Tang?” The speaker, a man of about fifty, his hair largely streaked with gray but his lips red, teeth white, brows arched and eyes bright—who could it be but Minister of War, Zong Chuke?

At once, the guards lowered their horn bows in silence. The giraffe, perhaps noticing the growing crowd of guards, or mistaking Zong Chuke’s bellow for the cry of some predatory beast, abruptly wheeled around, its four pillar-like legs carrying it straight toward the main entrance of the Hall of Supreme Majesty.

“Help! Save me!” Zong Chuke, Minister of War, shrieked in terror and fled inside the hall, “Close the doors, quickly! The Emperor is within!”

“Protect His Majesty!” a shout thundered by Zhang Qian’s ear. It was Zhou Jianliang, the auxiliary general from the northern frontier, who had earlier sought Zhang Qian’s counsel on gunpowder—now dashing forth, aiming straight for the giraffe’s forelegs.

Having surrendered his weapons at the palace gate, he had nothing now but his bare fists to rely upon. The giraffe, spotting someone charging at it, raised its front hooves high, ready to strike. Just before he would have been trampled, Zhou Jianliang launched himself sideways with all the desperate agility born of countless brushes with death—barely dodging the murderous blow. The ground where he’d stood shattered, bricks flying, cracks spidering outwards.

The giraffe, panicked and trapped, struck again and again, each miss fueling its frenzy as it turned Zhou Jianliang into its sole target, pounding after him with relentless, hammering kicks.

“Brother Zhou, get to higher ground! Stay clear of its front! The giraffe strikes only with its forelegs—it won’t bite!” Zhang Qian, unable to bear seeing a loyal frontier warrior die so senselessly under the hooves of a frightened beast, shouted instinctively at the top of his lungs.

Yet his voice was quickly drowned in a cacophony of panic.

“Protect His Majesty! Block the doors—don’t let that savage beast near the Emperor!”

“You there! Yes, you! Get over here—don’t just stand there!”

As Zhou Jianliang danced with death, several eunuchs and officials, rather than ordering the guards to aid him, instead screamed at everyone in sight to help barricade the entrance to the Hall of Supreme Majesty.

“Put away those bows! If the auspicious beast is harmed, you alone will answer for it!”

And then—

“That pockmarked soldier—don’t hurt the auspicious beast! Try to lure it outside, to the open ground before the Hall of Han Yuan. Do that, and you’ll be credited with a great deed!”

At last, the orders touched on Zhou Jianliang himself—not to warn him to preserve his life, but to ensure he did not harm the giraffe, lest certain officials lose their chance to present a rare marvel as tribute.

Battered and barehanded, Zhou Jianliang was already hard-pressed by the berserk giraffe, holding on only out of unwavering loyalty to the Tang Emperor. Hearing the eunuchs and officials’ words, a dark rage clouded his vision and his movements slowed a fraction.

But the so-called auspicious beast would not spare him for hearing such orders; it saw his faltering dodge, surged forward, and brought down its hooves like iron hammers.

“It’s over—” Zhang Jiuling and the others squeezed their eyes shut in anguish, unable to bear the sight of Zhou Jianliang being crushed to pulp.

Yet the expected screams never came. The thunder of iron hooves slowed, from a furious drumming to a measured beat, then grew hesitant—thud, thud…thud…long pauses between each sound.

The crowd opened their eyes in astonishment to find the strange beast had abandoned its pursuit of Zhou Jianliang and was now eyeing, with some uncertainty, the familiar green official’s robe of another man.

That man, holding a lacquered tray in one hand, was tossing oranges, tangerines, candied fruit, and dried nuts—the very snacks meant to pass the time while awaiting court—one after another near the creature’s nose. Each movement was gentle and measured.

Zhang Jiuling’s heart leapt to his throat, but he dared not call out loudly, fearing any disturbance might provoke the beast and doom Zhang Qian beneath its hooves.

Zhang Qian, after distracting the beast with a few pieces of fruit and sweets, now raised the entire tray above his head, less than three meters from the animal, and gently coaxed, “Come here, don’t be afraid, eat. Have a little—I know you’re hungry. Come, don’t be shy, it’s my treat…”

“Yongzhao—” Zhou Jianliang, who had just escaped death, stared wide-eyed but gritted his teeth, halting where he was, not daring to interrupt Zhang Qian’s concentration.

“Registrar Zhang—” The parrot-green officials who had been waiting with Zhang Qian all watched, hands clapped over their mouths, not daring to make a sound that might ruin his efforts.

Zhang Qian, oblivious to all this, sweat streaming down his brow, slowly retreated, continuing to coax the giraffe, “Come, eat a little, don’t be shy. I suppose it’s not to your taste, but it should do better than grass. Someone, please—bring more fruit and sweets. Something salty if possible—it rarely gets to eat salt!”

The last words, though low and trembling, were clearly meant for the people nearby, and they heard every syllable.

Zhou Jianliang at once crept along the wall toward the side chamber where they had waited for the imperial audience. Inside, Zhang Jiuling and the others scrambled to gather all the snacks and fruit set aside for the officials, and carried them out on trays.

“Come, have a little, don’t be afraid. See, I’m shorter than you, and I don’t have any weapons,” Zhang Qian said, not caring who had heard his plea for help, focusing all his attention on the giraffe as he continued to back away, always maintaining at least a hoof’s distance.

As for the giraffe, perhaps it had vented enough of its anger—or perhaps it truly was famished. It slowly approached, lowered its head, and began to lap at the fruit and sweets on the tray, its pink tongue curling around and emptying more than half the offerings in a single sweep.