Interesting Times

silence.
    Mr. Saveloy nudged Cohen.
    “Go on,” he hissed. “Act like an Emperor!”
    “What…you mean giggle, have people tortured, that sort of thing? Blow that!”
    “No! Act like an Emperor ought to act!”
    Cohen glared at Saveloy. Then he turned to the guards.
    “Well done,” he said. “Your loyalty does you…wossname…credit. Keep on like this and I can see it’s promotion for both of you. Now let us all go inside or I will have my flowerpot men chop off your feet so you’ll have to kneel in the gutter while you’re looking for your head.”
    The men looked at one another, threw down their swords and tried to kowtow.
    “And you can bloody well get up, too,” said Cohen, in a slightly nicer tone of voice. “Mr. Saveloy?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m Emperor now, am I?”
    “The…earth soldiers seem to be on our side. The people think you’ve won. We’re all alive. I’d say we’ve won, yes.”
    “If I’m Emperor, I can tell everyone what to do, right?”
    “Oh, indeed.”
    “Properly. You know. Scrolls and stuff. Buggers in uniform blowing trumpets and saying, ‘This is what he wants you to do.’”
    “Ah. You want to make a proclamation.”
    “Yeah. No more of this bloody kowtowing. It makes me squirm. No kowtowing by anyone to anyone, all right? If anyone sees me they can salute, or maybe give me some money. But none of this banging your head on the ground stuff. It gives me the willies. Now, dress that up in proper writing.”
    “Right away. And—”
    “Hang on, haven’t finished yet.” Cohen bit his lip in unaccustomed cogitation, as the red warriors lurched to a stop. “Yeah. You can add that I’m letting all prisoners go free, unless they’ve done something really bad. Like attempted poisoning, for a start. You can work out the details. All torturers to have their heads cut off. And every peasant can have a free pig, something like that. I’ll leave you to put in all the proper curly bits about ‘by order’ and stuff.”
    Cohen looked down at the guards.
    “Get up , I said. I swear, the next bastard that kisses the ground in front of me is gonna get kicked in the antique chicken coops. Okay? Now open the gates.”
    The crowd cheered. As the Horde stepped inside the Forbidden City they followed, in a sort of cross between a revolutionary charge and a respectful walk.
    The red warriors stood outside. One of them raised a terracotta foot, which groaned a little, and walked towards the wall until it bumped into it.
    The warrior staggered drunkenly for a while and then managed to get within a yard or two of the wall without colliding with it.
    It raised a finger and wrote, shakily, in red dust that turned to a kind of paint on the wet plaster:

    HELP HELP ITS ME IM OUT HERE ON THEE PLAIN HELP I CANT GET THIS BLODY ARMER OFF.

    The crowd surged along behind Cohen, shouting and singing. If he’d had a surfboard, he could have ridden on it. The rain drummed heavily on the roof and poured into the courtyards.
    “Why’re they all so excited?” he said.
    “They think you’re going to sack the palace,” said Mr. Saveloy. “They’ve heard about barbarians, you see. They want some of it. Anyway, they like the idea about the pig.”
    “Hey, you!” shouted Cohen to a boy struggling past under the weight of a huge vase. “Get your thieving paws off my stuff! That’s valuable, that is! It’s a…a…”
    “It’s S’ang Dynasty,” said Mr. Saveloy.
    “That’s right,” said the vase.
    “That’s a S’ang Dynasty, that is! Put it back! And you lot back there—” He turned and waved his sword. “Get those shoes off! You’re scratching the floor! Look at the state of it already!”
    “You never bothered about the floor yesterday,” Truckle grumbled.
    “’Tweren’t my floor then.”
    “Yes, it was,” said Mr. Saveloy.
    “Not properly,” said Cohen. “ Rite of conquest, that’s the thing. Blood. People understand blood. You just walk in and take over and no one takes it seriously. But seas of blood…Everyone understands that.”
    “Mountains of skulls,” said Truckle approvingly.
    “Look at history,” said Cohen. “Whenever you—Hey, you, the man with the hat, that’s my…”
    “Inlaid mahogany Shibo Yangcong-san table,” murmured Mr. Saveloy.
    “—so put it back, d’you hear? Yes, whenever you comes across a king where everyone says, ‘Oo, he was a good king all right,’ you can bet your sandals he was a great big bearded bastard who broke