To his credit, Claudius doesn’t scoff — what power? Voices, too, are breath. Lovers’ whispers, demagogues’ declarations, the adages of old men, the murmur of the crowd. They spread like cotton seeds, and drift, touch down and take root. Put Claudius on a battlefield and his breath would quickly tire, but he has enough life in his lungs to join a sea of voices. Enough even to sing, when it suits him.

Cotton seeds, drifting. One touches down, and becomes two, the last seed of the old plant and the first seed of the new. Two becomes three. Generation after generation, season after season, the three becomes ten thousand. Floating on the air, carrying yin, embracing yang.

He could be anywhere, doing anything. Doing something more productive — no. The cotton plant is still, and still produces ten thousand things. It doesn’t rush. He resists the urge to rise and pace, recites Wangji’s mantra in his head. The one produces the two. The two produces the three …