All through the year, Kuo-chung nursed his doubts, and there was much, more robust than rumor, for them to feed on. Late one night, without apparent cause, the huge arsenal at Changan was destroyed and the flames spouted into the sky like a volcano. It was odd that the destruction had been so quick and thorough. Even before the jugglers, the acrobats, the tight-rope walkers, and the magicians had time to go into their acts to divert the Fire-God, he had already devoured the building and its contents, more than three hundred and seventy thousand individual weapons.
An Lu-shan had been with the Emperor when the alarm was sounded. He rushed at once to the scene. His anger was acute and he shouted threats of vengeance on the perpetrators of this outrage. So extreme was his violence, he frightened the acrobats who thereupon deserted the scene. A tight-rope walker fell off the wire and fractured his shoulder. Nevertheless, the commotion had little effect on the Fire-God who finally departed, leaving nothing but a smouldering heap of ruins.
Kuo-chung remained at the Palace. He wanted no part in the excitement.
If An Lu-shan were actually planning rebellion, this holocaust could be set down as something akin to a major victory, for to add luster to it, he had a perfect alibi. He was with the Emperor when the mysterious conflagration started. There was, however, no one to swear that a few of his hundred and fifty thousand warriors were not in the vicinity.
