The Red Turbans’ senior leadership knelt before the thrones. In the front row, Right Minister Guo Zixing and Left Minister Chen Youliang held identical postures of respect, their bare heads pressed to the floor. The second row contained two of the Red Turbans’ three young commanders: Little Guo and his fast friend Sun Meng. The third, Commander Wu, was absent: he had been saddled with the unenviable task of holding their gradually retreating front line against the eunuch general.
The only other absence was General Ma. For all Ma mourned, it was an abstract feeling. She had lived in the Guo household since she was fourteen, and before his death her father had only greeted her in passing as though they were strangers. By then she had already served her use to him: cementing the allegiance between himself and Right Minister Guo.
“Rise,” said the Prime Minister, descending from the throne to the sand table they used for planning. He signaled to Ma to pour the tea. When the other Red Turban leaders joined him, he surveyed them with controlled fury. “It’s past time for us to have our new general. Not someone who can only win petty skirmishes, but our true leader who will take us to our final victory over the Hu. And make no mistake: he will be someone who puts the Red Turbans’ mission before his own ambitions. General Ma—” His mouth pinched shut, but Ma recoiled from his harsh look of intolerance. If she had ever had any doubt, that look erased it: the Prime Minister had seen her father’s disagreement as disloyalty. And to punish it, he had been willing to risk everything the Red Turbans had accomplished.
The two ministers exchanged hostile glances. There was no love lost between Chen and Guo. Within the smothering atmosphere of paranoia and secrets that the Prime Minister cultivated, they were two ambitious men trying to hide their ambitions as they jockeyed for power. Guo was the longer follower of the Prime Minister, but now with his ally General Ma gone, his position was less secure than it had been.
Chen said, “Your Excellency, if this servant may make a humble suggestion: I think Commander Wu has the capacity.” In his forties, Chen was some ten years younger than his rival. He had a small neat face with a deep vertical crease on each cheek that put one in mind of a tiger’s striped face, as seen from far too close. Neither his scholar’s black hat nor his gown offered any illusion that he had ever had such a gentle occupation. Before joining the Prime Minister he had been a warlord known for his brutality. It was he who had taken Anfeng, which was the reason so few of its original structures—and none of its original people—were left.
“Commander Wu is doing well and has proven loyal, but he is not even twenty,” Guo said. “How can such a young man command the forces of our entire movement? It would not be seemly.” Like everyone else in the room, Guo knew that Commander Wu lived in Chen’s pocket. “Your Excellency, Commander Guo is the natural choice. He has several more years’ experience than Wu, and inspires devotion and enthusiasm in the men. You can have full confidence in his abilities against the Hu.”
The Prime Minister directed his hard gaze at Little Guo. Apparently Little Guo had been right about the matter having been settled beforehand, since after a moment the Prime Minister said curtly, “Guo Tianxu. Are you the one who will lead us to our triumph over the Hu, where that traitor General Ma failed?”
Little Guo looked as satisfied as if it had been his own doing. He thumped his chest with his fist in a salute of acknowledgment. “I am!”
As Ma leaned between Chen and Little Guo to pour tea, she saw Chen’s face flicker with an emotion even milder than disappointment. He hadn’t expected to win. Which means he’s after something else.
“Very well, General Guo,” the Prime Minister said. “Then prove yourself worthy of the title. Take the rest of our forces to support Commander Wu in holding the line against the Yuan. Our strategy should be one of delay. Resist without sustaining too many casualties, then fall back. Our aim should be to ensure their campaigning season ends before they make it as far as Anfeng. Then we can retake ground over summer.”
It was a conservative plan. Even the Prime Minister recognized that his sacrifice of General Ma had weakened their position, especially now that the Yuan were newly determined to press the attack.
“Agreed, Your Excellency,” Right Minister Guo murmured.
Chen turned to Little Guo and said smoothly, “General, please provide us with your thoughts on the situation.”
Ma saw Little Guo open his mouth. With dread, she realized Chen’s plan. Why engage seasoned and cunning Right Minister Guo, when you could attack the Guo faction’s weakest link? Foolish, arrogant, ambitious Little Guo.
Gripped with horror about whatever was going to come out of Little Guo’s mouth, Ma flicked the spout of the teapot at his hand. It might even have worked, had an iron grip not wrenched her wrist at the same time. The tea hit the table and Ma swallowed a cry of pain. Chen tightened his fingers around her wrist until tears sprang to her eyes. In a pleasant undertone, he said, “Dear Yingzi, if you scald your future husband every time he opens his mouth, how will we ever hear his worthy input?”
Right Minister Guo took advantage of the pause to say quickly, “Your Excellency, I suggest allowing General Guo the opportunity to review Commander Wu’s situation reports. Then we can reconvene.”
Chen said, “I’m sure General Guo already has an excellent grasp of the situation. I beg the Right Minister’s indulgence to hear his thoughts.” He released Ma without another glance. “General, please continue.”
Little Guo swelled with pride; he loved the sound of his own voice. Ma could have cried. He had no sense at all. She had told him. How could he be so unaware of what had happened to her father—of how thin the line was in the Prime Minister’s mind between a reasonable effort to succeed, and punishable ambition? Her wrist throbbed, and she saw Chen’s smug look.
Little Guo said, “Why should we give men and territory to the Hu for nothing in return? And once they’ve come far enough to see Anfeng, will they really turn around and go home, even if the weather is too warm for their liking? Surely they’ll cross the Huai in the hope they can take it quickly. Why should we let them set the terms of the engagement? Their next major obstacle will be the Yao River; we’ll have the advantage if we challenge them there. Let’s be bold enough to take the fight to them, and send them crawling back to their prince in defeat!”
“Indeed, why not be bold?” Chen purred. “If we trust enough in our eventual triumph over the Hu, should we not also trust that Heaven will guide our true leader to victory in battle?”
“Guo Tianxu,” said Right Minister Guo, looking constipated. “Perhaps a more conservative—”
“Conservative!” cried Little Guo, who disagreed with the wisdom that truth is rarely found in the loudest voice. “Will we be conservative until we die of a thousand cuts? For sure they have the larger army, but didn’t Zhuge Liang defeat a hundred thousand with a force of only three thousand?”
And that was Little Guo in a nutshell: he had no shame comparing himself to the best strategist in all history.
A bucket put out under the leaking roof played a random tune as the water dripped in. After a moment the Prime Minister said darkly, “If that’s your opinion, General Guo, then go forth and lead us into battle at the Yao River. Let the Prince of Radiance bless our worthy endeavors and bring us victory!”
The Prince of Radiance looked down on them with his benign smile. If he knew Heaven’s will for the outcome of the forthcoming confrontation, he showed no sign. Ma felt clammy with anxiety. If Little Guo couldn’t produce a victory, his difference of opinion would become a matter of loyalty. And for a Prime Minister for whom loyalty was everything, she knew there was no position more dangerous.
She glanced at Chen. The corners of his small mouth were turned up: an expression that conveyed all of the pleasure, but none of the warmth, of a smile.
* * *
Inside its walls, Anfeng’s hills undulated smoothly under the sprawling camps of tents and shanties in which the Red Turban men lived. A
ll that was left of the original city were ghosts and a handful of two-story mansions, their glowing upper windows rising up in the blue gloom like river ships at night. Zhu stood with her horse and breathed in deeply of the chill air and dung-fire smoke. She had made it to Anfeng, where she wanted to be. But now that she was here, she could see with startling clarity the dangers ahead on this path she had chosen. The weight of the sword she carried was a reminder of the most pressing of these dangers. She had never held a sword before. She didn’t have the first clue how to use one, and she couldn’t even ride a horse like Xu Da could. She had learned so much in the monastery, but none of it seemed applicable to the problem of how to survive on a battlefield. The thought sent a fear-spiked anticipation through her, so concentrated and intense that it almost felt like pleasure. She thought: There’s always a way.
Someone said, “You’re the lucky monk.”
Zhu, turning, saw a boy’s face floating next to her in the dusk. Despite being weighed down by a nose as big as a temple stele, it had a calculating liveliness. The face was framed by loose hair. Since he was clearly old enough to tie it up like a man, Zhu figured it was an attempt to hide ears as large as his nose.
“Aren’t you?” The boy gave her a charming smile.
Zhu said, amused, “This monk admits to being a monk. And you are—?”
“I’ve met fake monks. They know people will just give them food.” As an afterthought: “Chang Yuchun.”
“My young friend Chang Yuchun, let me give you some inside information: there really is very little free food,” said Zhu, thinking of her long, hungry walk to Anfeng. She tipped her head so he could see her ordination scars. “This monk is willing to bet nobody’s faked being a monk longer than three days.”
Yuchun inspected the scars with prurient curiosity. “Well, lucky monk, you’re gonna need that luck. Heard Little Guo loved you so much, he sent you to the vanguard.” He gave Zhu an up-and-down look, noting the sword. “I’m guessing you have no idea how to use that thing. Not that it matters, ‘cos you’re just going to catch an arrow in the first five minutes.”
“There actually are warrior monks,” Zhu said. “I never particularly wanted to be one until now. But, little brother, how well you seem to know Anfeng! Please give your valued advice to this monk.”
Not missing a beat, Yuchun said, “Sell the horse.”
“It’s my best asset,” Zhu protested. “It’s my only asset.”
“If you can ride.” He gave her a scornful look. “You’re a monk who can’t ride, can’t fight, and you don’t want to sell your horse. Can you do anything?”
“This monk can pray. People do say it’s occasionally useful.” She headed down the street, leading the horse. “This way to the vanguard?”
“Watch it!” The boy steered her around a pothole. “Hey, lucky monk, here’s my actual advice. Leave. You think a prayer can stop a Hu arrow?”
“Why do people keep saying leave? There’s nothing for this monk out there.” She spoke lightly, but at the thought of leaving Anfeng she felt a brush of cool nothingness, as fleeting as the touch of a hawk’s shadow. Whatever the uncertainties and challenges of this path, rejecting greatness wasn’t an option. Down that other path, there was only one ending.
“What exactly is it you think you’ll get if you stay? Anyway, the vanguard’s over there.” Yuchun pointed to a sprawl of campfires in an open field. “But I’m going this way. See you round, lucky monk.”
Zhu went on, enjoying her anticipation. She had gone only a small way when there was a flicker in her side vision. The horse snapped, quick as a snake.
“Turtle’s anus!” Yuchun dodged the horse and accosted her. “Give it back!”
“What do you—” The purse, flung with some force, smacked into her chest. “Ow!”
“And why’d that hurt?” he shouted. “Because it’s full of fucking rocks.”
“Which is this monk’s fault because—”
“Because I ended up with a purse full of rocks, while my own purse is somehow missing!”
Zhu couldn’t help it: she laughed. Boys of that age took themselves so seriously. It went double for those who’d had to survive off their own wits, and thought the world their fool. Her laughter made Yuchun even angrier. “You fake! Monks don’t laugh and they don’t steal. I knew it.”
“No, no.” Zhu controlled her twitching mouth. “This monk really is a monk. Perhaps you need to meet a few more, before you know what we’re really like.” Locating his purse in her inner robe, she examined it. “Wah, little brother! This is impressive.” In addition to the copper coins and now almost worthless paper currency, there were six silver taels. “How have you been tolerated so long, thieving in this quantity?”
“Think you’re gonna live long enough to tell anyone about it?” Yuchun scowled. “Give it back.”
“Are you going stab me?” Zhu asked with interest.
“I should! What if you tell everyone I’m a thief?”
“Everyone already knows you’re a thief.” For a moment Zhu stopped playing and let her deeper self show. Yuchun blinked uneasily and looked away. She said, “They didn’t bother about a kid taking a couple of coins here and there. But you’re not a kid any longer. One day soon you’ll take something. Probably not even anything important. But that’ll be what they kill you for, and then it will be your head on the wall.”
There was a flash of fear on Yuchun’s face, quickly masked. He snatched the purse back. “Speaking about my fate like you’re a fortune-teller! Why would I believe a useless rice bucket like you? Save your concern for yourself. You’re the one in the vanguard.” His lip curling, he gave Zhu a calculating look. “But, monk, don’t you think you need someone to show you around? You nearly broke a leg just walking down the street. Keep it up, think you’ll even make it to the battlefield?”
“You offering?” Zhu said. She liked the boy’s opportunism and defiant spirit, and even his ugly face: they reminded her of herself.
“It’ll cost you the horse.” He added, “I can collect after you’re dead.”
“That’s the most generous offer this monk has had all day.” The street had grown dark; in the distance, the vanguard’s campfires beckoned. Zhu said, smiling, “Well, little brother. Why don’t you start by helping this monk find where he needs to go?”
* * *
Zhu followed Yuchun through the cramped maze of tents and campfires in the open field. Every few paces she had to step around a pile of refuse or a circle of men gambling on crickets. Her senses reeled from the reek and the noise. She remembered how the monastery’s hundreds of monks had made it seem a city. This was a hundred times that. She had never seen so many people in one place before.
The tent city suddenly opened onto a clearing. A raised platform had been erected in the middle of it. Lit by torches along its edges, it floated forth in the darkness like a blazing ship above the sea of men jostling beneath.
“What’s happening?”
“Blessing ceremony,” Yuchun said. “It’ll start soon. Don’t you want the Prince of Radiance’s blessing before you set off to your certain death? You should push to the front.”
Zhu, looking at the crowd upon which her future depended, saw a motley assortment of sturdy young peasants in scavenged armor and the movement’s signature red head rags. In a land where every opportunity for those of Nanren blood had been closed off, a rebel movement attracted a higher caliber of person than it might have otherwise. But Zhu remembered the Yuan’s beautiful, cold-faced eunuch general, and his soldiers flowing into the monastery in their identical dark armor, and felt a chill.
The River of Heaven rose overhead, its immensity threatening to flatten them all to the skin of the earth. Drums beat so loudly that Zhu felt like they were trying to squeeze her heart into their rhythm. The crowd thickened, and men began to howl and shout. And then finally a red-clad figure emerged onto the stage. Its small size made it seem very far away, as though it were hovering somewhere b
etween Heaven and earth. A child.
The Prince of Radiance came forwards. He wore a serene smile, his hands extended in beneficence. Overhead the wind thumped and rattled the flags against their poles. The men’s shouts rose to a new pitch.
And then, suddenly, the child was holding a flame in his hand. Zhu’s skin pimpled in surprise. The child hadn’t gestured, or made any other movement. The flame had just appeared. A red flame, as eerily luminous as a blood moon. As the crowd roared, the flame grew. It ran up the Prince of Radiance’s arms and across his shoulders and over the top of his head, until he stood before them shrouded in a deep red fire that instead of repelling the darkness, turned it as lush as sable.
Zhu stood rooted in awe. The Mandate of Heaven. Like everyone else, she knew the stories about the Emperor’s divine light—the physical manifestation of the right to rule, granted to the Son of Heaven. The light of the Mongol rulers burned blue; that was why the Great Yuan’s flag was the color it was. Clouds and water monks passing through the monastery had sometimes spoken of being in Dadu—the capital the Mongols called Khanbaliq—in the early days of the Emperor’s rule, and seeing him summon a blue flame with a finger snap. Zhu herself had never intended to leave the monastery, and knew anyway that the Emperor no longer showed his power in public, so she had never thought she would see the Mandate in the flesh. But this was it. The red flame like the setting sun, the color of the vanished Song Dynasty emperors, the last who ruled before the barbarians came.
Suddenly, it made sense why the rebels had taken red as their color. Why they had named themselves for it. Zhu looked up at that glowing figure, and felt a tingle run through the top layer of her skin as if in response to the charged air before a storm. The Prince of Radiance heralded change. Her desire gripped her, as strong and hot as it had been when she was flung from the monastery. This is where it starts.
She Who Became the Sun Page 10