And then the storm passed. They felt it even before Chaghan spoke again. In a softening tone he said, “Had you been anyone else, I would have done so. You cause me trouble as well as shame, Esen.”
“Yes, Father,” Esen said quickly, subdued.
“Then we can speak of what needs to happen to make right of this mess.” Chaghan cast Ouyang an unpleasant glance. “You: go.” For all that he had turned Ouyang’s life upside down, had started Ouyang’s future in motion, to him it had been nothing. He had no more idea of Ouyang’s internal state than one did of a dog or a horse.
Ouyang left. His hands and feet were clammy, and he felt more drained than after a battle. The body became used to exercise, particular sounds and sensations, or even physical pain. But it was strange how shame was something you never became inured to: each time hurt just as much as the first.
* * *
Esen, still prostrated on the floor, heard Ouyang leave. The image lingered painfully in his mind: his proud general with his head bowed to the floor, his hands on either side white with pressure. Contrary to his father’s assertions, Esen did remember. It was only that in his memory it had happened to someone else. Ouyang was so much a fixture in his life that he seemed devoid of any past other than the one he shared with Esen. It was only now that he was forced to see that memory truly, and acknowledge that Ouyang and that child were one and the same.
Above him, his father sighed. “Get up. What do we need in order to secure victory over the rebels next season?”
Esen stood. He should have kept his armor on. Ouyang had, clearly having wanted to have as much metal as possible between himself and the Prince of Henan’s wrath. And perhaps even that hadn’t helped. The thought of Ouyang’s terrible empty expression gave Esen a feeling of deep injury, as though Ouyang’s shame were his own.
He said to his father, “Only fighting units were affected by the disaster. Our heavy cavalry is still intact. A third of the light cavalry was lost, but if it can be bolstered by at least a thousand more men and mounts, it can operate at reduced size. The three infantry battalions can be merged into two. It should be sufficient for victory against the Red Turbans next season.”
“So: a thousand skilled and equipped cavalry men. And the commanders?”
“We lost three: two from the infantry, and one from the light cavalry.”
Chaghan contemplated this, then directed an unpleasant look at Baoxiang. Esen had almost forgotten he was there. Now his brother said stiffly, “Don’t request it of me, Father.”
“You dare speak that way! I’ve been lenient with you for too long, letting you waste your time on useless things. It’s past time you met your duty as a son of this family. I tell you now: when your brother’s army rides again, you will join them as a battalion commander.”
“No.”
There was a dangerous silence. “No?”
Baoxiang sneered. “Apart from it being ridiculous that all one needs to lead is Mongol blood, I’m the provincial administrator. I can’t just leave. Or would you prefer that your estate, and this entire province, grind to a halt in the hands of the incompetent and corrupt? That would certainly get you the Great Khan’s attention. Not to mention another defeat, since of course your men will have no horses to ride, nor grain for their families—”
“Enough!” Chaghan rounded on him. “Wang Baoxiang, son of this house! You would let your brother ride alone, while you count taxes in your office like a coward dog of a Manji? For all your brother’s failure of a general is a neutered animal, at least he fights like a man! But you would refuse your most basic responsibilities?” He stood there, breathing heavily. “You disappoint me.”
Baoxiang’s lip curled. “When haven’t I?”
For a moment Esen thought Chaghan would strike Baoxiang. Then he collected himself and bellowed loudly enough for the servants in the corridor outside to hear: “Summon Military Governor Bolud’s son!”
Presently Altan came in, still in his armor. His expression brightened as he took in the tension in the room. “My respects to the esteemed Prince of Henan.”
Chaghan viewed him dourly. “Altan, son of Bolud-Temur. Your father the Military Governor of Shanxi has long been united with us against these rebellions against our Great Yuan.”
“It is so, Esteemed Prince.”
“Given our recent losses, I would request of your father one thousand men suitable for the light cavalry, with all their mounts and equipment. I will ensure he receives all deserved credit before the Great Khan’s court when we vanquish the rebels this upcoming season.”
Altan bowed his head. “The men will be yours.”
“My family thanks you. I am aware your father has no need of additional riches, but it pleases me to reward your personal service with a token of our esteem. A gift of lands from my own estate. I bequeath to you all the lands and households lying between Anyang and the northern river, to do with as you please.” That these lands were part of those supporting Baoxiang’s residence was a fact that escaped nobody.
Altan’s face transformed with surprise and satisfaction. “The Prince of Henan is most generous.”
“You may leave.” Chaghan’s voice soured. “All of you.”
Esen, Altan, and Baoxiang left in bitter silence. Esen was halfway down the steps of his father’s residence before he realized Altan and Baoxiang were no longer beside him. Glancing behind, he saw Baoxiang looking with revulsion at Altan’s hand on his arm. He made as if to throw it off, but Altan, grinning, applied his greater strength to keep it there.
“Cousin Baobao, won’t you let me thank you for this princely gift?” His voice dwelt mockingly on the Han’er nursery name. Continuing with relish, he said, “But how strange to think you’d prefer to give up your land than do a man’s duty. You might even have to sell your books to pay the servants! I thought that prospect might have been enough to overcome your reluctance, but I see not. So is it true, then, you’ve forgotten how to draw a bow? Or did your mother never teach you properly, she was too busy being whore to a Manji—”
Another man would have fought him for the insult. Even Esen, whose mother hadn’t been insulted, found himself opening his mouth to deliver a rebuke. But Baoxiang just wrenched his arm free, gave Altan and Esen a shared look of loathing, and stalked away.
* * *
Esen left it several days—enough for tempers to cool—before going in search of his brother. Located in an outer wing of the palace, Baoxiang’s residence doubled as the provincial administration office. A long line of peasants waited outside for hearings on their various complaints. Inside, minor officials, almost all of them Semu, walked purposefully across the cobbled courtyards with their brass and silver seals swinging from their belts.
Servants directed him to a distant studio. It was a room perfectly to his brother’s taste, which was to say not to Esen’s at all. Landscapes, some from his brother’s hand, covered the walls. The desk was smothered in a billow of drying calligraphy, some of it in their own Mongolian script and the rest in the unnecessarily complicated native characters that Esen had never bothered to learn.
His brother sat in the center of the room with a pair of Manji merchants. The table between them was scattered with the detritus of a fruitful conversation: cups, seed husks, crumbs. They were speaking the soft language of the coast, which Esen didn’t understand. When they saw him they broke off politely. “Our respects, my lord Esen,” they said in Han’er. Bowing, they stood and made their excuses.
Esen watched them go. “Why are you wasting your time with merchants?” he said in Mongolian. “Surely one of your officials can haggle on your behalf.”
Baoxiang raised his thick straight eyebrows. The delicate skin under his eyes looked bruised. Although the studio was warm, he was wearing multiple layers: bright metallic cloth underneath, gleaming against a rich plum outer. The color gave his complexion an artificial warmth. “And this is why you know nothing about your own supporters, save that they come when you ca
ll. Do you still think of the Zhang family as no more than salt smugglers? Their general is quite competent. Only recently he took another large tract of farmland from anarchic elements. So now the Zhangs control not only salt and silk, canalways and sea lanes, but increasingly grain—all on behalf of the Great Yuan.” He fluttered a hand at the room’s handsome yellow-lacquered furniture. “Even that chair you sit on is from Yangzhou, brother. Any power with such comprehensive reach should be understood. Perhaps especially if they’re on our side.”
Esen shrugged. “There’s grain in Shanxi, salt in Goryeo. And by all accounts Zhang Shicheng is a useless rice bucket who spends his days eating bread and sugar, and his nights with Yangzhou prostitutes.”
“Well, that’s true. Which would be relevant if he was the one making the decisions. But I hear Madam Zhang is quite the force to be reckoned with.”
“A woman!” Esen said, thinking it a nice story, and shook his head.
Servants cleared the table and brought food. Despite the Prince of Henan’s punishment, there was no sign of it yet in Baoxiang’s circumstances. There was a freshwater fish soup, savory with mushrooms and ham; wheat buns and jeweled millet; more vegetable side dishes than Esen could count; and rosy red strips of brined, smoked lamb in the style of eastern Henan. Esen took a piece with his fingers before the plate had even been set down. His brother laughed, slightly unkindly. “Nobody is fighting you for the right to eat, you glutton.” Baoxiang always ate with chopsticks, swooping for morsels with an extravagant flourish that brought to mind the mating of swallows.
Eyeing the artworks as they ate, Esen said, “Brother, if you spent half as much time on swordplay as you do on books and calligraphy, you would be competent enough. Why must you persist in this war with our father? Can’t you just try to give him the things he understands?”
He got a cutting look in return. “You mean the things you understand? If you had ever bestirred yourself to learn characters, you would know there are things of use in books.”
“He is not deliberately set against you! As long as you show him enough respect to try in good faith, he will accept you.”
“Is that so?”
“It is!”
“Then more fool you to think it. No amount of practice, no matter how much I try, is going to bring me up to your level, my dear perfect brother. In our father’s eyes, I’ll always be the failure. But, strangely, despite being a coward of a Manji, I still prefer failure on my own terms.”
“Brother—”
“You know it’s true,” Baoxiang hissed. “The only thing I could do to make myself less like the son he wants is to take a beautiful male lover, and have the entire palace know he takes me nightly.”
Esen winced. Though not unheard of amongst the Manji, there was little worse for a Mongol’s reputation. He said uneasily, “At your age most men are already married—”
“Has water leaked into your brain? I have no interest in men. Certainly less than you, keeping the company of those hero-worshipping warriors of yours for months on end. Men you’ve trained personally, shaped to your requirements. You’d only have to ask and they’d willingly debase themselves for you.” Baoxiang’s voice was cruel. “Or don’t you even have to ask? Ah, you still don’t have any sons. Have you been so busy ‘doing battle’ that your wives have forgotten what you look like? And oh, that general of yours is beautiful. Are you sure your love for him is only that of a fellow soldier? Never have I seen you fling yourself to your knees quicker than when our father was set on flaying him—”
“Enough!” Esen shouted. He regretted it immediately; it was just his brother’s usual game-playing. He could feel a headache coming on. “Your anger is at our father, not me.”
Baoxiang gave him a brittle smile. “Is it?”
As he stormed off, he heard his brother laughing.
* * *
Ouyang strode into the provincial administration office in search of Lord Wang, his fist clenched around a bundle of ledgers. He was immediately assailed by the bureaucratic reek of ink, moldy paper, and lamp oil. The place was a claustrophobic maze of bookshelves and desks, and no matter how many dark little nooks he passed there was always yet another hunched official presiding over his pile of paper. Ouyang hated everything about the place. Over the past years under Lord Wang, the office had expanded its authority and multiplied officials like rabbits. Now nothing was possible without at least three seals being applied, abacuses consulted as though they were I Ching tiles, and entries made in ledgers. Every ruined horse and lost bow was owed its explanation, and getting a replacement was a process arduous enough to make a hardened warrior weep. And when you had lost ten thousand men and half as many horses and every piece of equipment they had been carrying, it didn’t bear thinking about.
For all that Lord Wang was the provincial administrator and a lord, his desk was no larger than those of his officials. Ouyang stood in front of it and waited to be acknowledged. Lord Wang dipped his brush in ink and ignored him. Even here in his office the lord’s gestures were as artificial as a dancing girl’s. A performance. Ouyang recognized it, because he performed too. He had a small body and a woman’s face, but he wore armor and lowered his voice and carried himself brusquely, and although people saw his difference, they responded to his performance and his position. But Lord Wang’s performance flaunted his difference. He invited stares and disdain. As if he likes being hurt.
Lord Wang finally looked up. “General.”
Ouyang made the least reverence that could be considered acceptable and handed Lord Wang the ledgers. Seeing all his losses laid out on paper had been confronting. With a surge of anger he thought of the rebel monk. By causing his loss, and his shaming by Chaghan, the monk had triggered the start of his journey towards his purpose. He couldn’t find it in himself to be grateful. It felt like a violation. A theft of something he hadn’t been ready to give up. Not innocence, exactly, but the limbo in which he could still fool himself that other futures were possible.
To Ouyang’s surprise Lord Wang put the ledgers aside and went back to writing. “You may go.”
Since Ouyang knew Lord Wang’s character, he had prepared himself for a confrontation. In contrast to the Prince of Henan’s efforts, it was only slightly annoying to be belittled by Lord Wang. By this point there was even a ritual quality to their interactions, as if they were acting roles in a play they were both obliged to be in. But no doubt Lord Wang’s own punishment was weighing on him.
Just as he bowed and turned to leave, Lord Wang said, “All those years of yearning, and you finally get Esen kneeling for you. Did it feel good?”
There it was. It was like he couldn’t resist. For all Ouyang understood the jealousy behind it, he still had the sick, stripped feeling of having something private and barely acknowledged to himself flung out into the cold air to wither. Lord Wang, who relished his own pain, had always known how to wound others.
When Ouyang didn’t respond, Lord Wang said with a bitter kind of understanding, “My brother’s an easy person to love. The world loves him, and he loves the world, because everything in it has always gone right for him.”
Ouyang thought of Esen, generous and pure-hearted and fearless, and knew what Lord Wang said was true. Esen had never been betrayed or hurt or shamed for what he was—and that was why they loved him. He and Lord Wang, both in their own different ways. They understood each other through that connection, two low and broken people looking up to someone they could never be or have: noble, perfect Esen.
“He was born at the right time. A warrior in a warrior’s world,” Lord Wang said. “You and I, General, we were born too late. Three hundred years before now, perhaps we would have been respected for what we are. You as a Manji. Myself as someone who thinks that civilization is something to be cherished, not just fodder for conquest and destruction. But in our own society’s eyes, we’re nothing.” Bureaucracy hummed around them, unceasing. “You and Esen are two unlike things. Don’t fool yourself that he
can ever understand you.”
Ouyang could have laughed. He had always known that Esen, like everything else one might desire in life, was out of his reach. He said bitterly, “And you understand me?”
Lord Wang said, “I know what it’s like to be humiliated.”
It was a quality of jealousy that you could only feel it for people who were like you. Ouyang could no more be jealous of Esen than he could be of the sun. But Ouyang and Lord Wang were alike. For a moment they stood there in bitter acknowledgment of it, feeling that likeness ringing through the space between them. The one reviled for not being a man, the other for not acting like one.
* * *
Ouyang made his way out of Lord Wang’s office through the maze of desks, feeling raw.
“—the invitation to the Spring Hunt has come? We’ll have them out of our hair for a while—”
The two Semu officials broke off and bowed as Ouyang passed, but he had heard enough. The Spring Hunt. The Great Khan’s annual hunting retreat, held high up on the Shanxi plateau in a place called Hichetu, was the most prestigious invitation of the calendar. Hundreds of the Great Yuan’s most notable members gathered for hunting, games, and entertainment. It was the one of the few opportunities for provincial nobles, like the Prince of Henan, to build connections with members of the Khanbaliq imperial court. Ouyang had attended once when he was twenty, when he had been the commander of Esen’s personal guards. But the next year the Prince of Henan had retired from campaigning, and since then Esen and Ouyang had always been in the south during the Spring Hunt. This would be the first time in seven years that Esen would be available to accompany the Prince of Henan to Hichetu. And it was all because of Ouyang’s defeat.
All at once Ouyang knew, deeply and unpleasantly, that none of it was a coincidence. His defeat by the monk, his shaming at Chaghan’s hands. All of it had been nothing more than the mechanistic motion of the stars as they brought him this opportunity: the path to his fate. And once he stepped upon it, there would be no turning back.
She Who Became the Sun Page 13