Sun Quan followed this advice and sent an envoy on a peace mission to Cao Cao’s camp, pledging to yield an annual tribute. Knowing that the south was too strong to be overcome in a short time, Cao Cao consented. But he insisted that Sun Quan should withdraw first before his departure for the capital. The envoy returned with this message, and so Sun Quan left for his headquarters in Moling with the greater part of his army, leaving only Zhou Tai and Jiang Qin to hold Ruxu. Afterwards, Cao Cao left Cao Ren and Zhang Liao in charge of Hefei, while he set off for the capital.
Shortly after his return, all the civil and military officials of the court began to talk about his promotion as Prince of Wei. Only Minister Cui Yan spoke strongly against this.
“Have you forgotten the fate of Xun Yu,” warned his colleagues.
“Such times! Such deeds!” cried Cui Yan in a rage. “But this is rebellion and I will have no part in it!”
An enemy of his told Cao Cao of his words, and Cui Yan was thrown into prison. At his trial he glared like a tiger and his very beard curled with contempt—he kept cursing Cao Cao as a wicked rebel who’d betrayed his Emperor. The interrogating magistrate reported his conduct to Cao Cao, who ordered Cui Yan to be beaten to death in prison.
In the fifth month of the twenty-first year of the period of Jian An (A.D. 216), a memorial signed by the court officials was presented to Emperor Xian, proposing that Cao Cao be granted the title of prince for his manifest merits and signal services to the state, exceeding those rendered by any minister before him. The memorial was approved, and a draft edict was prepared. Thrice Cao Cao with seeming modesty pretended to decline the honor, but thrice was his refusal rejected. Finally he made his obeisance and was bestowed the title of “Prince of Wei.” To match his new status he was given special privileges, which included a headdress with twelve strings of beads; a chariot with gilt shafts drawn by six steeds; the use of the imperial carriage with all its pomp and dignity, while the roads were cleared whenever the carriage passed along. A palace was also to be built at Yejun for his use.
Then he began to discuss the appointment of an heir apparent. His first wife, of the Ding family, was without child, but a concubine had borne him a son, Cao Ang, who had been killed in battle when he was at war with Zhang Xiu. A second concubine, of the Bian family, had borne him four sons: Pi, Zhang, Zhi, and Xiong. Therefore he elevated her to the rank of princess-consort in place of Lady Ding. The third son, Zhi, also known as Zi-Jian, was a very talented young man and a fine writer. Cao Cao intended to name him as his heir. The eldest son, Cao Pi, afraid that he might be denied his right of primogeniture, sought advice from Jia Xu, who taught him how to win his father’s heart. Thereafter, when bidding farewell to his father before he went on military expeditions, Cao Pi would weep so copiously that the courtiers present were all deeply affected; while his brother Cao Zhi would extol his father’s merits and virtue in refined language.
Noting the difference in the behavior of his two sons, Cao Cao began to think that the third son was perhaps too crafty and not as devoted to him as his eldest son. Furthermore, Cao Pi also bought over his father’s immediate attendants, who then tried their best to praise his virtue to their master. But Cao Cao was still undecided as to which of the two to name as his heir and he brought the matter to his trusted advisor Jia Xu.
“I would like to name my heir—who do you think is more suitable?”
Jia Xu did not reply, and Cao Cao asked him why.
“I was just recalling something in the past and could not reply at once,” said Jia Xu.
“What was on your mind?”
“I was thinking of Yuan Shao and Liu Biao and their sons.”
Cao Cao laughed, for he had taken the hint in Jia Xu’s answer. Soon after this, he declared his eldest son his heir.
In the tenth month the construction of the palace for the new Prince of Wei was completed and the furnishing began. Rare flowers and uncommon trees from all parts of the land were collected to beautify the gardens of the palace. One agent was sent to Wu and saw Sun Quan, to whom he presented Cao Cao’s letter requesting that he be allowed to proceed to Wenzhou to get oranges. At that time, Sun Quan was trying to win Cao Cao’s favor, so from the orange trees in his own city he picked forty dan* of very fine fruit and sent them immediately to Yejun.
On the way, the weary bearers of the oranges stopped at the foot of a hill to have a rest. There came along an elderly man, blind in one eye and lame in one leg, who wore a Taoist headdress of white rattan and a black loose robe. He saluted the bearers and stayed to talk.
“Your must be weary carrying these heavy burdens,” he said. “Let me help each of you carry a while. What do you say?”
Naturally they were very pleased, and the amiable Taoist bore each load for five li. To their great surprise they found that their burdens became lighter after the Taoist had carried them. Before he left the Taoist said to the man in charge of the party, “I am from the same village as the Prince of Wei. My name is Zuo Ci and my Taoist appellation is Black Horn. When you see the prince you can tell him that I, Zuo Ci, send him my regards.”
With a flick of his sleeves he went away. In due course the orange bearers reached the new palace and the oranges were presented. But when Cao Cao peeled one open he found it was just an empty shell—there was no pulp beneath the rind. Cao Cao, shocked at this, called in the bearers, who told him of the mysterious Taoist they met on the way. Cao Cao, however, did not believe their words.
But just then the gatekeeper came in to tell him that a Taoist called Zuo Ci wished to see him.
“Send him in,” said Cao Cao.
“He is the man we met on the way,” said the bearers when the Taoist appeared.
Cao Cao said curtly, “What sorcery have you been exercising on my beautiful fruit?”
“How could such a thing happen?” said the Taoist with a laugh.
Then he cut open several oranges and showed them to be full of pulp, most delicious to the taste. But when Cao Cao cut open the oranges they were again devoid of any pulp.
Cao Cao was more perplexed than ever. He allowed his visitor to be seated and inquired of the reason. Zuo Ci asked for wine and meat, which were then brought before him. The Taoist ate ravenously, consuming a whole sheep, and drank five dou* of wine. Yet he showed no sign of being excessively stuffed or drunk.
“By what magic is this?” asked Cao Cao.
“I once went into the Emei Mountains† where I studied the Way of Taoism for thirty long years. One day I heard my name called from out of the rocky wall of my cave. I looked, but could see no one. The same thing happened for several days. Then suddenly one day, with a roar like thunder, the wall split asunder, and I saw a sacred book in three volumes called The Supreme Book of Magic. From the first volume I learned to ascend to the clouds astride the wind, and to sail up into the great void itself; from the second to pass through mountains and penetrate rocks; from the third, to become invisible at will or change my shape while traveling over the four seas, and to decapitate a man from a distance with a flying sword or dagger. Your Highness has reached the acme of glory—why not withdraw from your position now and come with me to the Emei Mountains to learn the Taoist wisdom? I will bequeath my three volumes to you.”
“Often have I reflected upon this course but what can I do? There is no one to maintain the government,” replied Cao Cao.
“There is Liu Bei, a scion of the imperial family. Why not make way for him?” said Zuo Ci. “If you do not, I will send my flying sword after your head.”
“So you are one of his spies,” said Cao Cao, suddenly enraged.
He ordered his guards to seize him, but the Taoist only laughed. And he continued to laugh as they dragged him down and beat him cruelly. But when they looked at their victim they found him sound asleep, as if he felt no pain whatsoever.
This enraged Cao Cao still more. He ordered the guards to throw the Taoist priest into prison and put a large wooden collar around his neck, secur
ing it with nails and chains. But the jailers who watched over him soon noticed that the collar and chains had fallen off while the victim lay fast asleep, not injured in the least.
For seven days they locked him up in prison without giving him any food or water, yet at the end of the week they found him sitting upright on the ground looking rosy-cheeked, the very image of health itself.
The jailers reported this to Cao Cao, who had the prisoner brought before him and questioned.
“I can go without food for dozens of years,” said the Taoist, “or eat a thousand sheep in a day.”
Cao Cao was at the end of his resources, unable to prevail against such a man.
That day there was to be a great banquet at the new palace, and guests came in crowds. When the wine cups were passing freely, suddenly the same Taoist appeared in wooden clogs. All faces turned in his direction, surprised and bewildered. Planting himself in front of the great assembly, the Taoist said, “Your Highness, here you have an abundance of delicacies on the table and a glorious company of guests. Now there are many rare and beautiful objects from various parts of the world. Is there anything lacking on your table? Just name it and I will get it for you.”
Cao Cao replied, “Yes, I want a dragon’s liver to make soup—can you get that?”
“Where is the difficulty?” replied the Taoist.
With a writing brush the Taoist immediately drew a dragon on the whitewashed wall of the banquet hall. Then he flicked his sleeve over it and the dragon’s belly opened of itself, from which he took out the liver all fresh and bleeding.
“You had the liver hidden in your sleeve,” said Cao Cao, incredulous. “Then there will be another test,” said the Taoist. “It is winter and every plant outside is dead. What flower would you like? Name any one you fancy.”
“I want nothing but peony,” said Cao Cao.
“That is easy,” answered the Taoist.
At his request the attendants brought in a big flower pot, which they placed in full view of the guests. Then the Taoist sprinkled some water over it, and instantly up came a peony with two fully blooming flowers. The guests were astonished, and they asked the Taoist to be seated and gave him wine and food. Presently a fish dish was brought onto the table.
“We need the perch of the Pine River to make this dish taste best,” said the Taoist.
“How can you get such a fish a thousand li away?” asked Cao Cao.
“What is so difficult?”
He had rod and hook brought to him, went down to the pond below the banquet hall, and very soon dozens of beautiful perch lay on the steps.
“I have always kept these in my pond, of course,” said Cao Cao.
“Do you think you can deceive me? All perch have two gills except those from the Pine River, which have two pairs. That is their distinguishing feature.”
The guests crowded round to look, and, surely enough, the fish had four gills.
“To cook this perch one needs purple sprout ginger, though,” said the Taoist.
“Can you also produce that?” asked Cao Cao.
“No problem.”
He told the attendants to bring in a golden bowl, which he covered with his robe. In no time the special kind of ginger filled the bowl, and he presented it to the host. Cao Cao put out his hand to pick some, when suddenly a book appeared in the bowl. The title was Meng-de’s New Treatise, which was the very book he had written on the art of war and later burned. He took it out and read it. Not a word of his treatise was missing.
Cao Cao was mystified. The Taoist took up a jade cup that stood on the table, filled it with fine wine and presented it to Cao Cao.
“Drink this and you will live a thousand years.”
“Drink it first yourself,” said Cao Cao.
The Taoist took the jade pin from his headdress and made a slit in the cup, dividing the wine into two portions. Then he drank one half and handed the cup with the other half to Cao Cao, who angrily refused it. The Taoist then threw the cup into the air, where it was transformed into a white turtledove, which circled around the banquet hall.
All faces were turned upward following the flight of the bird, and so no one had noticed the departure of the Taoist. But he was gone—and soon the gate warden reported that he had left the palace.
Cao Cao said, “A wizard like this must be put to death or he will do some mischief.”
The redoubtable Xu Chu and a company of ironclad cavalry were dispatched to arrest the Taoist. At the city gate they saw the Taoist not far ahead, still wearing his wooden clogs and walking along at a leisurely pace. Xu Chu dashed after him, but swift as he galloped, he could not catch up with the Taoist. He kept up the chase right to a hill, where he saw a shepherd lad with a flock of sheep. The Taoist walked into the sheep, and there he simply vanished. Cao Cao’s angry henchman slew the whole flock of sheep and went back, leaving the poor lad weeping bitterly beside his slain sheep.
Suddenly the boy heard a voice from one of the severed heads, telling him to replace the heads on the bodies of his sheep. Terrified, the lad covered his face and fled. Then he heard a voice calling to him from behind: “Don’t run away—you’ll have your sheep again.”
He turned, and lo! The sheep were all alive again and the Taoist was driving them along. The boy was about to ask him how he did that, when the Taoist, with a flick of his sleeves, was gone from sight.
The shepherd went home and told all these marvels to his master, who daring not conceal the truth, reported it to Cao Cao. Then sketches of the Taoist were posted everywhere with explicit orders to arrest him. Within three days, three or four hundred suspects had been arrested in the city and beyond, each of them being blind in one eye, lame in one leg, and wearing a rattan headdress, a black loose robe, and wooden clogs. They were all alike and all answered to the description of the missing Taoist.
The news caused a great sensation in the city. Cao Cao ordered his officers to sprinkle the gathered Taoists with the blood of pigs and sheep to exorcise the witchcraft and then take them away to the drill ground in the south of the city. There he himself led five hundred guards to surround the throng of the arrested and slew them all.
However, after the head was severed, from the neck of each one there flew up a wreath of black vapor, and all these wreaths converged in the air into the image of the real Taoist, who summoned to him a white crane out of the sky and mounted it. Clapping his hands, he cried merrily, “The rats of the earth follow the golden tiger, and the doer of evil will perish in a single day.”
The officers were ordered to shoot arrows at both the bird and man. At this a tremendous gale rampaged, sending stones and sand whirling in the air. And an even more incredible thing happened. All the corpses suddenly jumped up from the ground, each holding his own head in his hands, and rushed toward the hall as if to strike Cao Cao. His officers and advisors covered their eyes, too frightened to take care of their master.
The power of a wicked minister will overturn a state,
The mystical craft of a Taoist produces wonders great.
The fate of Cao Cao will be told in the next chapter.
Footnotes
* One dan is equal to 100 catties, or 110 lbs (50 kilograms).
* One dou is equal to ten sheng, or two gallons (ten liters).
† A famous mountain in modern Sichuan, one of the four Buddhist mountains in China.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Guan Lu Divines by the Book of Changes
Five Loyal Souls Die for Their Country
The sight of the corpses of the slain rising to their feet in the gale and running toward him was too much for Cao Cao, and he collapsed to the ground. Presently the wind subsided and the corpses disappeared. His attendants helped Cao Cao inside, but the fright resulted in a serious illness.
A poem was written to praise the mystic Taoist:
He studied his magical books,
He was learned in mystical lore,
And with magical fleetness of foot
The mystic arts that he knew,
He employed in an earnest essay
To reform the bad heart of Cao,
But in vain; Cao held to his way.
Cao Cao’s illness seemed beyond the art of the physicians or the power of drugs. At this time an official called Xu Zhi came from the capital to visit the Prince of Wei at his new palace and was asked to divine by the Book of Changes.*
“Your Highness, have you ever heard of Guan Lu, the man who is most gifted in the skill of divination?” asked Xu Zhi.
“I have heard of him, but I do not know how clever he is. Tell me about him,” replied Cao Cao.
“He is a native of Pingyuan, ugly and coarse in appearance and lives a rather dissipated life, often indulging himself in drinking. His father was once chief of Jiqiu in the Langye district. As a lad Guan Lu loved to study the stars, staying up all night to watch them, in spite of the prohibition of his parents. He used to say that if domestic fowls and wild geese knew the seasons instinctively, how much more should a man know. While playing with other boys he would draw pictures of the sky on the ground, putting in the sun, moon, and stars. When he grew older he understood the Book of Changes very well and could predict accurately by observing the directions of the winds. He was a marvelous mathematician and excellent physiognomist.
“His fame reached the ears of the Prefect of Langye, who called him to his residence for an interview. There were present some hundred or so other guests, every one of them an able speaker.
“‘I am young and lack courage,’ said Guan Lu to the prefect. ‘Could you give me three sheng (liters) of good wine to loosen my tongue?’
“The prefect was surprised at the request, but he had the wine brought to him, and when he had drunk it, Guan Lu asked the prefect, ‘Are these gentlemen seated here going to debate with me?’
The Three Kingdoms Volume 2 Page 49