Breaking Bamboo

by Tim Murgatroyd

  In the centre of the sandy floor a prisoner hung by his wrists from a bamboo frame. The interrogation had already begun –and badly, by the look of it. One would hardly bother to torture the hapless artillery officer had he proved co-operative.

  Guang was surprised to find his patron, Wang Bai, seated on a high-backed chair, fanning himself though the air was cold.

  General Zheng Shun paced up and down before the prisoner, evidently displeased.

  ‘Ah, Yun Guang!’ said Zheng Shun. ‘I’m delighted to see you still alive. What happened to our friend with the scar?’

  Guang pursed his lips. Clearly the Fukkien and the other men had stuck to their story.

  ‘He died well,’ said Guang. ‘We had to take what we could get.’

  ‘Really? Well, it hardly matters. This fellow is knowledge-able enough but very obstinate. Aren’t you, dog-man?’ Zheng Shun wagged a reproving finger. ‘We’re not finished with you yet, my fine fellow!’

  Guang sat beside his patron while the interrogation proceeded. Wang Bai watched curiously, displaying no emotion.

  Pincers were applied to tender organs and Li Tse grew more amenable.

  ‘What. . . wish. . . know?’ he gasped.

  ‘How many men does A-ku field?’

  No one welcomed the figure he mentioned – or that another three divisions of ten thousand were on their way.

  ‘How many catapults?’

  Again the numbers astonished the assembled officers. Worse was the news that the enemy had almost completed the construction of a secret fleet, in the hope of closing the river as a means of supplying the Twin Cities.

  ‘I’m sure this is useful,’ said General Zheng Shun. ‘Certainly it will discourage His Excellency from another pointless attempt to break the siege. We must send more messengers to the court requesting reinforcements. Now I want my breakfast.’

  Wang Bai rose with him but waited until Zheng Shun had gone. His cold eyes found Guang.

  ‘You did well to capture this man,’ he said.

  Guang could tell the Pacification Commissioner’s nephew was shaken by what they had learned. The forces ranged against them were an endless stream, threatening to wash the Twin Cities away. Then Wang Bai’s guarded face took on an expression of wonder.

  ‘How do you achieve these exploits?’ he asked. ‘First rescuing your father, then seizing this man. . . Are you without fear? Is that the answer? Captain Xiao does not care whether he lives or dies?’

  It was the first time Wang Bai had addressed him by that title.

  ‘I am. . .’ Guang hesitated. ‘I am loyal, sir. That is all. I am loyal.’

  The word barely explained his confusion. He could not describe what drove him to recklessness. But Wang Bai seemed satisfied.

  ‘Then I expect your loyalty,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens –and I foresee strange things – do not allow it to waver from the clan of Wang.’

  With that he swept from the courtyard.

  Guang frowned. Should not His Excellency’s nephew have urged him to remain loyal to the Son of Heaven? Instead he had mentioned the house of Wang. A hoarse, hacking laugh disturbed his thoughts. The prisoner had been listening throughout their conversation.

  ‘That gentleman sniffs the wind,’ said Li Tse. ‘Cut me down, Captain Xiao! I’ll tell you more than I told the others.’

  Guang indicated it should happen, that wine be brought. The prisoner gulped down a large bowl, his throat working like a bellows. When he had finished, he glowered at Guang.

  ‘You’re the one who burned our catapults and blinded us with poison bombs. You killed General A-ku’s own cousin with your tricks. Oh, A-ku would like to have you!’

  Li Tse retched wine mingled with blood and mucus. Guang did not reply.

  ‘Let me tell you, sir,’ said Li Tse. ‘So you know what is coming. Perhaps you will let me live.’

  While Li Tse spoke, noon shadows inched across a floor covered in fine white sand to soak up the prisoner’s blood.

  *

  An hour later Guang sat in his fine pavilion, resorting to the same comfort that had made Li Tse so voluble. Only Guang did not speak his thoughts aloud. They seemed disreputable. He tried to judge the man’s story.

  Certainly it seemed credible that Li Tse had been born, as he claimed, forty years earlier, when the mighty Kin Empire fell to the Mongols after the second siege of Kaifeng. And he might well have been conscripted into the artillery. The barbarians had enlisted numerous Chinese. That was their genius, constantly learning from conquered enemies until the advantage lay entirely on their side. Several notable commanders of the Great Khan were Chinese – Guang had even heard that such generals commanded Mongol nobles in battle. All merit flowed from an officer’s usefulness; once proven, the highest positions followed.

  Guang snorted. How different from the Middle Kingdom!

  Here one must pass the Emperor’s written examinations to gain influence, just as the wise, beloved Wang Ting-bo and Wang Bai had done. Of course, birth helped. How could it be otherwise when most scholars were the sons of scholars? A mere soldier dared not hope to eclipse a scholar. Such was the natural way of their ancestors. Guang’s forehead felt pinched.

  One should not speculate too deeply.

  Could the rest of Li Tse’s story be true? He had spoken of a great army marching west to the world’s end, a hundred thousand horsemen followed by trains of vassals. So many sheep and horses they devoured the lands they passed through like locusts. Li Tse had described how they subjugated a mountainous kingdom. ‘You would not feel so sure of your walls,’ he had said, ‘if you had seen the mountain fortresses we laid waste.’

  Led by General Hulegu, they had marched to a vast city, one Li Tse called the greatest on earth.

  Guang poured and drank swiftly. Here was proof that Li Tse lied. Everyone knew the Son of Heaven’s capital, Linan, was the epitome of all cities. Outlandish lands filled with barbarians could never produce a better. Still the artillery officer had seemed definite. He had even given the place an absurd name Quagdad.

  Li Tse said the city surrendered after a short siege. Its entire populace were ordered to gather on the plain before their shattered ramparts. They had expected to be treated mercifully in return for paying homage to their new masters. When General Hulegu ordered the slaughter to begin, their wails of surprise could be heard several li away. For three days the Mongol cavalry herded and massacred the people like a vast field of deer or sheep. Li Tse witnessed it with his own eyes.

  From the way he hesitated, glancing away furtively, Guang wondered if he had played a part.

  Then the Mongols poured into the streets and burned everything they could not steal. Only a wasteland remained.

  Guang could believe the barbarians had slaughtered everyone – had he not witnessed such sights himself? But to say fifty times ten thousand had perished! The vastness of such cruelty strained the imagination.

  Silence fell on the courtyard when Li Tse finished. Guang, though uncomfortable, managed a scornful laugh. One of the attendant officials nervously asked the prisoner: ‘How are you here, if you went so far to the West?’

  Even to that Li Tse had an answer.

  ‘The Great Khan died. Most of the army returned from whence it came. It was necessary to choose the successor and every noble in the army wished to be at the kuriltai.’

  Guang looked up.

  ‘Did those Mongols left behind in the ruins of your fanciful Quagdad prosper?’

  Now it was Li Tse’s turn to look uncomfortable.

  ‘I heard they were defeated and could conquer no new lands to the west.’

  Guang slapped his knee.

  ‘That will happen here!’ he said. ‘They shall never be our masters, however many tales you tell. We are not frightened and our strength is the root of mountains. Of Mount Wadung, in fact.’

  The officials in the courtyard broke into applause at these words. But Li Tse, beaten and scarred, looked at him mockingly.

>   ‘Do not be so sure,’ he said. ‘I tell you these things so you may know the truth, Captain Xiao.’

  ‘Even if what you say is true, your friends will never reduce the Twin Cities.’

  Li Tse shook his head.

  ‘You have not seen what I have seen. Now let me live, sir.’

  Guang had risen and left without replying. He had no idea what would happen to Li Tse and did not care. For a wavering moment he wondered whether his family would survive if the Mongols triumphed. Surely Khan Bayke would track them to Apricot Corner Court. Then he ordered more wine, sending out a servant to summon Chen Song. For a long while Guang stared through the open window at passing clouds, his forehead furrowed.

  ten

  ‘Heaven has ordained that in this world there are risings and fallings. Each of the ten thousand creatures arises from the Primal Emptiness and must return there in due course. So it is with our dearest feelings. So it is when we seek to plant seeds in the earth and wait in hope for them to grow to our advantage. . .’

  From Remembrances of a Western Terrace at Twilight

  Water Basin Ward, Nancheng. Spring, 1267.

  The stars shifted and the sun grew brighter. Fish of the nibbling kind thrived in the moats of Nancheng. A patriotic recipe was invented: pike or roach barbecued on a communal cooking fire in a paste of Sichuan pepper, wild garlic and chives. Chives were everywhere. Thrifty folk sowed them on roofs layered with mud to deter fire arrows, so that high buildings resembled green hilltops.

  Mists no longer clouded the broad river. It was blossom-time, tantalisingly brief. Fruit trees planted to strengthen canal banks wore dense robes of white and pink.

  Despite the siege, people greeted spring with the same songs and rites as the year before – and a thousand springs before that. They had reason to celebrate. The first sultry rains made the river rise, covering soil and gravel banks exposed during the winter drought. As heat began to swirl, the ground before the city used for paddy fields filled with rain. Accustomed to dry steppes gnawed by wind, the Mongols suffered in the humid atmosphere. Their hardy horses fell sick, plagued by fungus round nostril, hoof, and lower orifice.

  The Twin Cities could afford to breathe more easily until autumn. They had defied A-ku’s horde for six critical months.

  Supplies remained plentiful in the huge underground granaries beneath the Prefecture. Those who had cursed the Pacification Commissioner’s nephew, Wang Bai, for impoverishing the whole province, now marvelled at his foresight.

  *

  One morning a work party of women gathered round two wheelbarrows in Apricot Corner Court. They were five in number, a lucky figure: Madam Cao, Old Hsu’s Wife, Widow Mu and her daughter, Lan Tien, as well as one who hovered on the edge of the group. While her companions exchanged jokes about watery breakfasts, this fifth woman’s expression remained stiff and aloof. Her clothes were outlandishly large for they had been borrowed from Madam Cao. Her attention was on the street, as though she feared someone might witness her disgrace. The women ignored her and noticed everything she did.

  ‘We should go now,’ said Madam Cao.

  Lu Ying hung back a moment, fiddling with her peasant’s clothes. She thrust back a straying lock of hair beneath her broad-brimmed, conical hat. When she looked up, the wheelbarrows had already left Apricot Corner Court. A long-handled hoe lay by her feet. Did they expect her to carry it? Madam Cao had told her she must justify her rations like everyone else in Apricot Corner Court. It was both a test and reproach.

  Lu Ying flushed. Oh, one who had been weighed down by the richest brocade and jade could carry anything! Nor would she be shamed now. She made an exceptionally attractive figure in plain clothes – like a new Mulan or other patriotic heroine forced to set aside her silks. Then, despite her intention to be brave, Lu Ying felt something close to despair. Why deceive herself? No one would notice her, except to mock. Perhaps it was better to be invisible like all poor, toiling folk. Yet Lu Ying feared her jade green eyes would always draw unwanted attention.

  Picking up the hoe, she shuffled after the other women. They were some way ahead. She followed with downcast eyes, occasionally glancing up at the trundling wheelbarrows. Her bound feet struggled to find balance as she carried her hoe. By the time they reached the Water Gate of Morning Radiance she was sweating and distressed. Nevertheless she met Madam Cao’s look of concern blandly. That was a kind of triumph.

  More and more she had begun to view Cao with the distaste once reserved for Wang Ting-bo’s First Wife. Lu Ying leant on the hoe, shoulders and arms aching. A sergeant descended from the Water Gate’s parapets and nodded courteously.

  ‘So you meant what you told me, Madam Cao,’ he said, examining the other women, who burrowed their gaze into the ground.

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Cao. ‘If you will allow it.’

  He pursed his lips.

  ‘It’ll do no harm. From what you say it might even do good.

  But at the first sign of trouble get back inside double-quick.’

  Madam Cao bowed respectfully.

  The procession of wheelbarrows advanced into a brick-lined tunnel cut through the earth walls, emerging on a thin strip of wasteland between rampart and river. The soldier on guard gestured Lu Ying through, then bolted the iron-fretted door behind them.

  Every place has neglected borderlands. Ground where glorious blooms might unfurl given a chance. Lu Ying realised this as they surveyed the soil before them. She recollected one of Wang Ting-bo’s concubines, a plain, unsophisticated girl with broad thighs. She had miscarried in her sixteenth year after the Governor’s attentions and been ignored ever after. Yet Lu Ying had always feared that girl, sensing her ripeness. Once she asked him about her and he had replied that her smell was displeasing. Lu Ying, with a woman’s insight, had known he was a fool. Here was one who would surely bear the sons he craved.

  Now, as Lu Ying smelt the rank, peaty earth before them, she recognised the same potential. It was an unlovely strip of land, high with weeds and wild peonies.

  Madam Cao turned to them.

  ‘We clear today,’ she said, mildly. ‘And plant tomorrow.’

  Hours of labour lay in between. Lu Ying was directed to hoe, yet found her lotus feet could not grip properly as she turned the soil. Tears of humiliation stung her cheeks, tactfully ignored by the women alongside her. They advanced across the earth in a line until she lagged behind. Soil rich with roots and grubs revealed itself to her hoe. The other women began to sing but she did not join in. Their words were strange to her. They sang as though born to it:

  Chop, chop, we clear the elms

  And pile branches on the bank.

  He neither sows nor reaps.

  How has our lord five hundred sheaves?

  He neither traps nor shoots.

  How do badger pelts adorn his courtyards?

  Those lords, those handsome lords, Need not work for a bowl of food.

  Lu Ying listened attentively. The ancient words were vulgar. She must not be moved by them, lest she became a peasant herself.

  When she glanced up, she found that Madam Cao had not joined in either. For a moment their eyes met, sharing a secret knowledge of being raised for a different place in this floating world. Then Cao cleared her throat politely and the singers fell silent.

  ‘Dr Shih says he needs mugwort and bletilla tubers. Also, big thistle and ginseng. For those herbs suppress bleeding.’

  Her gentle tone held great authority. How could it be otherwise? Of the four women she addressed, three lacked husbands, unless you counted the ghost of Mu’s spouse – as his widow obviously did.

  ‘I will ask my husband to advise us when it is best to sow,’ declared Widow Mu. ‘He will visit me in my dreams tonight.’

  ‘We shall plant them as soon as the soil is bare,’ said Cao.

  ‘And harvest them in late summer and early autumn, when the moon is auspicious.’

  Old Hsu’s Wife laughed sadly.

  ‘In the
autumn there’ll be plenty of bleeding for your herbs to cure,’ she said. ‘So we’d better grow plenty.’

  The five women toiled beneath the ramparts of Nancheng.

  The air swirled with gnats and heat. As they worked Lu Ying occasionally looked around, for she felt exposed outside the city ramparts. Further upstream, the Mongols were raising two fortresses to prevent supplies from reaching the Twin Cities by water. She could see earthen walls and hundreds of slaves swarming like ants. Across the broad river lay Fouzhou, smaller than its sister-city. It was only recently that General A-ku had established a comprehensive line of siege-works around it, declaring he considered Fouzhou to be the lips hiding Nancheng’s teeth, and that he would strip it to the gums.

  Everyone in the city knew that story. Spies and treacherous agitators circulated it at the great general’s order.

  *

  As Lu Ying’s hoe severed stems and turned sticky soil, her thoughts turned over an unexpected meeting that had occurred a few days earlier, while Madam Cao and Dr Shih were both away from Apricot Corner Court.

  A pounding on the front door of the medicine shop had made Lu Ying rise in alarm. There are many ways of knocking on a door. This knock was heavy with its own importance. She waited for Apprentice Chung to answer until it became obvious he was away with his master and that only she and Lord Yun were in residence. Lu Ying hesitated, wondering whether she should beg the old man to greet their caller, but when she checked, his room stood empty. No doubt he was hiding somewhere in Apricot Corner Court, as he often did these days, peering and muttering to himself.

  Bang. Bang. Whoever was knocking clearly had urgent business here. Lu Ying hurried from her room to the deserted medicine shop, concealing her face behind an elegant fan depicting the Moon Goddess, Cheng-he, on painted silk.

  ‘Who is that?’ she called out.

  A moment’s silence was followed by a harsh, official-sounding voice: ‘Open the door at His Excellency Wang Ting-bo’s command! I bear a message for the Lady Lu Ying!’

  Abruptly her fear melted into incredulity, then exhilaration.