Breaking Bamboo

by Tim Murgatroyd

  After the fifteenth blow, Dr Du Mau cleared his throat.

  ‘Your Honour,’ he said. ‘As an experienced practitioner, I must advise you that the constable is beating a corpse.’

  The judge rose awkwardly, pushing back his high chair painted with images of King Chu Jiang. He glanced nervously at the crowd outside. People were peering in through the paper-curtained windows near the entrance.

  Cao felt too weak to even lift her head. Her heart beat as though it would burst, yet the rhythm in her head was of the bamboo stick rising and falling. Old Hsu’s sacrifice appalled her. She was afraid her own actions had caused his death. A gasping sob rose in her throat, yet she was too shocked to weep.

  Cao could hear voices being raised. Certainly a riot was possible when Old Hsu’s fate became known. At once she understood that Wang Ting-bo would hardly be pleased with His Honour for provoking a disturbance. The last thing the authorities needed in siege-time was public disunity. This hearing, after all, involved a relative of the Twin Cities’ beloved hero, Captain Xiao. In a flash, Cao doubted whether Wang Ting-bo even knew of Shih’s imprisonment.

  ‘We will adjourn,’ announced His Honour. ‘Carry away the old man at once. Those gathered outside must disperse.

  Summon the Captain of the Guard so he may supervise it.’

  Now it was Dr Du Mau’s turn to grow angry.

  ‘The verdict on Dr Shih is urgent!’ he declared.

  His Honour glared back.

  ‘We shall deliver our final verdict on Dr Shih in a month’s time. This hearing is over.’

  His Honour hurried out and the lowly people pressed their foreheads to the ground. Dr Du Mau followed after him, as did Chung, quickly rising to his feet so that he would not be left alone with his former master and neighbours.

  Cao watched the gaolers drag her husband away by his manacled hands. He seemed about to call out to her. Before he could speak, the door leading to the Prefectural prison closed with a bang.

  Perhaps His Honour believed no trial would be necessary in a month’s time, given the conditions Shih endured in gaol.

  Perhaps his soul would already be kneeling in another court –before the Infernal Judges of Hell.

  fourteen

  ‘Disorder is the twin

  of order.

  Fear is the twin

  of courage.

  Weakness is the twin

  of strength.

  On dreadful ground,

  hasten somewhere safer.

  On death ground,

  fight. . .’

  From The Art of War by Sun-tzu

  The Yangtze, Eastern China. Summer, 1267

  The Winged Relief Fleet floated on the mighty Yangtze. An Immortal, flying across Heaven, could have counted two hundred craft bobbing like water dragons on the silver ribbon below.

  But dragons have wings to carry them across the Eight Directions. These ships possessed oars and stiff bamboo sails, paddlewheels driven by the hopes of a generation. Winged dragons are free to choose any roost. These ships shared one route – whether to glory or destruction no one could say.

  Guang sat in the prow of an eight-oared barge, accompanying his patron, Wang Bai, to a vital ceremony. Their desperate attempt to re-provision the Twin Cities depended on securing Heaven’s favour through a properly conducted rite. The light craft passed between merchant junks so laden with supplies they rode low in the water. Sailors and soldiers watched the progress of Wang Bai’s barge from high rails and painted fore-castles, noting the Wang clan’s standard of three yellow chrysanthemums. A pair of shrieking gulls fought over scraps thrown from a war junk. When the oars dipped they released a clean river smell and trails of bubbles.

  Guang noticed these small things. He remembered a poem by his illustrious ancestor where a river clearly represented love.

  Tender feelings seemed weakness in days like these, and no less precious for that. He glanced with brooding eyes at Wang Bai who was staring straight ahead, long-nailed hands hidden in trailing sleeves. Ever since the secret message to Mah-Chu in the capital, his patron had avoided private conversation.

  Sometimes he caught Wang Bai examining him in a calculating way.

  Soon they reached the flagship of the fleet, a huge floating castle, three stories high. It was armed with a dozen catapults and devices for flaming naphtha, giant crossbows and a crew hundreds strong. An Imperial standard flew bravely from the topmost deck. Now Prefect Wang Bai deigned to look at Guang.

  ‘I would advise you,’ he said, quietly. ‘Do exactly as I do, however unconventional my actions may seem.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘Let it never be said that the Wang clan does not reward its followers.’

  Guang frowned at these strange words but followed Wang Bai up a wooden ladder to the topmost deck of the floating castle. A number of high officials had gathered, accompanied by magicians and soothsayers from the Imperial Bureau of Divination. To the side, wearing a mild smile, stood a slight, elderly figure in unpretentious robes. Guang recognised him as the new Supreme Pacification Commissioner for Nancheng Province, appointed to oversee Wang Ting-bo.

  Wang Bai directed a look of barely-concealed scorn at the placid old man. Then his features smoothed.

  The rites commenced with loud chanting and the banging of gongs to scare away hostile spirits. A white banner with shen painted upon it fluttered from a mast, indicating the cardinal point of the ceremony. A white goat was sacrificed on an altar with nine sides and nine arrows were fired west. Magicians read the shapes of clouds, muttering among themselves. Finally, the admiral of the fleet proceeded from the lower decks in white robes.

  Guang blinked at the sight and could not help smiling, despite the importance of the occasion. For Admiral Qi-Qi made an incongruous figure in splendid silks. He had been commanded to lead the Relief Fleet up the Yangtze and Han River, an appointment of excellent wisdom, for no one knew the confused waterways leading to the Twin Cities better.

  Yet when Admiral Qi-Qi took out the leaf-shaped ritual knife to behead a white cock upon the altar, his long robe caught on a splinter in the deck and he stumbled. Everyone gasped in horror. Guang, who stood nearby, lunged forward to steady him. He also momentarily lost his balance, though he kept the admiral upright.

  The latter went quite pale. Well he might. Such a slip was a message from Heaven.

  After the ceremony, Guang and Qi-Qi found time to draw apart from the others. The magicians and officials were drinking Five Blessings Wine to toast the Son of Heaven. The two soldiers met each other’s eyes candidly.

  ‘I slipped,’ said Admiral Qi-Qi.

  His face was still pale. It was noticeable that the soothsayers drew away from him when he came near, lest he infect them with bad luck.

  ‘It was nothing!’ declared Guang.

  ‘Ah,’ said Qi-Qi sorrowfully. ‘You are kind. I fear there are some who will rejoice that Heaven sent so clear an indication of my ruin.’

  He glanced over at the Excellent Wang Bai, who stood near the altar, listening attentively to everything the new Supreme Pacification Commissioner said. Guang would have liked to deny his patron was capable of such feelings, but he was an honest man, so he said: ‘In steadying you, I slipped a little, too.

  We share the same fate and will deny it together!’

  Zheng Qi-Qi smiled.

  ‘You’re a good sort, Yun Guang,’ said the admiral. ‘And you have grown in stature since the siege began. One day you will no longer need the Wang clan. . .’

  He was interrupted by Wang Bai approaching the new Pacification Commissioner, to offer a perfunctory bow.

  ‘Sir,’ he drawled. ‘Which is to be your honoured flagship?’

  The old official smiled toothily.

  ‘I did intend to use this fine vessel,’ he said, indicating the floating castle on which the rites had been conducted. ‘But Admiral Qi-Qi has advised me to join him on his own craft. It is a great secret, seemingly. For the Mongols will believe I am here, when really I am th
ere.’

  Wang Bai nodded.

  ‘I see, Your Excellency,’ he said, then withdrew.

  Later, on board their paddle-wheel destroyer, Guang observed Wang Bai whispering to a merchant dressed in grey silks who had been allowed on board by special permission.

  The merchant hurried off and took a rowing boat back to Jiankung. Guang turned away, wondering what such a conference might mean. Wang Bai, like many scholars and aristocrats, was fastidious about shunning the shang, or merchant classes. Except, of course, for the sake of profit.

  ‘Commander!’ called a sharp voice. Guang turned to meet the glint of his patron’s bright eyes. ‘If you had not tried to steady that fool Zheng Qi-Qi you would not have stumbled. As it is, Heaven has infected you with his misfortune. Therefore, keep your distance from him. I believe he will never return to Nancheng.’

  Guang bowed obediently. Yet his heart revolted against Wang Bai’s prudence.

  *

  A week later, the Ineffable Winged Relief Fleet reached the confluence of the Yangtze and Han rivers. They had been treated like heroes in town after town on the way. Every ship in the fleet wore crowns of wilting flowers. Some places they passed hired orchestras to play martial themes on the shore.

  Others sent out gifts of food and drink, as well as lucky banners petitioning Heaven to reward its Chosen Son, for none of the local officials dared appear disloyal. Always there had been flowers plaited to form fortunate characters or loaded in baskets woven from reeds.

  Guang observed such outbursts of revelry with mixed feelings. So obvious was the Relief Fleet’s progress that surprise was impossible. He knew from past experience the Mongols were capable of deadly preparations. Another part of him wished that these people, so willing to feast and toast in opposition to the great Khan, would take up halberds and crossbows instead. He confided this doubt to Chen Song.

  ‘One could arm the peasants and merchants as you suggest,’

  said his friend. ‘But they would mill around in confusion. His Imperial Majesty lacks advisers capable of mobilising the people’s zeal!’

  He had rarely seen his friend so earnest. Guang felt a deep confusion, one he dared not speak aloud. And so, he did not reply.

  The meeting place of the Han and Yangtze rivers was a water country of wide lakes and flooded rice fields. Despite its strategic importance only a small fortress stood there. It was assumed the Mongols would never manage to advance beyond the Twin Cities. Guang watched flocks of white seabirds on sandbank islands, envying their freedom. Compared to the vast, ever flowing waters on which they floated, the Ineffable Winged Relief Fleet seemed insignificant. So intense were his feelings that he did not notice the Excellent Wang Bai’s approach.

  ‘Yun Guang,’ said Wang Bai, softly. ‘I am glad to find you without your shadow.’

  ‘Chen Song is inspecting one of the other ships in the flotilla, sir,’ said Guang. ‘At my instructions.’

  Wang Bai looked at him sharply.

  ‘I believe you to be an intelligent man. Indeed, one who will prove useful to my family when all the threads of these days have unravelled. Is my faith misplaced?’

  ‘I do not understand, sir,’ said Guang. ‘You must be more plain.’

  Wang Bai smiled sadly.

  ‘We all become things we never expected,’ he said. ‘So it is from early childhood. One cannot deny the common fate. But I will speak plainly, as you ask. At dawn I must leave this fleet and travel overland back to Nancheng. I advise you to join me.

  I fear the Ineffable Winged Relief Fleet will never reach the Twin Cities. It has another destiny.’

  Guang shook his head in wonder.

  ‘Does the new Supreme Pacification Commissioner know of your decision?’ he asked.

  ‘No, and nor shall he, until I have gone. I take it I may rely on your discretion?’

  Guang nodded reluctantly. Wang Bai’s action might be called desertion, even cowardice. He could not comprehend his noble patron’s motives.

  ‘So you will accompany me?’ asked Wang Bai.

  ‘Sir,’ said Guang, unable to meet his patron’s eye. ‘I cannot do as you suggest. It is not. . .’

  He meant to say ‘loyal’ – to comrades and friends, to the Son of Heaven himself. But he did not wish to diminish Wang Bai’s face. Yet for the first time he considered his patron as someone new – the vile word coward hovered at the corners of his mind.

  Wang Bai sighed.

  ‘I suspected you would choose what you have chosen. Are you not Captain Xiao, after all?’

  Guang stiffened and Wang Bai smiled mirthlessly.

  ‘I do not mock you!’ he said. ‘Indeed, I envy your noble simplicity. Goodbye, Captain Xiao.’

  To Guang’s surprise, Wang Bai ruefully nodded his head. It was a small movement. Not a proper bow. Yet it spoke more than ten thousand characters.

  Guang slept as usual beneath the stars, covered by a single quilt. When he awoke, dawn mists filled the river. He found that Wang Bai had left the paddle-destroyer with a small escort of his closest servants, leaving the Wang family banners at the prow and stern. Guang chose to let them remain. After all, one might as well die beneath the flag of a Wang as a Son of Heaven.

  Paddle wheels churned and oars rose. The Winged Relief Fleet entered the gauntlet of the Han River, advancing towards the Twin Cities. Guang watched for traces of his patron on the shore. The land was a vast confusion of villages, lakes, paddy fields, low hills and terraces. Peasants were specks. Wang Bai had vanished altogether.

  *

  ‘You should report his defection!’ insisted Chen Song.

  ‘That is too harsh a word,’ replied Guang. ‘And unjust.’

  Chen Song shook his head.

  ‘He has abandoned his duty!’

  ‘How so? His mission was to advise the court of our plight.

  No stipulation was made of returning to the Twin Cities by ship, rather than overland. He can hardly be called a traitor for that. And he is not yet under the new Supreme Pacification Commissioners’ jurisdiction, which does not come into force until we reach Nancheng.’

  ‘An unpleasant word might be used,’ muttered Chen Song.

  ‘One fatal to his honour.’

  To this Guang had no reply.

  ‘Thankfully the new Supreme Pacification Commissioner is made of sterner stuff,’ continued Chen Song. ‘Of course the Wang clan hopes he will never arrive in Nancheng. Their authority in the province will be greatly damaged when Wang Ting-bo is no longer in charge.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Guang.

  He nodded courteously to his friend and departed to inspect the readiness of the marines and catapults. It was nearly midnight. They had travelled up the Han River for three days and were within another day’s sailing of Nancheng.

  Early that evening, as dusk released clouds of mosquitoes, Admiral Qi-Qi called a meeting of commanders on his flagship.

  No one remarked upon Wang Bai’s absence. After all, he was a civilian rather than military official and so might view a conference of war as beneath his dignity. Certainly the new Pacification Commissioner did not stoop to attend.

  ‘Meticulous timing is necessary to prise apart the jaws clamped round the Twin Cities,’ declared Admiral Qi-Qi.

  ‘Once the Relief Fleet has burst through General A-ku can gnash his teeth in rage.’

  He ordered that they must arrive at sunset, when the Mongol artillery and crossbowmen would be hampered by poor visibility. Qi-Qi then unrolled a map, showing the twin fortresses constructed by General A-ku on either side of the river, a few li downstream from the Twin Cities. ‘These are their fangs,’ he said. ‘Yet if we are swift, their catapults will only sink a few vessels. The rest of us will assuredly reach our destination.’

  The other commanders were silent as he concluded. Perhaps they wondered if their own ships would perish. More fearful than drowning was the prospect of capture; the inevitable march north to a lifetime of dishonour and drudgery in a mine, ne
ver to see one’s parents or ancestral shrine again. Suicide was obviously preferable.

  At last Guang spoke up: ‘The enemy have assembled a fleet of their own. I believe they will be deployed against us where the river is broadest. Our vessels are heavy and theirs are light craft, easily rammed and sunk. Hence they will seek to harry us like wolves running round a herd of deer.’

  ‘That is quite certain, though their navy is small,’ replied Admiral Qi-Qi. ‘I advise a good night’s sleep. If Heaven favours us, we shall drink the ritual wine of happiness in Nancheng tomorrow evening!’

  No one mentioned that Heaven had showed little favour when the Admiral’s robe snagged on a splinter.

  Guang usually slept fitfully before battle. Many around him found no sleep at all. Low conversations and the creak of footfalls on deck carried across the still water. A bamboo flute uttered mournful trills like a grieving nightingale.

  His paddle-wheel destroyer had been positioned in the vanguard of the fleet, for it was large and well-armed. When he glanced back from the raised stern he saw a tangle of black shapes silhouetted by the east: raised oars and masts; wooden turrets floating on blocks of shadow; lines of red and blue lanterns like fire-flies.

  Tens of thousands manned these ships – sailors and soldiers, merchants and craftsmen. The new Supreme Pacification Commissioner was accompanied by scores of handpicked officials, ready to replace laggards and incompetents in Wang Ting-bo’s administration.

  Tomorrow all this weight of wood and metal and human flesh must be propelled through a rain of hostile missiles. If the Relief Fleet ground to a halt, they would be lost. If they became entangled with the Mongol river fleet, they would be lost. If the enemy had somehow managed to obstruct the river, ship upon ship would pile up stern to prow – and they would be lost.