by Kien Nguyen
He sank back into an armchair, exhausted. Pierre pressed down on his shoulder.
“Pray to God, my child,” he whispered. “Surrender yourself to His glory. It is His hallowed sign: in the darkest hours of death and destruction, there is new life.”
He moved toward the door.
Ánh tossed his head back and cried out, “Cha CA, where are you going?”
“To say a prayer for the health of your wife and child.”
Without leaving his chair, Ánh reached for Pierre’s elbow. “Do not leave me, please,” he begged. “I must not be alone.”
Pierre smiled.
Pierre could hear running in the hallway, the whispers of servants, and an occasional scream from Lady Jade Bình. The sounds blended into a hum as the day aged into late afternoon. Ánh drew his armchair to a corner of the room, away from the view of the open plain.
Looking out the window, Pierre said to him, “Your Highness, you must see this.”
The prince moved slowly. What Pierre wanted him to see required no spyglass.
The peasants’ female general had reappeared, her armor-clad body swaying atop her elephant. Behind her, a wall three times the size of the citadel’s entrance was rolling on logs. On it was a series of proclamations. DEATH TO THE ROYAL FAMILY AND THEIR SINFUL PAST! ERADICATE THE RULING MONARCH! FREEDOM AND HAPPINESS FOR THE PEASANTS!
As the sun reached the land behind the moving wall, the bishop saw a multitude of marching rebels: men and boys running forward with pitchforks, clubs, buckets, ropes, and torches; old farmers carrying rocks; howling girls and women with babies packed on their backs. Angrily, they charged toward the citadel. Their shouting voices created a blast that pushed the prince back several steps.
An infant’s cry rang out.
The prince whispered in disbelief, “No! It can’t be.”
Xuan entered the room. “A thousand good fortunes, Your Highness,” she said. “You have a son, a prince —”
She stopped, her mouth open as she looked past him. The peasants’ voices were drawing nearer. Pierre whirled to see what she had seen.
On the open field, the bamboo wall squeaked as it was turned around on a central pivot, revealing its opposite side to the spectators in the citadel. From the top hung the head of His Imperial Majesty King Due Tong, placed on a bamboo tray. His eyes were still half-open, blood seeped from his nostrils, and his long hair spiked through the wicker. Below it, in a row, were the heads of the seven princes, followed in two more rows by those of the high-ranking mandarins. Pierre imagined his ward’s head mounted on the wall of shame, completing the final portrait of the Nguyen bloodline.
He said to Ánh in a low-pitched voice, “If I rescue you and make you king, do I have your word you will open your country to Christianity?”
“What?” the prince whispered, unable to comprehend.
“You don’t have much time—answer me. Do you swear to have your country baptized into Christianity and guarantee safety for all missionaries during your reign and thereafter?”
“If you could save me,” cried Ánh, “my kingdom would be at your disposal.”
“Then I have your word?”
“Yes, yes! I promise.”
“Very well,” replied Pierre. “Go to the throne room now. Brother João is waiting. He knows what to do.”
“What will happen to me?”
“You and your son are the last hope of the Nguyen family. More than ever, your survival is crucial. You must go into exile and remain invisible until I am able to bring help. As soon as possible, I will take your son to Europe and plead with the king of France for military and financial support. We each face a long and difficult journey ahead. You must learn patience and wait for me.” He held the prince’s hand. “From this moment on, I will no longer be at your side to protect you. So, Your Highness, you cannot act on impulse anymore. Use your wisdom.”
He reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a velvet pouch.
Ánh took it. The shape and heaviness of the pouch told him of its content. He released the drawstring. In his hand was the royal seal of the Nguyen dynasty.
Pierre bowed and said, “Your Majesty, you chose me to safeguard this seal all these years for today. You are now king of Cochin China. The seal is yours. It is your duty to keep it. God be with you.” He made the sign of the cross over his stunned ward.
Reaching into his robe, Ánh pulled out a gold bar and a dagger. With one quick thrust, he cut the bar into two pieces and handed one to the bishop.
“Give this to my Lady Bình as a symbol of my esteem for her. Someday I will return, and these two pieces will help unite us again.”
He bolted out the door.
As he passed Xuan, he grabbed her hand and said, “You are coming with me.”
She stiffened; he put his arms around her.
“You are my concubine,” he said, touching the red mark on her cheek with tenderness.
She pushed against him.
“Please, come with me,” he pleaded. “I need you to take care of me.”
She stopped resisting.
The new king turned to Pierre. “Look after my son. Keep him from any harm. I fear if I see him now, I would not leave.”
“I will protect him just as I protected you,” replied Pierre. “I will baptize him in the name of our Father in heaven. Then he will always be watched over by his Christian God.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ánh ran down the spiral staircase and through the forbidden garden. Three hundred horsemen still guarded the collapsed throne room. He saw the glow of torches beyond the main gates, heard the voices of the Mountaineers calling out his name. Trembling, he searched the soldiers for Brother João. The monk was nowhere in sight.
He wove through the horses, determination forcing him forward. There wasn’t a face he could identify, except for that of the kitchen girl beside him. Her calm expression revealed nothing of her thoughts. Close to the other side of the crowd, a figure rushed toward him. Ánh let out a soft cry as he recognized the Dominican monk.
Brother João was dressed in the imperial robe and protective metal breastplate, adorned with the dragon symbol of the Nguyen family. It was Ánh’s ceremonial costume. He realized that Brother João was in disguise. Behind the monk stood an elephant, equipped with a two-seated throne. On one side sat the hunched form of Prince Hoàng. The other side was empty. Suddenly the prince understood the bishop’s plan.
“You must give me your helmet,” said João.
Ánh complied. His hair dropped to his shoulders.
“Why are you giving your life to save mine?” he asked.
The monk replied, almost without emotion, “I am doing penance for my grave sin and for the redemption of my soul. What is one life compared to the success of God’s mission? I will die a martyr.”
His head disappeared beneath the helmet, until only his eyes could be seen. The monk turned and mounted the great beast with the assistance of a hanging rope.
The citadel’s gate burst open with a tremendous crash. The barbarians had broken into the sacred city.
Across the back drawbridge, which led to the jungle behind the citadel, Ánh’s horse galloped at full speed. Pressed against Ánh with her arms around his waist, Xuan breathed against his nape. Brother Tiago and a dozen soldiers escorted them. Soon a flood of refugees, heading in the same direction, slowed them down.
Ánh and his convoy rode up a hill. Beyond the thick bed of grass was the Rainbow Bridge, made up of concentric bands of painted bamboo. It arched over a ravine, where a swift-moving river flowed toward the sea. The bridge was the only route from the citadel to the forest. He could hear the falling water and smell the cool mist.
If he could get across the bridge, he would be safe. Ánh thrust his heels against the horse’s belly, forcing the animal through the crowd of dazed escapees.
An arrow whistled alongside his ear and thumped into Brother Tiago ahead of him. He heard the monk’s muted cough and the t
hud of his body hitting the ground. Another arrow struck a guard on his right. And then the one on his left toppled. Ánh did not dare to look back. His companions were being eliminated in a calculated order, leaving him the last target. Whoever the bowmen were, they were exceptionally skilled. Not an arrow was wasted. He spurred his horse to its fastest gallop.
Ahead of him were two flights of steps: one leading down to the river and the other up to the bridge. He chose the second, guiding his horse to ascend the bamboo stairs. The three surviving men trailed close behind him.
The last rays of the sun reached over the crest of the trees, blinding him. When Ánh was able to adjust his vision, he saw he was at the center of the bridge, and the trees and shrubs at the edge of the forest had altered their shapes. It came to him that he was looking at a wall of peasants. Ánh halted, using both hands to steady the horse. He made a headlong turn around.
He was trapped between both ends of the bridge. Looking at him was a tall bowman, likely the one who had killed most of his men. The hunter was a muscular, dark-skinned man, with full, black, wavy hair. Ánh realized, from the legends he had heard and the skill that he had witnessed, that he was facing the notorious archenemy of the Nguyen family: the self-proclaimed Prince Thom of the rebels.
In a daze he watched them advance. No longer afraid, he felt a white-hot rage seize him.
“Get down from the horse, Xuan,” he said. “Save yourself!”
Her arms did not loosen from his waist.
“Did you hear me?” he said. “Dismount! And save yourself.”
“It’s too late. That won’t save me,” she replied.
Ánh clung to the mane of his prancing horse as he waited for the enemies to pour over him.
From the depth of the ravine, a voice shouted, “Xuan! Xuan!”
The prince was too bewildered to recognize it. But Xuan did.
She screamed, leaning over his shoulder. “Ông Tây!” she shouted back.
Ánh looked down. The water below them churned with foam. Its silver waves curled and splashed against the rocky riverbank. He saw a boat, tossing in the rushing current. A rope tied the vessel’s prow to a tree to keep it from being swept away. His stomach gave a painful squeeze, rejecting the vertical distance between him and the boat.
“Yes, it’s me, Henri,” the boatman called. “Jump! It’s your only chance.”
Ánh jerked the reins, and his horse reared upward, thrashing its two front legs and neighing. The prince sat erect.
“Hold on,” he cried to Xuan.
He felt her arms and legs clutch him. When the horse dropped back to all four hooves, Ánh gave a mighty kick into its sides to make it jump.
Together he and Xuan bounded over the bridge’s railing. It broke, and they plunged into the chasm below.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Mountaineers poured into the citadel. At the entrance, the gates had been shattered. The peasants swarmed down the main road that led to the king’s palace, turning south and sloping down to a wide moat. At the water’s edge, they were forced to stop. The curving bridge of stone that should have reached to the other side was nothing but a pile of rubble. In its place was a slender wooden plank without a rail.
Destroying the centuries-old bridge was the royal army’s final defense against the rebels. The only way for the invaders to enter the Forbidden City was to walk across this narrow board in single file. Beyond it lay the heart of the citadel, the throne room, in ruins. The fire was still smoldering. Billows of black and orange smoke tainted the hot sky.
The Mountaineers spread out along the side of the moat. None of them crossed the bridge. They waited for orders from their leaders.
From behind the throne room, an elephant lumbered forward. On its back were the two remaining members of the Nguyen family, wearing their royal armor. Flanking the animal were a few hundred imperial soldiers who had no choice but to fight their last battle. The beast bellowed its war cry.
An invisible hand parted the peasant troops, creating an open road at the center. NhCc, the peasant king, mounted high on his elephant and clad in shining iron armor, rode at the head of a caravan of warriors. Their weapons shone like a thousand bursts of the sun.
Among the vanguard, Sister Lucía straddled a gray mare alongside Father François, who rode a spirited bay. For hours she had ridden in a trance, unable to believe the devastation she was seeing, even though she had lived through the war since the raid on Kim Lai. Lady Bui, triumphant atop her beloved Mia, came abreast of the nun and smiled down at her.
“Many of our enemies are dead, Sister,” the female warrior said. “I unleashed my wrath on them. Be joyful, because your shame has been avenged.”
Lucía looked around and saw a city drenched in blood. Her heart ached for the dead and the dying. She missed the tranquillity of Lepers’ Cavern. Revenge was not her motive for traveling here. She came to see Brother João.
King NhCc turned to face his warriors.
“Welcome to Saygun,” he said. “Here lies the city of corruption and sin, where the rats of the Nguyen dynasty sat on the throne. We have killed all but the final two vermin. They will be extinguished -”
A rain of arrows poured on him, whizzing as they flew past. Some struck his armor and bounced off. The royalists had recovered the offensive.
NhCc ignored them. “I know you are tired from the long battles,” he continued. “Many of you have lost either a father, a son, or a brother. I assure you their lives were not wasted. Soon we can all plow the fields, raise the cattle, and live in peace, just as the gods in heaven have proclaimed.”
His powerful voice and the bravado of his stance amid the piercing arrows astonished the peasants. They raised their weapons in response to his speech. He barked a command. It echoed through the crowd as his words were passed from one rebel to another.
Lucía watched the men scurry into action. It took her awhile to realize what they were doing. From the rear, mangled cadavers, some missing their heads or limbs, were being passed over the army toward the moat. At the end of the line, the soldiers hurled the corpses into the water. The deep trench became a communal grave filled with arms, legs, and torsos; babies, women, and soldiers. When the mass was level with the earth, the rebels stormed across the bridge of human remains.
Like a flood they spilled through the Forbidden City, mowing down every royal soldier standing in their path. The imperial guards could neither run nor retaliate. Lucía and her warrior companions viewed the macabre performance with divergent emotions—anguish on her part, pride on theirs. She could no longer see the guards protecting the royal elephant. On its back, the two princes were swaying, stranded by the rising tide of men. They did not offer any resistance when the hands reached for them and pulled them from their throne. She watched their bodies disappear into the multitude. Twin jets of blood spurted toward the setting sun.
Two heads, one still contained in a metal helmet, were placed on bamboo trays and brought to King NhCc. General Zicheng held up the head of Prince Hoàng by his long hair and received shouts of encouragement from his fellow soldiers. The king leaned forward from his seat. He waved a finger to the severed head.
“No more opium for you,” he said.
The soldiers burst into laughter.
He turned to the general. “Show me the other.”
The warrior fumbled to remove the head from its helmet. The sun was fading fast. The earth was filled with a soft light. After a few unsuccessful tugs, he gave up and lifted the metal flap to reveal the face within. The bloody head inside the helmet stared through the opening with wide blue eyes. In the suffocating hush, Zicheng seemed confused. He looked at the king, muttered something, and shrugged.
With one look at the decapitated head, Sister Lucía fainted.
To François, the death of Brother João was a shock, but not a surprise. It could only have been a plot by Bishop de Béhaine to save thelife of his protégé, Prince Ánh. It was a ruthless stratagem, to sacrifice one of his
own priests for the sake of his mission. What happened to poor Henri? Did his novice suffer the same fate as Brother João?
The bishop’s blind devotion angered François, but it also made him wonder about his own. Would he ever give up his own life or the lives of his followers to ensure Prince Thom’s survival? The answer made him realize he did not fully belong in the world of the Mountaineers, nor anywhere else for that matter. He was a twenty-seven-year-old priest, exiled from his homeland, cast adrift in a heathen culture. Fate had made him a perpetual misfit.
Where were the fugitive prince and the bishop? Surely this time they would not be able to escape together. The bishop, a legendary foreigner, would draw attention to the prince. To stay inconspicuous, Ánh would have to travel alone or with a few loyal guards. With the Tonquinese holding the North, and the West Mountaineers holding the land between Hue and Saygun City, Ánh would have no choice but to retreat farther south.
As for the bishop, without the prince, he would never be in any real danger. The rebels would not consider him or any foreigners a threat as long as they didn’t take up arms. François expected the bishop had already vacated the citadel. Unless there was a reason for him to linger behind!
Outside the throne room, the peasant soldiers were gathering the imperial concubines, wives, and children, and dividing them into groups according to their family status. Among the court women, he saw the queen of Cochin China, disheveled but full of pride. She moved calmly in spite of the rebels’ aggression. Out of each group, the male offspring were taken from their mothers. François heard the children cry and the women scream. Beside a mountain of dead bodies, the children huddled in one another’s arms. At their captain’s order, the bowmen released their arrows. The crying stopped. Soldiers slashed their sabers into the lifeless bodies.
General Zicheng returned to bow before King NhCc. With a weary voice, he reported, “Your Majesty, all the blood relatives, wives, and concubines of the Nguyen family have been executed, except for Ánh, his wives, and one concubine. They are nowhere to be found. I was told that one of the women is pregnant. Surely they could not have traveled very far.”