The Mandate of Heaven

  ‘Ah, Hsiung! You are last to arrive.’

  Was there reproach in the chief’s voice? Hsiung’s face stiffened. He saluted with fists meeting across his chest. His glance flickered as he examined those round him: the usual assembly. Many had been loyal to Hornets’ Nest since he first earned that nickname through his prowess dismembering Mongols, an axe in each hand.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Hornets’ Nest.

  Again Hsiung saluted. ‘Those who it was right to punish have been punished!’

  The chief’s expression hardened.

  ‘Where are their heads?’

  Hsiung could hardly admit they were still attached to their owners’ necks. He had been instructed to execute some village elders who were refusing to pay Hornets’ Nest’s grain tax. They had pleaded their people would starve – and when Hsiung ransacked their houses he had to admit they were right, at least until the autumn harvest. It hardly seemed justice to starve a whole village (and Hsiung knew the horrors of famine only too well). Besides, their fawning gratitude had pleased him. Now it seemed that sparing their heads might cost his own.

  ‘I left them in the village, Sir!’ he bellowed.

  Hornets’ Nest nodded as he examined his youngest captain, smiling without a trace of warmth. ‘I have a feeling we might talk about that later,’ he said.

  Everyone in the room tried to appear inconspicuous. Hornets’ Nest’s calm was often a prelude to savage violence. This time he merely clapped. Several of his followers flinched.

  ‘No time for that now! I have special information,’ he declared. ‘Yesterday, a group of the enemy marched through Ou-Fang Village to Lingling. They will return soon with a fortune in taxes and join ships awaiting them at Yulan Port. At least, that is what they think.’

  Hornets’ Nest produced a large whisk and lazily swept away an offending mosquito.

  ‘Where may I attack them, sir?’ asked his most senior captain, a stout man with the bulbous nose of a fierce drinker, who had a reputation for leading from the rear.

  ‘At Ou-Fang Village,’ said Hornets’ Nest. ‘We shall hide in the houses and rush out.’ He laughed, signalling that everyone should join in. ‘And I’ll give them a sting!’

  The chuckling took some time to subside. Time enough for Hsiung to consider the implications of Hornets’ Nest’s plan. In military terms it was sound: surprise the enemy where their missile weapons would be least effective; trap them in a narrow space. The consequences for Ou-Fang, however, a village of seven hundred souls, would be dreadful. If the Red Turbans were victorious, a terrible retribution would follow on the assumption that the villagers had conspired with rebels. And if the Red Turbans lost, exactly the same massacre would follow. In either case, what little goodwill the rebels still retained in the surrounding countryside must surely perish with Ou-Fang Village.

  ‘Sire!’ he cried, bowing and saluting with his fists. ‘Might not the enemy fight to the end if trapped in a narrow space? Not only would our losses be high, but we might not seize the prize.’

  By this he meant the coffers of cash, gold and sundry valuables collected in taxes. Hornets’ Nest regarded him suspiciously, but did not speak.

  ‘Sire! Let us attack them in the ravines east of Yulan Port. First, they will be tired from their long march. Second, they will be tempted to abandon their duty and flee to the safety of the Port. Third, we may surprise them from the forest.’

  A few officers nodded their approval. Hsiung added hastily: ‘Sire! It was you who taught me it is a fine place for an ambush. I beg to be allowed to take the most dangerous position in the attack!’

  Hornets’ Nest relaxed a little. This was the kind of spirit he liked. Still his apparent calm was unnerving.

  ‘I will decide in due course,’ he announced. ‘Go now and prepare the men!’

  So saying, he stalked off to his personal chambers, followed by the concubine who cast a sharp, backward glance at Hsiung.

  The other officers retreated to a hut behind Hornets’ Nest’s house. Here they would drink and boast until midnight about their deeds in the coming action.

  Hsiung strode to the cave entrance and inspected the valley below. It nestled between mountain slopes, walled on three sides by cliffs draped with vines and shrubs. On the fourth side, the valley widened as it descended and twisted its way north, still overhung by precipices and greenery.

  After his defeat at the hands of Jebe Khoja a decade earlier, Hornets’ Nest had chosen to build his hideout here, attracted by its remoteness and the defensive possibilities of the cave. Certainly it was impregnable as long as one had food and brave men to defend the entrance.

  But as Hsiung’s eye descended to the valley floor he noted, for the hundredth time, the disadvantages of their position.

  The rebels had constructed a village of wood and thatch houses in the valley, packed close together and easily set alight. In addition, a large natural fissure broke the stony floor of the valley right in the centre of the village. Long ago, when a river had flowed from the cave, it had discharged itself through this fissure into an underground lake, hundreds of feet below the earth. Now the fissure was dry, save for a few trickling streams. Those brave souls who had been lowered on long ropes into the earth’s belly had reported a fairyland of crystals and frightening echoes. Some described it as the gateway to one of the Buddhist hells, hence its inauspicious name throughout Lingling County: Fourth Hell Mouth.

  Hsiung’s gaze shifted to the head of the valley where a ditch and low palisade sealed off the camp from attackers. It seemed as much trap as defence: once besieged, the rebels had no escape other than leaping into the fissure and hoping for a soft landing on the stalactites below.

  Yet no government troops had ever approached the remote hideaway. Perhaps Hornets’ Nest was right to fear nothing: he, at least, was protected by his cave and cliff. The safety of the camp below was less certain. If it perished the last ember of rebellion around Six-hundred-li Lake would fail – and, with it, Hsiung’s purpose in the world.

  As he stared gloomily, Hsiung noticed a procession of silver-backed apes following a network of ledges across the cliff face. Similar ledges ran all round the apparently impassable walls hemming the rebel village. Though he could not say why, the monkey paths seemed significant.

  At the bottom he found a single soldier waiting for him, an older man, grizzled and scarred. Perhaps his seniority in age explained why he did not bow to Captain Hsiung. Neither did the captain expect it.

  ‘Ah, P’ao,’ he said. ‘Everything as it should be?’

  Sergeant P’ao had changed little since he first adopted Hsiung ten years before. All the change was on the other side.

  ‘No,’ he grunted, ‘same as always.’

  Hsiung glanced round. Luckily no passing soldier had heard the lack of a sir.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  Spreading his hands Sergeant P’ao sighed. ‘While you were away a fever set in. See for yourself. Only don’t catch it.’

  Hsiung placed a restraining hand on P’ao’s arm and held his eye. For a moment the older man stood firm, then shrank a little.

  ‘Call me sir,’ said Hsiung. ‘Always sir.’

  A peculiar, lifeless glitter in his eyes argued against defiance.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled P’ao.

  ‘Come then,’ said Hsiung more softly, ‘show me this fever.’

  A dispiriting tour followed: filthy huts of bored, hungry men, some shivering on blankets though the day was hot. Yet Hsiung judged torpor and boredom were worse dangers. It was over a year since many had seen action.

  He strode over to the huge fissure of Fourth Hell Mouth and gazed down into the void below. Was darkness his only route of escape from this narrow, dismal valley? Unless, of course, he simply abandoned the Red Turban cause and the ever-dwindling band of rebels. Yet where could he go? Back to Hou-ming and the kindness of Deng Nan-shi? No, that way was lost forever. For a moment images of the Salt Pans filled his mind and he
began to pace angrily, one hand touching the scabbard of his sword. Back and forth before the dark fissure he paced, dreaming of revenge, until movement on the cliffs caught his attention.

  The monkeys again. How easily they swarmed from ledge to ledge! Then he had a disconcerting vision, that the monkeys were men – and men mere apes.

  ‘P’ao,’ he called. ‘Gather all those fit enough for a parade. I have work for them.’

  An hour later scores of soldiers were clambering on ledges round the three sheer cliff-faces surrounding their camp, constructing walkways between gaps with bamboo poles lashed together. All day work parties cut and carried the long saplings from groves far down the valley. Many of the men sang as they laboured. This unexpected noise brought the other officers from their hut behind Hornets’ Nest’s residence. They roared with drunken enthusiasm to see Red Turban soldiers scuttle across the cliffs like apes.

  Hsiung, hand on hips in the valley below, grinned up at them. A hot, masterful pleasure filled his soul as he watched hundreds of men obey his commands. Sergeant P’ao stayed close, looking important.

  Hornets’ Nest did not emerge that day or the next. But two young men in the gaudy clothes of city bravos visited him, travelling on foot with an escort of the rebel chief’s picked bodyguard. An hour later Hsiung watched them leave in the direction of Mirror Lake.

  He crouched in a stand of bamboo, peering down at the road to Yulan Port. Rain fell continually, dripping through the branches and turning the track below into a slick of mud. Heaven itself favoured them, for with each li of struggling through the mire, the enemy’s strength must lessen. Soon they would face a pitiless assault led by the bold Captain Hsiung.

  He glanced round to inspect the men. All lay hidden, keeping bow and crossbow strings dry. The enemy might be far away for all he knew. Patience must seep from him to his troops. Above all, he must not betray the uncomfortable, fluttering tightness in his gut in case someone called it cowardice.

  Still the rain fell. A puddle had formed on a flat limestone boulder near his hiding place and Hsiung watched drops break the surface and bounce. Exhilaration crept from suppressed corners of his soul, wild feelings he revelled in and feared. With them came unbidden images – unwelcome pictures of the past, sometimes distorted, sometimes true, if memory can be more than a flickering shadow. When the dark lights sparkled in his spirit he could hardly tell truth from dream …

  Yet he remembered a soft squelch of mud between his bare toes. Long ago. Another incarnation, surely. He had managed to evade Overseer Pi-tou and hurried through a landscape of flame and steam stretching along the lake shore. Blue fires flickered beneath giant, crystal-crusted iron pans. Everywhere the stench of raw, seeping gas. Wretches in rags huddled or toiled according to the whim of those set above them. One thought in his head: Father! He must find Father amidst this crowd of the damned. That was why he had come. To find Father and set him free. Back and forth he wandered, asking for anyone named Hsiung, searching all night until dawn returned him to his own bubbling salt pan. So exhausted, he could not dodge the sudden harsh grip on his arm, twisting him to stare into Overseer Pi-tou’s pocked face. Then came his first proper beating. Fists rising and falling while the other members of his work gang pretended to sleep. Afterwards, Pi-tou dragging his limp, cringing body into a nearby ditch …

  A noise had startled Hsiung to watchfulness. Long-legged cranes had flapped into the trees on the other side of the ravine and perched, preening themselves in the steady rain. Another memory danced behind his eyes: dusk on the great lake. Standing on the shore, gazing at the vast, burning orb of the sun as it sank behind distant mountains, setting them ablaze. Birds on the lake, chirruping and dipping and piping. Pairs of white cranes cawing and twining long necks in courtship. Lanterns twinkling far out on the waters. No fishermen dared approach the Pans, lest they be seized to replace someone worked to death. The endless peace of sunset spreading across the troubled land. Its beauty made him weep for the first time in years. And one did not weep casually in the Pans, where any sign of weakness invited aggression …

  Still the rain fell, its smell earthy yet pure … In the Salt Pans he had learned the many aromas and textures of mud: sticky, grainy, liquid. As the dark lights danced across his mind he became a youth again, pressing his forehead into soft mud at Overseer Pi-tou’s orders. A splendid palanquin surrounded by guards was bobbing past: Salt Minister Gui conducting an inspection. Involuntarily, Hsiung had looked up, searching for his old friend Sergeant P’ao in the entourage. He had not been there. Once His Excellency was past, Overseer Pi-tou set about him with a thick club for staring brazenly at superiors. As he was beaten the dark lights had appeared for the first time …

  * * *

  Hsiung felt a compulsion to rise, to display himself to any enemies. His muscles tensed, taut as bows. He mastered the impulse, aware he would betray his men’s presence when the enemy arrived. His hands shook slightly. For they were no longer gripping the hilt of his sword. They had hold of Overseer Pi-tou’s neck. A gag had been stuffed into the man’s mouth to prevent him screaming. Hsiung had him by the hair, lowering his pock-marked face towards the boiling water of a brine pan, slowly, slowly. Closer, closer. The Overseer’s terror left Hsiung shivering. Closer, closer, then up again, until, quite suddenly, he dipped his nose into the boiling brine. Just his nose! Enough for him to feel the pain and buck comically. Tiring of the game, Hsiung pushed his tormentor’s face deep into the boiling water and the dark lights danced for joy …

  ‘Hsiung! Captain! Can you not see them? They are here!’

  Sergeant P’ao was whispering in his ear. He cleared the image of the Overseer from his mind but felt sick with confusion. Was that a memory or dream? Had he really boiled Pi-tou’s face as one blanches strips of fish?

  ‘Hsiung, what is wrong?’

  Sergeant P’ao had hold of his arm, a look of fear and concern on his face. Hsiung shook him off. He was breathing heavily. The dark lights were still dancing. He focussed on the road below. The enemy column was nearly upon them, toiling through mud and rain. He did not notice or care their numbers were three times those initially reported to Hornets’ Nest. That they were trained, well-equipped soldiers set against hungry, desperate rebels. All he remembered were his orders to halt the enemy and drive them back down the ravine.

  Hsiung rose to his full height, held his sword aloft and bellowed: ‘Red Turbans! Yueh Fei!’

  At first a trickle of arrows flashed down from the ravine’s slopes. Then a steady stream. Yet Hsiung could contain himself no longer. Leaping down the slope, he rushed at the cowering guardsmen before they could form ranks, desperate to release his burden of rage. He did not hear Sergeant P’ao hollering: Captain Hsiung! Follow Captain Hsiung! His sword swung back. Descended. A man went down. Now he was ankle deep in mud. One by one, Hsiung swept clambering, slipping, screeching men aside, forcing a way into the enemy ranks.

  The executions started soon after the prisoners had been marched back to camp. There were only fifty captives, the rest of the government troops having fled or perished near Port Yulan, their stripped, beheaded corpses left in the mud.

  It was still raining when Hsiung emerged from Hornets’ Nest’s subterranean house. Slanting lines of monsoon cast a shimmering veil across the cave entrance. In the valley below Yueh Fei rebels were celebrating their first noteworthy victory in years. Rumours of the battle would spread all round Six-hundred-li Lake and far beyond: right to the Great Khan’s court in the distant capital. With it, he hoped, the name of brave Captain Hsiung. Perhaps his lost father would hear; and learn how to find his son.

  For now he was a hero. The men had chanted his name as they marched away from the battlefield. Even Hornets’ Nest had embraced him. No one doubted the rebel leader’s foremost captain now!

  Despite so much triumph, his soul and stomach sickened. Had it been necessary to torture the prisoners before throwing them into the dark fissure in the centre of the village? Or even t
o execute them? He did not care to think what his old master, Deng Nan-shi, would have called such executions. Murder, most likely.

  The majority were conscripts from Lingling with families in the limestone country. Surely it made sense to spare the officials, or at least offer them an amnesty to serve the rebel cause. How could the Red Turbans govern without officials to administer justice and tax the peasants fairly? Without scholars they would be little better than bandits.

  Hsiung rubbed weary eyes, staring out across the rain-filled valley. When he had asked Hornets’ Nest how they would spend their new wealth, whether to raise a new army or help the hungry peasants, his chief had winked. ‘It’ll do very well in my chests,’ he said. ‘Soon I’ll have enough to buy a pardon from the Great Khan!’

  Of course it was a joke. Certainly his chief had laughed. But there was no mirth in his eyes and, quite suddenly, Hsiung understood. Hornets’ Nest was a mere brigand, whatever he had been when younger. He had no intention of challenging the government forces in Hou-ming, of driving the Mongols from their province.

  His mind had reeled – and not just from the wine he had drunk. Complaining of a heavy head, he left his chief gloating while the officers toasted him until they were insensible.

  Now, in the twilit cave, images of that day’s killing and other fights as desperate and ruthless throbbed in Hsiung’s temples. He retched up a stomach load of rice wine. A familiar hopelessness, one he could only appease with action, made him yearn to be anywhere but this narrow valley. It would not be long before Jebe Khoja sought a suitable revenge for today’s work.

  When he looked up, a large round figure was emerging from the steep path leading up to the cave, half-hidden by a huge, pink umbrella. Hsiung wiped his mouth and frowned. This stranger was not so strange. He recollected the fat man who called on Deng Nan-shi ten years earlier. And the visitor recognised him, too, for he nodded solemnly: ‘Brave Captain Hsiung!’ he said, bowing with a Buddha-like smile. ‘I hoped to find you here.’