The Mandate of Heaven

‘Of course,’ said Hsiung, wondering what part of it had been unclear.

  Now P’ao bowed with a trace of fear.

  ‘You are right, sire!’ he said. ‘We have been too soft! Best make them dread your name!’

  ‘Except for those who surrender,’ added Hsiung, but P’ao had already hurried off to check the ranks.

  Chao and Hua hovered nearby, holding looted weapons.

  ‘You’ll need those, my friends,’ said Hsiung. ‘Show us the quickest way to the harbour.’

  ‘Yes, Noble Count!’ declared Chao.

  The next hour blurred in Hsiung’s memory: marching at the head of the Guards, cutting down any who crossed their path with extravagant lunges of his halberd. Everyone was a potential enemy now. The Guards swept down the central street of the town to the harbour, surprising a force of sailors and soldiers forming up on the long quay for a counter-attack. Most were still drunk, many barely dressed. At the sight of the dense column chanting Yueh Fei! Yueh Fei! half scattered like rats – leaping into ships and desperately trying to cast off, hiding in alleyways or buildings. The rebel column rushed onto the quay and a pitiless fight followed. The ground and wooden jetties were soon littered with corpses; everywhere terrified men were hunted and hacked, pleading for mercy or striking back until courage or strength failed them.

  Hsiung and his bodyguard rapidly dispatched a huddle of Mongol officers and he stood regaining his breath, an unnatural grin on his face. He had proved his strength! No less than two of the officers had fallen to his halberd strokes. How much simpler to fight than hear tiresome petitions and windy speeches! Then Hsiung’s joy subsided. His precious Guards were spread all over the harbour, oblivious to the commands of their officers. One man tore the silks off a dead military official, entering into a fierce tug of war with a comrade until the garment ripped in two.

  ‘P’ao!’ he called. ‘Jin! Reform the companies!’

  Even P’ao had disappeared up a side street. Several of his picked bodyguard were missing – and he could not assume they had succumbed to anything more deadly than looting.

  ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘Hey! You over there! Form up beside me!’

  With the helpless panic of a parent who has lost his small child in a crush, Hsiung realised he had lost control of his men. Wheeling, he faced the town. Shrieks filled the air like the crying of gulls. Heaven alone knew what cruelties were being enacted in the name of Yueh Fei. Worse was his own urge to discard the restraints of command and stalk into town himself, sword drawn. An imagined face – or remembered, it did not matter, nothing mattered – a face like Overseer Pi-tou’s loomed in his mind, pleading as Hsiung’s thumbs found eyeballs and pushed into the softness, pushing and reaching in behind … ‘No,’ he told himself, looking round at the shabby wooden buildings of Chenglingji.

  Hsiung turned towards the fleet tethered all over the harbour, hundreds of masts and as many hulls weighed down with precious salt. If he did not regain command soon they might slip their moorings and escape. Already boats had cast off, manned by the remnants of their crews.

  ‘To me, Guards! Line up!’ He seized any rebel soldiers who came near, shoving them into a ragged line. ‘Sergeant, gather those men over there!’

  Meanwhile the screams from the town continued as dawn became broad morning. Hsiung watched the first plumes of smoke rise. Burning down houses exceeded orders! Victory like this felt oddly like misrule, absurdly like defeat. So much so, that the sight of Chao and Hua hurrying towards him through the scattered bodies came as a relief.

  ‘Noble Count,’ called out Hua, ‘we have managed to save the worthy Zhong family I told you about. They wish to offer you their eternal homage and submission!’

  At noon the rebel fleet sailed into Chenglingji harbour. It met a dismal sight. Although scores of vessels floated at anchor, a ship without its crew resembles an abandoned house. In the chaos of the massacre thirty valuable vessels had escaped, mainly of the lighter sort requiring fewer hands to tend oars or sails. As for the rest, their crews and attendant soldiers lay singly or in piles all over Chenglingji, wherever they had been cut down. Hundreds of women’s corpses lay alongside them. Nearly every house had been forced open and ransacked, its most intimate treasures violated.

  When Chancellor Liu Shui of Lingling County stepped onto the quayside he glowered at a dismembered hand near his shoe.

  ‘I seek the Noble Count,’ he informed a Guards officer, none other than Lieutenant Jin.

  ‘Up at the compound of the Zhongs, sir,’ said Jin, his eyes oddly glazed.

  ‘I have heard a great deal about that clan,’ replied Liu Shui, stiffly. ‘Lieutenant, ensure honourable burials commence as soon as possible.’

  Jin watched the fat man enter the town, followed by a retinue of clerks and officials.

  At the Zhongs’ mansion Hsiung occupied their biggest chair, staring down at a dozen kneeling men in silk robes. All were suitably terrified, as well they might be after the dreadful storm that had swept away everything they once believed strong. Chao and Hua stood behind Hsiung’s temporary throne, in the role of chief advisers.

  ‘Let me understand this correctly,’ said Hsiung, ‘these people are the Zhong clan and accustomed to ruling Chenglingji?’

  ‘They have all the contacts you’ll need to squeeze the district dry, Noble Count,’ whispered Chao. ‘Offer them better terms than the Mongols and they’ll eat from your hand.’

  Hsiung was in a mood for clemency. Walking through the corpse-littered town had shaken his confidence as ruler. None of this had been his intention. Although Hua claimed the Noble Count had personally ordered the massacre while leaning out of the gatehouse at dawn, Hsiung had no recollection of such a command. Yet it was hard to deny the charge amidst so much grotesque evidence. Now he must decide the fate of these frightened men prostrating themselves before him.

  ‘Sire,’ whispered Hua, ‘the head of the Zhong clan is so beloved by the common people of Chenglingji he is known as Dear Uncle.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hsiung for want of a probing question that might test Dear Uncle’s worthiness. He was about to order the Zhongs to administer the town on his behalf as Hua suggested when the doorway filled with a large, frowning figure. Hsiung glanced away uneasily. Conscious of many eyes upon him he rose.

  ‘Ah, Liu Shui! You have disembarked.’

  The Chancellor entered the room, hands buried in his sleeves. Kneeling Zhongs crawled out of his way as he advanced seemingly oblivious to their existence.

  ‘Nearly seventy-five ships have been captured,’ said Hsiung. ‘Better still, a whole flotilla of paddlewheel destroyers, fully-armed with catapults, naphtha, thunderclap bombs, everything we hoped for, Liu Shui!’

  ‘A great victory!’ crowed Chao behind him.

  ‘The Noble Count has triumphed again!’ echoed Hua.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Liu Shui, gravely. ‘Yet I hear the town was taken entirely by surprise and a general execution of the populace ordered. The Noble Count must now triumph in peace as he has triumphed in battle.’

  Liu Shui examined the Zhongs at his feet, his frown deepening.

  ‘Are these our new allies, Noble Count?’ he asked.

  A question Hsiung was unsure how to answer.

  Hua was more forthcoming. ‘The worthy Zhong clan beg to offer the entire revenue of this district to the Noble Count,’ he said. Turning to Hsiung he added: ‘A most benevolent family, loved by the common people, as I have informed Your Highness.’

  Liu Shui continued to survey the Zhongs.

  ‘That is not my information,’ he said. ‘Noble Count, I urge you to appoint new, more trustworthy administrators than these Zhongs, so highly esteemed by the Mongols and their lackeys. You may well ask yourself why the famine has been more severe in Chenglingji under their benevolent rule than in neighbouring districts. As you know, I have trained suitable men, all loyal to you. They should ensure justice and that the, ahem, unfortunate excesses of our victory do not linger in the minds of
the people. Thus, deep bonds of loyalty to your rule, based upon love as well as fear, will be established here.’

  For a moment Hsiung wavered.

  ‘Always remember,’ added Liu Shui, gently, ‘a just ruler earns the Mandate of Heaven by aiding his people. Conquest is just a means to that end.’

  ‘Noble Count,’ said Hua, ‘consider the revenue you will lose! Wealth that will build your armies! The Zhongs are good people, sir.’

  Then Hsiung saw a way out of his dilemma, one that would please everyone. The Noble Count was so delighted with his own wisdom he beamed.

  ‘I hereby appoint anyone chosen by the Excellent Liu Shui as governor of this town,’ he said, ‘but his officials shall be the Zhong clan, whose homage I accept. Under my rule peace shall triumph in Chenglingji.’

  Liu Shui bowed low and left to make sure no further slaughter sullied the ideals of their cause. Hua, however, met the eye of a retreating member of the Zhong clan, a man Yun Shu had known a decade before as Dear Uncle, and silent understandings passed between them.

  Twenty-three

  When Teng considered the matter – which wasn’t often – he suspected spring was his favourite season. As he emerged from his bedchamber in Deng Mansions, the same room he had occupied since boyhood, he listened to birds wooing all over Monkey Hat Hill. Out in the courtyard he paused, slipping the bone buttons of his tunic into their loops. Two pigeons puffed and cooed. The complexity of their feathers fascinated the painter in him.

  He felt an inexplicable pang at their courtship and clapped his hands, driving them into flight. In a moment they were back, this time on the roof.

  Of course the urgency of their dance was to produce a new generation. He remembered Yun Shu telling him how she liked the company of children. Perhaps that was natural.

  Teng watched the cock pigeon mount its mate. An excited fluttering followed. It occurred to him, and by no means for the first time, that at his age he should be producing heirs for the Deng clan. After all, he and Father were the only Dengs left.

  Oddly, the old scholar never reproached him. Perhaps his silence was a test whether Teng would do the right thing without prompting. A test he failed.

  Oh, there were excellent reasons. The only families in Hou-ming that Deng Nan-shi considered worthy of an alliance were desperate to avoid the honour. As for Teng, he shared his father’s aversion to a demeaning match. Better to consort with Ying-ge than become a poor relation.

  Teng had just drawn a bucket of water from the well when he heard women chanting. Smoothing back long black hair, he wandered over to the gatehouse in time to witness a procession descending the Hundred Stairs.

  Eunuch Bo-Bai strode in front, holding aloft a long yellow banner decorated with black tassels. He ignored Teng as he passed. Then came a dozen Nuns of Serene Perfection with eyes modestly downcast. In their midst walked Abbess Yun Shu, who acknowledged him with a sideways flicker of her eyes, a greeting he returned with a flamboyant bow. When he looked up a faint furrow ruffled her brow. Teng wondered why he always tried to provoke her.

  A dozen servants followed the nuns, carrying giant cauldrons, boxes, firewood and two large sacks. He watched them disappear down the hill, curious what Yun Shu was up to.

  Recently she had taken to leaving Cloud Abode Monastery in a closed carriage at strange hours of the night. While they shared a class in Deng Nan-shi’s school, he had enquired where she went. ‘I ask,’ he had said, ‘as your concerned Elder Brother.’ Her answer was a muttered remark about ‘attaining Sublime Formlessness’. A phrase he didn’t like to associate with Yun Shu. It featured often in the bamboo books from the dead prince’s tomb.

  Another time, sat in the garden with his lute for a little drunken moon gazing, he observed a barge approach the private jetty belonging to Cloud Abode Monastery. Even in the pale light of a full moon he recognised Yun Shu’s slender figure. Wrapped in a suspiciously dark cloak, she hopped aboard as though accustomed to midnight boat trips. It was baffling and alarming. Her naive character was ill suited to intrigue. She was sure to paddle out of her depth.

  * * *

  That morning Teng planned to sell his latest drama, I Weep for Su Lin, to the highest bidder. A lengthy process obliging him to sip wine and tea as a succession of theatre proprietors examined the play. After that, pockets crammed with strings of cash, he would entertain Ying-ge in her boudoir – and be suitably entertained in his turn. So Teng dressed with special care in his best new silks and strode out of Deng Mansions before Father could persuade him to tutor the brighter pupils in calligraphy.

  At the foot of Monkey Hat Hill, beside the Ward Gate, Teng learned the reason for the Nuns’ procession. An outdoor kitchen had been established in the old market place and crowds of thin, raggedly dressed people were milling and jostling to bring their bowls closer to cauldrons of rice and vegetables. Yun Shu stood in front of the makeshift kitchen, urging patience, her voice drowned by the clamour of the hungry crowd. Teng wondered why no soldiers were present to maintain order.

  He noticed a boy with a satchel wriggling between legs to escape the press, one of Deng Nan-shi’s pupils. As the lad skipped up the lane Teng intercepted him.

  ‘Hey! Chan-su!’ The boy recognised Teacher’s Son and stopped. ‘Tell my father what is happening here,’ said Teng. ‘Say Abbess Yun Shu needs assistance.’

  The lad sprinted up the hill and Teng was forced to consider a new threat to the Nuns. Twenty Buddhist monks in bright orange robes had pushed through the Ward Gate, followed by a small mob of excited supporters. Teng hurried down to join Yun Shu, who was still encouraging the hungry people to form a line. As he arrived, the monks reached her. Now Daoists and Buddhists faced each other before the steaming cauldrons. A restless crowd observed the confrontation.

  ‘We received a vision!’ roared a bellicose young monk, his shaven head shaped like an anvil. His accent marked him out as one of the fox-smell foreigners connected to the Tibetan sect of Makhala favoured by the Mongol court. ‘The Buddha’s knucklebone has sent a vision!’

  At once many in the crowd rejoiced. The knucklebone was more revered in Hou-ming than Prince Arslan himself. A scurrilous joke claimed that it saved one from hell in the next life, whereas the Prince guaranteed hell in this.

  ‘The Buddha commands those who desire bodhisattva,’ continued the monk, ‘do not eat Daoist food! They put a secret poison into the rice!’

  Teng snorted at this bizarre claim; he also noticed some of the Buddhist monk’s supporters carried clubs. Their intention was obvious. Anything likely to encourage loyalty to the Dao, and especially the Nuns of Serene Perfection, must be disrupted. It was well known the Buddhists petitioned constantly to gain possession of Cloud Abode Monastery.

  ‘My dear monk,’ he began, stepping forward with hands concealed in his sleeves like a noble Confucian scholar from the old prints in Deng Library. ‘These delightful ladies are not murderers! As you see, our city is full of starving people. For the sake of the Holy Buddha, allow a few of them to eat!’

  He was met by an unheeding, blank stare. ‘Poison food!’ shouted the Tibetan monk. ‘Poison rice! Do not let the people be poisoned! That is our vision!’

  His supporters edged forward, evidently planning to kick over the cauldrons. A gong resounded in the market square, echoing off abandoned buildings consigned to rot and decay since the Mongol victory. Again the gong sounded and people looked round fearfully. Even the anvil-headed monk shrank back.

  A procession trooped into the market square. Only Teng was unsurprised by the old man leading a disciplined column of scholars three abreast, for he had recognised the gong’s voice as a relic of the Deng clan, so precious to their ancestors his father had preferred to endure an empty belly on numerous occasions rather than sell it. Now the gong declared the authority of a Deng once more – and Teng’s pride stirred.

  For all his frailty, Deng Nan-shi cut a fine figure in his scholar’s plain gown and black hat with stiff, slanting ear-flap
s. In his hand was a fly-whisk.

  Again the gong resounded, carried on poles by six youths, and he joined his son to stand between Yun Shu and the Buddhist monk. So natural was the old man’s dignity the crowd went quiet apart from people muttering his name. All older folk remembered the days when Dengs ruled Hou-ming on the Emperor’s behalf. Better days for most. Several fell loyally to their knees.

  ‘What is this disturbance?’ demanded Deng Nan-shi in the high-pitched, querulous tone of a high official.

  At first the monk seemed abashed, but soon cried out with fresh vigour: ‘Poison food! The Daoists mean to poison the hungry people!’

  Deng Nan-shi held the young man’s eye until the latter looked away. The old scholar turned to address the crowd.

  ‘You all know my ancestors,’ he said. ‘I speak on their behalf. And I see the real poison here. Unscrupulous men seeking to baffle the people! Form a decorous line behind me. Enjoy the Great Dao’s generosity! There is nothing to fear from the Nuns who protect the image of Chenghuang, our beloved City God. I shall eat the first bowl!’

  Teng took Deng Nan-shi’s arm and helped him over to the cauldrons where Bo-Bai waited with a huge wooden ladle. An old fellow who had kneeled earlier hobbled away from the crowd, bowl in hand, calling over his shoulder to his assembled clan, ‘Obey the Honourable Dengs before all the food has gone!’ Another clan followed suit, then another. Soon a long line grew, marshalled by Teng and other well-wishers of the Dao. Bowl after bowl filled from the cauldrons while Yun Shu and the Nuns chanted sutras and prayers petitioning the Jade Emperor for a fertile spring. The bellicose monk watched sourly then led his comrades away.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ Teng muttered to his father.

  But the old man did not reply and Teng realised that only a great effort of will kept him upright at all.

  Two hours later the procession of Nuns retraced their steps up Monkey Hat Hill, having shared all their food. Yun Shu and Lady Lu Si stepped aside to call at Deng Mansions.