The Mandate of Heaven

  The officials in charge of the execution whispered amongst themselves.

  ‘Your Highness!’ protested one. ‘That is not customary!’

  Prince Jebe Khoja’s glance made the unfortunate man quake.

  ‘Of course, Your Highness! Quickly, you fools! Did you not hear His Highness?’

  The condemned man was prodded into the gatehouse, whereupon the door slammed in the officials’ faces.

  Time passed slowly for the men outside. Prince Arslan himself and many notable guests were waiting out in the Deer Park for the spectacle to begin. A special pavilion had been constructed for the occasion. The chief executioner was about to knock timidly on the guardroom door when it opened. Within, Prince Jebe Khoja sat on a low-backed chair. At his feet lay a thick sack stitched from animal hides and, from the groans and twitching, stuffed with someone alive. Again the chief official risked a protest.

  ‘Your Highness!’ he exclaimed. ‘The prisoner should not be sewn into the sack until he has had a last chance to beg for clemency. That is the custom.’

  ‘He does not want clemency,’ said Jebe Khoja. ‘And do not contradict me again.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness!’

  ‘Carry him to where it is to be done and see it is done.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness!’

  So the procession resumed its journey, emerging from the fortified gatehouse into an area of parkland before the palace. In the distance a herd of deer watched with raised heads, their tails ticking, then returned to scraping up roots beneath the snow. A path of churned slush and mud led from the gatehouse to a large pavilion with open sides. Here Prince Arslan sat upon a throne, swaddled in furs, awaiting the demise of the upstart bandit who had caused him such loss of face at the Great Khan’s court.

  Scents of meat and crackling drifted, attracting dozens of pacing crows. A whole pig roasted on one spit, the fire hissing when fat fell upon glowing charcoal. Other spits bore lambs, fowl of various kinds, even a freshly-skinned fawn. Such plenty tormented hungry bellies amongst the servants and soldiers.

  ‘There he is!’ exclaimed Prince Arslan, as the prisoner was carried out. ‘Trussed up for the spit, eh!’

  Friends and hangers-on laughed heartily. All were drunk.

  ‘Let’s see how he takes to having his meat softened up, eh!’ declared His Highness, encouraged by the success of his earlier witticism.

  The executioners bowed hurriedly and dragged the leather sack out into the snowy field. No cries emerged from the condemned man, just occasional grunts.

  Once they were a respectable distance from the royal party, the executioners threw down their burden and hurried away, leaving the sack like a huge brown slug on the snow.

  For a while nothing happened. The drunken on-lookers exchanged tales of similar executions they had witnessed, pointing out it was normally a privilege restricted to prisoners of royal blood. Several argued that trussing the prisoner in a rolled-up carpet, not a sack, was the proper way. Prince Arslan replied that they must tell his nephew, Jebe Khoja. It was he who had insisted upon this method of execution, citing a deep debt of honour. A clatter of hooves interrupted him.

  Two horsemen in burnished lamellar armour rode abreast from the gatehouse.

  ‘Why, the rogue!’ roared Prince Arslan. ‘He just wanted a little revenge of his own!’

  At the cavalry’s head cantered Prince Jebe Khoja on a large black charger with a braided mane and tail. Iron-shod hooves kicked up snow and frozen earth as the horsemen gathered speed, forming a single file that became an arrow cantering towards the leather sack.

  ‘Hey-ah!’ called Prince Arslan. ‘Don’t finish him off too quickly!’

  Perhaps Jebe Khoja did not hear. Perhaps his need for revenge was too strong. Instead of riding his horse over the prisoner’s legs, as might reasonably be expected, he galloped over where his head must surely be. There was a crump as a hoof struck the very edge of the sack. Then he was past and hauling at the reins to turn his mount. The next rider was more accurate, aiming his horse at the condemned wretch’s lower half. Blows were struck and the sack jumped.

  ‘Hey-ya!’ bellowed Arslan. ‘More wine, damn you! Hey-ya!’

  But Jebe Khoja had wheeled his mount and was galloping over the sack. A loud crunching noise followed. The horse whinnied in fear, almost stumbled, for it had smelt brains and blood. Red was trickling through a small tear in the leather, staining the snow.

  ‘Damn it, they know how to do these things better in Dadu!’ muttered one of the Prince’s guests. ‘What a hurry to finish the swine! Where’s the sport?’

  ‘Quite remarkable!’ exclaimed another. ‘The bandit did not cry out once. No wonder he caused you such trouble! Eh, Arslan? Ha! Ha!’

  The Mongol Prince flushed angrily. For the whole world knew he had not managed to tame the Noble Count of Lingling without help from the Imperial Court, despite outnumbering the Yueh Fei rebels many times over. Prince Arslan watched Jebe Khoja’s men drag the blood-stained sack away and wondered if it might be amusing to show his guests what remained of the bandit’s face. Too late, the body had already disappeared into the Palace. Prince Arslan frowned at this unorthodox end to the execution, only brightening when servants arrived with platters of freshly roasted meat.

  Thus, one version of a death. There was another.

  In this, an exhausted Hsiung was forced into the guardroom of the gatehouse, stumbling as the door slammed behind him. The stone-flagged room was gloomy except for feeble rays slanting through slit windows. In the centre sat Jebe Khoja on a low-backed chair, surrounded by warriors in lamellar armour and furs. At their feet lay a flat leather sack, long as a coffin.

  Jebe Khoja stroked his beard and examined the prisoner. At first he seemed unsure what to say.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, finally, ‘I did think of forcing another prisoner into that sack on the floor and pretending it was you. There is a fellow just your height and size in the prison.’ He coughed apologetically. ‘But I have my own sons to think of and letting you go would be an act of treason.’

  Hsiung heard a voice protesting in a chamber behind them. It was oddly familiar, and somehow disturbing, though he could not hear the voice well enough to identify it.

  ‘That could still be accomplished,’ continued Jebe Khoja, ‘I have the man nearby, as you’ve clearly heard. And the world would be better off without him. Only, you would have to promise to never trouble the Great Khan or his servants again. You would have to leave this province forever. I would require your firm oath, certain that, as you are a man of honour, I could rely on it.’

  Hsiung looked at the Mongol in disbelief. Was this a vile trick? A cruel game to torment him? The Mongols were well known for prolonging the pain of those they conquered. They were also famed for a sense of obligation if one saved their own or a kinsman’s life. One glance at Jebe Khoja’s face revealed his sincerity. Hsiung could scarcely believe the risks the barbarian was taking.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Hsiung. ‘An oath to betray my cause? To abandon my former comrades?’

  Jebe Khoja nodded solemnly. ‘That is all. Then you shall live. In obscurity and far away, it is true. Yet you shall live.’

  The prospect of freedom, so near and apparently immediate, almost mastered Hsiung. Then he recollected last night’s moon and Liu Shui’s pure face, how he had sworn an oath to die well. Without hesitation, he shook his head.

  ‘Too many good men died because of my mistakes. I shall not survive to end my days drowning sorrow in a wine bowl. Our cause is proper and just! Soon the Mandate of Heaven will be stripped from you barbarians. I’d rather die than betray that.’

  Jebe Khoja nodded. ‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘for your honour’s sake.’ He pointed at the leather sack. ‘You know what this is for?’

  Hsiung stared haughtily at the wall.

  ‘I see you know. I shall do you one good turn, whether you want it or not. Gag him!’ he ordered.

  Chained as he was, Hsiung could hard
ly resist as the warriors stuffed a silk cloth into his mouth.

  ‘Now you cannot shame yourself by crying out,’ said Jebe Khoja. ‘Rest assured, Noble Count, I will send you to the next life as swiftly and painlessly as I can.’

  Hsiung did not bother to struggle as he was stuffed head first into the sack. Its open end was sealed with coarse stitches of leather twine. He found himself enclosed in darkness, breathing a foul stench of animal hide through his nostrils, struggling with the panic of a drowning man. There was no air! How could there be air when only his nostrils were free to breathe? Hsiung fought for a mental image to quieten his terror. Last night’s dream of the bamboo groves on Monkey Hat Hill returned to him, of leading Teng and Yun Shu to the safety of the ruined watchtower …

  What came next followed quickly. Despite his intention to be contemptuously passive, Hsiung did panic and writhe. Yet as he heard the horses’ iron-shod hooves pounding the earth, he closed his eyes and lay still, glad of the gag allowing him to die well. Even when a hoof shattered his thigh like a huge hammer crushing flesh and bone he could not scream. Soon a blow to the skull stopped the agony in his trampled legs with an explosion of light that flashed a great brilliance across the troubled landscape of his soul, so that sun and world and spirit scattered like stars fleeing the night sky and dissolved into darkness.

  Epilogue

  How Clouds Float

  Thus, one version of destiny for Hsiung. Many years later an old man in a scholar’s blue robe watched a honking vee of plump geese fly east. And he remembered another destiny. A version he imagined for life not death.

  Despairing of greed, misrule and war tormenting the Middle Kingdom, the Jade Emperor in Heaven sent an official to fly over the lands and discover who, if anyone, deserved the Mandate of Heaven.

  ‘Be they low or high, humble or noble,’ he declared, ‘only their virtue matters. Any displaying that shall be rewarded with great fortune.’

  The Heavenly Official bowed and departed.

  Naturally, he was an Immortal with magical abilities peculiar to himself. Glittering blue eyes able to spot a gnat a thousand li away. A uniform of vermilion with the power to transform his appearance in a flash – and even render him invisible. Glossy, porcelain skin capable of illuminating the darkest places. The Jade Emperor also gave him an enormous white goose as his steed.

  The wings of the goose beat rhythmically and lands passed below. He skimmed the topmost peaks of snow-capped mountains and silent bamboo forests. Deer leapt for shelter, disturbed by his shadow. Paddy fields of muddy water and untended rice reflected the clouds.

  At last he chanced upon a long, winding valley in the midst of the mountains: Wei Valley, named after its principal river. His eye followed the silver ribbon of water to a large lake and marsh where the valley began. Directing his steed, the Heavenly Official headed for Mallow Flower Marsh, for he sensed it was a centre of flowing dragon lines.

  On solid earth, he folded up his goose like a piece of paper, tucking it safely into his writing case. Motionless as a heron, he studied the muddy depths of the lake. Then noises other than hooting waterfowl and rustling reeds disturbed him.

  Armed horsemen were approaching. They escorted mule-drawn wagons of various kinds on which servants perched. One of the carriages was fit for a wealthy merchant or gentleman, its carved wooden panels and roof preventing vulgar eyes from peering inside. Other wagons carried wooden crates branded with the seal: Property of Salt Minister Gui.

  The Heavenly Official watched as the procession, led by a local guide, left the Western Highway at Mallow Flower Marsh and took a little-used dirt track into the mountains, a track leading nowhere but Wei Valley and its one settlement of note, Wei Village.

  Intrigued by so strange a caravan in a remote corner of the Empire, he unpacked his magical goose, turned himself invisible, then flew over the marsh, taking the same route as the wagons.

  The road climbed past hillsides clad with pine and bamboo. Early summer had inspired blossom; obliging insects flitted from bloom to bloom. A clan of silver-backed monkeys groomed one another in an ancient wild plum grove. As he flew by, the Heavenly Official became aware of people travelling in family groups toward Wei Village. Evidently a festival was gathering, for the peasants carried food baskets and wore their best clothes.

  Circling a boulder-strewn peak, he spied dozens of buildings clustered round a river fed by glinting streams. Wei Village was neither small nor large. In its central square a busy festival-market had commenced – pyramids of vegetables and fruit; barrels of salt fish and pens for bleating, barking, clucking meat of every kind; a dozen wine-sellers and as many fortune tellers; a troupe of acrobats performing to an audience of gawping peasants and their children.

  On one side of the valley, above the village, stood an ancient gentleman’s residence. Three-Step-House ascended the hillside exactly as its name suggested – in three distinct stages. The lower buildings contained the servants’ quarters, the middle an audience hall, and the topmost housed the Lord of Wei’s family apartments.

  On the opposite side of the valley, directly facing Three-Step-House, a group of new buildings rose. Labourers swarmed over ladders and scaffolds. Others pushed wheelbarrows. Remaining invisible, the Heavenly Official guided his goose to earth and packed it away. Then he transformed his appearance to resemble a travelling holy man.

  Suitably disguised, he strode over to a group of Daoist and Buddhist priests, monks, geomancers and magicians who were inspecting the construction of a small gatehouse. Clearly a rite of benefit to the entire district was taking place. Proof, perhaps, that someone – on however small a scale – deserved the Mandate of Heaven. Chatting politely with a monk, the Heavenly Official learned the new building’s name: Cloud Abode Monastery.

  The rite was scheduled for noon exactly, the central hour of the day. Abbess Lu Si was to lead the Nuns of Serene Perfection into their new home. Never mind that it lacked a roof. The wisest astrologers and geomancers in Chunming agreed any other day threatened misfortune. Given the disasters that had befallen the Nuns in Hou-ming Province, Abbess Lu Si and her confidante, Lady Yun Shu, were taking no chances.

  At the prescribed hour, chimes sounded in the village and, stall by stall, the noisy market hushed into silence. The only sounds: wind in trees, wailing infants, birdsong, the bleat of sheep and goats.

  Abbess Lu Si bowed low to the Provincial Daoist Officials from Chunming and received a scroll confirming Cloud Abode Monastery’s status as a registered holy place. It had seemed sensible to alter the dates on the registration certificate so that, on paper at least, Cloud Abode Monastery had been officially inaugurated during the Tang Dynasty, five or more centuries earlier. Purchasing such a distinguished pedigree had involved many formal presents and negotiations carried out by Lady Yun Shu’s husband, the Lord of Wei.

  This latter gentleman, though blessed by a grand title, wore a scholar’s modest blue robes in the style of the previous dynasty. He stood to one side as his wife followed the Abbess and her Serene Ones up a steep path that led towards Cloud Abode Monastery. Then he turned to thirty boys of various ages lined up in pairs behind him and gestured they should follow.

  Chants drifted through the hushed valley. As the Lord of Wei hastened to catch up with his wife, he noticed she wept while reciting the familiar sutra: The Dao that is bright seems dull … The great square has no corners … The Dao conceals itself in namelessness … The Dao breeds one; breeds two; breeds three; three breeds the Ten Thousand Creatures …

  Rubbing impatiently at her tears, she glanced his way. Understanding passed between them. A joyful sorrow too layered for simple words. Stifling his own emotion, he led the long dragon of boys up the flinty path, all dressed in the dark blue of students preparing for the Imperial Examinations.

  At the half-constructed gatehouse, the Nuns of Serene Perfection formed the shape of the Great Dipper constellation to please Xi-wang-nu, Queen Mother of the West. Nearby, a travelling holy man watc
hed, sipping a bowl of ‘green wine’ that miraculously appeared in his hands when no one was watching. The rite and those conducting it interested him enough to ask how the Nuns came to set up a new holy place in this obscure valley.

  After fleeing Hou-ming the party led by Teng and Yun Shu had joined hundreds of refugees heading west. Despite the wealth they carried, Shensi advised a show of poverty on the road, in order to avoid being robbed. His wise counsel took them as far as a port on the Yangtze where it was easy to purchase passage on a large merchant vessel sailing upstream to the Western Provinces.

  Yet here, at the borders of Hou-ming Province, tragedy occurred. The Honourable Deng Nan-shi passed from this life as he was pushed along the road in a wheelbarrow covered by blankets. It showed much character in Teng that he restricted his father’s funeral to hiring an undertaker. This craftsman reduced the corpse to bones and ash in a large brick kiln. Afterwards the Nuns hurried west, concealing the venerable scholar’s remains in a sealed jar amidst the baggage.

  Day by day, Hou-ming Province fell behind until, after six months of intermittent travel and sojourns in humble shrines or temples, they neared their destination: Chunming. It was late spring and that ugly, ill-aligned city appeared at its best: blossom on the fruit trees and gaudy, bee-haunted flowers in every garden. Here the balance of the Dao asserted itself. After excessive misfortune came great luck – with a little help from the courteous, gentlemanly Teng.

  Aware the outer defines most people’s assessment of the inner, he had ordered an assembly of the entire party a day before their arrival in Chunming. At his insistence, the refugees reversed their whole policy of avoiding attention. Travel-stained clothes were packed away and fine garments donned. Deng Teng looked splendid in silks stolen from the short-lived Minister Chao, except they were far too large. The Nuns created a pious impression in their ritual robes, especially the Abbess Yun Shu. Even Shensi, Ts’u and Ts’an polished their weapons.