‘Where may I find Yun Cai?’ he demanded. ‘I have been told he dwells here.’
I could not blame him for mistaking what I was. I doubted that question myself.
‘Is Yun Cai in the city?’ he asked.
Mi Feng and I regarded him silently.
‘I have ridden all the way from the capital with an urgent message for the Honourable Yun Cai! Where may I find that gentleman?’ he asked, desperately. ‘My message cannot be delayed.’
‘You have found him,’ I said.
He looked at me suspiciously.
‘Are you Yun Cai?’
‘I am what’s left of him.’
Something in my tone must have held authority. He advanced towards me, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Mi Feng and I reached for our own.
Then he sank on one knee and extracted a scroll from his messenger’s satchel, and presented it. He seemed quite moved by the moment. Heaven knows what he had travelled through to deliver this message.
‘Who is it from?’ I asked, harshly. ‘Of course! Lord Xiao has fresh duties for me! Well, my friend, you can ride back the way you came and tell him I resign my position.
My government service is at an end.’
He looked up at me, puzzled.
‘My message is not from Lord Xiao,’ he said.
I waited, looking past him to the hut. Nothing seemed important. I simply longed to sleep. Again he proffered the scroll. I turned away in disgust.
‘You ought to read it, sir,’ said Mi Feng.
‘I don’t care to,’ I replied.
‘Come now, sir,’ Mi Feng said, as though to a child.
‘You are just weary.’
‘I don’t want to read it,’ I replied, peevishly. ‘And I won’t!’
My servant frowned, stepped forward and plucked the scroll from the messenger’s hands. Then he placed it in my own and stalked off to the hut. The door rattled on its hinges behind him. There seemed no point in refusing a second scroll the messenger also offered.
I studied the first letter, perched on a rock. It read as follows:
Dearest,
I write in the same room as another dear friend of yours. Though you are far away, you are not forgotten. Who is that friend? Of course, you can guess. It is none other than P’ei Ti, who has laboured ceaselessly on your behalf since the cruel hour of your exile. I will say no more about him, for I know he wishes to send a message himself.
Dearest Love, how I have thought of you each day since you went away! Morning finds me desolate. And so it is at evening. I cannot forget what you have sacrificed for me. The memory of your affection makes me feel constantly ashamed. I am afraid to be unworthy of it. Yet, as you shall hear, I have used the little power at my disposal to hasten the day of your return. If I was a man, your enemies would soon regret what they have done!
My poor head is all a flurry. I have been assured I can write as much as I like, and that it shall be delivered into your own hands. Naturally, there is a price to pay. Yet I am willing to pay anything for your dear sake, and when the time comes you must try to understand.
None of this probably makes sense. I have chosen to write as I think. As though I could talk to you in the same room. Are you not proud of the way my writing has improved? I have hired a tutor and spend an hour each day copying out difficult characters.
But I must be sensible. I have important news and do not know how to begin. Since you left the capital a great deal has occurred.
Are you aware how many secret friends you possess? I suspect not. Soon after you left a great, important man – P’ei Ti tells me I must not write down his name in case this letter falls into bad hands – has taken up your case, accusing Lord Xiao of abusing his power. P’ei Ti assures me it is safe to mention Lord Xiao’s name, so do not be alarmed, because all this is well-known. This great man, who I cannot name, asked for all the details and, for your dear sake, I held nothing back. It was a great honour for me, as you can imagine. I received many engagements from this great man’s friends as a result.
His complaint is that Lord Xiao is misusing the Emperor’s funds to pay for a petty revenge. You would be amazed to hear that even common people are offended by your exile because of your poems, which they love. So you may see that Lord Xiao’s reputation has suffered. I am told there is much more to this than meets the eye. P’ei Ti comprehends it all. Perhaps he will explain when he writes.
We are not entirely without news of you, dearest Yun Cai! The great man I have mentioned receives regular reports of the siege against the sorcerer.
Through him I heard how you took barrels of water to slake the thirst of the wounded. You cannot imagine my pride. I long to prove it to you.
How is your health? I can scarcely imagine your sufferings. This pains me whenever I think of you.
When you return I shall hire a dozen cooks to make you fat again, and twenty tailors to dress you in the finest silks so you may be warm, and a hundred musicians to heal your spirit. I shall dress in any way which delights you and learn every song you care to hear. At night I shall wrap you in my arms beneath the thickest quilts so you may never feel cold again. Do you think these promises mere talk?
Only come back and you’ll find out.
Just come back, and do not let the enemy scratch your sweet body. How I hate them! Yet I know you are always brave.
Before I finish my letter, I have strange news. I would hesitate to mention it, except I know you have shown your servant, Mi Feng, great trust. I must tell you that my maid is bearing his child. Will it displease you to hear that I have not dismissed her? I believe you would want that, for you are always kind and generous. I long to know if you think I have done wrong.
So, my dear one, I must finish. P’ei Ti tells me the messenger waits, ready to depart at once. I do not wish to stop writing these words. I could talk to you all afternoon, and never stop! That blessed hour will come. You must believe that, beloved Yun Cai.
Your Doting Friend, Su Lin.
Such a letter should have brought tears to my eyes. Yet I read it dully, incapable of feeling. Then I opened the second scroll, which was much briefer and more elegantly written:
Yun Cai,
It is unsafe for me to say much. When you return, you shall find conditions more favourable than you imagined possible on that wretched morning when you departed through the Gate of Eternal Rectitude. If I was a hero of old I would resign my office and gallop north to aid you. But my oldest friend knows what I am – and what I am not. Rest assured I strive on your behalf using the means I know best. The capital is a dull place without you.
Your old friend, P’ei Ti.
I staggered to my bed and lay down, the scrolls clutched to my chest, as though they might cancel out all previous misfortune. It was too late for that. Yet their words countered hellish images of Pinang, commencing the process by which all men reconcile themselves to terrible things. On the other side of the room Mi Feng was already snoring.
‘Wake up! You must not sleep any longer.’
I moaned pitifully in the hope he would go away.
‘Sir! Wake up! This is no time to sleep.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I mumbled. ‘Nothing matters.’
I was shaken vigorously and my eyes jerked open.
Naturally, it was Mi Feng, showing scant regard for my person. Any protest was stilled by the look of pure alarm on his face.
‘You must see this,’ he said, and hurried out of the hut.
The pale light seeping through the door spoke of dawn.
Outside I could hear voices raised in argument. Their tone infected me with fear. I scrambled from my pile of blankets and stepped outside.
The Bureau of Fallen Heroes had gathered near the entrance, squabbling furiously. Each of my clerks clutched items looted from the fallen city. One held a gilded bird-cage containing a sorry-looking sparrow. Another a bundle of silken clothes. The third, less fortunate than his fellows, had a young girl a
ttached to his wrist by a cord.
None seemed particularly pleased with their spoils. Mi Feng stood alone, staring across the steppes to the north, where the Silk Road flowed to the edge of the world. I followed his gaze.
‘What is that?’ I asked. ‘A dust storm?’
The clerks became aware of my presence and appre-hensively sank to their knees. I ignored them.
‘What is that?’ I demanded, addressing Mi Feng.
The dust-cloud formed a line, several li wide.
‘It is an army,’ he said, simply. ‘See! There is the centre, and on either side, slightly forward of the main force, are its wings.’
Mi Feng continued to look north like a hawk.
At once the truth struck me. For months we had heard rumours from captured prisoners that Wang Tse had appealed to the Kin Emperor for help. It is not the kind of possibility one cares to consider too deeply. The Kin were our foremost enemy then, as now. Indeed, only the heroism of the great Yueh Fei, he whose life my father had saved, had prevented their conquest of all China a generation before. Yet the threat had never abated.
Wherever we were weak, one might find the Kin eager to seek an advantage.
For many years they had concentrated on the eastern seaboard, striving to conquer the Chiangnan. To find them so far to the north-west defied all reasonable foresight. Yet had not Sun Tzu written long ago in The Art of War: ‘Attack the enemy where he is unprepared, and appear where you are not expected.’ And certainly our army had been enfeebled by its winter siege. Why should they not anticipate an easy victory? The reward, too, was worthy of risk. Pinang would grant them control of the Silk Road and its vast revenues. The Emperor would be obliged to pay heavy tribute to keep the trade flowing, thereby humiliating and weakening us further.
All these thoughts crossed my mind. My feelings were less orderly – like the clerks, and even, I suspect, Mi Feng, whose blood generally resembled ice-broth, I panicked.
‘This is merely a reconnaissance party,’ I declared, quite willing to deny the evidence of my eyes.
We had suffered too much hardship to deserve more.
No one had seriously doubted our final victory over Wang Tse, despite his alliance with demons. The only question was its ruinous cost. But the Golden Army of the Kin struck fear in all sober hearts. Inexperienced in war as I was, I knew the dust-cloud on the horizon could not be explained by infantry, but only by waves of Kin cavalry, famed for wild, inexorable charges. And their contempt for prisoners.
Meanwhile streams of our men, many exhausted by drink and fighting, were hurrying back to their encampments with armfuls of loot.
‘Surely they should be taking up position to the north,’I said. ‘Or manning the ramparts. Mi Feng, what is happening?’
He glowered at me.
‘Do you wish to discuss strategy?’ he said. ‘Well then, I see it like this. Either we run for it or fight. If we get trapped in Pinang, we’re done for.’
The prospect of changing from besieger to besieged unnerved me. The city was denuded of supplies. We had no time to drag our artillery inside the walls. Pinang would become a cage from which few might walk away, except as slaves.
‘As for me,’ he said. ‘I’d sooner run for it.’
Would Field Marshal Wen Po think the same way? His choices were stark. Attempt to gather the army and fight before the ramparts, or abandon the city which had so grievously reduced his reputation as a general. Perhaps the choice had already been made for him. When the illusion of power dissolves, one often glimpses a frightened, ordinary man beneath.
I paced up and down, uncertain where my duty lay. One thing, at least, was clear. I turned to the clerk with the girl attached to his wrist. It was the young, insolent fellow and I was glad for a chance to punish someone. I struck him across the face so hard that he staggered.
‘We are liberators, not barbarians raiding for slaves!’ I admonished. ‘You, my friend, need to take this girl back to her family.’
She crouched on the ground, staring around her, no more than twelve years old. I got on my knees beside her.
‘What is your name?’ I asked.
She peeped up at me, shivering in the harsh wind. I ordered the second clerk to pass over the silks he had looted and wrapped them round her.
‘We are going to take you back to your family, little princess,’ I cooed.
I must have made a ridiculous sight, for Mi Feng snorted.
‘What is your name?’ I repeated.
She told me. I forget what it was. Eventually I teased out where she lived, all the while glancing fearfully at the approaching dust cloud. There was no time for this! I slung her on the back of our faithful pony and cantered down the hillside through soldiers struggling to turn our artillery in the direction of the Kin. Outside the city gates, I lost my nerve. Brusquely I tried to set her down, yet she clung to me.
‘Take me with you!’ she begged, pitifully. ‘Take me with you!’
I shook her off. Indeed I was desperate to rid myself of her and return to the hut.
‘Find your family,’ I ordered.
Then I rode away.
What became of her I can scarcely imagine. Did she find her family still alive where so many had been put to the sword? It is little comfort to tell myself I acted for the best.
Perhaps my kindness caused miseries she would otherwise have avoided. Who can know? They say no good deed ever goes unpunished. One day I may chance upon her spirit in the Infernal Regions, and if she points accusingly at me across the Lake of Ghosts, I will know for sure.
By the time I had whipped my horse back to the hillside, those regiments capable of order were forming up beyond their camps. Trumpets blared a medley of confused commands.
I was about a li from the hut when fresh misfortune struck. My pony sank a hoof in one of the many holes dug by rodents on the slopes, and I was thrown. The pony stumbled, rolling over itself. I was lucky not to be crushed. I lay winded on the hard ground, whooping for air. When I finally stumbled to my feet no bones were broken – unlike the poor pony. It lay on the ground slavering, a foreleg snapped, eyeballs rolling in pain. I should have ended its misery at once – another reproach – instead I scrambled up the path to where Mi Feng waited. He was angry.
‘I hope the girl was worth it,’ he snapped. ‘Now we haven’t got a horse. And look!’
Lines of Kin cavalry were recognisable now, filling the horizon. I could even see the glint of sun on steel. Behind them, a long way behind, thousands of infantry advanced across the plain.
Would my father have stayed to fight? Probably. I entered the hut and gathered my meagre possessions. The clerks had already fled, only Mi Feng and I remained of the Bureau of Fallen Heroes. I was about to leave the hut forever when I recalled the three, tightly rolled scrolls I had discovered in my predecessor’s robes, and stuffed them into a satchel.
Mi Feng waited impatiently outside. The trumpets were sounding a general retreat.
It seemed the only way. Pinang was lost to us. Perhaps that is why Wen Po decided the city should burn, for plumes of smoke were rising from every district, scenting the air with ash, forming dense, billowing clouds. A good strategy. Smoke would delay the Kin and mask our depleted numbers. Perhaps Wen Po could not bear the thought they might possess what he had lost. Fires leapt from house to house, and there was a low rumbling, as wooden buildings collapsed in on themselves. The surviving population were rushing from the gates and gathering in ditches below the ramparts. I hoped the girl was among them.
f course we had no idea what to do. So we followed the retreating army, clutching our possessions. Now I felt the loss of that horse. We stumbled among a crowd of soldiers, choking on smoke, until we found ourselves south of the city, before the wide pass leading home. Here, Wen Po had decided to take a stand. We joined a dense river of men, straggling through the marshy ground, glancing fearfully over our shoulders.
I cannot imagine what rigour it took to halt the army and turn it a
round. But halt it did, to await the Golden Army of the Kin. I crouched beside a huge boulder and shivered, trying to calm the beating of my heart. My forehead and hair were damp with sweat. Mi Feng sat beside me.
‘We should not stop here,’ he said, motioning towards the mountain pass. ‘That is the way to safety.’
I was too exhausted to take another step. The fall from my horse had weakened me more than I cared to admit.
Besides, I was hungry and thirsty. A whole day of fright-fulness had passed since my last solid meal. Surely it was safe to rest for a while. Marshy ground lay between us and the enemy, confounding their ability to charge.
‘Leave me,’ I said. ‘I cannot go on.’
I expected Mi Feng to berate me. Instead, he sighed.
‘As you wish.’
Yet he did not move. So I caught my breath, while thousand upon thousand of Kin horsemen flowed round the city walls, entering the fog of smoke still pouring from Pinang. Meanwhile Wen Po steadied his lines of troops, a pitiful remnant of the force which had marched out six months before. The terrain was entirely in our favour, but at the sight of the advancing cavalry, I began to doubt.
‘Let us climb higher up the pass,’ I said, and Mi Feng was only too willing.
A short way up the path several guardsmen stopped us.
‘Get back into position!’ roared a sergeant.
I blinked at him. For a moment I felt the rage of a thwarted child. Then, without thinking, as a child quite artlessly plays a role to get what it wants, I reached into my bag and extracted the first scroll to hand. Su Lin’s letter, bound in sandalwood and filigree silver. Certainly it looked impressive. I waved it. The sergeant scowled and I was sure he would beat us back down the track to join one of the miserable regiments waiting in line.
‘Get me a horse, sergeant! I have lost my horse! I have a vital communication for His Excellency Wen Po’s cousin, the illustrious Lord Xiao! You must find a horse for me!’
All around us, fleeing soldiers were being driven back by snapping bullwhips.
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