Taming Poison Dragons (29 page)

‘I hope your ancestors do not blame me for this,’ grumbles Wudi.

I fumble with the latch and they carry him in, gasping at their load. The darkness is complete.

Who is this nameless soldier, to lie among the bones of his betters? Will his spirit leave his body, look around in confusion, and haunt my family for eternity, bringing malice and misfortune?

Outside, I turn to Ensign Tzi-Lu, who is wiping his clothes with handfuls of leaves. He looks desperate enough, smeared with pig-filth and blood from the dead soldier. A faint echo of thunder sounds in the east, the direction of Chunming. Clouds are advancing towards us.

With luck a shower will wash away our traces.

Wudi sits on his haunches, peering at the distant horizon.

‘A lot of rain for this time of year,’ he says. ‘Perhaps the real monsoon will be delayed.’

I turn to Ensign Tzi-Lu.

‘You must go now. Hide in the woods for at least a day.

The soldiers are returning to Chunming and after they have gone you will be safe. Seek out Wudi then, and he will explain my position.’

He nods.

‘Lord Yun Cai has saved my life for a second time.’

‘Remember that this family is loyal to the Emperor, even if one of my sons is a renegade. Remember that fact when His Imperial Majesty is victorious, and I will be repaid.’

‘I shall.’

‘And another thing. Tomorrow I too must go to Chunming on General An-Shu’s orders. Tell those who sent you that I do not go there willingly. My family are not traitors. They must not be punished, however things appear.’

‘Your actions prove that.’

*

‘Then ensure they are not forgotten. It is all I ask.’

He bows stiffly, and fades into the darkness.

‘Wudi,’ I say. ‘Somehow we must enter the house undetected.’

Two weary old men, we creep through shadows down the long hill.

In the hour before dawn I pack a few possessions with the aid of my butler: spare clothes and shoes; my official uniform; writing materials; a few precious scrolls to comfort a dark hour – Lao Tzu to remind me of the Eternal Way, my beloved Wang Wei and Po-Chui, their poems ever-burning lamps across time. There is circularity in this choice. These same books were my companions when I was banished to the frontier long ago. They brought luck, of a twisted kind, and solace. Perhaps they may do so again. My steward arrives with a large sack of food and wine. My favourites, he informs me proudly. I try to smile.

‘We are done,’ I say.

Unexpectedly, both kneel, their up-turned faces grey in the light of dawn.

‘You have provided good service,’ I say. ‘So I will speak frankly. It may be that I never return from Chunming. If I do not, you must serve my son – my Eldest Son, that is.

He, and he alone, is my rightful successor as Lord. Wait half a day after I have departed, then gather the servants.

Pass on my words to them. Tell them also that I am pleased with their loyalty. When I am gone, that loyalty must be shown to the new Lord, or I will see from Heaven, and grow angry.’

They do not raise their heads.

‘May the Lord live a hundred years!’ they murmur.

Which Lord do they refer to? Either will do.

My baggage is carried down to the gatehouse, where I watch the sun rise over Wei, perhaps for the last time.

Thickening light reveals bustle in the village, soldiers forming lines in the square below, officers and sergeants bellowing orders.

Wudi appears beside me.

‘Your baggage has been loaded on a wheelbarrow,’ he says. ‘Shall I order it to be taken down to the village?’

‘Yes, I will go with it.’

‘Then I shall accompany you, ‘ he says.

I shake my head.

‘Keep your distance from me,’ I say. ‘Who knows what will befall.’

‘But, Lord!’

‘It is for the best, old friend. To you, I owe many thanks.’

I extract a folded letter from my girdle.

‘Give this to Eldest Son,’ I say. ‘It instructs him to ensure your family shrine adjoins my own as we agreed.

Let your son be buried there. In addition, the best of your granddaughters shall be betrothed to my youngest grandson. You have grown wealthy, Wudi, and I rely on your good sense to ensure the size of the dowry matches the honour your family gains from such a union.’

‘I. . . I am speechless.’

‘Good, then we will waste no more words.’

So I descend the hill slowly, more slowly than necessary, for I have decided to feign infirmity. That is not hard. The last few days have strained all that I am. In the village square I find Youngest Son preparing to mount his white charger. He hesitates, then strides over.

‘Are you ready, Father?’

I sense many eyes upon us.

‘I am ready,’ I say, in a feeble voice.

He frowns.

‘Then you shall ride beside me,’ he says. ‘I have a horse prepared.’

I sigh, regretfully.

‘Such an exertion would be too much for me.’

‘Could you not sleep?’ he asks, peevishly. ‘I must tell you that one of the guards assigned to Three-Step-House disappeared last night. Did you hear any strange noises?

Unfortunately, I do not have time to investigate the matter as I would wish.’

‘No doubt he deserted,’ I say.

‘He was a reliable man. Perhaps I should leave a dozen guards to search for him.’

‘Did not your orders state that all available men are to return to His Highness’s temporary capital? Orders must be followed to the final brush-stroke.’

I let the thought dangle. He bites back angry words.

‘Lieutenant Lo!’ he bellows.

The lieutenant canters over.

‘Order space to be found on one of the wagons, for my father and his baggage.’

So I leave Wei like a prisoner in a two-wheeled cart, perched upon piles of crossbow bolts and smoke-blackened cauldrons, free only in that my hands are not bound before me. Drums beat and the cart jolts, whipped on by a surly fellow with his cap askew. Dust rises from the road, stirred by hundreds of marching feet. We pass a gibbet where a dozen peasants sway in the wind, among them the landlord, Li Sha, his tongue already turning black. I notice a few frightened eyes peering through half-lifted blinds. Several of the houses have broken doors and a plume of smoke rises where a building has been set ablaze. If Youngest Son notices this outrage, he shows no sign. Yet I comfort myself I have averted destruction, even massacre, for my people. Most have escaped with their lives.

My eyes are drawn skywards. A few of the soldiers cry out and point. A bow-shaped line of geese fly over the marching column, honking gaily. They fly as they flew in Father’s time, when I was a boy. This thought gives strength. The geese may fly all the way to Chunming and, with luck, peck out General An-Shu’s eyes.

‘. . . I dreamt of riding a giant heron, 
gazing down from Heaven at insect armies
 –ant-sting lance thicket 
                                   gnat-swarm arrow cloud.
But the tears of the widows
were as vast as Lake Poyang. . .’

As we leave the mountains for the foothills, we journey towards heat. I bump along in the back of the wagon, sweating profusely. The air humid. The sky alternating between fine, mist-like rain and blazing sun. Such unsea-sonable weather surely signifies something, perhaps a judgment of Heaven on our troubled province.

Youngest Son remains at the head of the column and rarely deigns to notice my presence. I cannot say it grieves me. So much unspoken distrust between us it seems better not to speak at all. Each night we camp in villages stripped bare by war. Many of the peasants have fled and those that remain stare at us with mournful, hungry eyes.

On the afternoon of the third day our column approaches Chunming. One moment we are toiling up a hill, then the city lies before us, hazy in the distance. It is customary to feel pride in the capital of one’s province. If so, my own feelings are perverse. Chunming has always bored me, its streets and attitudes stiflingly narrow. Now I view the town with fresh interest. If Youngest Son is to be believed, Chunming is the seed from which a glorious dynasty will sprout.

As we approach, I notice soldiers dotted like black ants on the earthen ramparts. Military camps surround the city, villages of tents and pickets, lines of soldiers drilling beneath the merciless sun, and the size of General An-Shu’s army surprises me.

Youngest Son canters up. He is excited, his mask of sternness forgotten. I am reminded of his unspoiled, boyish face, before he learned to frown continually.

‘Father!’ he cries. ‘We have reached the Temporary Capital.’

I look at him gravely.

‘Is that something to make me glad?’

At once his youthful enthusiasm hardens.

‘I trust you are glad,’ he says, doggedly.

‘Then I shall be glad,’ I reply. ‘For your sake, if not my own.’

He pretends to rein in his horse, which rears obligingly.

‘You will see, Father,’ he calls over his shoulder, galloping back to the head of his troops.

Why he is so excited I cannot say, seeing he has failed in his mission in Wei.

Li
 by 
li
 we approach the city gates. As one would expect, a few corpses dangle, unsavoury after weeks of close weather. We enter streets crowded with soldiers and prostitutes, food-sellers and labourers carrying supplies. I strive to keep my fears at bay. Lieutenant Lo rides up and regards me from his horse.

‘Lord Yun Cai must go on foot now,’ he says. ‘Your son has instructed me to take you to your lodgings. You must stay there until summoned to pay homage to His Highness.’

It shames me that my own son does not take this duty upon himself.

‘Who shall carry my bags?’ I demand in a shrill voice, for I would retain some dignity.

‘That shall be done,’ he says.

And it is. We walk a short way through the streets until we reach the walls of Golden Lotus Monastery, a place I have often visited over the years.

‘Am I to stay here?’ I ask, relieved.

The monks, at least, are capable of civilised conversation.

Lieutenant Lo does not answer. He speaks sternly to the soldiers at the gatehouse, who usher me inside. The tall gates close behind me with a thump. At once my nostrils twitch.

‘Where are the monks? Where is Abbot Ssu-Ma?’ I ask, as I am led into the main courtyard. My guide does not reply. Why should he? It is obvious what has happened to the monks.

The monastery is crammed with prisoners, every available space occupied. Some sitting, others standing alone or in groups, leaning out of windows or huddling wherever one may find a corner of shade. Hundreds penned here, their voices forming a low, constant murmur. Most distressing is the sweet, sickly aroma of sweat and faeces, urine mingled with boiled cabbage. I turn desperately to my guard.

‘There has been a mistake,’ I say. ‘My son is a captain of the Winged Tigers Regiment. He would never expect me to lodge here.’

The soldier looks at me dourly.

‘All newcomers to the city must stay here,’ he says.

‘Until they are properly registered and assigned other quarters.’

‘Then I should be assigned other quarters at once!’ I protest.

‘Be quiet!’ he says. ‘Follow me.’

I am led through the monastery, rooms full of men sprawled out on mats or squatting against walls, strangely silent as they watch us pass. We reach a small courtyard also packed with men, and as nauseous, but here the prisoners are of a slightly better degree. Some have small piles of possessions beside their sleeping mats. A few wear fine silks, begrimed with sweat and dirt.

‘There has been a mistake,’ I repeat.

‘Think yourself lucky, old man,’ replies the soldier. ‘This is the best room in the inn!’

Then he turns on his heels and leaves me standing, my baggage scattered around my feet.

It is night. The stars glitter even above our courtyard. I lie on a bed of clothes, sweating amidst a hundred rank breaths. A few sleepers groan as they dream, otherwise the courtyard is silent. No one has spoken to me since I arrived. All hug their own dignity, apart from a small group, merchants by the look of them or members of the same clan, who sit muttering together. I am hungry. And thirsty. Too tired to think clearly.

Did Youngest Son really want this for me? Perhaps he hopes to point out the consequences of defying General An-Shu. Yet I assure myself he has no control over my place of captivity. And that may be the most alarming thing of all.

At dawn I queue beside the single latrine, clutching a bag containing my most valued possessions. I have observed this is the custom here and conclude that theft must be rife. I void my bowels as quickly as I can, trying not to notice the stench and the fat, buzzing flies. Angry voices urge me to hurry up. No means of cleanliness is provided, so I am forced to use some of my small stock of precious paper. A most unpleasant occasion.

When I return to the corner of the courtyard where I spent the night, the remainder of my baggage has disappeared.

At first I panic, ask the men around me whether they witnessed the theft. Heads shake, shoulders shrug.

Though they surely know, no one says a word. Miserably, I assess what I have left, making sure I am unobserved: a few hundred 
cash
 still in my purse; a knife; ink and brush; a sheaf of paper; the top half of my official uniform, minus the hat. Best of all, I retain my scrolls of Wang Wei, Po Chu’i and Lao Tzu.

My neighbours watch curiously as I unroll 
The Way
 
and Its Power
 and sigh as I read the words: ‘Keep hoarding gold in your house, and you will be robbed.’

Sometimes philosophy is a most grating comfort.

*

Impossible to breathe air already sieved by a hundred men’s lungs! I’m gasping. At midday we each receive a bowl of rice gruel and a ladle of brackish water. Now I understand the inertia and hollow eyes of those around me. For we are being slowly starved.

Late afternoon. Youngest Son appears at the courtyard entrance and I almost sob with relief. At last a chance for more water. He frowns as he glances over the crowd until he spies me, then marches over to the wall where I rest.