Taming Poison Dragons (30 page)

‘Father, are you ill?’

I sigh.

‘We are not being given enough water,’ I say. ‘Already I have seen a dozen men carried out.’

He glances round fearfully.

‘I did not expect this, Father,’ he says. ‘While I was away, the General issued a new edict. All strangers to the city must be detained here pending confirmation of their innocence.’

‘So I am a prisoner?’ I ask.

Youngest Son stares at the ground, obviously embarrassed.

‘I have been informed you cannot be released until you have paid homage to His Highness, and that may take many days.’

Then he rises to his full height.

‘Let me take your things, Father,’ he says. ‘This place will not do. I should have come sooner. Please accompany me.’

He clears a path to the entrance and throws the bag into the guard’s arms.

*

‘This man does not belong here!’ he barks. ‘What is your name?’

The guard shrivels before him. I am led through the crowded rooms and courtyards into the street. No one tries to stop us. Finally, Youngest Son helps me down a steep lane until we reach a tall house beside the city walls.

Another soldier stands guard by the door. He leaps to attention at the sight of a Captain.

‘Admit this man at once!’ roars Youngest Son. ‘And ensure he receives food and water.’

The soldier rushes forward. Youngest Son looks at me nervously.

‘This is not as I intended,’ he repeats. ‘But you shall be safe here until you are summoned before the authorities. I have no doubt you will be offered an honourable position at that time. Now I must return to my regiment.’

So one nightmare ends, and a lesser begins.

I have been in the house by the ramparts for two days now. It, too, is full of prisoners but we are a more select gathering. Everyone speaks in whispers. Clearly, it is the safest way.

Occupying a valley in the foothills, Chunming is an odd-shaped town. Instead of the neat, regular square favoured by Heaven, it follows the contours of the land, the streets snaking up and round hills, clinging to the central gorge through which the Green River flows. Of course, such a muddle leads to unfortunate consequences.

Firstly, the lack of order drains the city’s virtue, so that the citizens of Chunming are famous for being cantankerous, churlish, and prone to bad luck. Secondly, it is hard to mount an effective defence in the event of a siege. This has never been a problem before. No commander in five hundred years has been foolish enough to trap himself here.

Another consequence of Chunming’s unpleasing shape is that many houses are built several stories high, as is the one I find myself in. I have been allotted an attic room which I share with four others. From the small balcony-window I can see over the Prefect’s residence and enclosure to where General An-Shu has planted his court.

So I witness what transpires there.

Soldiers and messengers come and go. Yesterday a dozen men suffered the Four Punishments, observed by the General and his officials, as well as a small party of ladies. Whether they enjoyed the show, I could not tell, for their features were a white blur in the distance. I was surprised by my equanimity as I watched. That is the worst of men like General An-Shu. They make the unacceptable normal.

We are adequately fed. Two small, plain meals a day, and water is plentiful, as the small garden at the rear of the house contains a deep well. A sweet relief, for the city continues to brood in the heat.

When I consider what I have learned since arriving in Chunming, it seems almost nothing: that the General is awaiting reinforcements from his brother, who is a military governor somewhere up north; that his Chief Adviser, a shrewd and cunning orator, is called Yuan Chu-Sou – I started at the name, remembering a lawyer I knew when I was young. But he must have died long ago, and it is a common enough name.

I also hear that the General is besotted with his concubine, who styles herself the Lady Ta Chi after a great lady from antiquity. A strange choice of name, for the original Lady Ta Chi was the lover of the last Shang king, Chou Hsin, and abused her power abominably. As for General An Shu’s official wife, it seems she ate a bad meal and has been paralysed ever since. I also hear that the future Son of Heaven heeds his concubine and chief adviser to an extraordinary degree.

No one mentions P’ei Ti, and I dare not ask. I think of him hourly and of how I might discover whether he is a prisoner in Chunming. There is a large prison on the west side of the Prefect’s enclosure where captives are regularly brought during the day. Many enter, yet no one seems to leave. Perhaps P’ei Ti is held in there.

Two more days pass and my spirit dwindles with the hours. I’m stifled by resignation and dullness. We have been forbidden to leave the house by the ramparts on pain of severest punishment, and only a madman would risk it.

From my vantage point on the balcony I witness preparations for war in a large encampment outside the city ramparts. They have constructed a parade ground where regiment after regiment drills beneath the midday glare.

Any soldier who faints is severely beaten. Clearly much training is necessary. Perhaps this explains the General’s reluctance to advance east. Perhaps, if the frantic entertainments I observe each night are to be trusted, his advisers are having too pleasant a time to hurry from Chunming.

Yet the General cannot be faulted for his diligence.

Every day he inspects the troops, riding an ivory chariot modelled on the one used by the Emperor at the New Year ritual. When he passes, all except the highest officers press their foreheads to the earth.

I think at such times the General’s ambitions are not in vain. Why should he not conquer? The Emperor is inept when it comes to war, as was his father. Perhaps now is the time for a man of iron to sweep the Kin barbarians from our land. Can the Mandate of Heaven be granted to General An-Shu? When I witness the fearful loyalty of his troops, I begin to comprehend Youngest Son’s faith.

I am in this mood when he calls upon me. He is in full uniform, upright with youth and strength, his armour and plumed helmet seeming to double his size. As I shuffle into a private chamber where he waits, his greeting expresses utter confidence. He has just left a parade. Indeed, I glimpsed him on his fine horse amidst a forest of flags, while the General’s chariot rolled past.

‘Father,’ he says. ‘Please be seated.’

So he is my host here! He shows none of the small, yet comforting, gestures of respect I crave. In the General’s new dynasty, perhaps such courtesies are to be abandoned as effeminate and impractical.

‘I bring good news, Father,’ he says.

‘So I may return home?’

He regards me sourly.

‘I am surprised you should say that, Father. All must see that our task of renewal is about to commence.’

He seems rather proud of this fine phrase.

‘What’s your good news?’ I ask, curtly. ‘But whatever you do, I beg you not to mention ‘renewal’ or ‘sweeping away the old’.’

Youngest Son looks around anxiously.

‘That is a dangerous way to talk,’ he says. ‘I thought your day in Golden Lotus Monastery would have taught you the consequences of foolish, ill-advised talk! I trust you do not speak like that when others might hear you.’

‘Rest assured,’ I say. ‘I reserve honesty for when I speak with you.’

He sighs, as if confronted with a truculent child. Indeed, there is something of that in our relationship – on both sides. I must strive for moderation to retain my authority.

‘Tell me your fine news,’ I sigh.

He becomes enthusiastic again.

‘Father, I have reminded one of the Chief Minister’s secretaries that you are here in Chunming, and capable of useful service.’

He waits expectantly for my reply.

‘Is that it?’ I ask.

‘Are you not pleased? What is the point of wasting your days here? Surely, now is the hour when all must prove their worthiness.’

Can he really have blinded himself to my true feelings?

Yet he’s surrounded by other young men who share his faith and strengthen it daily. No doubt he thinks I’ll fall into line when the time comes, like the other conscripts.

‘That was considerate of you,’ I say. ‘But there is something I must ask. Have you heard of a high-ranking prisoner called P’ei Ti?’

He looks confused.

‘There are things one does not discuss,’ he says.

‘Then it is true, he is here?’

‘Perhaps,’ says Youngest Son.

‘Where is he being kept? In the prison adjoining the Prefect’s residence?’

‘You mean 
His Highness’s
 residence,’ snaps Youngest Son.

‘Quite so. Is he there? Do not tell me a lie!’

‘Why on earth do you wish to know this, Father?’ he counters. ‘It will not help you gain a suitable position in His Highness’s administration.’

I lean towards him and he recoils a little.

‘Because P’ei Ti is a friend, an old friend. Even in your glorious new dynasty, friendship must count for something.’

‘Of course! As long as it does not conflict with duty. In this case, Father, I am afraid it does. You must give up all thought of this wretched P’ei Ti. I can confirm there is a prisoner of that name. It is best not to mention him. The Chief Minister is personally interrogating him.’

Given my old friend’s position as Second Chancellor to the Son of Heaven, it is not hard to see why. Perhaps they hope to discover secrets which will swing the rebellion General An Shu’s way.

I settle back in my chair. I do not care to consider the vile cell P’ei Ti must inhabit. The daily wounds to his noble spirit. Enough that he is alive. That, at least, argues for hope.

‘Father, you are lost in thought.’

Indeed I am. A wild, foolish thought that, perhaps, with much cunning and luck, I might bring about P’ei Ti’s release.

‘Father! You are acting strangely. I bring you good news, yet you do not appreciate it.’

‘Oh, I know what I must do,’ I say.

Youngest Son rises.

‘I am glad, Father,’ he says. ‘When you gain high office in His Highness’s service, it will bring great honour to our family.’

Finally I understand him. He dreams of gaining influence through me! Me, of all people! A fantasy so misguided, I could weep for him.

‘It is your mother’s birthday tomorrow,’ I say.

He suddenly seems mournful.

‘I will honour it,’ he says.

And I believe he will. That is the worst thing. I believe he will.

Midnight, and I listen to a dog barking. Its warning charges the night with urgency, then fades. I cannot sleep because I am thinking how I may pass a message to P’ei Ti and how he may reply.

If I were wealthy, I could bribe the guards. If I could somehow compromise them, it might be possible to gain his release through blackmail. If I was a great warrior, I might hack him free with a sword. But these are the taunting speculations of a powerless man who dreams to keep himself sane, as if an imaginary thing will become real through the act of being imagined. These are the hidden sparks which flicker behind submissive eyes, the vengeful daydreams of an abused clerk.

The reality is this: I lie on my pile of blankets, stifled by the close, unmoving air in the room. Yet I have tasted more fear than most men, and memory urges me back, through the long sleepless night, to when I was young and wayward. Riding out of the capital on a horse I had not learned how to master, and with a sword I had not learned how to use. Mi Feng beside me, when I was young, I was young. . .

*

Biting wind may freeze a man’s bones. Snow and hail may chap his skin. In each case, given warmth, his wounds will mend. But nothing quite thaws a heart frozen by fear, corners of soul burdened with ice. So I discovered during my first hour in the besieged city of Pinang. Yet it was fire, not frost, which caused the mischief.

We emerged from the mountain passes quite suddenly, late in the afternoon, and the whole dismal scene spread before us. First the city, with its high, mud-coloured walls and towers, surrounded by camps and siege lines. Pinang lay in a basin, encircled by low, dusty hills. It was roughly square in shape, several 
li
 on each side, protected by marshes to the south and exposed plateaus to the north and east. It had been laid out according to the usual grid design, hundreds of years earlier, during the Tang dynasty.

Pinang’s purpose was three-fold: to act as a market, a regional court and, most of all, an outpost to protect the Southern Silk Road. Many caravans paused here on their long journey, watering beasts, replenishing stores, perhaps undertaking a little trade, before the final stretch to civilization. For all its fine defences, Pinang remained a provincial backwater, long past its prime, yet still populous. And it was here the rebels, led by the self-styled King of Western Peace, Wang Tse, had proclaimed their capital.

As we toiled down the steep road to Pinang, it was not the city itself that chilled my heart, but my first glimpse of war.

The Imperial forces had lined up twenty huge siege engines on the west side of Pinang. Their design was simple. High wooden frames on which a pivotal arm rested. At one end of the arm, a cup to hold boulders or incendiary bombs. On the other, a hundred long ropes pulled by as many men. Thus large projectiles could be hurled at the city. Naturally, I knew of such weapons from Father, but had never witnessed them. Our strategy was obvious. Batter the walls and set the place ablaze.

As we neared, orders were screamed out and missiles curved towards the walls, where they exploded in clouds of smoke and dust. It seemed to me nothing could with-stand such force. I reined in my horse and Mi Feng halted beside me.

‘The rebels can hardly have expected this treatment,’ I said.

Mi Feng examined the siege lines but did not reply.

‘See!’ I exclaimed. ‘The best they can do is hurl barrels!

Let us hope they are not filled with wine, or our celebration when the city falls shall be a dry one.’

And it was true, the rebel artillery were replying with nothing more deadly than casks of water! A dozen landed harmlessly in front of our siege engines, with a loud splash. Our soldiers laughed and made obscene gestures at the ramparts.