The Mandate of Heaven (46 page)

On entering he frowned. The plain room had been transformed by rolls of hanging gauze, especially round a large bed at the rear. A cushioned chair and low tables laden with fine bowls stood before it – everything necessary for a banquet. A space had been cleared at the foot of the table, marked out by silk curtains. Behind these, musicians waited on stools, watched by Hsiung’s bodyguards – evidently placed there by Liu Shui. As the Noble Count entered they struck up a stirring, yet subtle tune on pi-pa, ch’in, flute and drum. A girl in neat red and green silks appeared, fluttering on tiny lotus feet. She bowed deeply to her guest.

‘I am Ying-ge,’ she said, smiling as her face turned gently from side to side like a flower in a gentle breeze. ‘Will you dine, Noble Count, until I perform for your pleasure?’

Hsiung could think of no other response than a graceless grunt. As soon as he was seated, a line of servants appeared with dishes – a hot soup of pork and pickles, omelette with meat sauce, duck and slivers of toasted almonds, beef shredded with dried mushrooms, bamboo shoots and fried frog legs. Finally his favourite: flower kidneys with hot sauce. As he dined Hsiung remembered the simple meals he and Teng enjoyed in Deng Mansions. A bowl of millet had been a feast to them. And now Teng would eat no more. Hsiung had seen too many fire-shrivelled corpses not to know what must remain of his old friend. Between each dish he drank bowls of fine wine to suppress melancholy. Finally he belched and looked up, for the music had stopped. Ying-ge knelt before him, her forehead touching the floor while her back remained perfectly straight.

‘The Noble Count appears sad,’ she said, glancing up at him with a concerned expression. ‘Is His Highness displeased with my arrangements?’

‘No. It is just that I learned of a friend’s death today.’ Hsiung frowned, surprised by himself. The revelation emerged so easily. At first he was afraid to have shared so much. But her face was kindly, so he added: ‘A friend from when I was a boy.’

‘Ah,’ said Ying-ge. She brightened tentatively. ‘Shall I sing happy songs to make you happy?’

His expression offered no encouragement either way.

‘Yes, I
shall
,’ she said. ‘With your permission. But only after I have performed very sad songs to honour your dear friend.’

Her first was from the popular play,
The Soul of Chen-nu Flees Her Body
:

Pictures of spring stir my feelings,
Spray upon spray of green willows,
The briefest brush of wooing swallows,
Bees in pairs, golden orioles,
Each longs one for the other.
I know the Jade Emperor commends
Twoness – as a model for all mankind.

It was a shock for Hsiung to realise he was weeping. He, who never cried! Never showed weakness! No, he must stop now, this would not do. Ying-ge realised the effect of her song and, after hurried instructions to the musicians, began another:

One stroke and the world’s glories are gone:
Leaves of autumn in a cloud of dust.
Spring, summer, autumn, winter revolving:
Leaves of autumn in a cloud of dust.

Hsiung brushed away a last tear.

‘My friend once recited a verse like that. Perhaps it was the same one. Even as a boy he was a scholar, you see, whereas I …’ Hsiung drained a full cup. ‘Now play your happy songs,’ he commanded. ‘I want to smile! To laugh!’

But he looked at her with a sense of wonder. She had brought him tears, stirred emotions he thought dead in his soul. He would always be grateful to her for that. And her graceful beauty fascinated him.

Towards midnight they lay on silken sheets, entwined in each other’s limbs. Everything about Ying-ge delighted him. She seemed so curious about his life and all he longed to become.

‘So you will sacrifice at the altars on Holy Mount Chang in a fortnight’s time?’ she asked, admiringly. ‘Why, you are like an emperor!’

Hsiung chuckled and pulled her closer. He was blissfully drunk, his body glowing. ‘You sound like Liu Shui! Oh, he has many rites planned. Even an hour praying by myself in the Buddha Maitreya’s sacred caves. Afterwards I will emerge reborn.’

Prompted by her steady interest, he told her of the ritual, all the while resting his head on her soft, yet firm, mounds. How fine it was to be the Noble Count of Lingling! Would so fine and beautiful a lady have anything to do with him otherwise?

Before they fell asleep she asked, as though moved by a sudden thought: ‘What was the name of your friend?’

‘Which friend?’ he replied, dreamily.

‘The dead scholar you told me about.’

‘Oh, Teng. Deng Teng. Poor fellow.’

He began to snore. Beside him, Ying-ge’s limbs stiffened and she stared intently into the darkness.

Hsiung had heard this particular lesson many times before. If not from Liu Shui then, long ago, from his old master Deng Nan-shi in distant Hou-ming. Now, standing in Precious Forest Temple on Mount Chang, Hsiung stifled a yawn.

‘Thus,’ concluded Liu Shui, ‘the Sons of Heaven regulate Time and Space through the Proper Rites. Without this service the seas would boil and mountains crumble.’

‘I am not the Son of Heaven,’ pointed out Hsiung.

‘True, but you have been granted the Mandate of Heaven in Lingling County – and other places besides. It is surely significant your palace overlooks one of the sacred mountains upon which Heaven itself rests?’

Hsiung was holding a large hat with seven tassels upon which heavy jade charms hung. Liu Shui wished him to wear this outlandish headgear for a whole night, calling it a Hat of Communication with Heaven.’

‘There is one reason I agreed to this,’ grumbled Hsiung, ‘and that reason still holds. After so many years of poor harvests I must do everything in my power to aid the people.’

This answer pleased Liu Shui deeply, for his Buddha-like smile – so often absent of late – returned wider than ever. The Chancellor bowed very low.

‘Thus speaks one worthy of the Mandate of Heaven,’ he said. ‘Maintain yourself in purity all night and you shall be called upon at dawn.’

It was a long night in the shrine room of Precious Forest Temple, slumped in front of the statues on a coarse hemp mat. Dozens of Hsiung’s ‘bravest and best’ patrolled the courtyard and walls, for Liu Shui was alarmed by reports from his spies that the Mongol court wished to assassinate the Noble Count in revenge for the loss of their Salt Fleet. Neither food nor wine were permitted. Nor was company of any kind and this lack troubled Hsiung more than an empty stomach. His hunger was very specific.

In the weeks since Actress Ying-ge’s arrival he had summoned her more and more frequently; likewise his presents to her had increased in generosity, for he hoped to persuade her to remain in Lingling as his concubine after her pilgrimage to Holy Mount Chang was complete. Maddeningly, she would only pout in reply and pretend to look serious, saying: ‘Noble Count, that was not why I came here!’ or ‘What of my dear parents in Hou-ming? I must return and ask their permission.’ The more she resisted his suggestions, the more he wanted her.

Towards dawn a loud gong resounded through Precious Forest Temple and Hsiung rose reluctantly. Now he must place himself on display. Straightening his Hat of Communication with Heaven, he strode to the entrance and slid open the doors.

The courtyard beyond was crammed with people: priests, monks, soldiers and officials from Liu Shui’s growing secretariat. Behind them came lines of townsfolk from Lingling and peasants drawn to the luck-bringing festival from hamlets and villages. At the sight of the Noble Count, the front ranks fell to their knees, followed by those behind. Hsiung surveyed the people in the aloof manner Liu Shui had advised. A deep silence reigned in the courtyard.

Then the Noble Count descended to the group of priests, who rose, bowing and chanting continuously. They cleared a path through the crowd, out of the temple complex and onto the Holy Mount itself. Here a newly-built road climbed to a specially constructed altar above the temple. Soldiers from the Guards lined the way with flaring pine torches. Hundreds of lights danced on the dark hillside, mirroring the apparent jumble of constellations above. Glancing back, Hsiung saw a red dawn behind the eastern hills.

With Liu Shui at his side he climbed the cinder road. Still no one spoke or sang. The only noise was the steady chant of the priests, Daoist and Buddhist, and the wind against the mountain. At the top he found more priests sacrificing thrice-blessed cocks and hens on a side altar to deter demons. On the main altar, decorated with a carved relief of the Emperors of the Five Colours, Hsiung found a scroll designed to aid germination of all seeds presently sleeping in the earth. He picked it up and pretended to read. Liu Shui had taught him the supplication by rote yet Hsiung caught himself mumbling as whole phrases fled his mind. He felt light-headed from hunger. Giving up, he stood with his head bowed, apparently in profound communion with the Jade Emperor. A sumptuous breakfast filled his imagination.

When he turned, Hsiung found the hillside covered with silent, kneeling people, peering up at his silhouette and golden, silken robes, his immense many-brimmed hat. As Liu Shui had instructed, he prostrated himself one more time towards the west and retraced his steps. Cheering began. Hsiung suspected Liu Shui’s influence, for the first to cheer were the officials in their uniforms, but soon hundreds of others joined in.

His heart and head grew dizzy at their enthusiasm. Hsiung floated down the hillside to the final part of the rite. He must now enter a series of caverns carved into a cliff by a Buddhist Immortal’s prayers, long ago in the Han Dynasty. Only when Hsiung had prayed there by himself for an hour could he proceed to breakfast.

Hsiung climbed the cliff and entered the low doorway of the shrine. The crowd milled expectantly on the slopes below. A door closed behind him, shutting out the dawn’s feeble light. Yet the cavern was bright, illuminated by dozens of candles and lamps smoking faintly.

As Hsiung stepped deeper into the sacred network of caverns he felt an odd unease and glanced round. Liu Shui’s intention had been for the people to see he prayed alone, thus convincing them of his sincerity and influence with Heaven. Hsiung sniffed the air suspiciously. Was that the echo of a footfall? Perhaps Liu Shui had instructed a priest to be at hand.

So Hsiung advanced deeper into the maze of caves, seeking the gigantic statue of the Buddha where he must pray. Candles became less frequent, shadows wider and deeper. Carved stone friezes depicted figures enduring the torments of hell, their mouths an eternal scream, the very sinews of their faces knotted in agony. Again Hsiung paused. A shuffle behind him? Or did it come from the cavern ahead? Everything was different here. Perhaps it had been his own footstep echoing. Hsiung examined the carved sinner in hell, wishing he had brought a sword, even a knife – though using edged weapons was a sin in itself. It was said killing a single fly cost a day of torment in hell.

Cautiously now, Hsiung advanced down a narrow corridor until he came to a large chamber hollowed from the rock. Here, too, were many candles clustered round a huge statue of the cross-legged Buddha, his smile beatific and hands raised palm upwards. The rest of the room was obscured by deep shadows. Hsiung felt his back prickle but did not look round. He was sure now. Someone far less sublime than the Buddha was in the caves. Maybe more than one.

He bowed deeply to the statue, as though gripped by piety, in the process removing the heavy Hat Of Communication With Heaven. His hands closed over two of the large, solid carved jade charms dangling from strings. He coughed loudly to mask the tearing sound as they came free. Now he held the hat in one hand and jade weights in the other.

Rising, Hsiung glanced round for other useful objects. There was a solid wooden reading stand near the Buddha’s statue. Abandoning all pretence, he dashed over to this flimsy shield and stood behind it, looking around. If no one else was there, no one would witness his fear. For a long moment it seemed he had made a fool of himself before the Buddha’s smiling face. Then a figure dressed in black stepped silently from the shadows, a long sword in his hand. On the other side of the cavern another appeared with a thick bamboo stabbing spear and an axe in his belt.

Hsiung turned to make a dash for the entrance but a third man blocked his way, a curved short sword in each hand. Their faces were covered by scarves to reveal only eyes and tousled hair. Hsiung licked his lips.

‘If you tell me who hired you I shall spare you,’ he said.

His voice rolled and echoed round the stone walls. The three men examined him. Hsiung noted that the spear was poised, balanced in the second assassin’s hand as though ready to throw. He leaned closer to the reading stand so it covered his chest.

‘If you attack me before the Buddha’s statue you will suffer torments in hell,’ he said. ‘Tell me who hired you and I will permit you to leave unharmed.’

He hoped for signs of uncertainty, weakness; two of the men remained utterly impassive but the spearman crouched nervously – he must be the first target. The middle assassin waved a forefinger at his companions and they advanced, step by step, over the sand-covered floor of the cavern. Hsiung gripped the hat and, with a maniacal bellow, hurled one of the jade weights at the spearman’s exposed face. So unexpected was his attack the assassins halted, instinctively raising their weapons to parry. The jade charm hit the spearman’s face below the eye, instantly drawing blood. As Hsiung had hoped, the man reacted by reflex, throwing the spear. It struck the reading stand with an echoing thud and hung there quivering. Hsiung took possession of it.