The Mandate of Heaven (51 page)

He contrived to speak to Foreman Wu Mao alone. Spring was well advanced and vast flocks of birds that wintered in the marshes were gathering to return north. Among them were countless wild geese. Teng recollected that such creatures loved to bear good news.

‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I cannot last much longer.’

Wu Mao nodded. That much was evident. ‘Overseer Pi-tou has you very much in mind.’

‘That is why I intend to attempt an escape, while I still possess the strength.’

‘Foolish!’ cautioned Wu Mao. ‘No slave ever escapes the Pans except into mud and marsh – from which he never comes out.’

‘At least it will be a better way to die. Only, Wu Mao, I beg a favour. And I must speak bluntly. Does your clan maintain contact with the Yueh Fei rebels?’

Wu Mao’s face remained entirely expressionless.

‘If so,’ said Teng, ‘warn the Noble Count of Lingling a trap has been prepared here.’

‘Some of my clan and our friends believe that,’ conceded Wu Mao. ‘Messages have been written and sent.’

‘Perhaps word of your suspicions has already reached the Noble Count?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ said Wu Mao. ‘Messengers were sent two months ago but none returned. Besides, our usual way of passing letters is ineffective. All boats in and out of the port are controlled more tightly than ever. Not a single sailor is allowed to disembark and all loading is carried out by Mongol guards who speak no Chinese.’

‘Such precautions cannot be accidental,’ said Teng. ‘Still I beg you to try! A message must get through. I shall attempt to carry one myself.’

Foreman Wu Mao shook his head. ‘If so, you won’t come back. But I’ll pass your request to those who have the power to act …’

They were interrupted by a glimpse of Chief Overseer Pi-tou in the distance. All the salt workers were extraordinarily sensitive to his presence. A dozen soldiers followed him.

‘He’s seen us together,’ whispered Teng. ‘Strike me! And do not forget my request!’

Foreman Wu Mao did as instructed, at least with regard to the blow, adding fake kicks for good measure. He was rewarded with an approving glance from the Chief Overseer. Whether he fulfilled his promise concerning the message Teng could not know. That night he launched a plan so unstable its only ballast was desperate hope.

Slaves in the Salt Pans wore no chains. Why bother with the expense and inconvenience of fetters? The surest bondage was the belief that a better life lay forever beyond reach. Such invisible chains endure for generations.

Teng considered this as he passed boldly along walkways of earth raised above the marsh. Wooden derricks towered on all sides; he glimpsed the glow of countless gas flames surrounded by huddles of exhausted men. The sound of singing drifted from some work gangs, enough to give him heart.

A moonless midnight, the stars obscured by clouds spilling their burdens of rain, filling the darkness with slanting, wind-blown showers and songs of water. On such nights lamps were trimmed and guards kept to their shelters. Yet Teng had a ready answer if challenged. Soon enough his chance came to test it.

His plan was simple: find an unobtrusive route to the eastern side of the Salt Pans, where he had spied a gate through the ramparts leading to the marsh beyond. There might also be a chance of sneaking over the earthen ramparts. He had stolen a coil of rope used to lash pipes for that very purpose. Another possibility was to follow the line of battlements to the shore where a long pier jutted far out into the lake. Here cargo vessels moored to load blocks of salt and unload supplies. He could stow away or, failing that, steal a rowing boat.

Before he got halfway to the ramparts, a shout rose above the whisper and splash of the rain: ‘You! Halt!’

Teng sensed hundreds of slaves and indentured labourers stir as they drowsed. He obeyed at once. A hue and cry would have a single result: he was too weak to run.

Two Chinese mercenaries strolled over from a small, thatched guard post by the side of the earthen walkway.

‘What you doing here?’ demanded the first. His accent was from the far north.

Teng deployed the answer he had prepared. ‘I have been sent to seek Chief Overseer Pi-tou. My foreman fears a great loss of salt.’

The men exchanged glances.

‘Who is your foreman?’ demanded the guard.

‘Xin-qun,’ said Teng.

‘Never heard of him,’ said the guard.

‘He’s been appointed recently.’ Now Teng tried to appear anxious – an easy enough pretence. ‘Let me pass! If the salt is lost I shall not take responsibility!’

This seemed to satisfy them.

‘Go your way,’ ordered the guard. ‘Though we have not seen the Overseer all night.’

Teng hurried on until the land rose a little and the marsh grew drier. A black line of earthen ramparts appeared through the darkness. Compared to the great walls surrounding Hou-ming the defences were flimsy. For Teng, they were merely the first of countless obstacles before he could reach Red Turban territory.

Muddy paths led past yet more derricks, a few rotting in the dank air, having exhausted the underground pools of brine beneath their boreholes. He paused in the shadow of one. The gatehouse before him seemed deserted; the guards on this section of the ramparts were either called away or neglecting their duty. Now was his chance, perhaps his only chance. Teng left the shelter of the fallen derrick and scuttled towards steps leading up to the battlements. The crumbling, earthern stairs were lit by a swinging lamp suspended from a chain. A voice called from the shadows: ‘Going somewhere?’

Teng did not move. His interrogator remained invisible.

‘I’m seeking Chief Overseer Pi-tou!’ he blurted. ‘I must find him!’

A tall man in armour stepped out of a doorway concealed by a thick curtain. Other faces peered behind him. The drizzle fell constantly, illuminated as specks of light by the guttering lamp. Teng recognised the armoured man as one of the Overseer’s bodyguard. His luck had failed.

In the hour before dawn he was led from the guard post. He had crouched there all night while the soldiers played cards or exchanged gossip. Most were Chinese and scarcely better fed than the labourers they coerced; a few among them, like the tall man from the Overseer’s bodyguard, displayed small signs of wealth. Most were grumbling about unpaid wages. As he listened, Teng realised how thin their threads of loyalty must stretch.

A small escort armed with crossbows took him along the walkway of the ramparts. Life stirred in the Salt Pans below; nests of ants commencing their day’s unvarying routines. It was a long walk and, in different circumstances, he might have found the reed-covered marshes beautiful, as a red dawn lit channels of water and fields of swaying stems.

He entered the large fortress compound. It, too, was stirring. Teng was shoved through a parade ground. The number of troops garrisoned in so confined a space amazed him. Barracks had been established anywhere offering a little shelter, and not just for ill-disciplined conscripts: there were native Mongol guardsmen, as well as Turks and Uighurs from the Great Khan’s western possessions.

He was prodded into a courtyard surrounded on three sides by tall warehouses with red-tiled roofs. The fourth side framed a tall doorway in the fortress wall, presumably leading out to the marsh. The courtyard contained scores of wooden carrying frames and piles of heavy, rectangular salt blocks.

The guards led him into a warehouse. Before his eyes could accustom themselves to the gloom he was thrust to his knees. When Teng glanced up, two familiar faces looked down at him. As usual, Overseer Pi-tou was grinning slightly. His companion seemed less sanguine. Salt Minister Gui applied a silk kerchief to his perspiring forehead. Everywhere were stacks of spears and fire-lances, bundles of arrows and crossbow bolts. The Overseer looked to his superior.

‘He was caught trying to escape, Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘You’ll recollect I suggested we drown him, sir. I know just the place, a good-sized pool with somewhere dry and sheltered for His Honour to sit. You could watch me at work, sir, if you have time to spare before breakfast.’

Gui’s expression was that of a vexed, sulking child. He withdrew his abacus from his belt and clicked the beads with fierce intensity. Overseer Pi-tou shifted uneasily.

‘You heard the Salt Minister!’ he barked at the kneeling Teng. ‘Explain yourself!’

For a moment Teng was about to speak; after all, it was his nature to speak, however indiscreetly or recklessly. Yet he suspected silence might annoy them more.

‘Good!’ chuckled the Overseer. ‘I like it when they’re difficult. What do you want me to do with him, Your Honour?’

Still Gui clicked the beads like a weaver with his shuttle. When he stopped a peevish look crossed his face. He yawned extravagantly.

‘I want him to disappear,’ he said.

At this Teng raised his head higher. His fate was revealed. He had nothing left to lose. ‘If I’m charged with a capital crime let me come before a fitting judge!’ he cried. ‘You, Gui, are not such a person. You are a corrupt official who barely possesses the normal attributes of a man. Heaven’s Mandate does not extend to
you
!’

Gui’s attention wandered for a moment. He frowned down at Teng. ‘None of that matters here,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘You are an intelligent man, Deng Teng. Surely you see that?’

‘Take me before Jebe Khoja!’ demanded Teng. ‘He is concealed here, is he not?’

‘Not in this warehouse, no,’ said the Salt Minister, ‘he has far b-better quarters.’

Now Overseer Pi-tou half-rose. ‘Let me teach the gentleman scholar something, Your Worship!’ He turned to Teng. ‘I’ve taught scholars like you before! I’ll teach you to read and write, my friend!’

Teng did not flinch. Instead he stared at the Salt Minister.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did my Honoured Father survive the burning of Deng Mansions? You have sons of your own who love you. Well then, you must know how I need the truth before I die.’

The mention of sons had a bizarre effect on Gui. The older man shrank back, blinking rapidly as Yun Shu did when agitated. His shoulders stiffened like an enraged peacock’s.

‘No more talk from you! So you t-taunt me with
that
! You cheated me! Yes, your Father is alive. He, too, shall f-find out what it is to lose … Overseer Pi-tou! Hit him!’ he cried, shrilly. ‘Then s-send him far, far away!’

Overseer Pi-tou was glad to oblige. An hour with the Salt Minister tested all his restraint so he wasted none on Teng.

‘Stop!’ shouted Gui.

Reluctantly, Pi-tou halted the beating.

‘He must be able to walk,’ pointed out the Salt Minister, resuming some private calculation on his abacus.

Teng was dragged into the courtyard. Twenty barefoot men in rags were gathered, thin and pale as bean sprouts.

‘Load them!’ ordered the Overseer.

Groggily, Teng watched the first semi-naked porter being strapped into his load. Overseer Pi-tou gestured. ‘This one next,’ he ordered. ‘See it’s done properly. If you need further commands I’ll be at breakfast. I’ve worked up an appetite.’

Twenty departed, led by an old man to manage the food and water. Each porter carried a third of his weight in pure salt, strapped to a wooden frame on his back and secured with bolts. No bending was possible. No lying down unless someone helped you or you never wanted to rise. Sleep only possible by propping your weight on a forked stick – and Heaven help you if the stick broke.

The mule-train of slaves was bound for a town ten days’ march to the South. That much Teng learned. The prospect tormented him all their first day on the sticky, squelching path through the marshes, up into arid hills where streams trickled over algae-coloured rocks and hawks wheeled. With half-closed eyes he stumbled forward. Oh, it was simple enough! First one foot, then the other. Every sway set his heart lurching. He had already seen how the old man leading them struggled to help a fallen porter to his feet: it was a miracle he succeeded.

On and on, passing the skeletons of men who had been driven the same way, the soil around them bare of grass from the salt that formed their shroud. Teng glimpsed grinning skulls and remembered the ruined watchtower on Monkey Hat Hill. So many bones. All his life, so many. On he went, passing tiny villages where people turned away from the caravan of misery and bitter salt, perhaps to ignore their own shame they did not help, dared not help men so badly used and judged so worthless as to be driven to death like beasts. But that was unfair. Beasts had value, if only for their hides, grease and meat.