The Mandate of Heaven (72 page)

Hsiung stared at the moon until it shifted across the sky and no longer blessed his cell. Suddenly tired, he lay on the slatted bench and slept thankfully, as exhausted children sleep, without nightmares.

The condemned man was led from prison into a clear, frosty noon. Fresh snow glittered on the wooden walkways of Prince Arslan’s palace. Despite chains and manacles he walked proudly, looking neither right nor left. The officials and soldiers accompanying him spoke in low mutters. A few palace servants and courtiers watched him pass. One or two shouted taunts, aware that the Noble Count of Lingling’s strong hands were safely chained.

Soon he came to a large gatehouse in the palace walls. Here his escort halted. Standing in the doorway of a guardroom was Prince Jebe Khoja. The escort bowed low.

‘Bring the prisoner in here!’ ordered the Prince, pointing at the doorway behind him. ‘We’ll sew him into it here.’

The officials in charge of the execution whispered amongst themselves.

‘Your Highness!’ protested one. ‘That is not customary!’

Prince Jebe Khoja’s glance made the unfortunate man quake.

‘Of course, Your Highness! Quickly, you fools! Did you not hear His Highness?’

The condemned man was prodded into the gatehouse, whereupon the door slammed in the officials’ faces.

Time passed slowly for the men outside. Prince Arslan himself and many notable guests were waiting out in the Deer Park for the spectacle to begin. A special pavilion had been constructed for the occasion. The chief executioner was about to knock timidly on the guardroom door when it opened. Within, Prince Jebe Khoja sat on a low-backed chair. At his feet lay a thick sack stitched from animal hides and, from the groans and twitching, stuffed with someone alive. Again the chief official risked a protest.

‘Your Highness!’ he exclaimed. ‘The prisoner should not be sewn into the sack until he has had a last chance to beg for clemency. That is the custom.’

‘He does not want clemency,’ said Jebe Khoja. ‘And do not contradict me again.’

‘Yes, Your Highness!’

‘Carry him to where it is to be done and see it is done.’

‘Yes, Your Highness!’

So the procession resumed its journey, emerging from the fortified gatehouse into an area of parkland before the palace. In the distance a herd of deer watched with raised heads, their tails ticking, then returned to scraping up roots beneath the snow. A path of churned slush and mud led from the gatehouse to a large pavilion with open sides. Here Prince Arslan sat upon a throne, swaddled in furs, awaiting the demise of the upstart bandit who had caused him such loss of face at the Great Khan’s court.

Scents of meat and crackling drifted, attracting dozens of pacing crows. A whole pig roasted on one spit, the fire hissing when fat fell upon glowing charcoal. Other spits bore lambs, fowl of various kinds, even a freshly-skinned fawn. Such plenty tormented hungry bellies amongst the servants and soldiers.

‘There he is!’ exclaimed Prince Arslan, as the prisoner was carried out. ‘Trussed up for the spit, eh!’

Friends and hangers-on laughed heartily. All were drunk.

‘Let’s see how he takes to having his meat softened up, eh!’ declared His Highness, encouraged by the success of his earlier witticism.

The executioners bowed hurriedly and dragged the leather sack out into the snowy field. No cries emerged from the condemned man, just occasional grunts.

Once they were a respectable distance from the royal party, the executioners threw down their burden and hurried away, leaving the sack like a huge brown slug on the snow.

For a while nothing happened. The drunken on-lookers exchanged tales of similar executions they had witnessed, pointing out it was normally a privilege restricted to prisoners of royal blood. Several argued that trussing the prisoner in a rolled-up carpet, not a sack, was the proper way. Prince Arslan replied that they must tell his nephew, Jebe Khoja. It was he who had insisted upon this method of execution, citing a deep debt of honour. A clatter of hooves interrupted him.

Two horsemen in burnished lamellar armour rode abreast from the gatehouse.

‘Why, the rogue!’ roared Prince Arslan. ‘He just wanted a little revenge of his own!’

At the cavalry’s head cantered Prince Jebe Khoja on a large black charger with a braided mane and tail. Iron-shod hooves kicked up snow and frozen earth as the horsemen gathered speed, forming a single file that became an arrow cantering towards the leather sack.

‘Hey-ah!’ called Prince Arslan. ‘Don’t finish him off too quickly!’

Perhaps Jebe Khoja did not hear. Perhaps his need for revenge was too strong. Instead of riding his horse over the prisoner’s legs, as might reasonably be expected, he galloped over where his head must surely be. There was a crump as a hoof struck the very edge of the sack. Then he was past and hauling at the reins to turn his mount. The next rider was more accurate, aiming his horse at the condemned wretch’s lower half. Blows were struck and the sack jumped.

‘Hey-ya!’ bellowed Arslan. ‘More wine, damn you! Hey-ya!’

But Jebe Khoja had wheeled his mount and was galloping over the sack. A loud crunching noise followed. The horse whinnied in fear, almost stumbled, for it had smelt brains and blood. Red was trickling through a small tear in the leather, staining the snow.

‘Damn it, they know how to do these things better in Dadu!’ muttered one of the Prince’s guests. ‘What a hurry to finish the swine! Where’s the sport?’

‘Quite remarkable!’ exclaimed another. ‘The bandit did not cry out once. No wonder he caused you such trouble! Eh, Arslan? Ha! Ha!’

The Mongol Prince flushed angrily. For the whole world knew he had not managed to tame the Noble Count of Lingling without help from the Imperial Court, despite outnumbering the Yueh Fei rebels many times over. Prince Arslan watched Jebe Khoja’s men drag the blood-stained sack away and wondered if it might be amusing to show his guests what remained of the bandit’s face. Too late, the body had already disappeared into the Palace. Prince Arslan frowned at this unorthodox end to the execution, only brightening when servants arrived with platters of freshly roasted meat.

Thus, one version of a death. There was another.

In this, an exhausted Hsiung was forced into the guardroom of the gatehouse, stumbling as the door slammed behind him. The stone-flagged room was gloomy except for feeble rays slanting through slit windows. In the centre sat Jebe Khoja on a low-backed chair, surrounded by warriors in lamellar armour and furs. At their feet lay a flat leather sack, long as a coffin.

Jebe Khoja stroked his beard and examined the prisoner. At first he seemed unsure what to say.

‘Now then,’ he said, finally, ‘I did think of forcing another prisoner into that sack on the floor and pretending it was you. There is a fellow just your height and size in the prison.’ He coughed apologetically. ‘But I have my own sons to think of and letting you go would be an act of treason.’

Hsiung heard a voice protesting in a chamber behind them. It was oddly familiar, and somehow disturbing, though he could not hear the voice well enough to identify it.

‘That could still be accomplished,’ continued Jebe Khoja, ‘I have the man nearby, as you’ve clearly heard. And the world would be better off without him. Only, you would have to promise to never trouble the Great Khan or his servants again. You would have to leave this province forever. I would require your firm oath, certain that, as you are a man of honour, I could rely on it.’

Hsiung looked at the Mongol in disbelief. Was this a vile trick? A cruel game to torment him? The Mongols were well known for prolonging the pain of those they conquered. They were also famed for a sense of obligation if one saved their own or a kinsman’s life. One glance at Jebe Khoja’s face revealed his sincerity. Hsiung could scarcely believe the risks the barbarian was taking.

‘Is that all?’ asked Hsiung. ‘An oath to betray my cause? To abandon my former comrades?’

Jebe Khoja nodded solemnly. ‘That is all. Then you shall live. In obscurity and far away, it is true. Yet you shall live.’

The prospect of freedom, so near and apparently immediate, almost mastered Hsiung. Then he recollected last night’s moon and Liu Shui’s pure face, how he had sworn an oath to die well. Without hesitation, he shook his head.

‘Too many good men died because of my mistakes. I shall not survive to end my days drowning sorrow in a wine bowl. Our cause is proper and just! Soon the Mandate of Heaven will be stripped from you barbarians. I’d rather die than betray that.’

Jebe Khoja nodded. ‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘for your honour’s sake.’ He pointed at the leather sack. ‘You know what this is for?’

Hsiung stared haughtily at the wall.

‘I see you know. I shall do you one good turn, whether you want it or not. Gag him!’ he ordered.

Chained as he was, Hsiung could hardly resist as the warriors stuffed a silk cloth into his mouth.

‘Now you cannot shame yourself by crying out,’ said Jebe Khoja. ‘Rest assured, Noble Count, I will send you to the next life as swiftly and painlessly as I can.’

Hsiung did not bother to struggle as he was stuffed head first into the sack. Its open end was sealed with coarse stitches of leather twine. He found himself enclosed in darkness, breathing a foul stench of animal hide through his nostrils, struggling with the panic of a drowning man. There was no air! How could there be air when only his nostrils were free to breathe? Hsiung fought for a mental image to quieten his terror. Last night’s dream of the bamboo groves on Monkey Hat Hill returned to him, of leading Teng and Yun Shu to the safety of the ruined watchtower …

What came next followed quickly. Despite his intention to be contemptuously passive, Hsiung did panic and writhe. Yet as he heard the horses’ iron-shod hooves pounding the earth, he closed his eyes and lay still, glad of the gag allowing him to die well. Even when a hoof shattered his thigh like a huge hammer crushing flesh and bone he could not scream. Soon a blow to the skull stopped the agony in his trampled legs with an explosion of light that flashed a great brilliance across the troubled landscape of his soul, so that sun and world and spirit scattered like stars fleeing the night sky and dissolved into darkness.

How Clouds Float

Thus, one version of destiny for Hsiung. Many years later an old man in a scholar’s blue robe watched a honking vee of plump geese fly east. And he remembered another destiny. A version he imagined for life not death.

Despairing of greed, misrule and war tormenting the Middle Kingdom, the Jade Emperor in Heaven sent an official to fly over the lands and discover who, if anyone, deserved the Mandate of Heaven.

‘Be they low or high, humble or noble,’ he declared, ‘only their virtue matters. Any displaying
that
shall be rewarded with great fortune.’

The Heavenly Official bowed and departed.

Naturally, he was an Immortal with magical abilities peculiar to himself. Glittering blue eyes able to spot a gnat a thousand
li
away. A uniform of vermilion with the power to transform his appearance in a flash – and even render him invisible. Glossy, porcelain skin capable of illuminating the darkest places. The Jade Emperor also gave him an enormous white goose as his steed.