Breaking Bamboo (55 page)

When she opened her eyes again, Cao found Widow Mu diligently swaddling the baby in a hemp blanket, a guarded expression on her face. Then Cao knew the child must be stillborn. A wail began to form and her chest heaved, but Widow Mu was slapping the baby’s feet and, miraculously, like a bud opening out in a single moment, the child wailed and Madam Cao’s incipient cry of despair turned into a sob of joy.

If it had not been for the continuing pain she might have collapsed back in relief, staring in wonder at the baby’s streaked, contorted face as it howled, features so long anticipated and dreamed about. Still she held back from reaching out for the child that had caused so much agony.

‘Healthy!’ declared Widow Mu. ‘I’ve never seen one stronger!’

Cao suspected something hidden in Mu’s manner.

‘Is he?’ she said. ‘Is he
whole
?’

Mu shrugged apologetically.

‘He’s a she,’ she admitted, softly. ‘But quite, quite whole.’

‘Aieee!’

Cao’s scream tore through Apricot Corner Court. Widow Mu clasped the child to her breast in alarm.

‘Do not despair!’ she said. ‘Think, Madam Cao, how great a blessing a daughter can be!’

Then she fell silent, puzzled by the way Cao writhed on the birthing chair. At last a look of comprehension spread across her face.

‘Madam Cao,’ she said, shaking her by the arm, ‘are the lucky earthquakes continuing?’

Now Mu was feeling and squeezing Cao’s stomach, all the while examining her closely. She looked up and laughed.

‘Him a doctor, too!’ she exclaimed. ‘And he didn’t even know!’

Oh! Oh! Help me! Oh!
Madam Cao’s protestations filled the medicine shop. Again and again Widow Mu intoned: ‘Clasp the boulder! Squeeze the stone!’

For long minutes nothing emerged, either still or alive. Now Mu’s voice grew more insistent and Cao saw through her clouds of pain that the midwife was afraid.

‘Breathe!’ she urged. ‘And
squeeze
!’

The change, when it came, was sudden.

‘Coming!’ cried out Mu. ‘One more time! Nearly here!’

Cao felt herself tear open, her whole lower body tear open, so she was undone, forever emptied. Her breath panted quicker than her heart. She felt herself fading, flowing away. How often had Shih reported such things in a solemn voice about other women. Women she had envied for the gift they left on this earth, whatever its cost. Amidst her agony came snatches of clarity. Widow Mu crowing, ‘A boy, Madam Cao, a boy this time!’ And her chest heaved with laughter that fled towards stupor, the numb, retreating blackness from which all the ten thousand creatures come and go, life after life, and to which each returns, forever and ever, when Nothingness is attained.

‘The Song Dynasty may well be inept at ruling their domains, but Linan will not capitulate without terrible losses on all sides. To lust after life and fear death is merely natural. When the Men of the South choose death over life, it is simply because they do not believe our promises to spare and reward those who surrender to us. We should therefore repeat our pledge to favour all who renounce their loyalty to the Song. . .’

From
Secret Memorandum to the Great Khan
by Yao Shu, a Chinese adviser to Khubilai Khan

*

Peacock Hill, Nancheng. Autumn, 1268

It was a bright morning on Peacock Hill. The pleasure gardens constructed by ancient kings danced with colour and shadow.

Charms of finches twittered from branch to branch. Gardeners cast fearful glances towards the river as they went about their duties, the sharper-eyed among them observing the new hillock that continued to grow, day by day, on the wharf-side of Fouzhou.

Guang sat in the gardens beside a moon-gate, awaiting a bell of summons. He wore his splendid uniform and waist-badges of office. His head was bowed, as though pressed earthward by care. So still did he sit that the finches lost their fear and pecked the gravel path near his feet. His eyes were half-closed, gazing inwards.

Shih and Dr Du Tun-i were not the only ones to witness the corpse-mound’s construction. Guang and Chen Song had watched from the Gate Of The Vermilion Sparrow. Even now wagons were discharging their burdens and hurrying off for a fresh load. It had surprised him he should tremble and stutter when answering Chen Song’s questions. How absurd! Had he not braved worse sights than this? Captain Xiao did not quiver like a frightened boy!

But Guang was weary of Captain Xiao. He could not avoid the knowledge that he alone had ordered the closure of Jasper Gate and demolished the Floating Bridge, trapping tens of thousands in Fouzhou. Loyal Chen Song assured him that otherwise Nancheng would have fallen, the slaughter fifty times worse. Yet Guang could not reason away the piles of dead, or the screams – pitiful, keening voices – or the grief visible everywhere. Mongol resolve was implacable and now their attention was rapidly returning to Nancheng.

A bell rang from the Old Palace. The Pacification Commissioner had ordered Guang to attend an audience where future strategy would be decided. In the past, such a prospect would have filled him with enthusiasm.

He rose from the bench and the finches scattered in alarm.

They perched on nearby branches and watched him go with bright, unblinking eyes.

Over thirty of the Province’s most senior military and civil officials conversed quietly. Chen Song joined Guang near the front. With the death of General Zheng Shun and other officers over the last few days they had gained in seniority.

‘An interesting choice of room for our meeting,’ murmured the scholar-soldier.

Wang Ting-bo had again summoned them to the Hall of Obedient Rectitude, once the audience chamber of a petty king.

‘Behold!’ added Chen Song, drily. ‘Even the thrones are back.’

Two huge new chairs of lacquered wood, marble and ivory, had been placed on a freshly constructed dais. The two men wandered over to examine the carvings. The significance of river-dragons entwined around chrysanthemums was obvious.

A gong echoed and a grand procession entered the audience chamber. Lesser officials carrying ink and paper led the way, followed by fan-bearers. Finally came the Pacification Commissioner himself in full uniform. At his side walked his nephew, Prefect Wang Bai.

All the company bowed. Some fell to their knees in grovelling homage – as though Wang Ting-bo’s right to rule had grown, rather than been diminished, by the appalling loss of Fouzhou and its entire population. Guang felt listless and subdued as the Pacification Commissioner and Prefect settled on their new thrones.

‘Gentlemen!’ said Wang Ting-bo. ‘Powers beyond our control have heaped disaster upon us. Despite our brave strategy and our unflagging resolve, Fouzhou has been overwhelmed as is a beach by the tide!’

The only sounds came from the click of the fan-wafting servants. Guang recollected the reinforcements that never came and wondered how inevitable A-ku’s victory had been. Perhaps Wang Ting-bo comprehended the feebleness of his explanation for he repeated: ‘Like a beach swept by the tide!’

No one spoke. The Pacification Commissioner nodded to his nephew who surveyed the waiting men imperiously.

‘For three hundred years,’ said Wang Bai, ‘the Royal House have ruled our Empire. Think how we have benefited! For three hundred years the Mandate of Heaven has ensured their rule – despite, it is true, the unfortunate loss of half our ancestral lands due to extravagance and folly, as well as the ignoble purchase of peace through tribute – but let us not speak of those things. Endless errors have laid bare the bosom of our Empire, but I say again, let us not mention them. Now we must ask ourselves, what is to be done? Now we must answer those who say the Mandate of Heaven no longer belongs to our Holy Ruler, due to lascivious greed, incompetence and waste! We must answer them, as best we can. We must find ways of answering such voices. Or conclude – a dreadful thought! –they are right.’

All listened in amazement to this speech. Guang was not sure he understood Wang Bai exactly. Was he criticising the Emperor or calling for the utmost loyalty? Others shared his confusion. A few watched the Pacification Commissioner carefully, waiting for his next words.

‘Our duty, gentlemen,’ said Wang Ting-bo, ‘is to ensure Nancheng does not suffer the same fate as its sister city.’

All could agree with that.

‘But how, Your Excellency?’ called out an old man.

‘Ah!’ said Wang Ting-bo, raising his finger for emphasis.

‘The sounds of woeful lament echo through our province! We must act with resolve and wisdom to soothe the people’s wounds.’

They waited for more but none was forthcoming. Now Guang longed for the presence of lost leaders. General Zheng Shun and Admiral Qi-Qi would have known what to do. They would have suggested a strategy involving the least risk and utmost honour.

‘Grave days!’ broke in Wang Bai. ‘Grave, grave days! Even now, some in the city suggest that the Great Khan has received the Mandate of Heaven. They argue it cannot be treachery to bow to Heaven’s will. I say to you all, gentlemen. Urgently find an answer to such arguments in your own hearts.’

Wang Bai settled back, his habitually suave demeanour flushed and eager. It seemed the discussion might be over, for Wang Ting-bo began to rise. Suddenly Chen Song was on his feet.

‘Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘Forgive my stupidity! I thought we were here to organise our defence. How is it to be conducted, sir?’

Guang resisted an urge to drag Chen Song back to a sitting position – for his friend was risking a great man’s enmity. Of course, Zheng Shun would have pressed Wang Ting-bo for a practical response, but then he had been a general of great standing, a hero of the Empire. As the most senior surviving officer it now fell to Guang, not Chen Song, to ask that question – but his mind was strangely blank.

The Pacification Commissioner peered at Chen Song as though at a troublesome child.

‘Our defence is to be conducted with unfailing courage and the broadest sense of duty,’ he replied.

A dark cloud settled on Chen Song’s face.

‘Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘Nancheng is still strong. We must learn from the fall of Fouzhou. I believe that breaches in the walls caused by their new weapons need not dismay us. Unlike Fouzhou, we still possess wide moats. Our artillery and crossbows could cause hideous casualties should they seek to attack.

Moreover, our army numbers tens of thousands. Our granaries retain enough for a year of short rations. We need not despair!

Or question the Mandate of Heaven.’

Murmurs of agreement spread among the assembled officials and officers. All had more than just homes and possessions to lose. Honour, once compromised, is a cracked mirror. It will distort the reflection of an entire man’s life.

‘Your Excellency,’ continued Chen Song. ‘We must form companies of skilled men to repair breaches in the ramparts caused by their new catapults. We must set up appropriate stores of materials at key points along the walls. Flying columns of the bravest and best could be stationed to rush like angry tigers wherever they are needed. . .’

‘Enough!’ called out Wang Bai. ‘You go beyond yourself!

Gentlemen, return to your duties and await His Excellency’s decrees.’

Again Wang Ting-bo’s procession formed up. As they left Wang Bai shot Chen Song a venomous glance.

Once they had gone, the latter muttered to Guang.

‘
Decrees?
Since when does a Pacification Commissioner formulate decrees? That is a royal prerogative.’ He grew thoughtful. ‘Unless, of course, one aspires to the pleni-potentiary powers granted by the Great Khan to his Provincial Governors. . .’

Guang was not listening. A small crowd had gathered round him, applauding his decisive actions on the Floating Bridge.

Others, especially those with strong Fouzhou connections, muttered at the loss of so many.

‘A most disappointing audience,’ grumbled Chen Song as they strode down Peacock Hill. ‘You appear in a hurry, Guang!

Where on earth are you going?’

‘To a happier audience than the one we have just attended. I beg you to join me. There are those I would like you to see.

One especially. . . though that is another matter.’

*

Cao’s father once told her in his most serious voice, reciting something learned by rote at the Imperial Medical Academy:

‘Noble are the rites. They fulfil what is desired.’ She was sure his voice had been solemn – perhaps it had been humorous.

Father had been a man of considerable forbearance, or
ren
.

Given the rift with his Honoured Parents, the loss of a dear wife and blatant attempts by unloving brothers to seize his considerable property as he lay dying, he had needed
ren
in abundance.

Right now, so did she, as all those around her conspired to bring an avalanche of misfortune on the family. Shih was quite determined they should advance the bathing rites normally practised on the third day after a birth because of the desperate state of the siege. But how could a bungled rite please the ancestors or fulfil what is desired? As she was forbidden to leave her bed, it was hard to mount an effective resistance to his plans.

‘Will it not be unlucky?’ she asked, for the twentieth time

‘We dare not risk such a thing.’

‘Then I fear we shall lack Guang’s presence in the rite,’ he had explained. ‘Guang expects to take his place on the ramparts as soon as the Mongols begin their next assault. That could be at any time.’

‘Why must you keep mentioning them?’ she asked.

Cao hugged the bundles sleeping on her chest, then sighed: ‘I only want what is best.’

‘I am sure of one thing,’ he said. ‘I have never seen the sense of waiting three days for the first wash. It is an unclean practice.’

So it had been decided.

Noon lit the corners of Apricot Corner Court as Cao plumped her pillows and was helped into her best bed-gown by Lu Ying. Such an attention naturally pleased Madam Cao –once it had seemed certain the concubine would lie where she did, cradling their family’s future.

When Cao was presentable, Lu Ying retrieved the babies from their cots, a dreamy expression on her flawless face, as though she was imagining her own children if Heaven proved kind. It amazed Cao how adroit Lu Ying was at handling babies, considering she was useless at almost everything else.