The Mandate of Heaven (40 page)

Liu Shui examined the Zhongs at his feet, his frown deepening.

‘Are these our new allies, Noble Count?’ he asked.

A question Hsiung was unsure how to answer.

Hua was more forthcoming. ‘The worthy Zhong clan beg to offer the entire revenue of this district to the Noble Count,’ he said. Turning to Hsiung he added: ‘A most benevolent family, loved by the common people, as I have informed Your Highness.’

Liu Shui continued to survey the Zhongs.

‘That is not my information,’ he said. ‘Noble Count, I urge you to appoint new, more trustworthy administrators than these Zhongs, so highly esteemed by the Mongols and their lackeys. You may well ask yourself why the famine has been more severe in Chenglingji under their benevolent rule than in neighbouring districts. As you know, I have trained suitable men, all loyal to you. They should ensure justice and that the, ahem, unfortunate excesses of our victory do not linger in the minds of the people. Thus, deep bonds of loyalty to your rule, based upon love as well as fear, will be established here.’

For a moment Hsiung wavered.

‘Always remember,’ added Liu Shui, gently, ‘a just ruler earns the Mandate of Heaven by aiding his people. Conquest is just a means to that end.’

‘Noble Count,’ said Hua, ‘consider the revenue you will lose! Wealth that will build your armies! The Zhongs are good people, sir.’

Then Hsiung saw a way out of his dilemma, one that would please everyone. The Noble Count was so delighted with his own wisdom he beamed.

‘I hereby appoint anyone chosen by the Excellent Liu Shui as governor of this town,’ he said, ‘but his officials shall be the Zhong clan, whose homage I accept. Under my rule peace shall triumph in Chenglingji.’

Liu Shui bowed low and left to make sure no further slaughter sullied the ideals of their cause. Hua, however, met the eye of a retreating member of the Zhong clan, a man Yun Shu had known a decade before as
Dear Uncle
, and silent understandings passed between them.

When Teng considered the matter – which wasn’t often – he suspected spring was his favourite season. As he emerged from his bedchamber in Deng Mansions, the same room he had occupied since boyhood, he listened to birds wooing all over Monkey Hat Hill. Out in the courtyard he paused, slipping the bone buttons of his tunic into their loops. Two pigeons puffed and cooed. The complexity of their feathers fascinated the painter in him.

He felt an inexplicable pang at their courtship and clapped his hands, driving them into flight. In a moment they were back, this time on the roof.

Of course the urgency of their dance was to produce a new generation. He remembered Yun Shu telling him how she liked the company of children. Perhaps that was natural.

Teng watched the cock pigeon mount its mate. An excited fluttering followed. It occurred to him, and by no means for the first time, that at his age he should be producing heirs for the Deng clan. After all, he and Father were the only Dengs left.

Oddly, the old scholar never reproached him. Perhaps his silence was a test whether Teng would do the right thing without prompting. A test he failed.

Oh, there were excellent reasons. The only families in Hou-ming that Deng Nan-shi considered worthy of an alliance were desperate to avoid the honour. As for Teng, he shared his father’s aversion to a demeaning match. Better to consort with Ying-ge than become a poor relation.

Teng had just drawn a bucket of water from the well when he heard women chanting. Smoothing back long black hair, he wandered over to the gatehouse in time to witness a procession descending the Hundred Stairs.

Eunuch Bo-Bai strode in front, holding aloft a long yellow banner decorated with black tassels. He ignored Teng as he passed. Then came a dozen Nuns of Serene Perfection with eyes modestly downcast. In their midst walked Abbess Yun Shu, who acknowledged him with a sideways flicker of her eyes, a greeting he returned with a flamboyant bow. When he looked up a faint furrow ruffled her brow. Teng wondered why he always tried to provoke her.

A dozen servants followed the nuns, carrying giant cauldrons, boxes, firewood and two large sacks. He watched them disappear down the hill, curious what Yun Shu was up to.

Recently she had taken to leaving Cloud Abode Monastery in a closed carriage at strange hours of the night. While they shared a class in Deng Nan-shi’s school, he had enquired where she went. ‘I ask,’ he had said, ‘as your concerned Elder Brother.’ Her answer was a muttered remark about ‘attaining Sublime Formlessness’. A phrase he didn’t like to associate with Yun Shu. It featured often in the bamboo books from the dead prince’s tomb.

Another time, sat in the garden with his lute for a little drunken moon gazing, he observed a barge approach the private jetty belonging to Cloud Abode Monastery. Even in the pale light of a full moon he recognised Yun Shu’s slender figure. Wrapped in a suspiciously dark cloak, she hopped aboard as though accustomed to midnight boat trips. It was baffling and alarming. Her naive character was ill suited to intrigue. She was sure to paddle out of her depth.

* * *

That morning Teng planned to sell his latest drama,
I Weep for Su Lin
, to the highest bidder. A lengthy process obliging him to sip wine and tea as a succession of theatre proprietors examined the play. After that, pockets crammed with strings of
cash
, he would entertain Ying-ge in her boudoir – and be suitably entertained in his turn. So Teng dressed with special care in his best new silks and strode out of Deng Mansions before Father could persuade him to tutor the brighter pupils in calligraphy.

At the foot of Monkey Hat Hill, beside the Ward Gate, Teng learned the reason for the Nuns’ procession. An outdoor kitchen had been established in the old market place and crowds of thin, raggedly dressed people were milling and jostling to bring their bowls closer to cauldrons of rice and vegetables. Yun Shu stood in front of the makeshift kitchen, urging patience, her voice drowned by the clamour of the hungry crowd. Teng wondered why no soldiers were present to maintain order.

He noticed a boy with a satchel wriggling between legs to escape the press, one of Deng Nan-shi’s pupils. As the lad skipped up the lane Teng intercepted him.

‘Hey! Chan-su!’ The boy recognised Teacher’s Son and stopped. ‘Tell my father what is happening here,’ said Teng. ‘Say Abbess Yun Shu needs assistance.’

The lad sprinted up the hill and Teng was forced to consider a new threat to the Nuns. Twenty Buddhist monks in bright orange robes had pushed through the Ward Gate, followed by a small mob of excited supporters. Teng hurried down to join Yun Shu, who was still encouraging the hungry people to form a line. As he arrived, the monks reached her. Now Daoists and Buddhists faced each other before the steaming cauldrons. A restless crowd observed the confrontation.

‘We received a vision!’ roared a bellicose young monk, his shaven head shaped like an anvil. His accent marked him out as one of the fox-smell foreigners connected to the Tibetan sect of Makhala favoured by the Mongol court. ‘The Buddha’s knucklebone has sent a vision!’

At once many in the crowd rejoiced. The knucklebone was more revered in Hou-ming than Prince Arslan himself. A scurrilous joke claimed that it saved one from hell in the next life, whereas the Prince guaranteed hell in this.

‘The Buddha commands those who desire bodhisattva,’ continued the monk, ‘do not eat Daoist food! They put a secret poison into the rice!’

Teng snorted at this bizarre claim; he also noticed some of the Buddhist monk’s supporters carried clubs. Their intention was obvious. Anything likely to encourage loyalty to the Dao, and especially the Nuns of Serene Perfection, must be disrupted. It was well known the Buddhists petitioned constantly to gain possession of Cloud Abode Monastery.

‘My dear monk,’ he began, stepping forward with hands concealed in his sleeves like a noble Confucian scholar from the old prints in Deng Library. ‘These delightful ladies are not murderers! As you see, our city is full of starving people. For the sake of the Holy Buddha, allow a few of them to eat!’

He was met by an unheeding, blank stare. ‘Poison food!’ shouted the Tibetan monk. ‘Poison rice! Do not let the people be poisoned! That is our vision!’

His supporters edged forward, evidently planning to kick over the cauldrons. A gong resounded in the market square, echoing off abandoned buildings consigned to rot and decay since the Mongol victory. Again the gong sounded and people looked round fearfully. Even the anvil-headed monk shrank back.

A procession trooped into the market square. Only Teng was unsurprised by the old man leading a disciplined column of scholars three abreast, for he had recognised the gong’s voice as a relic of the Deng clan, so precious to their ancestors his father had preferred to endure an empty belly on numerous occasions rather than sell it. Now the gong declared the authority of a Deng once more – and Teng’s pride stirred.

For all his frailty, Deng Nan-shi cut a fine figure in his scholar’s plain gown and black hat with stiff, slanting ear-flaps. In his hand was a fly-whisk.

Again the gong resounded, carried on poles by six youths, and he joined his son to stand between Yun Shu and the Buddhist monk. So natural was the old man’s dignity the crowd went quiet apart from people muttering his name. All older folk remembered the days when Dengs ruled Hou-ming on the Emperor’s behalf. Better days for most. Several fell loyally to their knees.

‘What is this disturbance?’ demanded Deng Nan-shi in the high-pitched, querulous tone of a high official.

At first the monk seemed abashed, but soon cried out with fresh vigour: ‘Poison food! The Daoists mean to poison the hungry people!’

Deng Nan-shi held the young man’s eye until the latter looked away. The old scholar turned to address the crowd.

‘You all know my ancestors,’ he said. ‘I speak on their behalf. And I see the real poison here. Unscrupulous men seeking to baffle the people! Form a decorous line behind me. Enjoy the Great Dao’s generosity! There is nothing to fear from the Nuns who protect the image of Chenghuang, our beloved City God. I shall eat the first bowl!’

Teng took Deng Nan-shi’s arm and helped him over to the cauldrons where Bo-Bai waited with a huge wooden ladle. An old fellow who had kneeled earlier hobbled away from the crowd, bowl in hand, calling over his shoulder to his assembled clan, ‘Obey the Honourable Dengs before all the food has gone!’ Another clan followed suit, then another. Soon a long line grew, marshalled by Teng and other well-wishers of the Dao. Bowl after bowl filled from the cauldrons while Yun Shu and the Nuns chanted sutras and prayers petitioning the Jade Emperor for a fertile spring. The bellicose monk watched sourly then led his comrades away.

‘They’ll be back,’ Teng muttered to his father.

But the old man did not reply and Teng realised that only a great effort of will kept him upright at all.

Two hours later the procession of Nuns retraced their steps up Monkey Hat Hill, having shared all their food. Yun Shu and Lady Lu Si stepped aside to call at Deng Mansions.

Both were received in Deng Nan-shi’s library where the old scholar lay on a mouldy divan. Afterwards, while Lady Lu Si prepared cordials for the invalid, Teng led Yun Shu outside.

‘My father is quite exhausted,’ he burst out. ‘What folly to distribute food in starving Hou-ming without an escort of troops! Thank Heaven that Tibetan fool distracted everyone. If he had not, the crowd would have surged forward and overwhelmed you, then a riot would have broken out!’

Yun Shu’s blush contained pale spots that were far from serene. ‘Yet again you wilfully misunderstand. Really, I wonder how you did not inherit your noble father’s wisdom.’

A bitter retort formed until the obviousness of her distress silenced him.

‘You must learn from this,’ he said, more gently. ‘You are too cavalier with your own safety. Think of the distress if you were harmed! What possessed you to take such a risk?’ He fell silent, as though too much had been said.

‘Duty towards less fortunate creatures than one’s self,’ she said, ‘that is what. But I have learned from today, Teng! And I mean to set up my cauldrons every morning. Worthy Master Jian has offered two sacks of rice a day for the purpose. He is a good, kind, generous man.’

At this Teng grew cooler. ‘I’m glad you find him so,’ he said. ‘You realise he hopes to counter the Buddhists’ distribution of free grain, don’t you?’

Her guileless, naïve expression answered that question.

‘Why you of all people?’ he mused. Then he glanced at her sharply. ‘Do such good works increase your inner store of
ch’i
energy, swell your life force?’

‘Of course. Concern for all living creatures mirrors the kindness of the Dao itself.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘And is this something to do with your
journeys
in covered carriages and barges at night?’

It was a wild shot. Yet it hit the very centre, for her blush became one of alarm.

‘You must not refer to that,’ she whispered, ‘it is a great secret!’

‘If I notice, others will. It’s almost like you have regular assignations.’