The Mandate of Heaven Read online

  ‘Did you kill any Mongols, Father?’ Teng asked eagerly. ‘And my uncles, did they fight, too?’

  The scholar shifted, glancing up at the ceiling of the pavilion. It was made of wooden boards sealing off the domed roof.

  ‘No, fighting was for the soldiers. We Dengs were for policy.’

  His solemn emphasis on the word confused Teng.

  ‘Yet they were entering the city, Father! What other policy could there be than fighting?’

  Deng Nan-shi struggled for breath, so that Teng stirred uneasily.

  ‘Where was I?’ asked the scholar.

  The majority of the Deng clan had gathered in Deng Mansions, pretending not to hear the distant screams from the city below. Prefect Deng and his favourite sons had remained in the Prefect’s Residence, where they nobly hung themselves from the rafters using silken cords, to avoid the disgrace of capture.

  None of the Dengs in their ancestral home could imagine their clan head’s fate. Up on Monkey Hat Hill a mood of unreality had taken hold. Relative greeted relative, paying graded respects and enquiring politely after each other’s health. Servants appeared with trays of exquisite wine from the storehouses, still earnest about their duties – for Prefect Deng was no friend to slackness. Soon a gay, almost festive atmosphere had flowed round the salons and courtyards. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, their servants and concubines, gulped the wine and chattered, or withdrew to corners, staring round fearfully.

  The only one of Prefect Deng’s sons to remain at home was Deng Nan-shi. At first he pleaded with Mother to seek a hiding place, but she refused scornfully.

  ‘We can be sure that the Prefect will find a way of keeping us safe,’ she had said, as though her son was still a small, foolish boy.

  Deng Nan-shi had stared at her incredulously. At that moment sounds of slaughter lower down Monkey Hat Hill became unmistakeable. A buzz of panic spread among the hundreds of Dengs and their followers. Individual voices merged into a collective moan.

  ‘Hide!’ screeched Deng Nan-shi. ‘I command you! I am clan head now, for surely Father and my brothers are dead. Hide!’

  No one listened. He hurried to the gatehouse to look for signs of the enemy. There he encountered a single infantry officer with a handful of men. Deng Nan-shi stopped them at the gate. ‘Do not come in here,’ he warned the soldiers. ‘Hide in the woods and hope they do not find you.’

  The officer was a little older than himself and had a bleeding gash on one cheek.

  ‘Sir! Prefect Deng sent me to protect you all!’

  Again Deng Nan-shi held up his hand.

  ‘Save yourselves! It is too late.’

  The officer pushed past him. The sight within the compound forced the soldier to halt. Some Dengs huddled and embraced each other, sobbing or wailing. A great crowd of concubines and other women, over two hundred strong, were being led towards the cliff by Prefect Deng’s First Wife.

  ‘No!’ shouted Deng Nan-shi, running forward. ‘Hide in the woods. Anywhere!’

  The women were screaming, crying, chanting prayers for a favourable rebirth, holding hands or embracing a friend. He only had time to extract his wife before they reached the cliff edge and began to leap off the precipice like crazed birds without wings.

  He stood in the now deserted courtyard and found the officer beside him. His men had fled.

  ‘Is there nowhere for you to hide, sir?’ demanded the soldier.

  Then young Deng Nan-shi remembered a place. ‘This way!’ he cried.

  As they hurried from the courtyard the first Mongols entered with bloody swords and axe blades. Deng Nan-shi, his wife and the officer rushed out to the artificial Holy Mount Chang at the rear of the compound then climbed up the mound – Prefect Deng’s pride and joy – into the moon-gazing pavilion.

  ‘There is a gap between the domed roof and those wooden boards,’ said Deng Nan-shi. ‘If we could somehow reach so high …’

  The officer looked up doubtfully. Fresh screams reached them from the house. The Mongols had discovered those without the decency to jump to their deaths.

  ‘How?’ he began. His eye fell on a wooden bench. Seizing it, he held it up like a ramp, his arms high above his head.

  ‘Climb!’ cried the officer. ‘Quickly, before they see.’

  Deng Nan-shi went first, scrambling up, shoved from behind by his wife. The officer roared at the strain of bearing their weight. Pushing aside the loose boards the scholar climbed into the moon-gazing pavilion’s dome: a small space, barely enough room for two. His wife nimbly followed, climbing in beside him. Yet when the hunchbacked scholar reached down for the officer, he found the bench back in its place and the soldier gone. At that very moment the first Mongols emerged from the house, dragging out women to violate on top of Prefect Deng’s prize orchid beds before casting them semi-naked over the cliff. As the air filled with despair, Deng Nan-shi had pulled the roof boards tight …

  ‘So that is how you survived,’ said the boy, dully. ‘By hiding.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And after the massacre you and Mother climbed down from the pavilion.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Teng realised he was tearful.

  ‘Did you … have to bury them all?’

  ‘One or two. Remember, Prince Arslan had decreed the people of Hou-ming were to form his brother’s grave mound. Most bodies were carted away in wagons dragged by prisoners who were themselves later added to the mound.’

  ‘How many died, Father? How many died that day?’

  Deng Nan-shi laid a hand on his son’s arm.

  ‘When the next census was taken a few years later, only one in twenty of those who had lived in Hou-ming survived. And yet, as you know, the buildings were undamaged. Such were Prince Arslan’s commands. Looted and emptied of valuables, yes, but undamaged. A city of ghosts.’

  Teng pictured twenty eggs laid out on the ground. Someone stamping until the ground was sticky with yoke and egg white and shell. Until a single egg remained.

  ‘There is more you want to tell me, Father,’ he said, ‘isn’t there?’

  Deng Nan-shi nodded, rubbing his eyes. ‘Another day. Not today.’

  The hunchbacked scholar left the pavilion, leaving his son to stare up at the roof boards of the wooden dome.

  ‘It’s about Hsiung, isn’t it?’ Teng cried after his retreating Father.

  Deng Nan-shi did not answer.

  A week later, Teng perched on the shell of a giant tortoise. The stone statue was ancient, Guardian of the Crossroads halfway up Monkey Hat Hill and a very stern tortoise indeed.

  Over the last few days there had been a fury of packing in Yun Shu’s house: wagons pulled by donkeys or some of His Excellency Jebe Khoja’s immense herd of horses, accompanied by resentful soldiers tired of tramping up and down Monkey Hat Hill. Nearly all the Salt Minister’s possessions – and he had gathered an astonishing collection of valuables – had rolled through derelict districts of the city to Prince Arslan’s walled palace.

  As Teng waited he noticed Hsiung coming towards him, kicking moodily at stones. He was tempted to ignore his faithless friend, but only for a moment.

  ‘Hsiung!’ he called, leaping onto the road. ‘I’m over here! Sit with me on the tortoise!’ The servant boy examined him so coldly Teng regretted his warmth. ‘That is,’ he added, haughtily, ‘if you like.’

  It seemed Hsiung did like, though he chose not to acknowledge his master’s son. The two boys perched side by side on the stone shell, looking every possible way except at each other.

  ‘Do you think they’ll leave soon?’ asked Teng, when he could bear the silence no more.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But you must know!’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re hopeless.’

  Mild and ineffectual as such a rebuke seemed it had a gratifying effect.

  ‘All right,’ said Hsiung, ‘I do know.’

  Teng settled back on the tortoise’s neck, satisfied to have g
ained his point. It was one of autumn’s last kind days. Clouds of migrating birds blurred the horizons of the lake.

  ‘Why are they leaving the Hill?’ asked Teng. ‘Why leave a big mansion for a small house in Prince Arslan’s palace?’

  Hsiung shrugged. Recently his voice had acquired a casual, soldierly drawl.

  ‘No choice. Too many officials killed by Red Turbans this summer. Bastard bandits!’ He paused to examine the effect of such hot language on the scholar’s son. ‘So the big bugs must live in a safe place.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Teng, scornfully. ‘Did Salt Minister Gui tell you?’

  Hsiung spat proudly. ‘Sergeant P’ao tells me.’

  The noise of wheels, hooves, feet, voices interrupted them.

  ‘Here they come!’ cried Teng, standing upright on the tortoise shell. Hsiung rose with him.

  First a dozen soldiers led by Sergeant P’ao. At the sight of Hsiung some winked and waggled their eyebrows so that the boy flushed with importance. Then he wept silently to see his heroes march away. Next came the Salt Minister’s personal palanquin, its curtains drawn. Another followed, similarly shrouded – presumably belonging to Golden Lotus. A larger, open carriage gaudy with tassels carried Yun Shu’s two brothers and an aging tutor. More wagons of boxes and furniture followed, surrounded by a dozen porters with burdens so huge they resembled camels. Last of all, carts of servants.

  Teng stared at the very final wagon. ‘Hsiung,’ he whispered, ‘do you see?’

  Amidst a gaggle of maids perched their friend, Yun Shu, her clothes shabby, hair ill-tended. Teng realised it was over three months since he last saw her – and had so bitterly reproached the girl. All that anger was gone. Now he felt a need to acknowledge her. Perhaps that was why he stepped into the road, staring up into the crowded wagon.

  ‘Yun Shu!’ he called. As he could think of nothing else, he shouted: ‘Farewell! Do not forget us! Farewell!’

  Teng caught a hot, resentful flicker from the corner of her eyes. Then she was past, trundling down the Hill, out of Monkey Hat Ward. He stood in the lane until the last carriage vanished through the ward gate.

  ‘Good riddance!’ he cried. ‘Good riddance!’

  He whispered in case anyone heard: ‘Traitors!’

  Stray yellow leaves fluttered down from a nearby tree. When Teng turned to speak with Hsiung he found himself alone. The image of proud, brave Yun Shu huddled among low females lingered. It was hard to forget who had betrayed her hiding place and so brought about her disgrace. All too easy to forget why.

  Six

  A cold, hungry autumn followed Salt Minister Gui’s departure from Monkey Hat Hill. Deng Nan-shi succumbed to stubborn inflammations of the spleen, manifested in exhaustion and a listless pulse. His earnings from tutoring dwindled as he kept to his bed. Worse still, he was forced to sell what few ornaments and paintings the Deng clan still possessed. The household was constantly on edge. Of them all, only Hsiung remained sleek. He was broader, long-limbed, a buck with budding horns.

  Hsiung came to view his bedridden master with the secret disdain of the healthy for the feeble. Had he but known, Deng Nan-shi’s withdrawal from the streets of Hou-ming was timely.

  It suited him not to travel round the city from pupil to pupil like a spy. A faction of the Red Turban rebels named after the Dengs’ great ancestor, Yueh Fei, had raised a serious rebellion in the hill districts surrounding Six-hundred-li Lake. When their attempts to drive the Great Khan’s servants from Hou-ming Province threatened the valuable Salt Pans, Jebe Khoja led a large force to disperse them, chasing famished bands of rebels across several counties and executing thousands of blameless peasants as a warning to others.

  One morning, Hsiung slipped through a side gate of Deng Mansions and hurried down the lanes, out through the ancient Ward Gate into the streets of the city. He did not turn south to the Port District with its busy wharfs and warehouses. Hsiung’s route lay among places almost as deserted as Monkey Hat Hill, for the population hereabouts had scarcely recovered since the city’s fall. Wards built to house tens of thousands in cramped tenements and slums resembled larders stripped bare. Yet apparent emptiness concealed danger, as Hsiung was well aware.

  Most of the houses he passed were overgrown: trees poking through roofs and gardens like thickets. Roads were vanishing beneath grass except where fresh wheel ruts scored the soil. A few birds perched on eaves, gazing beyond the crumbling city ramparts to the fish-filled waters of the lake. Occasionally he passed courtyards where clans or individual families had set up islands of humanity amidst the deserted, rotting houses.

  After half an hour’s walk he reached his destination: a large, high-walled palace compound occupying the north east corner of the city’s rectangle. Here was the site of the old Prefect’s Residence. During the previous dynasty it had been busy with bureaux and quarters for officials posted here from all parts of the Empire. Now it was Prince Arslan’s palace, as well as home to his highest officials and tax gatherers, including Salt Minister Gui.

  The gatehouse was heavily guarded and Hsiung did not care to chance it. Besides, he had an arrangement with someone who dwelt within, someone who came and went at will. Yet it turned out to be a long wait beside the bridge over Jinshui Canal, watching customers visit the astrologers’ booths to determine auspicious days. A dry, icy wind set dust devils dancing. Even an excited peal of bells from the nearby Buddhist Temple sounded forlorn beneath a sky so laden with low clouds.

  When Sergeant P’ao finally arrived he smelt of spirits. Hsiung looked up at the older man resentfully.

  ‘I see Little Fox Tamer is angry!’ said Sergeant P’ao, lowering a heavy sack to the floor with a grunt. Hsiung’s frown deepened.

  ‘It will be the curfew soon,’ he muttered.

  ‘Brighten up, boy!’ Sergeant P’ao clapped him on the shoulder so hard he reeled. ‘I’ve more for you to deliver! Just to the usual places.’

  A calculating look crossed Hsiung’s face.

  ‘For the usual amount?’ he asked.

  Instantly, Sergeant P’ao’s affable expression vanished and his arm rose to strike. The boy cringed.

  ‘Don’t you dare haggle with me! Just make sure they’re delivered. When you’re done I’ll be in that wine shop across the way. Bring …’ He glanced round slyly, raising bushy black eyebrows. ‘Bring everything.’

  Sergeant P’ao was as good as his word, vanishing into the wine shop where a hearty bellow greeted him.

  Hsiung’s first destination lay in the ancient Pleasure District round Bright River. Thirty years ago hundreds of restaurants, floating oriole houses, teashops and theatres had competed to empty purses of cash, minds of perplexity, hearts of pain. That number had reduced to a few dozen establishments.

  Hsiung approached a small restaurant specialising in river serpents and examined the street. Few people were about, though enterprising members of the City Watch sometimes wore disguises. Satisfied, Hsiung went to the back door of the restaurant, poking his head into a steam-filled kitchen. When he left his sack was considerably lighter and girdle purse heavier.

  A similar transaction took place at the rear of a theatre where music and clashing cymbals escaped into the street. Then he was walking alongside Bright River, bound for the Port District. Yet Hsiung sensed he was the victim of a poor exchange. Why was he rewarded with a few cash coins when he collected hundreds on P’ao’s behalf? At least with the Dengs everyone was poor together.

  True, Sergeant P’ao allowed him to polish weapons and join drill practice. He also had a noble nickname for him, inspired by his feat of bravery in killing the wild dog. Once the soldiers had got him drunk on cheap rice wine. The drink unleashed a volubility Hsiung did not know he possessed. Also an unguarded tongue. For no sooner had the boy revealed that his master, Deng Nan-shi, called Salt Minister Gui a traitor than the room whirled and he had found himself outside with Sergeant P’ao shaking him up and down. Finally Hsiung sobered.

  ‘W
hat are you doing?’ P’ao had hissed. ‘That hunchbacked beetle brought you up as an orphan! He feeds you when half the world starves. He’s your Father, damn you! Now you’ve put him in their power.’ He indicated the soldiers inside. ‘Show some loyalty!’

  Hsiung ducked. ‘He’s not my father!’ he had squealed.

  ‘Neither am I, boy,’ said Sergeant P’ao. ‘Besides, sooner or later we’ll be leaving Hou-ming. I’ve heard Jebe Khoja plans to send my dear Master to supervise the Salt Pans. Not enough salt is coming up from the earth. A firmer hand is needed.’

  The soldier had laughed coarsely. ‘And maybe Golden Lotus will have to stay behind in Jebe Khoja’s compound. I’ve heard … Ha! Best not talk of that! Eh, boy?’

  Hsiung’s head and stomach had churned. Yet even in the midst of drunkenness he wanted to ask about Yun Shu.

  These thoughts distracted him until he entered the Port District. There he grew alert. The shortest way to his final customer involved crossing the Slave Market.

  Hsiung glanced up at the sky. Night was approaching and, with it, the Great Khan’s curfew. He would be lucky to deliver his wares, collect payment and return to Sergeant P’ao before the curfew bell tolled a thousand times. After that a dangerous journey home through the darkness awaited.

  But Hsiung was not prone to fear. He hastened his step, turning from Bright River up a side lane leading to the Slave Market where blacksmiths had set up forges for the manufacture and repair of manacles. At the edge of the market his progress halted. For the wide square resembled a battlefield.

  Mongol cavalry were herding scores of prisoners into the square with lance butts and whips. Near the entrance, mounted on a huge black stallion, sat a handsome young man in gentlemanly silks. A sword and bow hung from his saddle; black hair spread over his shoulders. To Hsiung, the Mongol prince resembled a hero from the thrilling tales Teng sometimes read out loud, his eyes bright and voice animated.