Guang’s bones ached with fever and he pulled Chen Song’s cloak tight round his shoulders.
The Grand Canal opened into the Yangtze and Wang Bai’s flotilla joined streams of merchant junks bound for trade throughout the Empire. Guang reflected it was no wonder the Great Khan longed to subjugate the Middle Kingdom. What the Mongols could not build through civilization, they must seize by force. And what they seized could be used to subjugate other peoples until all the world knelt in submission.
All day the flotilla paddled against the swollen summer Yangtze until the city of Jiankang came into sight. If Nancheng was a great city, it had its equal in Jiankang. Pagodas and water-markets, mansions and slums linked by countless canals.
But Guang’s gaze was drawn to a long line of warships bobbing outside the port area. Chen Song clapped his hands for sheer joy at the sight of the fleet.
‘See!’ he cried. ‘Did I not say the Son of Heaven would move mountains to relieve our distress!’
Guang nodded with less certainty.
‘Yet this fleet cannot drive the Mongols away,’ he said.
‘Oh, you are too fastidious!’ declared Chen Song, in a way that made one doubt who was the Commander, as though both were student friends in the Metropolitan University debating Imperial policy over wine. ‘This fleet is proof of the great love felt by our sovereign for his people.’
‘Or perhaps,’ replied Guang. ‘His Majesty’s First Chancellor makes these forces available because he is afraid of losing his position should the Great Khan prevail.’
‘That is dangerous talk,’ muttered Chen Song, looking round to see if they were overheard. ‘Do not believe the lie that the Great Khan seeks to establish a new dynasty like those which have gone before. The Mongols seek to devour the whole world.’
Guang laughed.
‘Now
you
are too fastidious,’ he said. ‘I merely wish to comprehend all sides of the question. Is there not a verse by my noble ancestor:
Always ask why the fisherman casts
glinting nets into sunsets:
he thinks to catch fish
but merely traps drops of light.
So you see, old Yun Cai anticipated me. I, too, am a fisherman in my humble way.’
Chen Song surveyed him for a moment then glanced at their leader, Wang Bai, who was also studying the Ineffable Winged Relief Fleet.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said. ‘Some truths are easier to catch than others. And so are some men’s loyalties and intentions.’
One truth was evident enough: the fleet growing hour by hour was equal to anything the great Khan could muster. There were tower ships three stories high with fortified upper decks and portholes for crossbows and fire-lances. Catapults hung limp from the upper decks and fierce tiger faces had been painted on the broad, flat prows. Birds and animals were carved in relief to overawe malicious river spirits.
Around these monsters floated war junks and swoop ships, as well as open decked boats intended for ‘the bravest and best’
marines. All eyes were drawn to dozens of flying dragon paddle-wheel destroyers. Whirling tiger catapults stood on the decks and marines prepared bombs of many kinds, as well as giant crossbows and fire-lances.
‘Are all these to defend the supply ships?’ wondered Guang aloud.
A hundred junks lined the wharves, loaded with salt, clothes, burning powder and jars of naphtha, as well as arrows and crossbow bolts, not to mention lime and arsenic. Enough to poison the entire Mongol army and its Chinese auxiliaries.
Suddenly Guang laughed hoarsely and Chen Song laughed alongside him. Whether they were amused by exactly the same thought was less clear. Wang Bai watched them curiously from his high-backed chair. Then he smiled, too.
‘All who have heard the
ying
(oriole) singing listen in wonder; indeed the
ying
is the bird of music and boundless felicity. One often sees it depicted in paintings to represent friendship. Of course, ‘floating
ying
’ and ‘wild
ying
’ are names polite people use to discuss prostitutes. . .’
From
New Remarks Upon the Nature of Birds and Flowers
The Prefectural Gaol, Nancheng. Summer, 1267
How low can a ceiling be? As low as you wish to make the person beneath it. Shih’s cell was four feet high. For a tall man like him, the roof ensured misery.
His prison lay at the rear of Peacock Hill beside a compound used for storing lesser concubines in the antique days of Chu.
Those ladies were long forgotten, replaced by officials and administrators in the interlocking courtyards of the former palace.
The Prefectural gaol was a long narrow building with a central corridor and cells on either side. Dr Shih’s iron shackles were attached to a thick wooden bench and only removed when he was scheduled for questioning. In this way interrogation became a relief. It suggested one was still remembered by the longed-for, half-real world outside. That one was still a man.
Despite his cramped position Shih tried to remain comfortable through stretching and breathing exercises. This amused his fellow prisoners who lacked the disadvantage of tallness.
Most humiliating was defecating before one’s bench in full view, then shoving the foul matter into a central drain with handfuls of filthy straw. Naturally, the stench endured until the floor was sluiced clean every second day. It was a great trial to avoid unwholesome waste adhering to one’s hands – a sure path to disease, as Dr Shih knew well. He dared not complain to his captors, in case they applied the bamboo.
‘This is your second night here,’ confided his closest neighbour, a thin, emaciated clerk accused of abusing his position in the Grain Distribution Bureau. ‘When you have survived your fourth month, as I have, you will understand that every breath is a knife-edge. At least His Excellency Wang Ting-bo has a nose for justice.’ The clerk tapped his olfactory member, rattling the manacles on his wrists and adding in a voice loud enough for spies to hear: ‘A nose, I say.’
‘What of injustice?’ asked Dr Shih. ‘Certainly this place reeks.’
To that, the disgraced clerk whispered anxiously: ‘Remember that normal customs do not apply here. Even the Chief Gaoler is immune to bribes. Secondly, the bamboo is the least of it.
When they tie you to the willow frame, you are truly lost.’
Between vile dreams Shih recollected his arrest. It seemed no coincidence it had occurred on the night Captain Xiao left the city, so that he could not appeal to his brother for protection.
Surely his enemies had anticipated this vulnerability. If so, they possessed an intimate knowledge of Wang Ting-bo’s intentions – a frightening thought, for it also suggested his accusers might have influence over the judge.
Shih had been arrested by the same His Honour who inspected Apricot Corner Court in the early days of the siege.
Dr Fung had been present to confirm Shih’s identity. It was obvious Dr Du Mau had ordered his fellow physician to play that role. Such unwavering hatred was incomprehensible to Shih. Had it not been enough to steal the North Medical Relief Bureau from him? Or to instruct other doctors in the guild to shun him? It seemed Dr Du Mau desired his utter disgrace. Yet even now Shih was unsure of the charges laid against him.
On the third day, around noon, two guards entered the prison building. Its central passageway possessed a normal roof, so warders and visiting officials were not obliged to stoop.
‘Yun Shih!’ bawled the elder guard.
Shih hesitated before rattling his chain to indicate his presence. It was the rule that prisoners must not address or even look upon their gaolers unless given express permission.
The cell door, made of iron bars so the prisoners could be surveyed from the central corridor, was unlocked and thrown open.
‘Come with us!’
He hobbled down several corridors to a long audience chamber. His Honour sat at the far end, accompanied by clerks to record judgements. Shih glanced hungrily at the sunlight outside. He could hear birds twittering gaily and smell the moist aromas of summer plants on the breeze.
‘Ah,’ said His Honour, when Shih had abased himself sufficiently. ‘You are a dark fellow.’
Shih banged his forehead on the ground.
‘A dark, dark fellow! I suspect we’ll never know half your crimes. I have here a letter, supplied by Dr Du Mau, from the Guild of Physicians in the capital, Linan. It seems you are well known to them. Even your former apprentice steps forward as a witness against you. Have you nothing to say?’
‘Sir,’ began Shih, feebly. ‘I am innocent.’
His declaration was a lie, a hopeless lie, yet true in every essential way – if the law only dealt in subtleties.
‘Nonsense!’ replied the judge. ‘If nothing else, you are taking up my time. Back to the cells with you! If you find the means to win my favour, submit a petition. I’ll give you ten days.
Remove him.’
Shih shuffled back to his cell, quite defeated. His Honour could hardly have been clearer. Unless a substantial bribe was offered, he would face the full lash of the law. And Shih’s crimes, though old, were grave. Most damning was the wooden case of silver acupuncture needles taken by Cao after her father’s death.
At first Shih could not imagine how Du Mau had learned about his old master, Dr Ou-yang. In the perpetual night of the Prefectural prison, he pieced together strange remarks and warnings from his former apprentice. At last he understood the extent of Chung’s betrayal and a great repugnance filled Shih’s soul.
Many of the hours Shih spent chained to the broad bench were occupied by unanswerable questions. Was Cao safe in Apricot Corner Court? Did she even know where he was held prisoner?
All thoughts of Lu Ying fled his mind. In this dismal place he realised the depth of his folly, how a simpleton’s lust had blinded him to the true pearl in his treasure chest. Too late, too late.
Of course Cao must have noticed his feelings for the girl –she was far from stupid, far from blind. She had merely pretended to see nothing as a loyal wife should. Yet their match was different from common marriages. The only matchmaker shuttling between them when they chose each other, negotiating the wedding gifts and contract, had been love itself. She had placed her entire trust in him; to change, to waver in his affection, to even consider a concubine – though quite proper in the world’s eyes – betrayed that great trust. He was sure she loved him less for it. Once poison is stirred into the dish one may not remove it. Had he poisoned their love? Shih grew helpless before that particular accusation. If he was guilty of any theft, as His Honour maintained, it was this: stealing away their long happiness through a foolish craving.
Shih longed to see Cao one last time before His Honour sentenced him. He could not doubt that sentence, for they did not possess a bribe. Even wealthy local families had impoverished themselves to save a beloved family member. Legally, half of Apricot Corner Court belonged to Shih and, should he face strangulation, it would pass to Guang, for a will had been drawn up in order to bypass Father. Of course, as a woman and spurious wife, Cao had no claim on anything except the clothes she wore, and maybe even not those. But if Guang perished in the wars, all would revert to Father. Shih was certain Father would evict Cao the moment he gained sway over Apricot Corner Court. Heaven knew what other abuses the old man might commit. Shih recollected Widow Mu’s daughter, Lan Tien, and grew uncomfortable.
When he could no longer bear such thoughts he observed the prison. His training had made him a sharp onlooker. He noticed the prisoners’ irregular breaths – not one of them was wholesome, especially the diseased clerk. Shih took the man’s pulse and identified a decayed heart.
‘You are quite well,’ he said, reassuringly.
At other times he noted the comings and goings of the rats and how their movements bore a regularity, as though ruled by the sun. Yet the prison lacked a single window, so how could they know? These questions interested him despite his sorrow, just as he had noted the cycles of the plum trees as an unhappy boy in Three-Step-House.
All the while his hunger worsened. Although he was accustomed to siege rations, existing on a small ladle of thin rice gruel at morning and evening stripped away his strength.
Light-headed weakness set in. The disgraced clerk confided that prisoners had been known to gnaw the corpses of those who perished during the night.
‘There is no shame in it,’ he said, warily. ‘It is only natural.’
Eight days after Shih’s interview with His Honour a new prisoner was dragged in, limp from a beating. By the dim glow of a red lantern the Chief Gaoler looked around for somewhere to place him. He spied a vacancy next to Dr Shih and chained the newcomer to the scarred wooden bench, still unconscious.
Shih waited expectantly for the man to wake. His heart was full of contradictory emotions. At first, an unbidden, cruel glee that he was not the only one cast in darkness. Then his habits of feeling re-asserted themselves. He touched the man’s arm.
‘Ping!’ he whispered. ‘Ping! Can you hear me?’
He knew severe beatings may leave a man temporarily deaf, even blind.
‘Ping! It is I, Dr Shih of Apricot Corner Court, your neighbour. Remember, I treated your girls several times.’
At this the oriole hall keeper stirred in the darkness.
‘Ah, doctor,’ he murmured. ‘Ah, doctor.’
‘How sad I am to see you here,’ said Shih, tears starting to his eyes. ‘How very sad.’
Though he bore the wiry pimp no affection, the sight of his former neighbour in this hell made the world seem doubly mad and vile. Yet he wept for himself as much as Ping.
Dr Shih reached out and began to massage the wounded brothel-keeper’s shoulder in a choice place. Ping cried out in pain. Gradually his head lolled and he slept deeply. Still Shih continued his massage, for he knew it would ease the patient’s circulation in a dozen beneficial ways.
When Ping awoke the pain had not diminished. Dr Shih questioned him carefully and concluded there was internal bleeding.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked.