Whoever and wherever he was, he had taken too long to arrive. Time was running out for the state of Yan, and the Red Prince considered his end of the bargain fulfilled. It was time to set out.
It was a history-making expedition. If it worked, Qin would be plunged into chaos, and its neighbours could shake themselves free. They might continue to fight among themselves, but it would at least end the tyranny of Qin. The Red Prince would live on. So many brave men had died already to make the mission possible – the adviser who committed suicide to preserve the secret, the unwitting slaves who had tested the poison, and the noble general Fan Yuchi, who had provided Jing Ke with his vital bait. The chronicles are silent about the many others who may not have made it into the record – it is unlikely indeed that any of the servants or concubines in Jing Ke’s mansion were permitted to live past the day he left.
The Red Prince handed Jing Ke a rolled-up map revealing details of Yan’s most important strategic sites. To an enemy who wanted to invade, it would be more valuable than any general’s head. It was one more bargaining piece to get Jing Ke into the presence of the king, and if it failed, Yan’s defences would be wide open.
For a mission of such weight, carrying the destructive power to throw one kingdom into chaos or cause the full-scale ruin of another, the departure of Jing Ke and Qin Wuyang was necessarily low-key.
The two assassins were accompanied to the Yan border by the handful of nobles who knew their secret. Clad in the white robes and hats of a funeral procession, both as cover and in acknowledgement of the mission’s one-way nature, the group picked their way along the border road. It was a chilly, blustery day, and the procession stopped at the river that marked the edge of Yan territory. There, the Red Prince conducted a sorrowful sacrificial rite to the god of travel. Jing Ke’s friend, the musician Gao Jianli, played a mournful tune on his dulcimer, and Jing Ke sung of the cold winds, the freezing river, and the doomed existence of brave men.
Then, even as the attendant nobles blinked back tears, Gao Jianli shifted key, striking up a brisk, military tune in a new register, designed to spur soldiers on the march. Even as the men present stood up straighter and glared across the river at the domain of their enemy, Jing Ke sung the same words again, but this time in defiance, anger, and with a sense of purpose:
The winds howl around us
The river runs cold
As the valiant depart
Never to return.9
As the tune finished, Jing Ke and Wuyang climbed into their carriage, and set off, their wheels rolling out of the mud of the riverbank and onto a new track. Without a backward glance, they left Yan behind and journeyed into a land that had been conquered by their sworn enemy, the hated king of Qin.
It was a long journey to Qin itself. The two assassins had to traverse many hundreds of miles of conquered territory, and alongside the Royal Domain, where once the ruler of the known world had resided, now in ruins after the Qin conquest. Eventually, their carriage entered the state of Qin itself, the forbidding land under a permanent state of martial law, from whence the Qin armies had fanned out in conquest. On the banks of the Wei river, they reached the king’s capital.
There, they approached one of the king’s leading courtiers, presenting him with rich gifts. They then tried their most cunning ruse of all, hiding in plain sight by announcing directly to the courtier that they were on a secret mission. We have no way of knowing with what suspicion the Qin government or its spies may have regarded the journey of these two arrivals, but their announcement ensured that if any of their clandestine behaviour had been witnessed during the long journey, they now had a ready alibi.
The assassins told the courtier that their mission had been kept secret because of its vital diplomatic importance. They claimed to be envoys from the king of Yan, sent to arrange a peaceful solution to any potential hostilities between their nations. If the king of Qin objected to the Red Prince’s harbouring of the fugitive general Fan Yuchi, then he need not concern himself any more, they said. Nor had the government of Yan taken a weasly diplomatic solution and simply bundled the general out of their territory to another state or the barbaric wilderness; this had, in fact, been the original suggestion of the Red Prince’s advisers when the general had arrived. No, boasted the assassins, when the people of Yan said they sought an alliance with Qin, they meant it, and as proof they had brought with them the head of the general.
There was more. The ruler of Yan, so claimed the assassins, was not content merely with handing over the remains of the fallen general. He was afraid, they said, literally shaking at the thought that the king of Qin might find some other reason to go to war with Yan, as he had done with so many other luckless kingdoms. The ruler of Yan, lied the assassins, wanted no part of such conflicts. He was ready to concede defeat before battle had even been joined, indeed, before war had even been declared. He knew that the king of Qin coveted a border region of strategic importance, but there was no need for their nations to come to blows about it. Here, said the assassins, was a detailed map of the region in question; the Red Prince’s father, the ruler of Yan was ready to hand it over immediately to his ally, the state of Qin.
Had the ruler of Yan been present, such concessions would have been news to him, as would the assassins’ claim that he was ready to acknowledge the king of Qin as the overlord of Yan itself. But the assassins kept up the pretence, even to the extent of humbly asking that the ruler of Yan be permitted to continue tending the altars of his ancestors. Such a request was completely in keeping with tradition – the ruler of Yan would thereby continue sacrificing to his forefathers, thereby ensuring that none of them were tempted to avenge themselves on the conquering king of Qin from the afterlife.
It was a tall tale, but stranger things had happened during the reign of the king of Qin. Although the policy-makers of the Qin government placed little value on the sayings of Confucius, had not the sage of olden times once said that a truly enlightened ruler should be able to sit in his palace and do little, as the wondrousness of his government attracted new vassals?
As was the tradition of messengers in ancient China, Jing Ke’s words were regarded as those of the ruler of Yan himself. When Jing Ke bowed in humble supplication, he did supposedly as a proxy of the Red Prince’s royal father, claiming that the ruler of Yan had himself bowed in his own courtyard as he sent his messengers on their way.
The chief minister fell for it, and conveyed the news to the king.
Ying Zheng, the king of Qin, was an imposing figure who had already sat on the throne for more than half his life. An enemy once described him as having a waspish nose, elongated eyes, the voice of a jackal, and the heart of a tiger or a wolf.10 He had survived palace intrigues and attempted revolts, and believed himself already cursed by the restless spirits of the nations he had conquered. He controlled much of the known world from his palace in Xianyang, but if he feared anything at all, it was the retribution that might be visited upon him by the spirit world.
But there was, it seemed, good news from the Land of Swallows. Instead of planning for yet another military expedition, the king now had evidence that his conquest was nearly done. The king joyfully donned his richly decorated robes, girding himself with a ceremonial sword, and calling not only for his assistants, but their assistants, and their assistants’ assistants, so that nine ranks of courtiers, hundreds of men in all, assembled to witness the great moment – a kingdom conquered without the need for a battle.
The two ‘envoys’ from the Land of Swallows walked into the palace, past armoured guards with swords and savage ‘dagger-axe’ halberds. Jing Ke raised the box containing the general’s head, so that all in the room might see it. Behind him, Wuyang carried the heavy roll of the map, concealing the all-important dagger. They walked along an aisle in the king’s great hall, through the crowd of assembled ministers. The king they had come to kill waited for them at the other end, sitting on a raised dais, alone.
Although the advisers of
the king despised the traditions of Confucius, there were still some policies that they readily adopted. One was the political application of feng shui – an acknowledgement that the character of a state could be conveyed through architecture. Government buildings were designed to instil respect in their visitors, and also fear. To reach the king, a visitor had to climb the steps before the imposing palace of Xianyang, a building deliberately constructed to convey its owner’s supremacy. They passed imposing pillars and soaring roofs, walking along corridors and courtyards faced with baked bricks of grey clay. From a distance, the palace looked drab and utilitarian. Up close, visitors would see that the muted, military walls were etched with images of coiling dragons. The grey floor on was tiled with patterns of swirling curlicues around symbolic solar discs. When in the presence of the king of Qin, visitors walked upon the image of the sun itself.11
Jing Ke, says the Record of the Historian, maintained his composure, exhibiting the coolness under extreme stress that had been a contributing factor in his selection. Wuyang, however, began to lose his nerve. The king was nothing more than a lone man, sitting on a raised platform in the throne room. But he was the ruler of the harshest nation of the known world, and surrounded by hundreds of his closest followers. It is possible that the younger Wuyang, less likely to have considered his own mortality and place in the order of things, had regarded his mission until that point as simply one more brawl, and was only now appreciating the miniscule chance he had of getting out alive.
As the pair reached the dais at the end of the throne room, Wuyang turned pale and began to visibly shake. His sudden attack of nerves was conspicuous enough to draw comments from the crowd. At the very moment so many people of Yan had died to bring about, Wuyang risked ruining the entire plan.
Jing Ke, however, laughed it off. He addressed the bemused king of Qin directly, and announced that Wuyang was a barbarian from the savage tribes beyond Yan’s northern borders. He had never before gazed upon so august a sight as the king of Qin, claimed Jing Ke, and the poor simpleton was finding the entire experience of being in the palace somewhat overwhelming. Jing Ke begged the king’s indulgence, but the king was impatient.
He demanded to see the map – an order that caused Jing Ke to set down the general’s head, take the map from the trembling Wuyang, and advance onto the steps of the dais itself. Nobody dared follow him. Although the dais was open to the throne room, nobody was permitted upon it without the king’s permission. The armed guards were outside, and would not enter the chamber without the express order of the king.
The king of Qin took one end of the map from Jing Ke, tugging it away from him so that it unfurled between them. Slowly, the map was revealed, detailing the new borders of the king’s domain, incorporating the area of terrain that had once belonged to the Land of Swallows. As the last few inches of the map unrolled, it also revealed the dagger, nestled in the final turn of the scroll.
Jing Ke grabbed the king, snatching at the end of his long sleeve with his left hand. With his right, he plunged the knife towards the king’s chest. The king of Qin, however, sprung backwards, his sleeve tearing off in Jing Ke’s hand, the knife missing him.12 The king leapt to his feet, struggling to tug the unwieldy ceremonial sword from its scabbard.
The sword at the king’s waist was too long to be easily drawn from it sheath, causing the king to scurry away from Jing Ke. He darted behind a pillar while his assembled attendants watched in paralysed fascination – none of them dared step on the dais themselves to intercede. The king had forbidden anyone to approach him without his command, and even as he fled from a man with a knife, his subjects remained strictly, doggedly obedient to his wishes.
The scuffle on the dais can only have lasted for a few seconds, but remains one of the most famous incidents in Chinese history. The king’s doctor hurled his medicine bag at Jing Ke, distracting him for a crucial moment, while other courtiers yelled for the guards to come. Someone, unnamed in the Record of the Historian, shouted at the king to put his sword behind his back, turning his belt so that the scabbard trailed behind him.
The king swiftly did so, emerging from behind the pillar with the sword drawn. Even as Jing Ke found the tables turned, the king’s sword struck down and cut into the assassin’s thigh. The king struck his assailant a further seven times, leaving him slumped bloody against another pillar.13 Only then did the guards arrive, and deliver the coup de grace. Of the fate of Wuyang, who must have still been in the hall at the time, there is no mention.
The king of Qin brooded on his near-death experience for some time. Even if he had no reason to attack the Land of Swallows before, he certainly had one now. He ordered for his army on the border to be strengthened with additional garrisons, and sent his best general to conquer it. The Red Prince and his father led their armies ever further to the northeast, up into the province of Liaodong, where they held out for some years.
It took a while, but the ruler of Yan conceded that there would be only one way to appease the invader. He ordered his own retainers to seek out his son, the Red Prince, and bring him his head. The Red Prince was forced into hiding, pursued by his enemies and his father. Eventually, he did the filial thing and slit his own throat.
Five years after the failed assassination attempt on the king of Qin, the ruler of Yan was captured, and the Land of Swallows finally conceded defeat. Elsewhere, other Qin armies had successfully secured surrenders from the few remaining states that held out against the king of Qin.
In his own way, the Red Prince had been right. Unless someone tried to stop the king of Qin, he would not rest until he ruled every land ‘under heaven’, everywhere from the cold wastes of the north, to the shores of the eastern sea, to the hot deserts of the west, and the mountains and jungles of the south. The following year, the 26th of his reign, the last remaining opposition state recognised his authority. As the Record of the Historian bluntly puts it, ‘Qin conquered the world.’
In recognition of his incredible achievement, the king of Qin devised a new term for himself. He combined two earlier terms for a supreme being to make a new title, emperor. He decreed that he was the First Emperor of Qin, a role that would endure for ten thousand generations.
The world, of course, was bigger than the Record of the Historian suspected – even as the First Emperor proclaimed himself to be the master of it, there were entire societies who had never heard of him. In distant Greece, the Achaean League and the king of Macedonia were arguing over treaty terms. The Roman republic was fielding armies against its sworn enemy of Carthage. But as far as the First Emperor was concerned, beyond the deserts and steppes to the west there was unlikely to be any civilisation, merely more barbarians waiting for enlightenment. One day, they would hear of Qin, and call it ‘China’.
Even if the Red Prince’s plan had been successful, the death of merely the king of Qin might not have stopped the fall of the other kingdoms. The king of Qin was not necessarily the brains of the outfit – his advisers were the ones who had masterminded his rise to power. The plan to install him as the ruler of the world had commenced before he was even born, with the contention of long-dead scholars that the world required an enlightened prince. It had proceeded with the plot of an obscure merchant to climb the social ladder, and an alliance of scholars in search of a patron who might allow them to secure their own political ends. Ying Zheng, the king of Qin, became the First Emperor with the help of great minds – his ministers, Lü Buwei and Li Si, and his experienced generals. Only after his death, when his advisers were forced to find a new mouthpiece, would the extent of his own contribution become apparent.
He was a conqueror who united squabbling states, however briefly, with initial, earthly aims that transformed into ambitions of immortality. But despite his great achievement, he is remembered not as a hero, but as a tyrant. This is his story.
1 The Divine Destiny
In the beginning, there was a time of gods. Coiled Antiquity, the deity of creation, burst forth fr
om his egg with the crash of a thousand thunders, and for eighteen millennia, he grew in size, forcing the heavens up away from the earth. When he finally crumbled and decayed, the pieces of his body formed new building blocks of matter, the substance of stars and worlds.
Under heaven, the first creatures had the heads of men and the bodies of snakes. Among their descendants were the people of an iron ship, who fell from the sky when heaven refused them entry. They had fought with the Duke of Thunder, a winged creature with fiery eyes. These were the days when there was still a ladder to heaven, when the snake people quarrelled in the factions of Water and Fire, and ancient deities perished in terrifying conflicts. One fell, burning, into the Evil Water, another disappeared, only to flicker unexpectedly back into being on other battlefields, his body a mass of flame. In the aftermath of one battle, pieces of the sky itself fell to earth, scarring craters deep into the ground, and setting fires across the mountains. The stars tilted and the rivers changed their course, but a goddess repaired it all, and all was well once more.1
Her journey to the sky, however, attracted the attention of other gods, who soon descended to the earth themselves. Among the five godly factions, two half-brothers caused the greatest conflict, until the land lay littered with the victims of their war. Weapons, said the ancient stories, floated on blood, while bears, leopards and other creatures fought beneath their flying banners.
The First Emperor of China Page 2
