by G R Matthews
“Whose tomb?”
“Centuries ago the Mongols had a great war leader, one who united the tribes under his own banner. You saw a lot of his legacy in the Mongol army that attacked the Wall. Before him they all fought each other, all the time. No rules, just death and destruction. It made it easier for the Empire to protect itself against them and he saw that. There were years of war as he brought tribe after tribe under his control. Then more years as he trained and organised his army, developing tactics and weaponry. The death toll was huge. He attacked countries to the north and west, trying out his ideas and getting his people used to following orders.”
Zhou watched her face as she spoke. Her eyes were elsewhere, seeing something he could not.
“The Emperor, at the time, knew about it and were worried. Soon, they knew, he would turn his gaze south and attack the Empire. The Wall was built, but there was little faith in just one plan to stop him, so they hatched another. Someone was sent north, to learn about the Mongols and the new leader, and if possible to get close enough to kill him. Without the leader, the Emperor suggested, the tribes would return to infighting and leave the Empire alone. The leader died,” she said in a quiet voice.
“He was assassinated by the Empire?”
“During one battle, the leader was wounded. Nothing serious. An arrow sliced into his leg, just below the knee. A bandage, a few herbs, and some stiches is all it required. He should have survived.” She shook her head as she spoke.
“A poisoned arrow?”
“No,” she said, looking away to the west, towards the tomb. “Amongst the herbs used to treat the wound were some that were poisonous. The poison worked its way into his blood and he died in great pain. Once he was gone, his subordinates, the leaders of the tribes, started to fight over who would be in control and the land descended once again into tribal conflict. Until now, there has not been another person who could unite the tribes.”
Zhou followed her gaze to the tomb. “You sound like you admired the man. How did you find out about it? Did you know him?”
“He was my husband, Zhou, and I poisoned him. The Empire sent me north to find out what could be done, and I killed him.”
“Husband?” Zhou felt his breath stop, eyes widen, and blood turn cold. He shivered.
“I was one of his many wives. Mongols, certainly the important ones, have more than one wife. He had seven. He found me amongst the camps and claimed me as his own. His power was absolute, and I went along because it brought me close enough to find out more, and to take any action I needed to.”
“You killed your husband?” Zhou found the last word hard to let go of. It stuck in his throat.
“Yes.” He saw her shoulders rise and fall in deep breaths and her head turned away from the tomb. “He was a great leader, Zhou. He had a vision for the future of his people and the will to put it into action. Even his harshest actions were done with purpose, with a goal in mind, to make life for his people better. He was not happy to cause so many deaths, though his magicians praised him for it, gaining power from each battle. However, the cost to the Empire would have been high and I could not allow it. I treated his wound. I put the poison in amongst the herbs and I watched him die. He knew what I had done. I could see it in his eyes, but he said nothing.”
“How long were you with him?”
“Five years,” she said and shook her head. “Many years have passed since then, and we have a lot to do before the Mongols arrive.”
Zhou raised a hand to rest it on her shoulder, a gesture of comfort and understanding, but it never reached its destination. He was unsure what to say, what to do, and the hand fell back to his side.
“We had best get started,” he said.
# # #
For the remainder of the afternoon, Zhou and Xióngmāo cleared the accumulated mud, silt and debris from the tomb’s doorway. The horses rested at the base of the low hill in the centre of the braided channel. A short pebble beach surrounded the hill itself and stone steps, worn by the weather and tread of many people, led up to the doorway. The rest of the hill was free from decoration, no statues stood tall to proclaim how special and sacred the site was, no signs, no golden panels or precious jewels adorned the door.
A recess had been cut into the hill and the door was carved from a grey mottled stone. A thin line ran down the centre of the door, bisecting it. On the left hand panel, a depiction of Mongol life, tents and horses, a great fair, fires and entertainment, a dream of what it could be. On the right, scenes of war and conquest, great swathes of mounted warriors riding across the steppes. At the head of the horde, the largest figure, the King, rode a horse carved with such skill that it appeared to be running still. In their wake, the bodies of the conquered and the slain. Towns, clearly identifiable by their walls and angular buildings, were burning and carved smoke rose towards the top of the door.
“It is as clear as we can get it,” Zhou said, washing the fine mud from his hands in the cold river. “We should open the door and get ready. They cannot be too far away.”
“We will,” Xióngmāo said.
He sat back, resting on the pebbles, looking towards the west and the dimming light. “What was he like?”
“Tall and strong,” she answered. “He had a dream, Zhou. A vision of what life could be like for his people and when he spoke everyone listened. You couldn’t help yourself. He had a deep voice and his words were filled with so much passion. Did you know that some of his most trusted generals were enemies that he had fought and bested in battle? He offered them all a chance, join him or die. Those that joined learned to trust him quickly, he kept his word above everything else. Those that choose death were used in rites by the magicians. Many tribes and towns surrendered as soon as his army appeared. Word spread. He was not afraid to be brutal and merciless. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands died at his command.”
“Yet you admired him?” Zhou kept his gaze ahead. He had no desire to see her reaction.
“I did.”
“Even though he killed that many people?”
“I do not admire the deaths or the murders, but it was a different age and a different culture. One that revered and worshipped death. Every moment of life was wrung dry, twisted until every drop of joy dripped from it. They do not fear death as the people of the Empire do, nor do they seek it unnecessarily. He knew his people and led them well. They were richer, united, and better off under his rule.” Her voice faded into silence and just as he opened his mouth to speak, she said, “Come on. Let’s get the door open and prepare ourselves. We have about an hour till dark.”
A short climb up the stone stairs and they were stood in front of the door. The fading light of early evening cast pale shadows across the carvings lending them a far more sinister look. The images of death, of bodies, of towns burning, stood in deeper relief than those of peace and tranquillity.
“How do we get in?” Zhou said. “There doesn’t appear to be a handle or a lock.”
He put his palms flat against the door, one either side of the division, and pushed. It did not move, creak or make any other encouraging sound. A few moments later, he gave up.
“Did you know that when a Mongol leader dies, his wives are supposed to be buried with him? To look after him in the afterlife,” Xióngmāo said, a wistful, sad tone in her voice. “He stopped that tradition or this might very well have been my tomb too.”
Zhou remained quiet, not sure how to answer.
“Instead he put the wives in charge of the tombs and burial places. It became their task to care for the body and spirit of their departed husband. They decorated the tombs, placed his prized possessions around the body and ensured that the dead had everything they could possibly need in the next life. We prepared this one for him. Each wife was given a key and only the wives were allowed into the tombs, to clean them, carry out rituals, and protect them.” She reached beneath her collar and pulled a leather necklace out. On the end, a polished white stone, longer than it
was wide and thinner in the middle than at either end. The leather thong passed through a drilled hole in the stone and was knotted to prevent it from slipping off.
Zhou took a step back as Xióngmāo placed her key on the figure of the King on horseback, her husband, and pushed. Straight, thin lines of white light began to glow upon the door, it looked as though the door was about to shatter and crumble into jagged pieces. The light was bright and Zhou raised a hand to cover eyes that had become accustomed to the failing light of evening.
The light faded and the sound of stone grinding on stone echoed in the entrance hallway. He blinked the tears from his eyes and stared as the door parted in the centre and swung open. Beyond the doors, darkness.
“The doors haven’t been tended for a long time,” Xióngmāo said, shaking her head. “I’ll see to that before we leave.”
“The key, you have kept it all these centuries? Is it magical?”
“I take my responsibilities seriously, Zhou. You should know that by now,” she said and took a step into the darkness.
“But you killed him?” And he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Given the chance to snatch them out of the air, he would have done without a second’s hesitation.
She stopped, one foot in the tomb of her dead husband and one outside. “Responsibility can be a heavy burden. I came here to find out about the man and to assess the threat to the Empire, such as it was then. I was faced with a decision and I made one, Zhou. I cannot regret that, though I may regret his death. Had he lived, the Mongols would have ravaged the Empire. They would have torn down the cities and the culture I was tasked to protect. It was not easy, but I cannot change that decision nor would I wish to. He was a great man, with dreams larger than the world. Who knows, in the end, life for everyone might have been better if he had lived and succeeded, but we do not live in a world of ‘what ifs’, do we? Life must go on, Zhou. You above all people must learn that.”
He saw her unknot the leather strap and place the stone in a slot on the left hand wall. The ceiling began to glow with a white light.
Chapter 22
“You did well, Haung,” the Emperor said from his seat on the throne.
“Thank you, my lord.” Haung paused, took a deep breath and then continued, “I must report, however, that we lost the Wall to the enemy.”
“I know. I sent you there as an observer, not a general and yet you became one. You held on to the Wall for as long as you could and retreated when you should. You saved a lot of lives in the process.”
“But now the Mongols have access to the whole of the Empire. The flooded pass will not stop them, my lord. I have looked at the maps.”
“There are those here,” the Emperor stood from his throne and looked down upon the gathered generals and administrators, “who, no doubt, think they could have carried the day.” The Emperor’s raised hand cut short any comments. “However, the incredibly reliable evidence and information I have, from a source I would trust above all others, suggests that the battle was lost before you assumed command. Indeed, the traitorous actions of the Fang-shi, which prevented the use of the magical defences, defences built into the Wall especially for such situations as you faced, created a situation where holding the Wall was all but impossible. Again, my information on this is beyond question. The Fang-shi,” he waved a hand towards the table of seated magicians, “have conducted their own investigations and their findings tally with mine. There is no fault to fall on one man’s shoulders, Colonel Haung. You did what you could and the defence of the city that held back and diverted the invading army has bought us some more days to prepare. For that, we are in your debt.”
“I thank you, my lord,” Haung began, avoiding the topic of the source of the Emperor’s information. He had his suspicions, but if the Emperor wanted to tell him, or anyone, he would. It was not Haung’s place to divulge secrets or suppositions. “However, the bulk of the victory on the city walls must go to my second-in-command, Gongliang. It was his actions and plans that led to the flooding of the valley. He is the hero of Liulimiao.”
“You are generous to say so, Colonel. There are many in the ranks who would claim that victory for their own and ignore the contributions of others.” The Emperor stepped down from the raised dais on to the same floor upon which Haung stood. “I am given to understand that Gongliang died in defence of the city?”
Haung nodded, not trusting himself a spoken word.
“Then his honour must fall upon his family. I decree that the family shall receive three times the pension due to Gongliang and that payment shall begin immediately. Further, the family of Gongliang shall be raised amongst the nobility of the realm and his children shall carry that rank in perpetuity. All academy fees are to be waived and, once the current conflict is over, a statue shall be raised in the city of Liulimiao to honour his sacrifice and his saving of the city.”
There was silence amongst the assembled generals, magicians, administrators and servants.
“Thank you, my lord.” Haung bowed his head low to the floor. “I will tell his widow this evening.”
“And you must see your own wife and child, Colonel Haung. They will have missed you and be glad you are alive,” the Emperor said.
“I will, my lord.”
“Haung,” the Emperor said, closing the distance between them and lowering his voice, “I understand that you have someone amongst your ranks, one whose name appears on the list, a man called ‘Enlai’?”
“Yes, my lord,” Haung nodded. “He was exceedingly helpful in the defence of the Wall and city.”
“I am sure he was,” the Emperor’s voice was now barely above a whisper, “take care with him.”
“He is a Taiji, my lord. One more trained and practiced than I. I wish to introduce him to Shifu tonight,” Haung said.
“That will be an interesting meeting, Haung. I think you have little to worry about, and nothing to fear from this ‘Enlai’, but I would counsel caution. He has not always been the most... stable... of people, though his skills are, I understand, much in demand across the Empire.” The Emperor smiled, an enigmatic smile that was at once reassuring and cautious. “Enjoy the time you spend with your wife and child. I expect you back here tomorrow morning to receive new orders.”
“Yes, my lord.” Haung bowed low as the Emperor swept away.
# # #
The gate swung open and the familiar screen of the siheyuan, the courtyard house where his Shifu lived, confronted him. Haung smiled at the sight, one that normally meant he would soon be putting his body through all sorts of punishment, but today he was here for a different reason.
“Are you coming?” Haung said.
“This is not a good idea,” Enlai replied.
The Taiji’s mood had not improved since the he had come to the capital. If anything it had worsened. The army general that had relieved Haung of his command, by the simple fact that Haung was only a Colonel to his General, had brought orders from the Emperor. It had felt strange, a kind of sadness mixed with disappointment, to no longer be in charge of his army, to no longer be responsible for his men, but it was also a relief. Opening the scroll, in the general’s presence, had been a requirement of the handover and reading the instructions within had not come as complete surprise. Haung had been ordered back to the capital and to bring the walking wounded with him. He was also told to bring Gang and Liu, and to ask, not instruct, not order, but to ask Enlai to accompany them.
The conversation had been difficult for reasons Haung could not fathom. Enlai had resisted at first, preferring to head off into the countryside and reclaim his former life. What that former life actually was, Haung could not discover. The information he did have made little sense. In the end, after a lot a cajoling Enlai had agreed to come to the capital, but had added the proviso that as soon as he had seen the Emperor he was leaving.
“Why do you want me to meet your wife?” Enlai asked.
“You can tell her of my bravery and stron
gly hint that I kept out of all the really dangerous situations, just like she told me to.” Haung tried a smile. Enlai did not return it.
“Gang or Liu would have been better for this.”
“Gang would have told them I had dived into every fight, putting myself at risk all the time. Then he would have eaten all the food, drank all the alcohol and fallen asleep. Liu seems a little, I don’t know, reserved. I am not sure he would put things quite as they need to be.”
“You think your wife does not know what you are like?” Enali said, raising an questioning eyebrow.
“She warned me.” Haung raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Also, you have no place to stay. We can put you up in our home.”
“I could find a place to rest the night. I do not intend to stay in the capital.”
“The Emperor is seeing you tomorrow,” Haung said.
“And then I will be gone.” Enlai looked down the street. A small crowd of people moved back and forth. No one paid them any attention.
“Stay with us the night. It is the least we can do for all your help. My wife and son will be happy to meet you.”
“One night, then I am gone.”
“I promise, one night.” Haung waved the man forward.
They stepped around the screen and into the outer courtyard. The stone floor, a simple design of dark stones forming a cross with lighter stones in the four corners, was worn smooth by feet and meticulously clean. Surrounding the courtyard were the high peaked, tiled roofed rooms for guests and family members. These rooms, Haung, knew were unoccupied. Opposite the screen a long building divided the outer from the private inner courtyard. The doors were closed, but the sounds of activity from the hidden courtyard climbed over the roof and down into Haung’s ears. They were the sounds of fighting, the clash of metal on metal, the muffled cries of effort.
