by Kien Nguyen
The leaders of the Mountaineers were three brothers: NhCc, Thom, and Lu. To TuyBn, they were not strangers, for the eldest brother, NhCc, had been employed in his service as a tax collector. Two years earlier, after collecting large sums of money for the government, NhCc had yielded to the temptations of gambling, and in an evening of recklessness, he lost the entire fortune to a group of Chinese businessmen from Wuchow.
The punishment for his crime was a death sentence for three generations: NhCc and his brothers, his father, and his children. Having no other choice, the family had retreated deep into the mountains. NhCc and his brothers lived as outlaws, stealing from the wealthy landowners. They began recruiting peasants, woodsmen, and forest people to join them. Soon the three brothers were able to assemble a ragged army from those who were angered by the corruption and wealth of the noblemen.
As the number of rebels grew, Mandarin TuyBn would wake up every morning to news of their actions. In the cloak of night, the bandits crept into his city, robbing from the rich houses like rats chewing at a sack of rice. They would distribute their spoils among the downtrodden, and this strategy steadily increased their popularity, strength, and numbers. Soon the roads to other towns were blocked, and his province stopped functioning. The well-to-do relocated to Quinion Citadel to be near the soldiers’ protection.
Through two meager harvests, Mandarin TuyBn watched his estate decay around him while he lived in fear. His rage, finding no release, manifested itself in ailments. He frequently felt ill, with an acid burning in his throat, and his stomach bloated until it was taut with pain. One morning, he woke up to find chunks of his hair on the pillow. All the rare herbs and therapeutic needles prescribed by his physicians failed to ease his pain. To his chagrin, he could no longer find an interest in his concubines. Even the tiger’s testicles—the most potent of all remedies—could not reignite his passion.
To make matters worse, his household was burdened by an expensive and demanding houseguest. It was the practice of Vice-king Truong Loan to send members of his family for extended visits with the warlords of outlying regions. It was a clever strategy that served two purposes—planting spies within the local authorities and placing the cost of their upkeep on the shoulders of local rulers. Prince Hoàng, King Due Tong’s twenty-seven-year-old cousin, had been soaking up Quinion’s resources during the past eight years as TuyBn’s guest, and there was no end in sight.
Mandarin TuyBn made an impatient gesture to his retinue and turned his horse’s head back toward Quinion. A man in his forties, he was tired, bloated, and itchy. The snug cummerbund he wore squeezed his belly, making the ride on horseback unbearable. A group of twenty-some bodyguards with swords at their belts followed him, pulling behind them cages of trapped prisoners from Kim Lai Village. Recognizing their master’s dark mood, the men plodded along in silence.
TuyBn thought of a golden past when the earth offered abundance and small trips to collect rents, such as this one, had brought sheer satisfaction. Now his life was just a string of disappointments. Even with a fair harvest this season on the cultivated fields, most of his tenants refused to render what was due to him. He could no longer force them to sell their cattle or their tools to pay their rent, for he knew if he did they would simply abandon their homes and flee to the forest. Brewing his rage in silence, he had no choice but to treat them well.
On his journey, Kim Lai was the last village that he had visited. There he faced more of the same problems he had encountered throughout the countryside. He was convinced he was losing his grip on the farmers. Unable to discipline them, yet knowing he had to punish someone in order to reassert his authority, TuyBn was at his wits’ end when he encountered the Western missionaries. To save himself, his family, and his fortune, the mandarin released his wrath on the foreigners. They were dispensable, and they would serve as a good lesson to the others.
A trial was unnecessary to condemn the missionaries. All would be put to death, including the two Frenchmen and five of their Annamite disciples. As for the two nuns who survived, he gave them to his soldiers as their prize. None of these decisions caused him any remorse. On the contrary, his renewed sense of accomplishment helped restore his peace of mind.
Before long, he and the guards approached the east entrance of Quinion. To his surprise, two strangers were waiting for him at the gate, seemingly a father and son. They looked alike, both with deep-set brown eyes and strong jaws. Their clothes were made of fine black silk. The style of their attire and the queues hanging at the back of their heads told him they were Chinese.
As his horse neared, the older one, his face taut with politeness, stopped the animal by grasping its bridle. The younger one remained standing at the edge of the stone wall, clutching a straw hat with both hands and acknowledging Mandarin TuyBn with a bow. As TuyBn studied the two of them, he found no trace of dirt under the long fingernails. A scroll was half hidden in the opening of the older man’s sleeve. Both men glanced at the prisoners with curiosity.
“You are Mandarin TuyBn?” the Chinese man asked.
The mandarin stared at the narrow face and pulled at his horse’s reins, breaking the man’s hold. “Yes, I am,” he replied.
“I am here to warn you that your enemy is coming.”
It took Mandarin TuyBn a moment to realize what the stranger meant. “The West Mountaineers,” he croaked.
“Indeed. Their leader, young NhCc, is heading this way.”
Surprise, incredulity, then panic overwhelmed TuyBn, and he gave a little laugh to mask his fear. “Who are you? And why do you come to me with this information?”
“I am called Wang Zicheng from Wuchow, and this is my son Qui. We are your neighbors. For five years we have owned a gambling house in Song Cau.”
“I have heard your name before,” TuyBn said with shock. “According to rumor, that dog NhCc lost all of the government’s money to you. Do you know it is a crime to keep that wealth, even if you won it from a gambler?”
Wang reached for the note in his sleeve and handed it to TuyBn. “This is a letter I received from him, requesting a night of gambling at my club. I know he plans to rob me before he attacks Quinion. Sire, we both know that you haven’t got the military power to hold him back. I propose to capture the rebel and turn him over to you in exchange for a modest ransom. His head is far more valuable to you and the young king than it is to me.”
The mandarin unrolled the scroll and glanced at it. With his left hand, he twirled a long strand of his whiskers and pulled it upward, giving the impression of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Staring down at the Chinese, he said, “Wang Zicheng of Wuchow, name your price—although I doubt that you can capture that wily fox.”
The man gave a grunt. “You don’t know the shrewdness of a casino owner. I may have possession of a gambling house, but I never gamble. I can deliver the goods in exchange for two hundred silver coins and two of the best stallions in your stable.”
TuyBn opened his mouth. But before he could utter a sound, Wang raised a finger. “Mandarin, you have no ivory chips to bargain with me. That is my final offer. When we meet again, have your money ready, for my son and I will bring your fox in a cage.”
Mandarin TuyBn’s first action was to order a handful of soldiers to take the condemned prisoners to Hue City, the capital of Cochin China. Under imperial law, the executions would take place there, for Vice-king Loan reserved the ultimate power—that of capital punishment—for his own precincts. Sending the missionaries to the vice-king would show the ruler that TuyBn was carrying out his duties as governor of Quinion despite the difficulties caused by the peasant unrest. It would also give him a chance to plead his case. Along with the captives, TuyBn sent his most trusted aide, his oldest son, to beg the king for reinforcements. Still, he knew that any help from the seat of government was likely to be too little, too late.
Resigned, he spent the next few days preparing for war. Inside his home, his concubines disappeared into their apartments, bundled th
eir valuables, and made ready to flee. He had no time or means to plan a thorough counterattack against the rebels. In fact, the near impossibility of the task frightened him. What would happen to his lovely Quinion if Wang Zicheng were correct about the raid? What would happen to him and his family? He had no place to run.
It had not occurred to him to ask the casino owner about the bandits’ strength, how many men were in their army, what sort of weapons they had ready for battle, or what direction they would take to enter Quinion. TuyBn had been so startled by the news that by the time he could gather his thoughts, the two strangers had already departed. Now his only option was to wait.
Mandarin TuyBn ordered his men to place a series of ladders along the walls of his fortress to reach the parapet from the inside. The soldiers and townspeople worked together to transfer heaps of rocks from the ground to the battlements so they could be thrown down on the attackers. In groups of three or four, under the shade of banyan trees, the women whittled arrows from bamboo stalks. Some of the barbs were wrapped in rags and dipped in kerosene; others were coated in red arsenic and cobra venom.
Mandarin TuyBn walked up and down the great wall to look for signs of the enemy. Any time he spotted a cloud of dust in the distance, terror would seize him. But each time, the mirage proved to be only a caravan of passing merchants. Whenever a black crow screeched for its mate or a spider fell from a branch, he saw an omen warning him of misfortune, and the familiar, bitter taste of bile rose in his throat.
The Chinese man’s arrogance made TuyBn feel that the casino owner would not go back on his word. Surely Wang Zicheng and his son had concocted a plan to capture the leader of the bandits. He suspected that as part of the scheme, the government would be indebted to Wang for turning in the rebel NhCc and therefore would not pursue the purloined tax money. In addition, Wang and his family would benefit from assisting TuyBn, as such an act of loyalty would guarantee the continuance of their gambling establishment.
TuyBn desperately held on to these convictions, since this scenario meant that a war could be avoided. On the other hand, history had taught him that in the game of war, the Chinese were not to be trusted. No one could outwit them. Like it or not, he had to prepare for battle.
Walking back to his mansion, TuyBn mentally examined each aspect of his preparations one more time. In the front yard he lit large stalks of incense, burned paper money for the dead, and made offerings of rice and salt to the gods, entreating the sovereign lords of the terrestrial world to bless his land.
As he was immersed in his prayer, the barking of a dog startled him. A lad of fifteen was running barefoot through the street, waving his hands and holding what seemed like a clump of fur. He shouted, “Master, Master, the Chinese are here.”
Townspeople, concubines, and servants ran in every direction. Mandarin TuyBn leaped to his feet, dropping the incense to the ground. He grabbed the boy by the back of his neck. “What are you saying? Who is coming?”
“The Chinese,” the boy repeated, panting. “They are waiting outside the north entrance. They need your permission to enter the gate. And they said to give you this.” He uncoiled his fingers, and the mandarin saw that in his hand the young messenger was holding a bloody foxtail.
It was midday. The sun spilled through the side windows of the community hall and spread across the bleached wooden floor. Every time TuyBn held a meeting in this spacious hall, under its vaulted ceiling, he felt a sense of importance. His men stood nearby, weapons in hand. From the balconies, with their carved banisters and ornate spindles, the local citizens watched the spectacle below as though it were an opera. Their loud chattering, mixed with the noise of children crying, reverberated through the cavernous space.
Mandarin TuyBn ran a finger inside his collar in a vain attempt to release the heat trapped inside his official uniform—a long, blue silk tunic with detailed embroidery. With his other hand he produced a current of air around himself with a delicate folding fan, holding it at the pivoted base of the sandalwood frame but making sure that the sight of the phoenix embroidered on his tunic was in full display. This was the first time in many years he did not feel racked with illness, because his enemy was locked in a bamboo cage twenty paces from his upturned shoes. Safeguarding the crate were Wang Zicheng and ten of his men. Their weapons had been left at the gate.
At the first series of drumbeats, silence fell on everyone, including the smallest children. TuyBn used the fan like an extension of his fingers, pointing in the direction of the prisoner, whose head was bowed low and locked in a wooden ladder-like yoke. The barred enclosure was so small that he had to crouch on his palms and knees like a savage dog ready to attack. A heavy chain around his ankle anchored him to a large metal ball.
“Lift his head,” the mandarin said to Wang. “I want to see the face of my enemy.”
The prisoner looked up, and the onlookers in the balcony, like a chorus of singers, uttered a fitful moan. The rebel’s blood-streaked face was mostly covered by his long, black, wavy hair. Yet through the thick tresses his eyes were burning with defiance. His full lips, parched by thirst and the beating sun, parted to bare a mischievous grin.
Wang broke the tension. “Do you recognize this man, Your Highness?”
TuyBn pushed himself up from the carved wooden chair, strutted around the desk, and advanced until he was inches away from the cage. Poking his fan through the closely spaced bamboo bars, TuyBn replied with mild amusement, “It has been two years, but he has changed little. I never forget the brazen face of a scoundrel.”
Peals of laughter broke out above him, echoing among the timber columns. TuyBn nodded in satisfaction: here within the glittering city, its rich citizens were still on his side. But before he could draw another breath to savor his victory, the gleeful noise above him was cut short.
The convict grabbed the horizontal rods above his head. With a hoarse cry he sprang up from his crouched position, breaking his jail apart with a loud crash. Mandarin TuyBn gasped, blinking. His enemy tossed the cage’s ceiling toward Wang, the casino owner, who leaped and kicked his legs wide. Catching the structure with one hand, Wang ripped it apart with the other. Concealed within each of the hollow bamboo bars was a long, thin blade. Wang hurled the weapons to his warriors while the prisoner tore apart the yoke around his neck.
What followed happened so fast and with such precision that every detail must have been choreographed by a grand kung-fu master. Mandarin TuyBn could hear the clashing of swords all around him as his guards engaged the intruders, while the spectators wailed above. In their desperate attempt to escape through the narrow staircases, people pushed one another with such force that a portion of the banister broke away. Shattered pieces of wood and bodies came hurtling to the main floor. A few clung to the remaining rails until their strength gave way and they, too, smashed to the ground.
On the floor below, the former prisoner reached for TuyBn’s throat, but the mandarin staggered a few steps back. The rebel’s hand seized the front of his uniform, tearing away the phoenix symbol of his rank. With a whimper, TuyBn fell to the ground.
One of the guards thrust his spear toward the escaped convict. NhCc twisted his body away and, at the same time, grabbed the shackle that bound his ankle. He lunged forward, flung the heavy ball over his head, and smashed it against the thronelike armchair. The sturdy piece of furniture broke into pieces, and the massive orb made a dent in the wooden floor.
Metal javelins shimmered through the air as TuyBn crawled on hands and knees away from the mayhem. He saw the bandit swing his weapon once again, this time aiming it at the guard with the spear. A hollow crack and the soldier sank to his knees like a wedge being driven into a board. Blood from his fractured skull sprayed the mandarin. Too frightened to move, TuyBn huddled in a fetal position. His lips were moving, but he could not hear his own voice.
All around the two men, the fight continued, until one by one the guards of Quinion City were overpowered. The pastel walls were streaked wit
h crimson, blood dripping slowly in the hot sunlight. Body parts and the wounded were scattered about the hall. The coppery smell of blood attracted flies, and before long the buzzing of their wings replaced the screams of the rioting men.
The convict towered over the crawling mandarin, dangling his ball and chain inches over TuyBn’s frightened face to stop him from moving any farther. TuyBn could not look at the bits of flesh that adhered to the gruesome sphere. Instead he looked up at his opponent’s wicked grin, which seemed to mock his piteous supplication. The bandit grabbed TuyBn by the collar of his inner shirt and lifted him to his feet. “Now, as promised, I’ve come for my ransom,” he said.
The stately doors of the community hall were flung open, and more of Mandarin TuyBn’s guards appeared beyond the threshold, bristling with weaponry. NhCc stepped forward, pulling his prisoner by the collar.
“Put down your swords,” he said. His voice boomed like the striking of a gong. “Do it now, or I shall take his life.”
He raised the metal ball. Mandarin TuyBn closed his eyes when he heard the first sound of weapons dropping on the pavement. The battle was over.
On the highest parapet of the fortification, the rebels’ solid red flag billowed in the wind. Underneath it, the earth undulated with hordes of people flowing in all directions. All were pushing and shoving; none had the slightest idea of what to do or which way to run, but the main tidal wave of people kept pouring toward the city’s exits.
With his head locked in the bandit’s brawny arm, Mandarin TuyBn was dragged along the concrete road that led to the north gate. His soldiers stood helplessly at either side, their palms opened, defenseless. Fragments of brass shoulder pieces and breastplates lay scattered on the ground. TuyBn tripped over an iron spearhead, and its sharp blade stabbed the side of his foot.
