by Tony Grey
The climate at Gaochang is difficult enough in winter but next to impossible in summer. Heat, glancing off the Flaming Mountains bordering the oasis, is hot enough to cook without a fire. It’s now autumn, the season that’s meant to tame the heat; but here it reduces it only by a few degrees.
The garrison town is there to discourage the Hsiung-nu from raiding the Road. Although the Confucian scholars in the capital at Chang-an consider the trade it facilitates to be somewhat parasitical, the more pragmatic Emperor considers it a significant benefit, worth protecting.
As this is a private conference, it’s held in an ante room just off the main hall. Although small, the room has high ceilings supported by wide, rough-hewn beams. A window at eye level looks out onto the central courtyard which is paved in cobblestones, sun-drenched and empty. The occupants of the fortress are all inside the thick walls trying to avoid the heat. It’s said that the only way to be comfortable is to lie in a cold bath. At least the water from the underground aquifers is protected from the savagery of the sun.
The two leaders are dressed in floor-length robes of dark silk, with compendious sleeves that hide their hands, and sometimes other things less benign. The generous folds of the garments give the wearers an air of serenity, of calm haughtiness that requires no effort to impress. The smooth comfort of the silk speaks of the sophisticated pleasures that only a highly evolved civilization can bring. Especially important are the flat-topped, round hats with sable tassels which are believed to provide a cultivated appearance, far superior to that of the barbaric Hsiung-nu who’re content with wild fur hats.
They sit opposite each other cross-legged on silk rugs patterned in sinuous dragons of gold on an azure background. Their wide garments spread across the floor in equilateral triangles, solid and stable. A female slave serves tea on short rectangular tables of red lacquer, one for each. Gan has had the leaves specially brought from Chang-an where the beverage is drunk, although not with any great popularity. It’s really for the avant garde. Two male slaves in dark cotton tunics try to cool the air with silken fans, largely in vain.
At least there’re no flies, thinks Chen who comes from the East. A product of the military establishment, he’s thin and angular, of a somewhat choleric and impatient disposition, not at all interested in philosophy or literature – too pragmatic for that. He takes a noisy sip of tea, clear with nothing added, and says,
“The envoys we sent to Jir-Jir have returned. He treated them with insolence – unforgivable. It’s an insult to the Emperor. They report that his tribe is permanently established at the Talass River. Now they’re in a position to raid the Caravan Road. Already he’s sent out a party to attack one of our caravans. We can’t let this continue. Also it looks as if he’s spread his power into Dayuan so he can interrupt our supply of heavenly horses. This demands an immediate military response.”
Gan takes time to reply, gravely nodding his head, which is round and full-faced, in the manner his countrymen deem propitious for wisdom and power. He has a kindly and reflective demeanour, suggesting a life experience beyond what could be expected from a man whose beard is not yet grey.
“Yes, I agree with you, but we need to ask permission from the Emperor before we send an expedition. The mandarins have made it very clear that His Majesty is cautious about military entanglements, especially with the Hsiung-nu.”
“Protector-General, if we do that it there’ll be no end of delays. You know how bureaucratic the Palace is. Also, those skinflints in Chang-an will never approve the expenditure. We must act now or Jir-Jir will consolidate his power. If that happens he’ll cut the Caravan Road, just like his ancestors did. You know how difficult it was for Wu-di to open it up. And also how important the trade is. We can’t allow the work of a hundred years to be undone just because we wait for the eunuchs to make up their minds.”
“Colonel, I appreciate the danger just as much as you do, but the issue has a diplomatic dimension as well as a military one. If we attack Jir-Jir without the Emperor’s knowledge, let alone approval, we do so in ignorance of any arrangements he may have made with the Hsiung-nu in general, with neighbouring tribes for instance. Besides, we need the protection of authority in case we run into difficulties with Jir-Jir. He is a formidable warrior and he may have allies now. I know that will mean delays, but even if he moves against the Caravan Road it will not be too late to roll him back, or even destroy him. Caution is the wiser course here. Any rash action, no matter how enticing it seems at first instance, will be regretted. We must seek approval first.”
Chen, feeling the anger boiling his head, says, “We are so far from Chang-an, the Court will never …”.
Gan’s face begins to go white and he doubles over in pain, knocking over the precious celadon vase on his table.
“What’s the matter, Protector-General?”
“I don’t know. I feel sick in the stomach. Please, let’s end the discussion. I need to lie down.”
❧
Over the next few hours, Gan’s condition worsens. He’s wracked with vomiting and severe stomach pains. Chen visits his bedroom to check on him.
“Protector-General, how’re you feeling? What does the doctor say?”
“I feel terrible. Whatever this is makes me very weak. Too weak to move, can’t even think straight. The doctor has given me some tiger powder and ginger. He thinks it’s a bad case of stomach poisoning but can’t be sure. If he’s right I should be better in a few days. In the meantime you take over command.”
As Chen leaves the room he wrestles with the issue of the Hsiung-nu. The Protector-General is advocating the conventional approach, the safe way which could not be criticised. But the waste of time is intolerable. Gan’s incapacity affords an opportunity. He must seize it now, whatever the risk. So, he does something almost unimagineable, out of character for a Han official. Only remoteness from central authority makes it possible.
He goes to his room alone; not even a slave is around. Shutting the door, he walks over to his red lacquer writing table, low and wide, and sits down quietly, cross-legged on the floor, thinking for a moment. Reaching into a box nearby, he takes out an array of flat, thin bamboo slips and carefully places it on the table. The slips are tied in parallel with two horizontal lines of hemp string threaded through holes drilled in the bamboo. It’s the common writing material employed in this remote area which is too rough for parchment.
He selects a brush from a clutch in a cylindrical pot. It’s his favourite, the one with a centre of stiff wolf hair inside a belly of soft goat. The tip is sharp and the belly holds a generous amount of ink. He picks up his ink stick, of pressed pine soot, and grinds it slowly on a black stone carved with dragons. The shavings pile up in the hollow. Adding a few drops of water, just enough to make the ink flow smoothly but not so much that it bleeds, he’s ready to start. However he sits quietly for a minute, eyes closed. Training by expert calligraphers requires him to be deliberate, unrushed.
With back upright and face impassive, he dips the brush into the ink and rolls it to a point on the ink stone. Holding it comfortably at right angles to the bamboo slip he begins to write a letter, the characters flowing rhythmically down from the top in free and confident strokes. It commands himself to lead an expedition against the Hsiung-nu at the Talass River and recruit auxiliaries from the vassal states in the Western Region. He signs it “Han Di” (Emperor of the Han). When he has finished he lets the ink dry and calls in his second in command.
“We’ve received an order from the Emperor that must be communicated immediately. Here it is. You are to take it around personally to all the officers above middle rank; also the heads of the vassal states. You can get the list from Major Li.”
The man salutes and departs with the document. Chen gives a sigh of finality and tries to quell the anxieties that are rushing around in his head about the enormity of what he’s just done.
❧
The doctor’s diagnosis is correct and Gan recovers in a few
days. He hears of the order and is furious. He knows it’s a forgery. That such a command arrived just when he was sick is simply not credible. He summons Chen to the anteroom.
“What have you done? You know it’s a capital offence to forge a document in the Emperor’s name. It’s an act of treason. There’s nothing worse. How could you do such an insane thing? You must stop the mobilization right away. Send out a countermand. With luck, maybe the forgery will go unnoticed.”
Chen is relieved that Gan doesn’t accuse him of poisoning. He didn’t do it but the circumstances could look suspicious.
“Protector-General, it’s too late. The order’s been circulated. It could only be revoked by another forgery. Any countermanding would be so odd – would make things a lot worse. It would be sure to be reported. Anyway, I’m sure somebody’s already informed Chang-an. I’m sorry to say we’re both involved here. Our best way forward is to attack the Hsiung-nu and win a glorious victory. We can do it. In the glow of that we’ll be forgiven and rewarded. Have faith Sir, you’ll see it’ll turn out all right.”
“You should have consulted me, Colonel. You’ve put both of us at great personal risk by your impetuous action.”
An uncomfortable silence fouls the air while neither knows what to say. Chen respects his superior, believing him to be a well-intentioned man, although he doesn’t admire his indecisiveness. It seems he always has to be pushed into a decision. It would have been impossible to persuade him to support the mobilization without going through the tortuous approval process. Anyway, he doesn’t want to exacerbate the situation, and he has what he wants.
Gan also wants peace. They’re both in a remote and isolated outpost, in charge of completely different domains – him the political, Chen the military; it’s best to get along. Besides, he has confidence in Chen’s expertise, notwithstanding his volatility in other matters. Maybe Chen is right; they could win glory and be forgiven.
“I suppose the die is cast. At least I agreed with you that it’s in the interests of the State to meet the Hsiung-nu threat. I would’ve preferred the safer course of getting the Emperor’s permission, but obviously that’s not possible now. All right, we mount the expedition. Get ready. I’ll go with you.
“But we have to do something to cover ourselves. At least dampen the enormity of what’s been done. We must send a letter to the Emperor – build the case for the action we’re taking as a dire necessity. Also we must admit the forgery and the mobilisation of imperial troops without authority. If we confess it might make it easier to forgive us, assuming we win the battle. If we lose, it goes without saying we’ll both be executed no matter what.”
“Yes. I agree. I’ll draft it for your approval and we’ll both sign. The vassal troops will arrive the day after tomorrow. Our own force will be ready then so we can begin the march. I suggest we divide our army for the expedition. You and I can lead the bulk of the troops along the northern route. The rest can take the southern.
I’m so sorry I offended you, Protector-General. I apologize. I’m sure the expedition will be a success and end in glory for both of us. The Emperor is certain to be so pleased he’ll forgive us and give us a big reward. You’ll see.”
“I accept your apology Colonel. I know you did what you thought was right. I’m not used to taking that much risk. Anyway, let’s hope you’re right and we win a great victory. It’s life or death for both of us.”
❧
In the hot and flaccid morning, as the sun fires up the Flaming Mountains, forty thousand troops of disparate nationalities march out of the sandy marshalling fields at Gaochang. The Han army is swollen to several times its normal size by vassal forces arriving the night before. It’s like a river in flood when individual streams flow across the land to join the main course, threatening to deluge everything in its way. While the core of the army is composed of experienced Han soldiers, who double as farmers when not on military duty, most of the numbers are made up from subordinate Hsiung-nu and Sogdian populations – sixteen states in all.
The grand army feeds slowly onto the Road like a file of ants moving towards a spill of honey – inexorable, unstoppable. Multi-hued banners splash colour haphazardly onto the land like a drunken painter might, and the bronze hubcaps of the chariots flash in the sun. Gan and Chen have their own – comfortable seats on wooden wheels drawn by four horses. Flat lacquer roofs like tortoise carapaces shield against the skin – darkening sun. Scions of the ruling class, they don’t wish to be identified with tillers of the soil. Soon they pass the first beacon tower, standing proud in the desert, no smoke rising from its top.
Gan has insisted on bringing a staff of envoys educated in Chang-an. They’re to assist in establishing trade relations with the states around the Talass river in the event of success. Their leader is Kang Guiren, a Confucian scholar who speaks fluent Sogdian. He’s a graduate of the Imperial University founded a century ago by Emperor Wu, an elite institution focussed on literature and philosophy, gated by an exacting national examination. Only the top minds get in.
Kang is a mild mannered man who has a way with people, friendly and modest, with an easy laugh. Slated for high office, he agreed to be assigned to the Far West Protectorate for a stint in order to gain broader life experience. It’s a career move favoured in Chang-an. He’s older than the others, his beard sprinkled with the salt of middle age.
The two forces navigate around the fearsome Taklamakan desert, one taking the northern route, the other the southern. They’re both part of the Road and each offers it an opportunity to acquire trophies of whitened bones; sometimes they lie in the scouring sun for long periods of time awaiting the quixotic sands to blow over them, uncover them and blow over them again.
The arms of the Road converge at an oasis town that looks up to the vast mountain range which has kept the Han peoples separate from the rest of humanity throughout history. They’ve passed several beacon towers, but none had smoke, not that they expected any. After a few days rest, the combined army begins the daunting task of passing over the peaks, their dense snow caps defeating the sun even at the hottest time of year. While a few unfortunates are lost to the precipices, it reaches the other side.
The host swarms down off the western slopes and marches through medium dense woodlands. There the Road takes the visitors north-west, deep into steppe country and then to the wide grasslands of Fergana (called Dayuan by the Han), the ancient Sogdian breeding grounds of the heavenly horses. Access to these magnificent steeds, so much superior for war than the undersized Han ponies, was the main reason Emperor Wu opened up the Road.
In Fergana, which is just a couple of weeks’ march east of Samarkand, they’re welcomed by the local Sogdian population, disaffected by Jir-Jir’s rapaciousness. Gan and Chen hold a conference to decide on how best to take advantage of the situation. They call in Kang, who can be counted on for giving wise advice, particularly in unfamiliar circumstances. He says,
“I think now is a propitious time to negotiate a treaty of trade and friendship with them. Through commerce that benefits them as well as us we can gain influence and gradually make them dependent on us over time. We must act now; any delay could waste their good will. With your permission, Protector-General, I’ll arrange contact with their leaders.
“We’ll need some time for this, which is just as well. It’s important to remember we’re on a punitive expedition. Confucius said that punishments ought to be carried out in winter. If you win a victory against Jir-Jir and the Hsiung-nu a month or so later, the Emperor will consider it more glorious. Besides the troops could use some rest after the arduous passage over the mountains.”
Gan looks to Chen who nods his head so slightly it would be necessary to pay strict attention to notice it. Anything that can be done to increase the chance of winning the Emperor’s favour is imperative given the perilous situation they’re in with the Court, something of course the sagacious Kang doesn’t know about. Gan says,
“That’s sound advice Kang
. We’ll adopt it”.
Negotiations are successfully concluded with the Sogdians as the first snows of winter arrive. The expeditionary force starts up again. The Road takes them through the grass plains into the endless steppe, cold – blasted by winds uninterrupted in their sweep. Although more or less accustomed to it now, the men who’re from the clement East still feel the wind chill bore through their quilted coats and rattle their bones. The Sogdians are happy to guide them to the outskirts of the oasis where Jir-Jir’s town borders the newly frozen Talass River. There they stop to rest and prepare for battle.
❧
Word gets through to the Hsiung-nu that they’re about to be attacked but they’re slow to react. They’ve been hearing rumours for some time that the Han army is on the march against them. However, as horizontal flags with ox tail tassels streaming off the ends appear in the distance through the trees that fringe the oasis, the town jumps to action. The Han take up positions outside where dense vegetation meets the open steppe. Jir-Jir calls an emergency conference of the senior commanders. Marcus attends, with a translator. The Sharnyu is tense but deliberate, his igneous eyes flashing will power, but unusually mixed with a tinge of doubt, something Marcus has never seen before. The man never seemed capable of anxiety.
“Jiyu, see to it our best archers are on the towers. As soon as the enemy attacks, our main force will sally out. Forget about their allies; shoot at the Han. Roman, take your men to the eastern gate and follow our assault. Get ready. We don’t have much time.”
Pandemonium is breaking out around them. Men are rushing all over the town shouting, archers mounting the battlements, horsemen getting into position behind the gates. Pots of scalding oil and man-crushing boulders are being lifted to the top of the towers. Horses are neighing in fear at the confusion and all the women have disappeared inside their tents. Marcus clambers up the inner steps of the eastern tower, pushing past the porters to get to the highest point.
