General Yue Yang stood off to the side of the tent next to another wall, his right arm propped up on one of the larger tables which he casually leaned against. He appeared bored and looked no different than he always did, his robes slightly wrinkled from a few days wear, his hair a bit disheveled and dusty. He glanced up at Ximen as he took a sip of tea, but there was nothing in his eyes to betray what he was thinking.
Casually leaning against one of the support beams was Hui Wei. Normally such a low-ranking soldier wouldn’t’ have been allowed into such an important meeting, but he was Marquis Wen’s grandson and eventual heir to the throne, and had most likely been requested by either his father or Marquis Wen himself. Hui looked as bored as his general as he toyed with one long strand of his mustache, twirling it around his finger as he looked at Ximen.
The only other two men in the room were both seated against the wall opposite the tent flap in the largest and most comfortable looking of the chairs. Marquis Wen had changed into a fresh set of robes, although they were still the same colors he usually wore, dark red on top, gray and white below, a bright red sash separating them. There was nothing in his eyes to give away what he was thinking, although Ximen thought he saw a twinkle of pleasure in his eye when he met the Marquis’s gaze.
Next to him, in a chair slightly smaller but no less ornate, sat his son, Wu Wei, heir to the throne, the man who would one day be Marquis of the State of Wei in his own right, although most secretly hoped that that would be a long time in coming. Ximen was again struck by how similar in appearance father and son were, with their long, oval faces and slanting, black eyebrows nearly identical. Marquis Wen had a lot more wrinkles than his son, but he also had more vitality in his eyes, a peculiarity Ximen found pleasing.
“The work continued to progress without incident after I left you this afternoon, did it not?” Marquis Wen asked, drawing Ximen’s eyes to him once again.
“Everything is set for tomorrow, Sire,” Ximen answered without pause.
“Good. That is good to hear.” Marquis Wen stroked his beard as he looked around the room, his eyes eventually settling upon Yue.
“General, what shape is the city in?” he asked. “The siege has been going on now for nearly two years, surely the people within the city’s walls are in no shape for fighting.”
“I should think not,” Yue responded, pushing himself up off the table with his right arm before taking up a straight-backed stance, his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped behind his back. “When the walls are breached tomorrow I fully expect the city to surrender without a fight.”
“That’s the same thing that was expected of Jinyang when that city was flooded,” Zhai said. “Instead the populace held out for another three years, living like birds perched atop hastily erected scaffolds.”
“And everyone knows well the stories that emerged from that awful affair,” Yue countered, his eyes locked on Zhai’s. “The people were forced to eat each other’s children when their food ran out, cooked in kettles which hung from bamboo poles over the filthy water they lived above.”
“Yes, I know well the stories of Jinyang,” Zhai said, “yet even when disease broke out and reduced the city’s population to a fraction of what it once was, the people doggedly held on and refused to give in. It was only when their viscounts secretly snuck out of the city and plotted with their besiegers that their nightmare finally ended.”
“Zhongshan is not Jinyang,” Wu said forcefully beside his father. “Han is not besieging the city alongside us, and Zhi was wiped out long ago.”
“And we’re not dealing with Zhao here, a strong state with a long history and much pride, but Zhongshan, a state with little and that’s never been much,” Yue added.
“I don’t think that Zhongshan will turn into another Jinyang,” Marquis Wen said. “Unlike many of you, I remember that battle well, having been there. It was awful, and images of what we found inside that city haunt my dreams still.”
Marquis Wen stared down at the rich rugs that carpeted the floor, lost in thought. The tent once again became silent as the men allowed their ruler to remember. After a few moments he again looked up, his eyes finding Yue.
“You communicated with Duke Wu quite regularly until just two months ago, isn’t that correct, Yue?”
“That’s when your son was killed, wasn’t it?” he added quietly. “Tell us what happened.”
Yue looked down at the floor for several moments before lifting his head once again, his eyes locked on Marquis Wen.
“Duke Wu became increasingly erratic once the earthen embankments began to be constructed toward the river,” Yue began. “At first he cut-off all communication with us, then begged us for leniency for his people. We agreed that many would be spared if he would only throw open the gates of the city and let his people’s nightmare end with peace.”
Yue shook his head. “He refused, however, and the siege dragged on. He began threatening us shortly after that, and actually staged a few attacks outside the walls against our forces behind the city. We think it was an attempt for the more important citizens and government officials to break out, but the attacks were quickly thwarted. After that he seemed to grow depressed and we didn’t hear from him for a month, not until the last message.”
“And what did that last message say?” Wen asked, even more quietly than before.
All eyes turned back to Yue. Each had heard the story in various forms since it’d first gotten out of the city and through the camps before spreading through the Seven States. None had heard it directly from Yue Yang himself, however.
“Duke Wu wanted one more face-to-face meeting so that something could be worked out between our two forces,” Yue said. “I agreed immediately and sent word back for him to name a place and time and it would be done. He replied that he didn’t want to meet with me, but with my son, Yue Shu.”
Yue paused and shook his head. “I disagreed and immediately began writing out my response, saying just that. My son had been in the tent when I received the note, however, and he was successful in dissuading me from that course. He wanted to meet with Duke Wu, he told me, and was eager to prove his capabilities not only on the field of battle but at the negotiating table as well. I reluctantly agreed, and the next day he and several of his advisors went into the city for the meeting.”
Yue dropped his head and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before continuing.
“Later that evening the gates of the city opened, but instead of seeing Yue Shu and the five men that’d accompanied him descend the hill to the camp, there was only one. He carried a large pot in gloved hands which he presented to me with tears in his eyes. It was my son, he told me, or all that was left of him after Duke Wu had had him slaughtered and cooked while still alive. I stared down at the pot, not believing his words, but slowly removed the lid nonetheless, the need to know the truth greater than any fear I might have had.”
Yue stopped and shook his head. One of his arms came up from behind his back and he wiped at his eyes for a moment.
“If it’s too painful we’ll understand,” Wen told him.
“No, just give me a moment,” Yue said.
Time passed in silence before Yue regained his composure and looked up again at Wen.
“I’ll never forget the moment I removed the lid of the pot,” Yue said. “The brown liquid was still bubbling, glistening fat clearly visible on its surface. The smell was both revolting and enticing; Duke Wu had obviously put his finest cooks to the task, for every type of fragrant spice had been used in its preparation, which in any other circumstance would have lent a mouth-watering aroma to the dish. What will be locked in my mind forever, though, was what lay on top of a large chunk of meat in the center of the pot. It was obvious to me right away, even though they’d been withered by the steam, that the two brown eyes staring up at me were my son’s. The messenger, kneeling before me and weeping, hadn’t lied: Duke Wu had killed my son.”
A long silence fil
led the tent before Yue straightened up once again and peered around, meeting everyone’s eyes before resting his gaze back on Wen.
“I’ve no doubt that all of you’ve heard what happened next, as have most people in the Seven States,” he said. “Duke Wu meant his actions as a cruel joke, killing and cooking my only son. I, however, was not about to treat what he’d done as a joke. Yue Shu was my son, and I loved him more than life itself. I would not let his death be in vain, but would use it to strike at my opponent, showing him that nothing he did could hurt me.
“I reached into the pot and removed the two eyes and swallowed them whole, then took the meat that they’d been resting on and proceeded to eat that, chewing each mouthful slowly, imaging it to be Duke Wu’s flesh that I was dining on, and not that of my son. Those around me tried to stop me, but I pulled my sword, and they could tell from the look in my eyes that I was not to be dissuaded from my grim task. The only sound around me was the pitiful crying of the advisor that had delivered the dish. When I’d finished all of the meat I put the pot to my mouth and drank all of the still-scalding liquid inside, not spilling a drop. I then put the lid back on the pot and told the still-crying man to rise, for he had one more task left before he’d be dismissed.
“I gave him the pot and told him to personally deliver it to Duke Wu, with the message that the contents were not quite to my taste, but that I would like him to hang on to the pot so that we could use it when we next dined together. The man held out his hands and took the pot, for he could see by the look in my eyes that there could be no argument. The whole camp and I watched him ascend the path back to the city gates and disappear inside.
The next morning his body was hanging from the walls, the broken pot shattered on the rocks below him. I gave Ximen two hundred more soldiers as workers that day, so that the diversion project could be completed in time.”
Yue Yang fell silent and not a sound could be heard in the tent for several moments as each man thought on what he’d heard.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost his only son,” Zhai said into the silence.
The effect was immediate. Yue, who the moment before had been visibly shaken by the retelling of the events of his son’s death, straightened and pointed an accusatory finger at Zhai.
“What happened to your son was no fault of mine or my own son!” he shouted. “Zhai Chun chose his actions and knew the consequences.”
Zhai began moving toward Yue and for a moment Ximen thought that the Minister of War and one of his leading generals were about to get into a fight right then and there before Hui stepped in between them.
“This is not the place for this!” Hui shouted loudly at the two men, holding them apart.
“Enough!” Marquis Wen yelled out as he stood from his chair. “That is quite enough of that!”
Yue was the first to back off; stalking back to the table he’d been leaning on earlier while Zhai straightened his wrinkled robes.
“Sire, if there is no further need for me tonight I’d like to be excused,” Yue said suddenly, his eyes not meeting Wen’s but directed down to the floor. “It’s been a long day and a trying siege and I’d like to be rested when the end comes tomorrow.”
Marquis Wen seemed taken aback by the request and looked down at the floor himself for a moment before returning his gaze to Yue.
“Very well, we’ll talk again when this is all over,” he said at last. “You are dismissed.”
General Yue strode right past Zhai, his eyes still on the floor, before disappearing through the tent flap and into the night. The tent seemed to give a collective sigh of relief when he was gone.
Marquis Wen settled back into his chair, visibly relieved that a fight hadn’t broken out between Zhai and Yue. His mouth hung open slightly and his eyes were wider than normal, flitting back and forth along the rugs on the floor, his thoughts elsewhere. Ximen stared up at him and was concerned to see that Wen looked more shaken by the incident than he’d first thought. The story of Yue and his son had been shocking the first time Ximen had heard it two months before, but it was even more so now upon hearing it from the general himself. He knew that Wen had also heard the story, however, so that couldn’t quite explain the Marquis’ current state.
“I’ve heard pieces of what happened between Zhai Chun and Yue Shu, but I’m not sure I have a complete picture of the events,” Wu said beside the Marquis. “What really happened that day?”
“What happened is that my son was taken from me when-”
“Enough!” Wen shouted, his eyes now composed and set firmly on Zhai. “We will not hear this story from you, Zhai, as the events are too near and painful for you, precluding us from accurate telling.” He held his gaze on Zhai for several moments before the Minister of War settled back against the table he’d been leaning on and poured himself a cup of tea. Marquis Wen then directed his look to Ximen.
“Ximen, you were in the camps when the incident occurred, perhaps you could give as a fair and accurate description of what happened that day.”
“Sire, it’s true that I was present here in the vicinity of the city, but I spend nearly all my time working on the embankments far away from the trenches.”
“So you heard nothing of the events of that day, is that what you’re saying?” Wen asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing down on the engineer.
Ximen sucked in his breath and was about to argue when he stopped himself. He’d heard about what had happened that day, as had all the men of the camp; there was no point in pretending he’d not.
“Very well, Sire, I will tell it as I heard it later that evening.”
“That is all I ask,” Wen replied, and he settled down in his chair, motioning for Wu go get him another cup of tea.
Ximen glanced over at Zhai who glared angrily over his teacup at him. Why the Minister of War hadn’t sent his or Yue’s son west to fight with General Wu Qi against the State of Qin, Ximen would never know. If he only had, then perhaps one or both of the men’s sons would be alive today, and Ximen wouldn’t have to tell this tale. It wouldn’t help to think on that now however, he reminded himself, so he took a deep breath and began.
“It’d been around the time that I arrived that the incident between Zhai Chun and Yue Shu occurred. Both young men had promising careers in the military ahead of them, and both quickly became rivals in the camps outside of the besieged city, camps in which there was little to do to occupy one’s time.”
Ximen looked around at the men in the room. Wu got back to his chair and handed Wen the fresh cup of tea before settling back into his seat while Hui leaned against the same table as he had when Ximen had entered, looking just as bored. Zhai still stared at him, but the anger in his look had diminished, and Liu Kui and his apprentice sat like stones behind him, neither making a sound.
“The game that the men in the trenches played was common enough that it didn’t raise much concern,” Ximen continued. “But being the two most well-known soldiers in the camp, besides Hui Wei, who was smart enough to stay away from such pointless and dangerous games,” Ximen said with a nod toward Hui,” they couldn’t resist the competition between themselves.
“The game was simple: men would go out to the farthest line of trenches closest to the city and throw an object out, a pouch or shoe or some other trifle, sometimes simply a rock. Then the two would charge out into the no-man’s land between the safety of the trenches and the dangers of the city walls in pursuit of that object, the first one to retrieve it being declared the winner.
“All of the soldiers played the game from time-to-time when boredom overtook them and they felt the need to prove their courage, and the archers atop the city walls looked forward to the game as much as the men below did, for their objective in it was much simpler and without danger. As soon as the men charged over the top of the trenches the archers would be ready with their bows. Usually the men dashed from side-to-side when they rushed out, making themselves as difficult a target as they could, and this
would usually be enough for them to cover the dozen feet to whatever they were after and get back safely, arrows landing harmlessly around them. Injuries were uncommon enough, and death rare, so the game continued.
“With Zhai Chun and Yue Shu, however, a dozen feet quickly proved inadequate to each others’ conception of valor. Word quickly spread through the camp that the two prominent sons were throwing their objects out past the trenches as far as they could, sometimes even using crossbows to increase the distance. It soon got to the point where both men were running out nearly a hundred yards toward the city on a daily basis. It was obvious to most that one of the men would be injured or killed, but still nothing was done to stop them.”
Ximen glanced again at Zhai, but the man was staring down into his cup, his thoughts elsewhere. Everyone else in the tent had their attention squarely on him however, even Hui now, he noted.
“It was a day like many others when both charged out after some small and insignificant thing,” Ximen went on. “Yue reached it first, barely ahead of Zhai, and set back at a swift pace. As Zhai turned back in pursuit an arrow struck him squarely in the back, sending him to the ground. He yelled out in pain and Yue turned back to him, dropping whatever he’d retrieved to pick up Zhai. He made it about ten yards with Zhai slung over his back before an arrow struck him in the back of the leg and sent both of them to the ground. The archers on the wall, their blood up with two such easy targets, increased their rate of fire. Yue, despite being injured, reached for Zhai once again. As he began to pick him up, however, he noticed that another arrow now stuck out of Zhai’s chest. The man was dead, but Yue still picked him up and carried him the rest of the way back, dodging the arrows as best he could with his wounded leg and taking another in the shoulder before he reached the safety of the trenches once again.”
Ximen looked over at Zhai again, and he thought that he saw tears in the man’s eyes. Best to finish quickly, he thought, and took another deep breath.
The Warring States, Books 1-3 Page 5
