by Jin Yong
“Khojin’s feelings for me are genuine, but I’ve only ever thought of her as a sister. If the Great Khan agrees to call off the engagement, it would be for the best.”
Smiling, Lotus gave him a sidelong glance, but at that moment the golden horn sounded for a second time. Guo Jing took Lotus’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Wait for my good news,” he said, before turning away to drag Wanyan Honglie into the palace.
The moment Genghis Khan saw Guo Jing, he came down from the throne and took the young General by the hand to lead him inside. Then he asked an attendant to bring a brocade stool and set it down next to the royal seat for the hero of the hour. Guo Jing briefed the conqueror on the capture of Wanyan Honglie, who was prostrating himself in utter subjugation on the floor.
Genghis Khan strode up to the Jin Prince and planted his foot on the man’s head. “Did you imagine you’d end up like this when you first came to Mongolia to show off your might?”
Knowing that his death was assured, Wanyan Honglie fixed his eyes on Genghis Khan. “It is regrettable that we failed to wipe out your measly tribe when we Jurchens were at the height of our power. If we had, we would not be here today.”
Laughing, Genghis Khan ordered his men to get Wanyan Honglie out of his sight and behead him in the square before the palace.
The command aroused mixed feelings in Guo Jing. On the one hand, he was pleased that his father’s death would at last be avenged; on the other hand, he had always imagined exacting this vengeance himself, using the dagger Qiu Chuji had given his father. And yet, the despondent look on the face of the once haughty Prince dulled the hatred and anger he had nurtured for so long, and he realized that he did not need to dispatch the man by his own hand.
Genghis Khan turned to Guo Jing. “I decreed that the man who gave me this city, along with the head of Wanyan Honglie, would be rewarded with all the silks, jade and men and women within its walls. Send your men to claim your prize.”
Guo Jing shook his head. “My mother and I have long enjoyed the Great Khan’s generosity. We want for nothing and can find no use for more servants, gold or silks.”
“You have the character of a true hero. Tell me, what do you want, then? I shall grant you anything you name.”
Guo Jing stood up and bowed deeply. “I do have one thing to ask of the Great Khan, and I beg him not to be angry with me.”
“Speak your mind,” the conqueror said with a smile.
But, just as Guo Jing was about to make his request, a gut-wrenching wailing rose up from somewhere beyond the palace, reaching as far as the heavens and rocking the earth, making the hearts of all those within earshot skip a beat. The generals leaped from their seats and drew their weapons, thinking that the locals they had just subdued had risen up against their invaders. But Genghis Khan stopped them before they could rush out of the hall.
“All is well,” the conqueror said, with a dry chuckle. “This cursed city refused to bend to the heavens’ will, costing me not just soldiers and generals, but my dear grandson too. It deserves a thorough purge. Come, let us watch.”
Genghis Khan led his generals out of the palace, where they mounted their steeds and rode for the nearest gate, the shrieks growing ever more piercing and desperate. Once outside the city, they saw thousands of Samarkandians on the run, crying, screaming, shoving each other, falling to the ground, all trying to avoid the galloping Mongol riders and the long sharp sabers that were slicing into them.
When the Mongolians entered Samarkand, they ordered its people to leave the city. At first, the locals thought they were being sent outside the walls to help the conquerors flush out any soldiers lurking among them, but the Mongols began to confiscate all items that could be used as weapons, then to single out all the skilled craftsmen and select the good-looking women and girls from the masses gathered, binding their hands with ropes. The Samarkandians at last understood the disaster that was about to befall them. Some resisted and were cut down by sabers or run through with spears. Then, a dozen battalions roared and charged into the crowd, hacking and slashing with their blades. A massacre most brutal and savage. Men, women, children, the elderly—no one was spared. Trembling white-haired ancients, infants who had never left their mother’s embrace, all butchered without a second thought. By the time Genghis Khan arrived with his generals, more than a hundred thousand had been slaughtered. Mutilated bodies carpeted the ground in all directions. The iron-shod hooves of the Mongolian horses thundered indiscriminately, treading them into the blood-soaked earth.
“Excellent! Kill them all!” Genghis Khan roared in good humor. “Show them the might of Genghis Khan.”
Unable to witness this carnage any longer, Guo Jing urged his horse over to the conqueror’s side. “Great Khan, spare them, please!”
But the warrior waved him away testily and shouted, “Slay them all! Do not leave a single soul alive.”
Guo Jing bit his lip and swallowed his words. A child of seven or eight broke away from the crush of shivering, defenseless bodies and threw himself at a woman who had just been knocked over by a warhorse. “Mama!” he screeched as a rider charged at them. One swing of the saber and mother and child were cut clean in two, the boy’s lifeless arms still wrapped tightly around the woman.
The sight made Guo Jing’s blood boil. “Great Khan!” he called at the top of his voice. “Didn’t you say that the silks, jade, men and women of this city were mine? Why did you order this massacre?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Genghis Khan replied, with a cackle. “You said you didn’t want them.”
“And you said you’d grant me anything I name. Is that true?” Once he had the conqueror’s affirmation, Guo Jing went on: “The Great Khan’s word is as immovable as any mountain. I beg you to spare the people of this city.”
Genghis Khan’s expression hardened. He had never imagined Guo Jing would ask for clemency, but the boy had the right of it. He had given his word, and he could not take it back. Fury burned in his chest and fire glittered in his eyes as he glared at Guo Jing, clutching the hilt of his saber. “Is this really what you want from me, boy?”
The generals flanking Genghis Khan had fought shoulder to shoulder with the warrior through countless campaigns, and never once had they feared for their lives, for they saw death as nothing but a homecoming. And yet, at this moment, their commander’s bitter wrath sent a chill through their hearts, leaving them quaking in terror.
Guo Jing had never been regarded by Genghis Khan with such severity, and he could not stop himself from shuddering with trepidation. He steeled himself to repeat his demand. “I beg the Great Khan to spare the people of this city.”
“You won’t come to rue this decision?” the warrior growled.
Guo Jing recalled Lotus advising him in the square outside the palace to use this opportunity to end his betrothal to Khojin. He was aware that he only had one chance before he lost the Great Khan’s favor for good—a loss he could accept, if it weren’t for the fact that his future with Lotus would flow by like running water along with it. And yet, how could he stand by and listen to the screams of tens of thousands of common people? How could he watch them be brutally butchered?
“I will have no regrets,” he said, trying to sound certain.
Even so, Genghis Khan could detect the tremor in his voice. The young man was frightened, but he acted according to his heart, and the conqueror felt a grudging admiration for his stubborn courage. He unsheathed his saber and shouted, “Stand down!”
At the call of the bugle, the blood-soaked Mongolian riders withdrew from the terrified Samarkandians, and lined up neatly in columns, forming several divisions of ten thousand men.
No one had gone against the wishes of the Great Khan since he had earned that title, and to have his bloodlust so frustrated filled him with an unaccountable rage. He let out a howl, hurled his saber to the ground and galloped back to the palace. The generals glowered at Guo Jing. They had thought that taking such a grand city would o
ffer them several days of plunder and bloodshed, but now all they would receive as a reward was their commander’s black moods and the unknowable ways in which he might lash out. The exhilaration of taking Samarkand had come to naught.
* * *
GUO JING was conscious of the resentment from those close to Genghis Khan, but he paid them no heed, instead urging Ulaan to carry him farther into the wilderness beyond Samarkand. During the siege and the assault on the city, tens of thousands of houses on both sides of the city walls had been torched, and now the earth was littered with countless bodies, staining the snowy plains red with blood.
There is no escaping the cruelty of war, Guo Jing thought as he rode through the devastation. To avenge my father, I brought an army here and killed all these people. In conquering the world, the Great Khan has butchered many more. But what sins did these tens of thousands of soldiers and common people commit to deserve such a fate? To have their brains and innards smeared on the ground, their bones abandoned in the wastes? Was I right to help breach the city in my thirst for vengeance, and bring death to so many?
The more Guo Jing turned over the events of the recent past in his mind, the more unsettled he became. He wandered aimlessly, with only his anguished reflections for company, and did not return to the city until long after dark, when he found two of Genghis Khan’s personal guards waiting for him. They bowed, and one of them said, “The Great Khan requests the company of the Prince of the Golden Blade.”
Guo Jing was uneasy about the summons, and told his own guards to inform Surefoot Lu of where he was headed.
I went against his wishes today. Perhaps he will have me beheaded for insubordination, he said to himself. He may try to intimidate me into changing my demands, but whatever happens, I must save the people of Samarkand. He is the Great Khan—he cannot go back on his word.
Guo Jing arrived at Shah Muhammad’s palace expecting to find Genghis Khan in a foul mood, but the sound he heard echoing through the building was the conqueror’s ebullient laughter. Surprised, he quickened his steps, entering the hall to find the Great Khan had company. Khojin was sitting on the floor at his feet, leaning against his knee. And by his side was a Taoist monk with a glossy black beard that flowed down his robes—Eternal Spring Qiu Chuji.
Delighted, Guo Jing hurried over to pay his respects, but Genghis Khan snatched a halberd from his attendant, twirled it around and swung its blade down at Guo Jing’s skull with his full strength. Startled, the young man tilted his head to one side. The shaft struck his left shoulder—thwack!—and split in two.
Laughing, Genghis Khan said, “There, boy, I shall let it pass. I would have taken your head today, were it not for Master Qiu and Khojin—and the victory you won.”
Khojin jumped up to her feet. “Pa, if I weren’t here, you would’ve been nasty to my Guo Jing!”
“Who says so?” Genghis Khan threw the broken weapon down in good cheer.
“I saw you! Don’t try to deny it. I was worried—that’s why I asked Master Qiu to come with me.”
Smiling, Genghis Khan took his daughter’s hand, and reached out for Guo Jing’s. “Enough of your chatter, let’s hear Master Qiu’s poems.”
* * *
AFTER THE fight at the Tower of Mist and Rain in Jiaxing, Qiu Chuji and his brethren apologized to Apothecary Huang, for they had then seen with their own eyes that the Heretic had not harmed their martial uncle Zhou Botong, and they had also learned that Viper Ouyang was behind their brother Tan Chuduan’s death. Some days later, they came across Ke Zhen’e, who gave them a detailed account of how Yang Kang had accompanied Viper Ouyang to Peach Blossom Island and played a part in the murder of his five martial siblings, describing also the young man’s untimely end.
Yang Kang’s fate hit Qiu Chuji hard. He rued his negligence regarding his disciple’s training. He might have taught the boy kung fu, but he had also let him stay on in the Jurchen palace. It was the Taoist’s fault that the young man had become accustomed to rank and wealth, causing him to lose his way. Qiu Chuji had only himself to blame for Yang Kang’s tragic end.
As such, when he received the letters from Genghis Khan and Guo Jing inviting him to Mongolia, he accepted the offer readily. He was aware that, at the rate the Mongol Empire was expanding, it would not be long before they were masters of the whole of China. If he could win Genghis Khan’s ear, he might be able to rouse the conqueror’s sense of charity, sparing tens of thousands from slaughter. If he were successful, it would be a deed of immeasurable worth. Besides, he was eager to see Guo Jing again. And so, he led a dozen disciples and traveled westward, despite the approach of winter.
Now sitting in comfort in the Shah’s palace, Qiu Chuji was delighted to at last set eyes on the boy. He had grown stouter and stronger than when they parted, a year before, and the wind and snow had lent him a tawnier complexion. Before Guo Jing’s arrival, the Taoist had been regaling Genghis Khan with tales of all he had seen and heard on his journey, telling him how the scenery and changing customs along the way had inspired him to pen some verses. Now invited to share them, with a stoke of his beard, the monk began to recite:
“A decade plagued by war, the sorrow of the common men,
Of the many thousands, no more than one or two remain.
Last year with fortune received the kindly summons,
This spring a trip despite the cold is to be made.
Shirk not from the three thousand li of ranges north,
Thinking still of the two hundred townships of mountains east.
The poor and desperate, eluding slaughter, gasp under strain,
Here’s hoping the strife of the people will soon cease.”
Urtu Saqal, an official with a sound grasp of the Chinese language, translated the poem into Mongolian. Genghis Khan acknowledged it with a nod, but made no comment.
Qiu Chuji turned to Guo Jing. “When your seven shifus and I fought at the Garden of the Eight Drunken Immortals, your second shifu picked the inside pocket of my robe and found an unfinished poem. On my way here, I thought often of my old friends, and at last I completed it.” And he began to chant:
“Since ancient times mid-autumn’s moon,
Radiant, as icy winds clean the night;
Heavy hangs the Milky Way
As water dragons vault the seas.
“Your second shifu saw these lines all those years ago, and now I’ve written four more to go with them. But, alas, he’ll never get to read them …
“Songs fill the towers of Wu and Yue,
Wine flows among the armies of Yan and Qin.
My emperor, residing beyond Linhe,
Wishes to end war and bring peace.”
Tears filled Guo Jing’s eyes at the thought of his martial teachers.
At last, Genghis Khan threw off his silence. “Master Qiu, you must have seen the might of my army on your journey here. I wonder if you have verses to praise them?”
“Along the way, I did indeed witness the force with which the Great Khan breaches cities and claims land,” Qiu Chuji replied. “And I was moved to write two poems. This is the first of them:
“The gray heavens look down on the earth
Why does it not save ten thousand souls in pain?
These souls, day and night, in suffering and torment,
Hide their gasps, swallow their voices, die in silence.
Howling at the heavens, they answer not,
A matter too minor, too small, too futile.
Let not the many thousand worlds return to chaos,
Let not the divine maker create more spirits.”
Urtu Saqal hesitated, asking himself whether he dared to provide a translation. It was obvious that the content would not please his commander, but, before he could make up his mind, Qiu Chuji began again:
“The second poem was:
“Ah, the heaven and earth split wide apart,
Granting life to creatures in thousands and millions.
Brutal violence invades wit
hout pause,
The cycle of suffering without end.
Heaven and earth are both divinities,
Why look on the dying without giving help?
Minor officials have compassion but not the blessing,
Night and day, fruitless labor in aching grief.”
Though the prosody of the poems was not particularly neat, the compassion and humanity they conveyed shone through. Guo Jing thought of the scenes of carnage that morning and sighed with the full weight of a heavy heart.
Genghis Khan turned to Urtu Saqal. “The Master’s poems are surely most excellent. Quickly, tell me what they say.”
The official considered how he should respond. Many times have I entreated the Great Khan to avoid killing innocents, but he has never heeded my words. Maybe the Taoist’s benevolent heart as expressed through these poems will move him. With that thought, he went on to translate the poems faithfully.
Genghis Khan was visibly vexed. “I have heard that the Chinese have a method for living long without growing old. I hope the Master will teach me,” he said, changing the subject.
“Such a method does not exist in this world,” Qiu Chuji responded flatly. “But the Taoist training of one’s qi can help guard against illness and prolong one’s life.”
“What is the key to this practice?”
“‘The Way of the heavens is impartial, yet on the benevolent it always bestows.’”
“And who are deemed ‘benevolent’?”
“‘The sage has no fixed intent, his heart follows the people’s needs.’” Qiu Chuji continued, ignoring the Khan’s question. “We have a revered text known as the Classic of the Way and Virtue. It is particularly cherished by us Taoists. What I quoted just now is from this book. It also says, ‘Soldiers and arms are instruments of ill portent, not tools of the noble virtuous. Only to be resorted to when there is no other choice, and with calm composure. Delight not in victory, for those who find delight, find pleasure in slaughter; and those who find pleasure in slaughter will never realize their ambitions under the heavens.’”
