Le Colonial (27 page)

Reaching into his robe, Ánh pulled out a gold bar and a dagger. With one quick thrust, he cut the bar into two pieces and handed one to the bishop.

“Give this to my Lady Bình as a symbol of my esteem for her. Someday I will return, and these two pieces will help unite us again.”

He bolted out the door.

As he passed Xuan, he grabbed her hand and said, “You are coming with me.”

She stiffened; he put his arms around her.

“You are my concubine,” he said, touching the red mark on her cheek with tenderness.

She pushed against him.

“Please, come with me,” he pleaded. “I need you to take care of me.”

She stopped resisting.

The new king turned to Pierre. “Look after my son. Keep him from any harm. I fear if I see him now, I would not leave.”

“I will protect him just as I protected you,” replied Pierre. “I will baptize him in the name of our Father in heaven. Then he will always be watched over by his Christian God.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Á
nh ran down the spiral staircase and through the forbidden garden. Three hundred horsemen still guarded the collapsed throne room. He saw the glow of torches beyond the main gates, heard the voices of the Mountaineers calling out his name. Trembling, he searched the soldiers for Brother João. The monk was nowhere in sight.

He wove through the horses, determination forcing him forward. There wasn’t a face he could identify, except for that of the kitchen girl beside him. Her calm expression revealed nothing of her thoughts. Close to the other side of the crowd, a figure rushed toward him. Ánh let out a soft cry as he recognized the Dominican monk.

Brother João was dressed in the imperial robe and protective metal breastplate, adorned with the dragon symbol of the Nguyen family. It was Ánh’s ceremonial costume. He realized that Brother João was in disguise. Behind the monk stood an elephant, equipped with a two-seated throne. On one side sat the hunched form of Prince Hoàng. The other side was empty. Suddenly the prince understood the bishop’s plan.

“You must give me your helmet,” said João.

Ánh complied. His hair dropped to his shoulders.

“Why are you giving your life to save mine?” he asked.

The monk replied, almost without emotion, “I am doing penance for my grave sin and for the redemption of my soul. What is one life compared to the success of God’s mission? I will die a martyr.”

His head disappeared beneath the helmet, until only his eyes could be seen. The monk turned and mounted the great beast with the assistance of a hanging rope.

The citadel’s gate burst open with a tremendous crash. The barbarians had broken into the sacred city.

Across the back drawbridge, which led to the jungle behind the citadel, Ánh’s horse galloped at full speed. Pressed against Ánh with her arms around his waist, Xuan breathed against his nape. Brother Tiago and a dozen soldiers escorted them. Soon a flood of refugees, heading in the same direction, slowed them down.

Ánh and his convoy rode up a hill. Beyond the thick bed of grass was the Rainbow Bridge, made up of concentric bands of painted bamboo. It arched over a ravine, where a swift-moving river flowed toward the sea. The bridge was the only route from the citadel to the forest. He could hear the falling water and smell the cool mist.

If he could get across the bridge, he would be safe. Ánh thrust his heels against the horse’s belly, forcing the animal through the crowd of dazed escapees.

An arrow whistled alongside his ear and thumped into Brother Tiago ahead of him. He heard the monk’s muted cough and the thud of his body hitting the ground. Another arrow struck a guard on his right. And then the one on his left toppled. Ánh did not dare to look back. His companions were being eliminated in a calculated order, leaving him the last target. Whoever the bowmen were, they were exceptionally skilled. Not an arrow was wasted. He spurred his horse to its fastest gallop.

Ahead of him were two flights of steps: one leading down to the river and the other up to the bridge. He chose the second, guiding his horse to ascend the bamboo stairs. The three surviving men trailed close behind him.

The last rays of the sun reached over the crest of the trees, blinding him. When Ánh was able to adjust his vision, he saw he was at the center of the bridge, and the trees and shrubs at the edge of the forest had altered their shapes. It came to him that he was looking at a wall of peasants. Ánh halted, using both hands to steady the horse. He made a headlong turn around.

He was trapped between both ends of the bridge. Looking at him was a tall bowman, likely the one who had killed most of his men. The hunter was a muscular, dark-skinned man, with full, black, wavy hair. Ánh realized, from the legends he had heard and the skill that he had witnessed, that he was facing the notorious archenemy of the Nguyen family: the self-proclaimed Prince Thom of the rebels.

In a daze he watched them advance. No longer afraid, he felt a white-hot rage seize him.

“Get down from the horse, Xuan,” he said. “Save yourself!”

Her arms did not loosen from his waist.

“Did you hear me?” he said. “Dismount! And save yourself.”

“It’s too late. That won’t save me,” she replied.

Ánh clung to the mane of his prancing horse as he waited for the enemies to pour over him.

From the depth of the ravine, a voice shouted, “Xuan! Xuan!”

The prince was too bewildered to recognize it. But Xuan did.

She screamed, leaning over his shoulder. “Ông Tây!” she shouted back.

Ánh looked down. The water below them churned with foam. Its silver waves curled and splashed against the rocky riverbank. He saw a boat, tossing in the rushing current. A rope tied the vessel’s prow to a tree to keep it from being swept away. His stomach gave a painful squeeze, rejecting the vertical distance between him and the boat.

“Yes, it’s me, Henri,” the boatman called. “Jump! It’s your only chance.”

Ánh jerked the reins, and his horse reared upward, thrashing its two front legs and neighing. The prince sat erect.

“Hold on,” he cried to Xuan.

He felt her arms and legs clutch him. When the horse dropped back to all four hooves, Ánh gave a mighty kick into its sides to make it jump.

Together he and Xuan bounded over the bridge’s railing. It broke, and they plunged into the chasm below.

CHAPTER THIRTY

T
he Mountaineers poured into the citadel. At the entrance, the gates had been shattered. The peasants swarmed down the main road that led to the king’s palace, turning south and sloping down to a wide moat. At the water’s edge, they were forced to stop. The curving bridge of stone that should have reached to the other side was nothing but a pile of rubble. In its place was a slender wooden plank without a rail.

Destroying the centuries-old bridge was the royal army’s final defense against the rebels. The only way for the invaders to enter the Forbidden City was to walk across this narrow board in single file. Beyond it lay the heart of the citadel, the throne room, in ruins. The fire was still smoldering. Billows of black and orange smoke tainted the hot sky.

The Mountaineers spread out along the side of the moat. None of them crossed the bridge. They waited for orders from their leaders.

From behind the throne room, an elephant lumbered forward. On its back were the two remaining members of the Nguyen family, wearing their royal armor. Flanking the animal were a few hundred imperial soldiers who had no choice but to fight their last battle. The beast bellowed its war cry.

An invisible hand parted the peasant troops, creating an open road at the center. NhCc, the peasant king, mounted high on his elephant and clad in shining iron armor, rode at the head of a caravan of warriors. Their weapons shone like a thousand bursts of the sun.

Among the vanguard, Sister Lucía straddled a gray mare alongside Father François, who rode a spirited bay. For hours she had ridden in a trance, unable to believe the devastation she was seeing, even though she had lived through the war since the raid on Kim Lai. Lady Bui, triumphant atop her beloved Mia, came abreast of the nun and smiled down at her.

“Many of our enemies are dead, Sister,” the female warrior said. “I unleashed my wrath on them. Be joyful, because your shame has been avenged.”

Lucía looked around and saw a city drenched in blood. Her heart ached for the dead and the dying. She missed the tranquillity of Lepers’ Cavern. Revenge was not her motive for traveling here. She came to see Brother João.

King NhCc turned to face his warriors.

“Welcome to Saygun,” he said. “Here lies the city of corruption and sin, where the rats of the Nguyen dynasty sat on the throne. We have killed all but the final two vermin. They will be extinguished -”

A rain of arrows poured on him, whizzing as they flew past. Some struck his armor and bounced off. The royalists had recovered the offensive.

NhCc ignored them. “I know you are tired from the long battles,” he continued. “Many of you have lost either a father, a son, or a brother. I assure you their lives were not wasted. Soon we can all plow the fields, raise the cattle, and live in peace, just as the gods in heaven have proclaimed.”

His powerful voice and the bravado of his stance amid the piercing arrows astonished the peasants. They raised their weapons in response to his speech. He barked a command. It echoed through the crowd as his words were passed from one rebel to another.

Lucía watched the men scurry into action. It took her awhile to realize what they were doing. From the rear, mangled cadavers, some missing their heads or limbs, were being passed over the army toward the moat. At the end of the line, the soldiers hurled the corpses into the water. The deep trench became a communal grave filled with arms, legs, and torsos; babies, women, and soldiers. When the mass was level with the earth, the rebels stormed across the bridge of human remains.

Like a flood they spilled through the Forbidden City, mowing down every royal soldier standing in their path. The imperial guards could neither run nor retaliate. Lucía and her warrior companions viewed the macabre performance with divergent emotions—anguish on her part, pride on theirs. She could no longer see the guards protecting the royal elephant. On its back, the two princes were swaying, stranded by the rising tide of men. They did not offer any resistance when the hands reached for them and pulled them from their throne. She watched their bodies disappear into the multitude. Twin jets of blood spurted toward the setting sun.

Two heads, one still contained in a metal helmet, were placed on bamboo trays and brought to King NhCc. General Zicheng held up the head of Prince Hoàng by his long hair and received shouts of encouragement from his fellow soldiers. The king leaned forward from his seat. He waved a finger to the severed head.

“No more opium for you,” he said.

The soldiers burst into laughter.

He turned to the general. “Show me the other.”

The warrior fumbled to remove the head from its helmet. The sun was fading fast. The earth was filled with a soft light. After a few unsuccessful tugs, he gave up and lifted the metal flap to reveal the face within. The bloody head inside the helmet stared through the opening with wide blue eyes. In the suffocating hush, Zicheng seemed confused. He looked at the king, muttered something, and shrugged.

With one look at the decapitated head, Sister Lucía fainted.

To François, the death of Brother João was a shock, but not a surprise. It could only have been a plot by Bishop de Béhaine to save thelife of his protégé, Prince Ánh. It was a ruthless stratagem, to sacrifice one of his own priests for the sake of his mission. What happened to poor Henri? Did his novice suffer the same fate as Brother João?

The bishop’s blind devotion angered François, but it also made him wonder about his own. Would he ever give up his own life or the lives of his followers to ensure Prince Thom’s survival? The answer made him realize he did not fully belong in the world of the Mountaineers, nor anywhere else for that matter. He was a twenty-seven-year-old priest, exiled from his homeland, cast adrift in a heathen culture. Fate had made him a perpetual misfit.

Where were the fugitive prince and the bishop? Surely this time they would not be able to escape together. The bishop, a legendary foreigner, would draw attention to the prince. To stay inconspicuous, Ánh would have to travel alone or with a few loyal guards. With the Tonquinese holding the North, and the West Mountaineers holding the land between Hue and Saygun City, Ánh would have no choice but to retreat farther south.

As for the bishop, without the prince, he would never be in any real danger. The rebels would not consider him or any foreigners a threat as long as they didn’t take up arms. François expected the bishop had already vacated the citadel. Unless there was a reason for him to linger behind!

Outside the throne room, the peasant soldiers were gathering the imperial concubines, wives, and children, and dividing them into groups according to their family status. Among the court women, he saw the queen of Cochin China, disheveled but full of pride. She moved calmly in spite of the rebels’ aggression. Out of each group, the male offspring were taken from their mothers. François heard the children cry and the women scream. Beside a mountain of dead bodies, the children huddled in one another’s arms. At their captain’s order, the bowmen released their arrows. The crying stopped. Soldiers slashed their sabers into the lifeless bodies.

General Zicheng returned to bow before King NhCc. With a weary voice, he reported, “Your Majesty, all the blood relatives, wives, and concubines of the Nguyen family have been executed, except for Ánh, his wives, and one concubine. They are nowhere to be found. I was told that one of the women is pregnant. Surely they could not have traveled very far.”

“Is there anyone left in the royal quarters or the Forbidden City?” asked the king.

“We searched everywhere, Your Majesty, and found it is all empty.”

“Look again, house by house, until you find them.”

Zicheng hesitated. “It is getting dark, and our men are exhausted. We cannot keep searching every house in the citadel. What do we do with its citizens, the Buddhist monks, and the foreigners, sire?”

“For now, keep guard over the citadel and spread the message to every door that we mean them no harm. Allow no one to leave. I will establish new order tomorrow.”

François listened with relief. He wondered if the bishop and his novice were still somewhere in the fortress. No one noticed him when he dismounted from his horse. Although he had never been to Saygun before, he had an idea where he was going. There had to be a pavilion reserved for the foreign Christians in this complex city. With a bit of luck, he knew he’d be able to find out where it was.

Along a stone-paved road that led him through an orchid garden, François came upon a succession of palace apartments. The sun was sinking fast behind the mountains. Night had already gathered under the tall trees. All the doors and windows were open, their shutters swaying with the breeze.

He could see into the rooms. There was no light in any of the dwellings, no signs of life. The strewn personal belongings, a book left open, and food arranged on a table gave the impression that the occupants had vacated in a hurry. At the end of a street, he came to a communal well. A few feet away, a eunuch huddled behind a wooden vat of fish sauce. François grabbed his collar and pulled him from his hiding place.

“Please spare my life,” the eunuch hissed, covering his eyes.

“Cha CA,” François shouted in the frightened man’s face. When he saw a hint of acknowledgment, he continued, “Do you know Cha CA?”

The eunuch nodded, pointing toward a series of pagodas and towers. The tiers of red roofs and gold trim blossomed like lotus petals, adrift on a hilltop.

“Yes, yes, the Christian priest! I know where he lives. Over there! I’ll take you.”

The compound looked like a Buddhist temple from the outside. The eunuch led him through the galleries that connected the apartments, crossing an open field toward a sandstone tower. It was built in the shape of a Buddha’s head, surrounded by smaller buildings to form a mandala, the Buddhist symbol of the universe. He paused in awe. The artist in him was captivated by the splendor of this ancient holy structure.

Then he saw the Buddhist monks—hundreds of them sitting in meditation, so still and silent that at first he mistook them for statues. But their orange robes and brown skin showed they were alive. Each wore the same vague smile, row upon row. He would not dare to disturb even one of them.

The eunuch pulled at his arm and whispered, “This is where he lives.” He pointed to an ornate pagoda.

Ignoring him, François climbed the steps to its entrance. The heavy wooden doors were locked. He pulled at the round handle, banging it against the metal frame, then listened to the knocking that reverberated inside.

“Bishop Pierre Pigneau de Béhaine, Novice Henri Monange,” he shouted. “Are you in there?”

There was no reply.

He tried again. “It is I, François Gervaise. I’ve come looking for you. Alone! Open the door.”

He placed his ear against the door and could hear movements from the other side. At the squeaking of old hinges, he stiffened. The door slowly opened, and he saw the high forehead of the bishop, furrowed with more creases than he remembered. De Béhaine moved aside, leaving room for François to enter. Once he was inside, the bishop secured the bolt.

“Father François, we meet again. I am impressed that you were able to find me. How did you do it?”

François licked his lips. “Your Excellency, I am glad that you are safe. To find you, I had to think like you. I asked myself, what would Bishop de Béhaine do in this situation? And the answer came to me. It was quite simple.”

“What do you mean,
think like me?
”

François ignored the question. He looked around the room, studying the colossal Buddha statues at the end of the hall.

The bishop chuckled. “So you joined the Mountaineers. It is wonderful that we have a spy in the enemy’s army.”

François glared. For the first time, he wasn’t affected by the bishop’s intimidation. “I am not a spy, Your Excellency. I joined them because I believe in their cause.”

“Impossible! You are not a rebel,” the bishop exclaimed.

To François’s right was a closed door. A ray of light came from the crack under it. A constant flickering indicated moving shadows inside. The bishop stepped into his range of vision, blocking his view. A baby cried. Its soft sound was quickly muffled.

“Listen to me,” pressed the bishop. “You can’t be a rebel. I need your help.”

François asked with a hint of sarcasm, “The same help you’ve demanded from Brother João? What have you done with my Henri?”

For once de Béhaine looked abashed. “I didn’t do anything to Henri. He disappeared in the confusion. I haven’t seen him all day.”

“I came from the battle where they killed Brother João,” said François. “The Mountaineers mistook him for the prince that got away. Don’t you expect me or my novice to give up our lives for your cause!”

“Whether or not you are a rebel, you are still a priest,” said the bishop. “My cause is the cause of the Jesuit order. We are here to establish a Christian kingdom on this soil, so we must work together. All my disciples must bolster my authority and support my vision. And my vision is to have Prince Ánh as the next king of Annam. This is also the desire of His Majesty Louis XVI, king of France. I am merely fulfilling his wish, as well as my obligation to His Holiness, the pope.”

“I do not serve the king of France,” François said. “I serve God. In my quest for the truth, it was His will that brought me to the peasants’ army. Their leader, Prince Thom, will soon be the rightful ruler of this country. He is strong, wise, courageous, and compassionate. He will win the civil war and make the kingdom whole. All the bloodshed will end, and the people will be at peace. Their spiritual lives, therefore, will be fulfilled.”

The bishop laughed. “I see that you are still as naive, stubborn, and idealistic as you were the first time we met in Avignon. Your youth has blinded you for too long. Peace will never inspire faith in religion and in God. Only war can do that! Chaos and destruction will oppress people and make them despair. That is when they’ll fall on their knees and pray.”

“Pain and suffering? Are those the goals of your career, Bishop? No wonder you are failing.”