Sandalwood Death (37 page)

“It’s time,” he said in a shaky voice. “Criminals, on your knees to give thanks for the blessings of the Emperor.”

Like a man who had received absolution, Zhao Jia turned to his apprentice and took from him the unwieldy sword reserved for the decapitation of fourth-ranked officials and higher—Generalissimo. Out of respect for Excellency Liu, he had spent the whole night honing the blade to hair-splitting perfection. After drying his hands with his sleeves, he held his right arm across his chest so that the sword was pointing straight up.

Some of the Six Gentlemen wept; others sighed.

With appropriate decorum, Zhao Jia said:

“Please, gentlemen, take your places.”

Tan Sitong cried out:

“I have the intention to kill thieves, but lack the strength to change the course of events. It is a worthy death, and I have no regrets!”

His last words spoken, he had a coughing fit that turned his face the color of gold paper; his eyes were bloodshot. He then fell to his knees, placed his hands on the platform, and stretched out his neck. His loosened queue spilled across his neck down to the platform.

Lin, Yang, Yang, and Kang knelt beside Tan in utter dejection. Lin Xu sobbed like a mistreated little girl. Kang Guangren wailed loudly and smacked his palms on the platform. Yang Shenxiu also rested his hands on the platform, his eyes darting from one side to the other, but giving no hint as to what he was looking for. Liu Guangdi stood alone, his head held high, refusing to kneel. As he stared at Liu’s tattered boots, Zhao Jia said timidly:

“Your Excellency, please take your place.”

Glaring wide-eyed at the seated Gang Yi, Liu demanded hoarsely:

“Why are we being killed with no trial?”

Lacking the nerve to look at Liu, Gang Yi turned his fat, swarthy face to the side.

“Why are we being killed with no trial?” Liu Guangdi repeated. “Is this a nation bereft of laws?”

“My orders are to supervise the execution, that is all I know. I beg Peicun’s indulgence on this . . .” Gang Yi’s distress was palpable.

Yang Rui, who was kneeling alongside Liu Guangdi, tugged at his clothing.

“Peicun,” he said, “at this point, what is there to say? Kneel with us. It is what is expected.”

“Great Qing Dynasty!” Liu shouted, drawing the words out as he straightened his clothes, bent his knees, and knelt on the platform. A functionary standing behind the chief witness announced in a loud voice:

“Give thanks for the blessings of Her Royal Highness!”

Of the Six Gentlemen, only Lin, Yang, Yang, and Kang numbly performed the rite of kowtows to her. Tan Sitong and Liu Guangdi held their necks straight and refused to kowtow.

Then the functionary announced loudly:

“Criminals, give thanks for the blessings of His Imperial Majesty!”

After this announcement, all six men kowtowed. Tan Sitong banged his head on the platform as if he were crushing cloves of garlic, interspersed with shouts:

“Your Majesty, Your Majesty, I have failed you, Your Majesty!”

The thuds from Liu Guangdi’s kowtows were loud and insistent; tears lined both sides of his gaunt face.

In a voice that betrayed his discomfort, Gang Yi gave the command:

“Carry out the sentence!”

Zhao Jia bowed deeply to the Six Gentlemen.

“I will send Your Excellencies to your glory,” he said softly.

He braced himself to drive out all personal thoughts and concentrate his strength and spirit into the wrist of his right arm. In his mind, the execution sword and his body had already merged. He took one step forward, reached down with his left hand, and grabbed the tip of Liu Guangdi’s queue. With it he pulled Liu’s head toward him to expose the taut skin of his neck. Thanks to years of experience, he immediately spotted the precise spot where the sword would enter the neck. He lowered Liu’s head slightly as he turned to the right before he would swing back and bring down the sword in one motion, when a desperate howl emerged from the throng of spectators:

“Father—”

A tall, lanky, and badly disheveled young man stumbled forward at the very moment Zhao Jia was about to slice the sword through Liu’s neck. He aborted the move. His wrist felt the power of the bloodthirsty Generalissimo in that sudden stop. The young man staggering up to the platform was Liu Pu, Guangdi’s son, whom he had met that time in the little temple outside Xizhi Gate. A surge of compassion that had been suppressed for many years by weighty professional considerations flowed past his heart. Bewildered soldiers, armed with red-tasseled spears, recovered from their shock and rushed up in confusion. A badly shaken Gang Yi jumped to his feet and cried out shrilly, “Grab him.” Palace guards behind him drew their swords and converged on the young man, but before they could use their weapons, Liu Pu fell to his knees and was kowtowing to Gang Yi. That stopped the guards, who gaped vacantly at the handsome young man, whose ashen face was wet with tears and snot.

“Be merciful, Your Excellency,” he pleaded with Gang Yi. “Let me take my father’s place . . .”

Liu Guangdi looked up and, choked with sobs, managed to say:

“Pu, my son, don’t be foolish . . .”

Liu Pu crawled forward on his knees and gazed up at his father, his words muffled by sobs:

“Father, let me die in your place . . .”

“My dear son . . .” Liu Guangdi sighed. His face was haggard, his features twisted in his agony. “I want no extravagant funeral, and you are to take no bereavement gifts from anyone. Do not send my body back to my hometown, but bury it somewhere nearby. Once that is done, I want you and your mother to leave Peking and return to Sichuan. I want my descendants to receive an education, but I want no sons or grandsons to sit for an official examination. I entrust all this to you. Now, leave, and don’t make me waver in my resolve.” With that he closed his eyes, stretched out his neck, and said to Zhao Jia, “Old Zhao, do it now. For the sake of our friendship, make it a good job.”

Zhao’s eyes burned. He was nearly in tears.

“I promise, Your Excellency.”

Liu Pu howled from below the platform and crawled on his knees up to Gang Yi.

“Excellency . . . Excellency . . . let me take my father’s place . . .”

Gang Yi covered his face with his wide sleeve.

“Take him away!”

Soldiers rushed up and dragged the hysterical, sobbing Liu Pu away.

“Carry out the sentence!” Gang Yi commanded.

Zhao Jia grabbed Liu Guangdi’s queue for the second time. “An offense against Your Excellency,” he said softly as he made a rapid half circle, and Liu Guangdi’s detached head was in his hand. It felt extraordinarily heavy, the heaviest he’d ever held. Both hands—the one holding the sword and the one dangling Liu’s head—ached and felt swollen. Holding the head high over his own, he announced loudly to the Chief Witness:

“May it please Your Excellency, the sentence has been carried out!”

Gang Yi merely glanced at the platform before quickly averting his eyes.

Zhao Jiu followed custom by displaying the severed head to the observers. Some shouted their macabre appreciation; some wept openly. Liu Pu lay on the ground unconscious. Zhao Jia saw that the eyes in Liu’s head were open, the eyebrows raised. A grinding sound emerged from between chattering teeth; he was convinced that Liu’s brain was still functioning and that the eyes saw him. His left arm, in which he held the severed head, was getting sore and numb. Liu’s queue was like a slippery eel struggling to break free from the sweaty, blood-streaked hand holding it. There were tears in the great man’s eyes, which dimmed slowly, like cinders dying out from splashes of water. When Zhao Jia laid the head down, he noticed that it wore a peaceful look, and that made him feel better. “Excellency Liu,” he muttered under his breath, “as promised, I made a good job of it. You did not suffer, and I did no disservice to our friendship.” He now turned to the others and, with the help of his apprentice, dispatched Tan, Lin, Yang, Yang, and Kang with the same practiced skill. Thus, with consummate skill, he demonstrated his respect for the Six Gentlemen.

The capital was abuzz with talk of the spectacular execution, with most of the discussion centering on two aspects: one was the exceptional skill of the executioner, Zhao Jia; the other was the disparity in how the six men faced their deaths. People said that after Liu Guangdi’s head was severed, it wept copious tears and called out to the Emperor, and when Tan Sitong’s head left his neck, it proudly intoned a seven-syllable quatrain . . .

This new folklore, which contained particles of truth, burnished Zhao Jia’s reputation and elevated this ancient yet lowly profession far enough up the social ladder for people to take approving notice of it. It also insinuated its way into the Palace, like a gentle breeze, where it reached the ears of Cixi, the Empress Dowager. It would soon pave the way for great glory to find its way to Zhao Jia.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

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1

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In the early morning hours, high-ranking officers from the Tianjin branch of the Right Imperial Guard led a delegation that included a military band and a cavalry unit to the little pier on the northern bank of the Hai River to welcome the return of the Vice Minister of War and Judicial Commissioner of Zhili, Yuan Shikai, from Peking, where he had presented longevity gifts to the Empress Dowager Cixi upon Her resumption of the Regency.

Among the members of the delegation were the Deputy Chief of the Military Affairs General Staff, Xu Shichang, who would later serve as President of the Republic of China; Deputy Adjutant of the Office of Military Affairs and future President of the Republic of China, Feng Guozhang; Zhang Xun, future Changjiang Patrolling Inspector and so-called “Pigtail General,” who would later attempt to restore the abdicated Emperor Pu Yi; Duan Zhigui, Commander of the Second Infantry Battalion and future Chief of the Republic of China General Staff; Commander of the Third Artillery Battalion and future Premier of the Republic of China, Duan Qirui; Xu Bangjie, Commander of the Third Infantry Battalion and future General Director of the Republic of China Presidential Palace; Deputy Commander of the Third Infantry Battalion and future Premier of the Republic of China, Wang Shizhen . . . all relatively young, enterprising military officers whose ambitions were not, at the time, excessive. None could possibly have imagined that within a matter of decades, the fate of China would rest in the hands of this cadre of men.

Also part of the delegation was the most promising member of the Right Imperial Guard in terms of moral character and knowledge, the captain of Yuan Shikai’s mounted guard, Qian Xiongfei. Qian was among the first delegation of students sent to study in Japan, where he graduated from a military academy. He was tall and trim and had bushy eyebrows, big eyes, and white, even teeth. A man of enviable self-discipline, he neither smoked nor drank nor gambled nor whored around. Always vigilant and a wizard with a gun, he was highly prized by Yuan Shikai himself. He rode up that day on a snow-white stallion, the creases in his uniform as sharp as knives, his riding boots shined to a high gloss, a pair of gold-handled pistols holstered on his leather belt. A contingent of sixty warhorses fanned out behind him like a swallowtail, with elite young military guards in the saddles, each armed with German thirteen-shot repeater rifles. Extremely fit, they kept their eyes focused straight ahead, and though there was a bit of a scripted look about the detachment, they managed to inspire awe in anyone who laid eyes on them.

It was nearly noon, and there was still no sight of the steamboat carrying Excellency Yuan. No fishing boats were visible anywhere on the Hai River, whose broad vista was broken only by flocks of seagulls that occasionally dipped down just above the waves. Since it was late autumn, the trees were bare, all but the oaks and maples, on which a smattering of vivid red or golden yellow leaves remained, bringing a bit of color to both banks of the river, a bright spot in an otherwise bleak panorama. Gloomy patches of cloud cover hung above the river, over which damp winds blew in from the northeast, carrying the rank, salty smell of the Bohai Sea. The horses were getting restless, swishing their tails, kicking out their rear hooves, and snorting. Qian Xiongfei’s mount kept turning its head back to nip at its rider’s knee. When Qian stole a look at the senior officers around him, he saw how their faces had darkened as the cold, damp late autumn winds bored through their uniforms and chilled them to the bone. Drops of snivel hung from the tip of Xu Shichang’s nose; Zhang Xun was yawning, which made his eyes water; and Duan Qirui was rocking back and forth in the saddle, looking perilously close to toppling off his horse. The term “sorry sight” perfectly described the delegation. Qian, who held his fellow officials in contempt, was ashamed to be counted among them. He was no less weary than they, but he, at least, valued his responsibility to maintain the proper military bearing. The best way to pass the time in the midst of the boredom of waiting was to let his thoughts roam wherever they desired. To the observer, his gaze was focused on the wide river before him, but what played out before his eyes were episodes from his past.

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2

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Little Xizi, Little Xizi! That sound, so touchingly intimate, buzzed in his ears, near one moment and far the next, like a game of hide-and-seek. Youthful visions of playing tag with his older brother danced in front of his eyes. As they chased one another through the fields of their village, the image of his brother slowly expanded, growing taller and wider, while he hopped and jumped, grabbing at the shiny queue flying just out of reach. Even when he touched it with his finger, it nimbly flicked away, like a black dragon’s tail. Anxious and frustrated, he stomped his foot and burst into tears; his brother stopped and spun around. And in that brief moment, a youngster without a single whisker on his chin was transformed into a court official with an impressive beard. The next recollection that crowded into his head was of the quarrel he’d had with his brother before leaving for Japan. His brother had been opposed to his abandoning his studies for the Imperial Civil Service Examination. He had responded by saying that the examination produced an army of walking corpses, so angering his brother that he pounded his fist on the table, spilling most of the tea in their cups. “How dare you be so arrogant!” scolded his brother, his impressive beard quivering as anger undermined his stately bearing. But only for a moment, as that wrath was replaced by a desolate sense of self-mockery. “If that is so,” his brother had said, “then generations of sages and heroes have been nothing but walking corpses. That includes Wen Tianxiang, whom you revere, and even the great Tang poet Lu You. Zeng Guofan, Li Hongzhang, and Zhang Zhidong, officials in the present dynasty, are all walking corpses. Poor ignorant specimens like your brother are zombies that cannot even walk.” “That is not what I meant, Elder Brother.” “Then what did you mean?” “I meant that if China is going to move forward, the Imperial Civil Service Examination must be discarded and replaced by modern schools, and the ossified eight-part essay must give way to forms of scientific education. Fresh water must flow into this filthy, stagnant lake. China has to change, or she will surely perish. And the tactics required to effect the needed changes must be borrowed from the barbarians. I have made up my mind to go, so do not try to stop me, Elder Brother.” His brother could only sigh. “A man’s aspirations are unique to him, and no amount of coercion can change that. But I, your ignorant Elder Brother, believe that only by being tempered in the examination hall can one lay claim to dignity and prestige. All others are imposters who may achieve high office, but will never earn the respect of others.” “Brother,” he had replied, “troubled times demand a martial spirit—a civil ethos is reserved for days of peace and tranquility. Our family has had the good fortune of boasting one metropolitan scholar: you. We do not need more. So let me go take up studies in the martial realm.” His brother sighed again. “Metropolitan Scholar,” he said, “an empty label and nothing more. You carry a bundle of clothes to work in an unimportant yamen with little chance to benefit monetarily and are reduced to eating half a duck’s egg mixed into plain rice . . .” “If that is so, then why does my own brother want me to follow the same dead-end path?” With a dry laugh, his brother said, “The deep-rooted notion of a walking corpse . . .”