Chapter 251: The Death of the Sultana

Aban held his war blade, charging at the front, the hair on the scabbard dancing wildly as he ran.

As he closed in, he stopped abruptly and dodged aside, nimbly evading the thrusting spear. With a swing of his blade, a fine head spun through the air. Blood splattered across his face.

He flashed a grin and shouted, "One!"

Then his war blade slashed toward another guard. Standing one meter ninety tall, packed with muscle, with astonishing arm reach, this strike carried tremendous force.

That guard was dark and skinny, a full head and a half shorter than Aban.

Facing the blow coming down at him, the guard instinctively raised his spear to block—like a man stretching out his hand to stop a brown bear's paw.

The blade came down. The spear shaft didn't break, but the guard's arm buckled, and the war blade sank deep into his shoulder, cleaving through leather armor, flesh, and collarbone in one stroke. Aban kicked straight out, wrenching the blade embedded in the collarbone free with brute force—the edge showed not a single nick.

Aban wore a satisfied smile. This blade in his hand was broadly similar to the Siraya war knife, but it had been forged by Foji craftsmen, using fine steel, with a lengthened blade, an optimized edge profile, and improved balance.

All the wisdom of the Central Plains dynasties' millennia of cold-weapon craftsmanship had been poured into it.

The original Siraya knife—which could cut men, skin game, and clear paths, but excelled at none—had been remade into a dedicated killing instrument. When Siraya mercenaries wielded these improved war blades, backed by their raw strength and the sword techniques taught by the Han drill instructors, fighting the Pattani royal guard was like chopping vegetables.

Aban stepped forward two paces and drove the blade into the fallen guard's chest. Blood gushed out in torrents.

Even when the blade pressed against the guard's ribs, it didn't bind—the draw came out without the slightest resistance.

The more Aban used this blade, the more satisfied he was; the more he thought of the Han, the more he liked them.

Aban casually cut down several more guards, counting aloud as he went: "Two, three, four..."

Though the Pattani guard carried spears, in the rainforest terrain the spears couldn't be brought to bear, and forming ranks was impossible.

Which only gave Aban his chance to close in.

The guards' kris daggers looked fierce, but the blades were far too short, and in steel quality they were a notch below Foji's fine steel as well.

From physique, strength, and equipment to fighting will, the Pattani royal guard was utterly outclassed on every front.

Few Pattani guards still stood around Aban. He swept his gaze across the battlefield and saw the other Siraya warriors had all reaped equally rich harvests. Bodies of Malays lay strewn every which way across the ground in a layer.

Ever since Dongning had been established as a province, with rotating officials stationed and laws enforced, feuds between the Siraya villages had steadily declined—everyone was busy planting sugarcane, learning to live the way the Han did.

This left Aban, who supported the headhunting custom, and other equally fervent Siraya warriors at a loss.

So after deliberation among the three offices of Nan'ao—the military guard, the civil household office, and the judicial office—they decided to recruit Siraya mercenary forces.

Not only did they receive military pay and free equipment upgrades, their headhunting customs were also respected.

The authorities promised to protect the mercenaries' home villages, and those who died in battle received compensation for their families.

All benefits, no downsides—so Aban brought his men to join. He never expected to reap such a rich harvest on his very first battle.

The Han helped them farm, and helped them headhunt too—truly good friends indeed!

The battle had lasted barely the span of a single exchange before the Pattani royal guard began to rout.

The Siraya warriors pulled spears from the corpses and hurled them at the fleeing backs. After a burst of whistling through the air, another dozen or so were pinned dead to the ground. The remaining guards fled deep into the rainforest, with Siraya warriors in pursuit.

The tropical rainforest was considerably different from the subtropical forests of Dongning Island—fighting here, the Siraya warriors had only half a home-field advantage.

But the royal guards had trained and lived in cities; their familiarity with the rainforest was even less than the Siraya's.

On open plains, the Siraya warriors might not have caught these royal guards.

But running through the rainforest—not a single one would escape.

Apart from those who had fled, a dozen or so royal guards remained. They clustered together in a circle, seemingly protecting one among them. There was also a group of half-dead prisoners.

Aban pulled the javelin from the captain of the guard's corpse, fitted it to the spear-thrower the Han had given him, and advanced on the dozen-odd guards.

Without any tactical exchange, the other Siraya warriors fanned out to surround the guards, like hunters closing in on a tiger.

There was no fear in the hunters' eyes—only hunger for the tiger's pelt.

"Enough! Stop! You treacherous swine-dogs have won! I am the Sultana of Pattani—take me to your leader!" the Yellow Queen roared.

But the two sides shared no common language.

The next second, javelins flew like rain.

At such close range, aided by the spear-throwers and the Siraya warriors' brute strength, the javelins carried tremendous kinetic force.

The guards' frail bodies were mercilessly pierced by the iron rain.

Blood splattered down like columns of water, crackling as it struck.

After the javelin volley, not a single one of the dozen-odd guards was left alive.

The Yellow Queen stared in shock at what lay before her. Suddenly she felt a searing pain in her abdomen. She looked down—a javelin had punched through her lower belly and out her lower back, transfixing her clean through. Blood soaked her linen tunic crimson.

Aban walked over cheerfully, drew a knife from his waist, stepped behind the Yellow Queen, knocked her hat off, then grabbed her hair and yanked her head back hard, exposing her pale, tender neck.

The wound in her abdomen pulled at the motion, the agony making her eyes roll white, her vision darkening in waves, on the verge of fainting.

She drew in a sharp breath, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. Her lips trembled as she emitted a faint voice: "I am the Sultana—save me, I am the Sul—" Aban couldn't understand her. His heart held only the hunger for a severed head.

He drove the blade in a savage horizontal cut across the side of her neck. The edge sliced into the gap between the cervical vertebrae, then he drained the blood from the head and dropped it into the mesh bag he carried. "Six." Aban counted to himself.

The other Siraya were doing the same.

The prisoners stared in stunned horror—this scene was far more terrifying than the guards killing with their daggers.

The guard was all dead now, and the air reeked thickly of blood.

Someone who couldn't bear to watch any longer called out: "You bastards! If you're going to kill us, gut us—just make it quick!"

Aban rose at the sound, delighted: "Han?"

The prisoner hesitated, then nodded—never expecting that these blood-drinking, fur-wearing savages could speak proper, accent-perfect Hokkien.

Aban thumped his chest and said with a grin: "We, Siraya people. You, Han. Friends!"

Then he walked forward, blade in hand.

The prisoners didn't react in time, thinking he'd come to take their lives—they all closed their eyes in despair.

But Aban cut their ropes open, then crouched to examine their wounds, and gave a few instructions to those around him.

Soon someone was picking leaves, rolling them into cones, cutting water vines to collect water, and when a leaf was full, bringing it over to rinse the prisoners' wounds. Then Aban took bandages and wound-healing powder from his pocket to stop the bleeding and dress the wounds, saying: "This method saves lives—Han friends taught it." The prisoners gradually relaxed: "Thank you."

After the wounds were treated, the guards' heads had just about all been collected too.

Aban ordered his men to carry or support the captives as they walked out of the rainforest.

That evening, the captives were brought back to the Nan'ao army camp.

When the Patani nobles saw the captives rescued and returned, they already guessed the Sultana's fate, and each fell silent as cicadas in winter.

Zheng Zhilong pointed at the blood-dripping bag at the Siraya warrior's waist and said in a relaxed tone, "Your queen has returned. Want to take it out and have a look?"

"No, no, no, no... there's no need..."

The nobles were startled and hastily waved their hands in refusal.

"And the conditions?"

"Agreed. We agree on behalf of the new Sultan."

Zheng Zhilong deliberately kept the Siraya warrior from leaving, and the sound of blood dripping onto the floor was eerily hollow.

After a long while, Zheng Zhilong said slowly and unhurriedly, "There is still a matter requiring the Imam's help..."

"I'll go speak to him!" a noble hurriedly said. "I will surely deliver the Celestial Court's edict!"

"Merely deliver it?"

"Persuade! I will surely persuade the Imam to obey the Celestial Court's edict!"

Zheng Zhilong rose with a faint, inscrutable smile and walked slowly to stand before that noble.

The noble dared not look at him; his throat bobbed, and cold sweat seeped from his forehead.

"The Company."

"What?" the noble asked in a low voice.

"The Special Agricultural Reclamation Company—not some Celestial Court." Zheng Zhilong whispered in his ear. "Now get out."

"Yes, yes." The nobles, as if pardoned, hastily withdrew from the tent.

The next day, the Nan'ao army stationed soldiers to guard the great mosques throughout the city.

At first the common people were terrified, but soon they discovered that these Tang soldiers stood as stiff as wooden poles, simply standing guard. The Nan'ao army not only left their faith completely untouched but even sent troops to protect it, putting the people at ease.

At the same time, the mosques, the Nan'ao army, and the royal court all posted notices together, strictly prohibiting the resale of supplies and hoarding for profit, placing the entire city under martial law.

The royal court opened its granaries to sell grain at stable prices.

Five days later, new notices were posted: Patani lifted part of the curfew, the original port officials continued in their duties, and tax collection ratios remained unchanged. Meanwhile, the Nan'ao army began distributing silver compensation to disaster-affected residents and issuing grain to households in difficulty.

Of course, the silver and grain all came from the Patani royal granaries and treasury—it was the Nan'ao army that earned the people's gratitude.

After several more days, order in the city gradually stabilized.

Another new notice was posted.

It clearly stated that Patani's Sultana, the Yellow Queen, was dead, and that investigation had revealed the murderer to be nobles instigated by the Sultanate of Aceh.

The earlier detention of Tang sea merchants had also been Aceh's machination, aimed at destroying the relationship between Patani and the Nan'ao army and Johor.

The murderers had now been executed by the Nan'ao army, and their bodies were on public display in the city.

The Nan'ao army expressed deep grief over this and was willing to fund the construction of a mausoleum for the queen.

According to Islamic funeral rites, the dead are buried before sunset, and the queen's body had been interred in the mosque cemetery.

The mausoleum was a commemorative structure, not a true tomb.

Until the mausoleum's construction was complete, the people could visit the Grand Mosque to express their mourning.

The notices were still jointly issued by the mosques, the royal court, and the Nan'ao army.

The three represented faith, sovereignty, and might respectively; standing together, and rather than oppressing the people, they strove to maintain order and faith, briefly suppressing the suffering brought by war.

Now that the notice was posted, the people's anger found an outlet.

So all their suffering had been caused by Aceh's ambitious schemers!

Aceh was a powerful sultanate on the island of Sumatra, facing Johor across the sea on the Malay Peninsula.

Aceh, Johor, Patani, and the other small states on the peninsula were all Malay peoples of the Islamic faith, sharing the same roots. Aceh had therefore always styled itself the guardian of the Malay world, and successive sultans pursued expansionist policies, dreaming of unifying the Malay world and establishing a great unified empire of the South Seas.

And the Yellow Queen's marriage to the Johor prince was clearly an obstacle to Aceh's unification.

Their use of conspiracy to eliminate the queen and overthrow Patani was perfectly logical!

Of course, if one used a bit more brain and analyzed deeper, it wasn't actually all that logical.

But the masses only believe what they want to believe; what they need is a scapegoat, not the truth.

And so Zheng Zhilong set up Aceh as the target, letting the people vent furiously—pouring out their grief, anger, resentment, and hatred. Only thus would the rule of the future puppet Sultan be stable.

And what was even more ingenious was that Patani would also stir up hatred toward Aceh, making it impossible to join the Malay camp.

At the same time, Patani's culture differed from Siam's, so it would also naturally resist becoming a Siamese vassal.

Then, if Patani wished to avoid annihilation, who else could it rely on? Only the Company.

This was why Zheng Zhilong splashed the dirty water on Aceh rather than on Siam.

Even before dispatching troops, the Naval Staff Department had considered every contingency. In the entire plan, capturing Patani was actually the easiest part. The hard part was post-war handling: how to balance relations among all parties, how to secure a favorable international situation.

Of course, for Zheng Zhilong and the Company, the difficulty also lay in how to prop up the puppet, how to sustainably squeeze Patani's value to the last drop, while making that squeezing seem warm and tender.

The mourning activities lasted three days.

During those three days, people wept, cursed, and lamented, exhausting themselves with venting.

Three days later, the royal court issued a notice, elevating a distant cousin of the late Sultana to the throne.

The new Sultan, named Raja Kecil Bahadur, was only eight years old.

He was the child of the late Patani Sultan Bahadur's posthumous descendant—a direct bloodline of the Sultan—born and raised in his mother's homeland, now restored to the throne. Patani's succession of queens had come about because after Bahadur's death, the male heirs had fought among themselves until the bloodline was severed.

Now that the queen was dead, the old Sultan's direct descendant had ascended the great throne—truly of legitimate lineage and mandated by heaven.

Of course, since the young Sultan was a child, the nobles had no choice but to establish a regency council to assist in governing.

No sooner had the young Sultan ascended the throne than he posted notices to reassure his subjects, and in those notices he gave special thanks to the Nan'ao army.

Thanking these Tang men for coming thousands of li to their aid, rescuing Patani from Aceh's conspiracy.

The notice also requested that the Nan'ao military dispatch troops to garrison the area, protecting Pattani from retaliation by the Sultanate of Aceh.

The next day, the Nan'ao military posted its own notice, stating that it did not interfere in the internal affairs of other nations, nor did it wish to participate in regional military disputes.

The Nan'ao military had come with the aim of achieving peace through war, and it would depart with peace as well.

It once again apologized for the suffering that the war had brought to the subjects of Pattani, and stated that it would leave behind the technical personnel of the Water Chenla Special Agricultural Reclamation Company to help Pattani restore agricultural production.

Of course, to protect the harbor and the farmlands, constructing some defensive installations was also necessary.

Pattani's coastal defenses had been destroyed by the Nan'ao military, so helping to rebuild them was only proper.

The Company decided that since they were going to build, they should build something sturdy and durable—something that could withstand naval cannon fire and protect the river mouth and harbor. For instance, a bastion fort. The Naval Staff had long since prepared for building bastion forts; the Candle Dragon had ready-made bastion fort blueprints on board, and the accompanying Fujian junks carried over twenty thousand bags of cement.

Among the fleet's accompanying personnel were craftsmen who had worked with bastion forts, and the one leading them was none other than Ge Hong, who had personally surveyed Spanish bastion forts in the field.

A year ago, when the Nan'ao military had stormed the Spaniards' bastion fort, he had made detailed records and studies of its structure, dimensions, and construction techniques, then brought them back to Nan'ao Island for Lin Qian and the stonemasons' guild to examine.

The Spaniards' bastion fort had been built using stone masonry, just like laying a wall—one layer of stone blocks, one layer of lime mortar.

From quarrying and transporting the giant granite blocks to laying them was a massive undertaking, and waiting for the lime mortar to harden was even more drawn-out.

Take Fort San Felipe as an example: building such a bastion fort, from leveling the ground to completion, took at least two to three years.

But the Nan'ao military had cement, which made building a bastion fort far simpler—it could be poured directly, and the construction time was much shorter than a Spanish bastion fort.

Lin Qian estimated that it could be completed in as little as half a year, or at most a year and a half.

And its strength was in no way inferior—in some respects, it could even crush the Spanish bastion forts.

The Nan'ao stonemasons' guild had conducted experiments showing that cement bastion forts had better resistance to impact than granite masonry bastion forts.

Lin Qian knew that granite itself had a strength of roughly 30–80 MPa, but the lime mortar joints had a strength of only 0.3–0.6 MPa. Nan'ao cement, while not modern cement, could still reach 10–15 MPa, and it had no weak mortar joints.

At the same time, granite was highly brittle; repeated cannonball impacts on a single spot would cause brittle fracture, until the wall completely collapsed.

Nan'ao cement, however, used a precise ancient Roman cement formula, with the self-healing property of calcium silicate hydrate—damage was reversible and could repair itself.

Coconut coir and palm fiber were also added, improving fracture toughness.

Additionally, one somewhat counterintuitive point was that bastion forts did not rely on brick-and-stone structures to harden against cannonballs.

In front of a bastion fort's walls, a gentle earthen slope would be piled up, known technically as a "glacis."

The glacis's greatest function was to eliminate dead angles of attack, absorb the kinetic energy of solid shot, and protect the bastion fort's walls.

The bastion forts that European colonists built in Southeast Asia, because they faced virtually no threats, usually had low walls and no glacis—this was also an important reason the Nan'ao military had been able to capture Fort San Felipe in such a short time.

In short, the Pattani bastion fort had undergone rigorous materials science, engineering, and mathematical calculations—it was not something improvised on a whim. It achieved a perfect balance between cost and defensive capability.

After Ge Hong conducted his on-site survey, he determined the final location for the bastion fort.

It would be on a high point on the north bank of the Pattani River's mouth—a position that could directly control the harbor while also cutting off the inland waterway. The foundation was stable, and the elevation was high enough to be safe from flooding.

The bastion fort adopted a regular pentagonal design: 90 meters in outer diameter, 6-meter walls, 1.5–2.8 meters of wall thickness, with positions designed for 30 cannons and 200 soldiers. Auxiliary works included a moat, glacis, and covered way.

The supply warehouse capacity was enough to hold out for two years, and it was also equipped with eagle-boat communication.

Even if besieged by a large army from both land and sea, it could hold out until reinforcements arrived.

The labor for building the bastion fort was recruited from the city and surrounding villages, with food and lodging provided, wages paid, and days off given.

The bastion fort's primary material was cement, and the next was artillery—both had to be shipped in from Nan'ao.

Of course, from design fees to material costs to labor costs, the Pattani royal house footed the bill.

After all, the bastion fort was built for Pattani's harbor. Granted, the soldiers stationed inside were all Company troops, but you tell me—did it or did it not defend Pattani's harbor? As for how the bill was paid, the Nan'ao regime had ample fiscal surplus; it lacked neither gold nor silver.

But tin ore was a strategic material for casting cannons—no amount was ever too much.

Even if iron cannon technology later developed to the point where bronze was no longer needed, tin was still a raw material for food containers—top-grade material for making canteens, cups, cans, and the like.

And so the deal was struck: all the tin ore currently in Pattani's royal treasury, plus the mining rights to all tin ore within its territory for the next two hundred years, were given to the Company. The Company then transferred them to the Nan'ao government.

Also handed over to the Company were the right to station troops, administrative autonomy, extraterritorial jurisdiction, the right of joint adjudication, agreed tariff rights...

All these words ending in "rights" added up to more than thirty clauses.

The treaty was over twenty pages long, all in tiny regular script, with major headings nested inside subheadings—enough to make one's scalp crawl just looking at it.

In early December, the Nan'ao navy loaded the spoils of war onto the ships.

When the fleet's whale ships and Fujian junks had come, their holds had been stuffed with cement sacks; on the return trip, they were all replaced with gold, silver, and tin ore. Not a single bit of space was wasted—in fact, there was so much tin ore that it squeezed out space for water and provisions, forcing the fleet to resupply first at Xinquan Harbor, then again at Hoi An Harbor, before it could safely return to Nan'ao.

In this war, Nan'ao gained a friendly vassal state.

The Company gained a prosperous colony.

The people of Pattani welcomed a new Sultan and a stable external environment—from now on, they were no longer anyone's vassal, and could stand tall with their backs straight.

Additionally, trade policies and tariff rates remained unchanged.

For merchants of all nations, there was no loss of interests. The Chinese merchants were very satisfied, and the Dutch showed no intention of objecting.

A perfect win-win for all.

Amid the farewells of the people, the Nan'ao military set sail from the harbor as agreed, returning to Nan'ao.

Half a month later, Yamada Nagamasa relayed the news to the Siamese court.

King Songtham's feelings were extremely complicated. Pattani was a small country, yet extremely tenacious—a hard bone to chew. With Siam's national strength, trying to make it a vassal had been a struggle lasting over a century.

And the Nan'ao military had destroyed it just like that?

Using what excuse—"protecting overseas nationals"?

Damn them! How many Ming nationals had Pattani actually killed? Probably not even enough to count on two hands!

And how many Pattani people had the Nan'ao military killed? Counting civilians and soldiers alike, no fewer than a thousand.

Militarily, retaliation over a hundred times over.

Politically, they had directly killed the Sultana, framed Aceh for it, and installed a puppet in her place.

Economically, they had plundered Pattani to the bone, sucking out its very marrow.

Not quite the annihilation of a nation, yet surpassing it!

And what made it worse was that all these utterly brutal methods were concealed under a veneer of warmth and respect, minimizing the people's resistance as much as possible. Having heard Yamada Nagamasa's account, Songtham felt his horizons broadened.

Compared to the systematic, institutionalized, sustainable plundering of the Nan'ao army, Siam's support of pirates was no different from a child throwing a tantrum.

The Great Ming truly was a nation with thousands of years of history—when it did evil, its viciousness was so insidious it sent chills through Song Thong's very bones.

In the past, the various countries of Southeast Asia all thought the Great Ming was a decrepit old empire, where everyone could go and take some advantage.

To use an animal comparison, the Great Ming was like an elephant, and the small countries were like mosquitoes.

The mosquitoes knew the elephant was powerful, but they could fly up and bite it, and at worst be driven off by the elephant flapping its ears.

The Nan'ao army was like a newborn baby elephant, and the mosquitoes tried the same trick on it.

But the baby elephant picked up a flyswatter and started swinging—the mosquitoes were chased away, yet it kept pursuing them, its viciousness as if it intended to exterminate the mosquitoes' entire nine generations. A chill ran down Song Thong's back—it was cold sweat seeping out. Fortunately, it was Pattani that had provoked the Nan'ao army. If Siam had done it itself, even if it weren't wiped out as a nation, wouldn't it have shed at least a layer of skin?

Thinking of this, Song Thong shuddered with sudden alarm and hurriedly asked, "That... no, where is that envoy?"

Yamada Nagamasa confirmed: "Ning Zhi?"

"Yes, where is he?" Song Thong nodded hurriedly.

"Still locked up in prison."

"How can you treat an envoy like this?" Song Thong said in shock. "Release him at once!"

Yamada Nagamasa acknowledged and was about to go pass the order.

"No!" Song Thong called him back again. "You can't just release him like that. Prepare a banquet—apologize! Treat him well for a few days, then let him go!"

"Yes, your subordinate will go prepare at once." Yamada Nagamasa was unwilling at heart, but could only obey orders.

For over half a month, Ning Zhi had been in prison without suffering much abuse.

But he was unaccustomed to the climate, and with the poor conditions of the cell, he had lost considerable weight and his spirits were low.

Just as he was calculating when he might die, he suddenly heard people entering through the prison gate, laughing.

The visitors performed awkward fist-and-palm salutes, pretended to be extremely shocked at the terrible prison conditions, scolded the jailers, and then invited Ning Zhi to come out.

Ning Zhi maintained his envoy's dignity, retorted stubbornly a few times, and refused to leave the cell.

Unexpectedly, the Siamese officials grew even more polite, endlessly uttering apologies and bowing as they explained themselves without pause.

As the saying goes, one doesn't strike a smiling face—so Ning Zhi took the opportunity to climb down and left the cell.

In the following days, the Siamese held a small banquet every day and a grand banquet every three days, serving all manner of delicacies without repetition, and each night sent beautiful women to take turns warming his bed. They kept this up until Ning Zhi had been nursed back to the appearance he'd had upon arrival, and only then did they send a ship to release him on his way.

Only after leaving Ayutthaya, the Siamese capital, did Ning Zhi learn what had happened in the southern seas.

Facing the Nan'ao eagle ship that had come to receive him, Ning Zhi's heart was filled with a thousand emotions. He wanted to say something proper, but when he opened his mouth, he choked up several times. After a long while, he forced out: "Set sail—let's go home!"

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen