Chapter 174: Lu You

In Shanyin, by the shore of Jinghu, the deep winter rain had just stopped. Lu You had not closed his eyes for three days.

Three days prior, a swift horse from Lin'an brought news of the edict for the Northern Expedition. The messenger was an old acquaintance from his time at the Imperial Academy in Lin'an, now an inconspicuous minor clerk in the Bureau of Military Affairs. The letter contained only a few words—Grand Preceptor Han overruled all opposition, Your Majesty has issued the edict, three armies will advance north on a set date to recover the Central Plains, and it is happening this very day.

Lu You held that letter, his withered, thin fingers trembling so violently he could barely grip the paper. He stood in the courtyard, soaked by the winter rain. An old servant of over eighty years ran out holding an umbrella, but Lu You shoved him away. He flipped the letter over and over, reading it seven times, each time as if confirming this was not a dream. Then he raised his head toward the gloomy sky and let out a hoarse roar that sounded almost inhuman. The sound was too muddled for the old servant to hear what he was shouting. But anyone familiar with Lu You's poetry could surely guess the content of that roar.

—On the day the Wang Shi secures the Central Plains in the north.

This day, he had waited for his entire life.

Lu You was born in the seventh year of Xuanhe, the year before the Jingkang Incident. The Jin troops marching south, the two emperors taken north, and the Song Shi crossing south—these earth-shattering events occurred when he was too young to walk. He lived his entire life for a single goal—the Northern Expedition, recovering the Central Plains, and washing away the national shame. In his youth, he served in the army at the front in Nanzheng, donning armor and wielding sharp weapons, entering and exiting the Great Pass of Daxi. That was the most exhilarating time of his life, and also the most painful, because that Northern Expedition ultimately came to nothing. Afterwards, he was demoted, sidelined, and neglected, drinking alone in countless rainy nights, writing poem after poem with no audience. His poems grew more numerous, his hair grew thinner, yet the Shanhe of the north grew farther away. By his eighties, he thought he would never see the Northern Expedition in his lifetime. He had even written that poem "To My Son" last year—"I know that when I die, all things are void, but I grieve only that I do not see the nine provinces united. On the day the Wang Shi secures the Central Plains in the north, do not forget to tell your father at the family sacrifice." That poem was not written for his son; it was his own suicide note. He had prepared himself to enter the earth with regret.

And now, this letter from Lin'an told him—you cannot die yet. You must see with your own eyes the Wang Shi cross the Huaihe, see the common people of the Central Plains offering food and wine, and see the banners of Great Song planted once again atop the walls of Kaifeng.

Lu You pressed the letter to his chest, tears streaming down his face. The old cotton robe he had worn for three years was soaked through by both rain and tears, yet he felt nothing.

That night, the light in Lu You's study burned bright.

He brought out the Xuan paper he had treasured for years—Shu paper sent by an old comrade from the Nanzheng army, with faint water patterns of the Shu region still visible on its surface. His hands trembled constantly as he ground the ink, splashing the ink several times. He lifted his brush, the tip hovering over the paper for a long time. Eighty years of life, decades of waiting, countless sleepless nights, countless poems about the Northern Expedition—at this very moment, he did not know what to write.

Suddenly, a horn sounded outside the window. It was not a military horn, but a fishing boat returning at night on Jinghu blowing a work song. Yet when that horn sounded in the night, Lu You shuddered all over. He closed his eyes and returned fifty years into the past. That year he was thirty-eight, at the front in Nanzheng, with heavy snow covering his bow and sword. He and his comrades rode out of the Great Pass of Daxi, pursuing the Jin troops. Horse hooves shattered the frozen river, and the north wind cut across his face like a knife. That was the most spirited moment of his life, and also the time he was closest to the Central Plains.

He opened his eyes, and the brush fell.

"In my early years, how could I know the hardships of the world? Gazing north toward the Central Plains, my spirit rose like a mountain. At night, snow fell on the warships crossing Guazhou Ferry; in autumn, iron-clad horses charged at the Great Pass of Daxi."

He paused here, raised his head, and gazed at the night outside. The waters of Jinghu shimmered with cold light under the moonlight. Distant mountain shadows loomed heavily. To the north lay the Yangtze River, further north the Huaihe, and beyond that, the Central Plains. He remembered those comrades who had lived and died with him in Nanzheng, remembered the soldiers who fell on the road of the Northern Expedition, and remembered the belief he had followed all his life, a belief that had also betrayed him all his life. He lowered his head again, and the brush tip fell once more.

"On the frontier, I vainly promised myself to be a great wall; in the mirror, my aging temples have already turned gray. The 'Memorial on Deploying the Army' truly made a name for the world; who, after a thousand years, can be compared to him?"

After finishing the poem "Writing of Indignation," he set down his brush, looked at the ink on the paper, and trembled all over. He had written poems for decades, from age twenty to eighty, composing thousands of them. This one was not the best, but it was the most true. He picked up the poem and read it once, then again, and suddenly laughed. Laughing, he cried; crying, he picked up the brush again.

That night, he wrote four poems in a row. "Writing of Indignation" was a recollection of the past; "Hearing the Official Army Recovers Henan and Hebei" was a vision of victory; "Sending Xin Youan, the Palace Compiler, to Court" was a message sent to an old friend from afar; and there was one untitled seven-character quatrain, only four lines. He wrote it and pressed it under the inkstone, letting no one see it. Those four lines were—"I know that when I die, all things are void, but I grieve only that I do not see the nine provinces united. On the day the Wang Shi secures the Central Plains in the north, do not forget to tell your father at the family sacrifice."

This was the "To My Son" he had written last year. He copied it again, changing "do not forget to tell your father at the family sacrifice" to "today I personally witness the nine provinces united." Only that one line was changed, but that one line, he had waited eighty years for.

After dawn, the villagers of Shanyin discovered something strange. A flag hung at Lu You's doorway. The flag was very old, made of ordinary hemp cloth, its edges worn to fuzz, its color faded beyond recognition, yet the red base was still faintly visible. It was a military banner used fifty years ago in the Nanzheng army. Lu You had always kept it pressed at the bottom of a chest, taking it out only to air it on the anniversary of the expedition. Today, he hung this flag at the main gate.

The flag crackled in the cold wind. Passersby, woodcutters and fishermen, stopped in their tracks, wondering what had happened. Then they saw Lu You emerge from the door, wearing an old official robe that was washed white but neatly ironed, a plum blossom picked from somewhere adorning his head, and a bowl of wine in his hand. Standing beneath the flagpole, he raised the wine bowl high, faced north, and shouted hoarsely.

"Soldiers—this old man, Lu You, cannot join you on the battlefield to kill enemies, but here I send my distant prayers—victory at the first battle! Recover the Central Plains! Wash away the national shame!"

His voice did not carry far in the cold wind, but the nearby villagers who heard it put down their work. Some shouted along, some clapped their hands, and some ran home to fetch wine reserved for the New Year. News spread faster than the wind—within half a day, the entire Shanyin knew one thing: Lu Fangweng had gone mad. An old man in his eighties, hearing news of the Northern Expedition, so excited he did not sleep all night, hanging flags, shouting, and writing poems, with more energy than a young man. Some laughed at his obsession, some respected his obsession, and some said he had lived his whole life on a single hope, and now that hope finally had substance, so going mad was only to be expected.

Lu You did not care what others said. He raised his wine cup, drained the rest in one gulp, turned, and returned to his study. He would write more poems. He would make everyone in the world know that the Northern Expedition was Great Song's most correct act. He would make those still hesitating, those still watching, and those still calculating gains and losses feel this passion waited for eighty years. He spread out paper, his brush moving like a dragon and snake, poem after poem. At the end of these poems, he always signed with a name, alternating between two words—"Fangweng" and "Old Soldier of Shanyin." When using "Fangweng," he was the poet, the towering figure of the literary world, the banner of the pro-war faction. When using "Old Soldier of Shanyin," he was the warrior, the soldier who once donned armor and wielded sharp weapons at the Nanzheng front, the soldier who waited his whole life for the court's order to charge across the Huaihe.

By the seventh day, Lu You organized the manuscripts he had written during this period, selected over twenty he considered the best, and prepared to make copies to send out. One copy for Xin Qiji, one for Zhao Chun, and the rest scattered so friends could copy them and storytellers in teahouses could use them as material. He wanted these poems to reach the ears of the soldiers at the front, to appear before the eyes of the high officials in the Lin'an court, and to enter the hearts of every Great Song subject still doubting whether this Northern Expedition was worth it.