Chapter 184: Victory Reports Coming in Succession

Lin'an, May.

A string of victory reports struck the head of Lin'an City like thunder in late spring, one after another. First Sizhou, then Hongxian, then the half-month blood battle at Lingbi, and finally Tangzhou. Every time a victory report entered the city, a courier on a fast horse foaming at the mouth would burst through Lizheng Gate, galloping and screaming all the way. The common people of Lin'an invented a new custom—gathering in teahouses every afternoon to "wait for victory reports," more punctual than waiting for a storyteller to begin. As soon as the sound of hooves came from the direction of the city gate, everyone on the street would put down their work, stretching their necks to look outside.

On the ninth day of the fifth month, the Lingbi victory report reached the capital. On the same day, Han Tuozhou was promoted to Grand Preceptor, Pingzhang of Military and State Affairs, and Commander of All Military Forces Inside and Outside the Capital. Each of these three titles was heavy enough to crush a person to death—the Grand Preceptor was the head of the Three Excellencies, Pingzhang of Military and State Affairs was the premier among prime ministers, and Commander of All Military Forces Inside and Outside the Capital meant that all armies in the country, from the Imperial Guard to the Auxiliary Army to the front-line units, were all under his sole command. Since the founding of the Great Song, no one had ever simultaneously held all three titles. Han Tuozhou was the first. It was not that the Great Song had never produced powerful ministers, but that no powerful minister had ever been able to use the merit of the Northern Expedition to endorse his own power.

On the morning of the investiture, Lin'an City was emptied of its people. A colorful pavilion thirty feet high was erected in front of Xuan De Gate, the main gate of the Imperial City, where hundreds of officials lined up to congratulate Han Tuozhou in turn. After returning from the sacrificial rites at the Imperial Ancestral Temple, Han Tuozhou rode a pure black Western famous horse through the Imperial Street, with red silk tied to the horse's head, and the horse's hooves made a crisp sound on the bluestone pavement. He was not wearing court robes, but a set of military attire; his armor was polished to a shine, and the jade-hilted sword bestowed by the late emperor hung at his waist. This was not arranged by the Ministry of Rites—he had changed it himself. He wanted the entire court and the people of Lin'an to see clearly that he, Han Tuozhou, had not ascended to the position of Pingzhang of Military and State Affairs by virtue of being an imperial in-law, but by solid military merit.

The streets on both sides of the Imperial Street were packed with onlookers. Someone in the crowd shouted "Long live Grand Preceptor Han" at the top of his voice, tears welling in his eyes. Han Tuozhou did not respond, nor did he stop them; he simply sat on his horse and nodded slightly, his posture steady and reserved. He had once said a sentence that was later repeatedly quoted in the official gazettes: "Everyone, this is the first city. There are many more behind it. The Central Plains welcome us back."

The storytellers in the teahouses had already turned the four battles of Sizhou, Hongxian, Lingbi, and Tangzhou into a complete storytelling performance. Someone specifically gave this set of stories a name: "The Four Battles of the Kaixi Restoration." The first battle was "General Guo Crosses the Huaihe River on a Snowy Night," telling how Guo Zhuo took advantage of the fog to ambush Sizhou, where the Jin soldiers were terrified by the news, and when the Song army crossed the river, even Heaven itself helped by sending a thick fog that blinded the Jin soldiers. The second battle was "General Tian Breaks Hongxian with Fire," telling how Tian Junmai used catapults to smash down the city walls, killing the Jin general Wanyan Sala on the city wall, whose body was buried beneath the very wall he had defended. The third battle was "Marshal Guo's Bloody Battle at Lingbi Terrace," telling how Guo Ni personally supervised the battle, engaging in a hard clash for half a month with the Jin's most formidable fighter, He Shi Lie Heshilie Zhizhong, at Lingbi, until finally the Song soldiers fought bravely and seized the city in one stroke. The fourth battle was "Lord Xue Takes Tangzhou with a Single Piece of Paper," telling how Xue Shusi wrote only one letter, and the Jin general in Tangzhou was so frightened that he abandoned the city and fled overnight. When the storytellers reached this part, they would often slap the wooden block, draw out their tone, and recite the line that Xue Shusi himself had never said: "I, Xue, do not delight in killing, but if you do not surrender, on the day the city falls, not even a chicken or a dog will be left alive." Every time, the audience below would erupt in cheers. In fact, the original text of Xue Shusi's letter was far less bloodthirsty, but the storytellers did not care, nor did the common people. What they wanted to hear was a story of the Great Song's majestic power and the Jin people fleeing in terror at the mere sound of its approach.

The official gazettes also changed their style. Previously, the gazettes were dry official documents, listing "on such-and-such date, such-and-such general captured such-and-such city at such-and-such place," a mere running account. After the great victory at Sizhou, the gazettes suddenly gained literary flair; when describing the scene of Sizhou citizens welcoming the Song army, they used the eight characters "carrying food in baskets and wine in jars to welcome the Wang Shi." When describing Guo Zhuo crossing the river, they used the eight characters "crossing at night with silent mouths, the Jin people unaware." When describing the assault on Lingbi, they used a long parallel passage: "The soldiers fought bravely, falling forward and following behind, battling in blood for half a month, finally capturing the strong city." Every issue of the gazette was snatched up immediately; the copyists were so busy they had no time to eat, and the copied gazettes were bought up before the ink was even dry.

But among all people, the most excited one was not in Lin'an. He was in Shanyin.

When the victory report reached Shanyin, Lu You was watering his plum tree in the courtyard. That plum tree had been brought back from Nanzheng by him when he was fifty years old, planted in the courtyard by Jing Lake; for decades, it had bloomed every winter and sprouted new branches every spring. The hand holding the water ladle suddenly stopped. The messenger standing at the door loudly recited the original text of the military report: "Lingbi has been captured; the Jin general He Shi Lie Heshilie Zhizhong escaped with his life alone; three thousand heads were cut off; the gateway of Suzhou is wide open. Tangzhou has also been recovered; Lord Xue took it with a single piece of paper; the citizens in the city carried food in baskets and wine in jars to welcome the Wang Shi." Lu You's water ladle fell to the ground, splashing water everywhere. His wife was startled, thinking he had fallen ill, and hurried out of the room. She saw this eighty-something-old man standing under the plum tree, trembling all over, his lips quivering for a long time, before suddenly throwing his head back and laughing loudly.

"Good! Good! Good!" Lu You shouted "good" three times in a row, then turned and walked straight to the study, his steps so large they did not seem to belong to an eighty-something-old man. His son chased after him, shouting "Father, slow down," but he paid no attention.

Lu You pushed the study door open with one hand; on the desk lay the unfinished poem manuscript from yesterday, the ink already dry. He pushed the old manuscript aside, spread out a fresh piece of Shu paper, and picked up his brush. Outside the window, Jing Lake reflected the May sunlight, shimmering; in the distance, someone was singing a lotus-picking song, the soft Wu dialect melody drifting over lazily. Lu You's brush fell heavily, the ink spreading across the paper. As soon as the first line was written, his eyes turned red—not from sadness, but because an old man who had waited eighty years could finally write the words he most wanted to say into a poem.

"When the Wang Shi returns north to settle the Central Plains, in the family sacrifice do not forget to tell your old father."

These were the two lines he wrote. They were the closing two lines from last year's poem "To My Son." When he wrote that poem last year, it was to entrust his final affairs to his son, having made preparations to enter the earth with regrets. Today, he extracted these two lines and wrote them again, but the meaning was completely different—last year it was a last will, this year it was a prophecy. He added a note on the manuscript: "Second year of Kaixi, fifth month. Hearing that the Wang Shi has successively captured Sizhou, Hongxian, Lingbi, and Tangzhou, and Suzhou can be taken any day. Grand Preceptor Han has been promoted to Pingzhang of Military and State Affairs, Commander of All Military Forces Inside and Outside the Capital. The great cause of the Northern Expedition is on the verge of success. Though this old man cannot personally wield weapons to follow, my heart is already among the ranks. Composing these two lines to record my joy. Fangweng of Shanyin, age eighty-two."

After finishing this poem, he was still not satisfied. He spread out another piece of paper and, with his brush moving like a dragon and snake, wrote another poem:

"First hearing the Wang Shi break Sizhou, old tears flow freely, soaking my clothes. For eighty years I vainly gazed north; only today do I feel the majesty of the mountains and rivers."

Writing here, he suddenly paused, feeling that the three characters "majesty of the mountains and rivers" were too elegant, not satisfying enough. He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket, then rewrote. This time he wrote a seven-character regulated verse, adapted from "In my early years, how could I know the hardships of worldly affairs." In the poem, he compared Han Tuozhou to the Duke of Zhou, Guo Zhuo to Li Su, and the various generals of the Northern Expedition to the Twenty-Eight Generals of the Cloud Terrace. Some of these metaphors, in ordinary times, would be called sycophantic, but Lu You did not care. In his lifetime, he had written tens of thousands of poems, each one a call for the Northern Expedition, each one a longing for the recovery of the Central Plains. Now the Northern Expedition had truly begun, winning battle after battle; Han Tuozhou had accomplished what he had hoped for all his life but never saw. He wrote a praising poem for Han Tuozhou, willingly.

He carefully transcribed this seven-character regulated verse onto the finest paper, and at the end of the poem, neatly signed the two characters "Fangweng." Then he called his youngest son and told him to ride a fast horse to Lin'an to personally deliver this poem to the residence of Grand Preceptor Han. "Tell Grand Preceptor Han," he thought for a moment, then added another sentence, "Lu You of Shanyin, if I can see the army of the Northern Expedition cross the Huaihe River and march north in my lifetime, I will die without regrets. If the Grand Preceptor needs the services of this old man, though I cannot hold a blade and mount a horse, I can still use my brush and ink to bolster the Grand Preceptor's morale."

The youngest son rode away on his horse. Lu You stood at the door, watching the dust gradually disperse on the official road. The wind from Jing Lake blew over; the May wind was warm and soft, carrying the scent of gardenias. He slowly walked back to the study, sat down at the desk again, and began grinding ink. He had already written six poems, but it was not enough. He wanted to write one poem for every victory, one poem for every general who earned merit. After the Eastern Route was finished, there was the Central Route; after the Central Route was finished, there was the Western Route; after Suzhou was finished, there was Xuzhou; after Xuzhou was finished, there was Kaifeng. There were still many, many poems he needed to write, enough for him to write until he was one hundred years old. He had waited for this day, waited for a whole lifetime.