Chapter 184: Frequent Good News

Lin’an, May.

A string of good news, like thunder in late spring, struck one after another upon Lin’an’s head: first Sizhoucheng, then Hongxian, then the bloody, two-week battle of Lingbi, finally Tangzhou. With every victory report entering the city, a courier on a foaming horse would burst through Lizheng Gate, galloping and bellowing all the way. The people of Lin’an invented a new custom—every afternoon they gathered at teahouses to “wait for the good news,” more punctually than waiting for a storyteller to begin. As soon as hoofbeats rang from the direction of the city gate, everyone on the street would drop their work and crane their necks outward.

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, Chancellor of Military and State Affairs, and Commander-in-Chief of All Military Forces. Each of these three titles was heavy enough to crush a man—Grand Preceptor was the foremost of the Three Excellencies, Chancellor of Military and State Affairs was the prime minister among prime ministers, and Commander-in-Chief of All Military Forces meant absolute command over every army in the realm, from the Imperial Guards to the Garrison Troops to frontline units. Since the founding of the Great Song, no one had ever held all three titles simultaneously. Han Tuozhou was the first. It was not that the Song had never produced powerful ministers—it was that no powerful minister had ever legitimized his power with the merit of northern expedition.

On the day of the appointment, Lin’an emptied its streets. A three-zhang-high decorated pavilion was erected before Xuande Gate of the imperial palace; officials lined up in order to congratulate Han Tuozhou. After returning from a sacrifice at the Imperial Ancestral Temple, Han Tuozhou rode a pure black steed from the Western Regions through the Imperial Avenue, a red silk ribbon tied to its head, hooves clacking crisply on blue stone slabs. He wore not court robes but full military armor, polished to a shine, with the jade-hilted sword bestowed by the late emperor hanging at his waist. This was not arranged by the Ministry of Rites—it was his own choice. He wanted every civil and military official and every citizen of Lin’an to see clearly: Han Tuozhou did not become Chancellor of Military and State Affairs through his status as an imperial relative—he earned it with real battlefield victories.

Crowds packed both sides of the Imperial Avenue. Someone in the crowd shouted at the top of his lungs, “Long live Grand Preceptor Han!”—tears streaming down his face. Han Tuozhou gave no response, offered no rebuke; he merely nodded slightly, seated upright on his horse, composed and dignified. He had once said a phrase, later endlessly quoted in the official bulletins: “Gentlemen, this is the first city. Many more lie ahead. Central Plains, welcome us home.”

The teahouse storytellers had woven the four battles of Sizhoucheng, Hongxian, Lingbi, and Tangzhou into a complete narrative. Someone even gave this tale a name: “The Four Victories of Kaixi Revival.” The first was “General Guo’s Night Crossing of the Huai River”—how Guo Zhuo ambushed Sizhoucheng in the fog; the Jin soldiers fled in terror, and heaven itself aided the Song army by blanketing the river in thick mist, blinding the enemy. The second was “General Tian’s Fire Attack on Hongxian”—how Tian Junmai used trebuchets to collapse the walls; the Jin general Wanyan Salar died on the ramparts, buried beneath the very wall he had defended. The third was “Marshal Guo’s Bloody Battle at Lingbi Platform”—how Guo Ni personally oversaw the fight, clashing head-on for half a month with the fiercest Jin commander, Shi Liezhi, until Song soldiers surged forward and shattered the city. The fourth was “Marshal Xue’s Single Letter Subdues Tangzhou”—how Xue Shusi wrote but one letter, and the Jin commander of Tangzhou fled in terror that very night. When the storyteller reached this part, he would bang his wooden clapper and drawl out a line Xue Shusi had never spoken: “I, Xue, dislike killing—but if you refuse to surrender, when the city falls, not a chicken or dog shall survive.” Each time, the audience erupted in cheers. In truth, Xue Shusi’s letter was far less menacing—but the storyteller didn’t care, and the people didn’t care. They wanted to hear the tale of the Song’s mighty might and the Jin’s terror-stricken flight.

The official bulletins changed their tone. Previously dry bureaucratic records—“On such-and-such a day, such-and-such a general captured such-and-such a city”—now brimmed with literary flair. After the Sizhoucheng victory, they described the people welcoming the Song army with “baskets of food and jars of wine, to greet the royal troops.” They depicted Guo Zhuo’s river crossing as “silent night passage, the Jin unaware.” They portrayed the assault on Lingbi with a long, rhythmic passage: “Soldiers fought bravely, one falling, another charging forward; after half a month of bloody battle, the impregnable city fell.” Each issue sold out instantly; copyists worked so frantically they had no time to eat; bulletins were bought the moment they were written, ink still wet.

But the most excited person 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 when he was fifty, planted beside Jinghu Lake, blooming every winter, sprouting new shoots every spring. His hand holding the water gourd suddenly froze. The messenger stood at the gate, loudly reciting the military dispatch: “Lingbi has been taken; Jin general Shi Liezhi escaped with his life; three thousand heads cut; the gateway to Suzhou lies wide open. Tangzhou has also been recovered; Marshal Xue subdued it with a single letter; the townspeople greeted the royal troops with baskets of food and jars of wine.” Lu You’s gourd slipped from his hand, water spilling across the ground. His wife, startled, thought he had suffered a stroke and rushed out from the house. She saw this eighty-year-old man standing beneath the plum tree, trembling, lips quivering—then suddenly throwing his head back and laughing aloud.

“Good! Good! Good!” Lu You cried three times, then turned and strode toward his study, his steps too swift for an octogenarian. His son chased after him, shouting, “Father, slow down!”—but Lu You paid him no mind.

Lu You flung open the study door. His unfinished poem from yesterday still lay open on the desk, ink dried. He shoved the old manuscript aside, spread a fresh sheet of Shu paper, lifted his brush. Outside, Jinghu Lake shimmered under May’s sunlight; distant voices sang the lotus-picking song, its soft Wu dialect drifting gently through the air. Lu You’s brush came down hard; ink bloomed across the paper. The first line written, his eyes grew red—not from sorrow, but because an old man who had waited eighty years could finally write the words he had longed to say.

“When the royal troops reclaim the Central Plains, remember to tell your father at the ancestral sacrifice.”

He wrote only these two lines—the very closing lines of last year’s poem “To My Son.” Back then, he had written them as a dying man’s farewell, prepared to depart with regret. Today, he copied them again—but the meaning had changed: last year, an epitaph; this year, a prophecy. He added a note beneath: “In the second year of Kaixi, May, I heard the royal troops have retaken Sizhou, Hongxian, Lingbi, and Tangzhou; Suzhou will fall any day. Grand Preceptor Han has been promoted to Chancellor of Military and State Affairs and Commander-in-Chief of All Military Forces. The northern expedition’s success is at hand. Though this old man cannot wield spear or sword, my heart is already among the ranks. I write these two lines to record my joy. Shanyin’s Old Man, aged eighty-two.”

After finishing this, he was not done. He spread another sheet of paper and wrote another poem in swift, flying strokes—

“First I heard the royal troops broke Sizhoucheng; old tears soaked my robes. Eighty years I gazed northward—today, at last, I feel the mountains and rivers are mighty.”

Here he paused, dissatisfied. “Mighty mountains and rivers” was too refined—not bold enough. He crumpled the paper and threw it into the basket, started again. This time he wrote a seven-line regulated verse, inspired by “In youth I knew not the world’s hardships.” In it, he compared Han Tuozhou to the Duke of Zhou, Guo Zhuo to Li Su, and the northern expedition generals to the Twenty-Eight Generals of Yuntai. Some metaphors, in ordinary times, would have been called flattery—but Lu You did not care. He had written tens of thousands of poems in his life, each a cry for northern recovery, each a longing for the Central Plains. Now, at last, the northern expedition had begun, victories piling one upon another; Han Tuozhou had achieved what Lu You had waited a lifetime to see. He wrote praise for Han Tuozhou, willingly, gladly.

He carefully transcribed this seven-line verse onto the finest paper, signing his name neatly at the end: “Old Man.” Then he called his youngest son and ordered him to ride fast to Lin’an, to deliver the poem personally to Grand Preceptor Han’s residence. “Tell Grand Preceptor Han,” he thought, then added, “Lu You of Shanyin has lived long enough to see the royal troops cross the Huai and march north. I die without regret. If Grand Preceptor needs anything from this old man, though I cannot mount a horse or raise a sword, I can still use ink and brush to honor his cause.”

His son rode off. Lu You stood at the gate, watching dust fade along the road. The wind from Jinghu blew in—May’s breeze warm and soft, carrying the scent of gardenia. Slowly he returned to his study, sat again before the desk, began grinding ink. He had written six poems already—but it was not enough. He would write one poem for every victory, one for every general who earned glory. The eastern front was done, but the central front remained; the central front would end, then came the western front; Suzhou would fall, then Xuzhou; Xuzhou would fall, then Kaifeng. He had many poems left to write—enough to write until he was a hundred. He had waited for this day—his entire life.