Chapter 262: Old Master Basang

Deep in the night, thunder and rain rolled through in waves.

Lightning turned the night sky bright as day, striking the roof ridge of the Nangso Chenmo Palace; the brass stupa took the blow in its place, enduring heaven's punishment.

In the camp at the mountain's foot, a Mongol herder-soldier jolted awake inside his felt tent. He rose, blade in hand, and glanced out at the dense curtain of rain — spotting the Han sentry still standing beneath the distant eaves, the tension in his chest eased slightly.

The herder-soldier shrank his neck back, silently recited a Buddha's name in his heart, and returned to his warm bedroll, wrapping the wool blanket tight around himself.

Not far away, beside the Zhaqu River, a two-story estate that once belonged to monks now served as the slaves' quarters.

Chen Qindai stood on the second floor, looking down past the ladder.

He did not know what power that ladder held. Ever since these slaves had been brought back by Mongol squads ranging in every direction, no one had ever given them a single order — yet they kept themselves in perfect order.

Not a single one dared step beyond that line and climb the ladder.

They would rather cram themselves into the narrow corner beneath the ladder and sleep squatting.

The scene could not help but remind Chen Qindai of the Tumochuan of his childhood.

When his young Eji herded the sheep into the pen, the lambs had been just the same.

Even with wide-open space inside the pen, they would still bunch their rumps together, squeezing into one corner until they became a single mass of woolly fluff.

Back then, the Han uncles and the Tatar uncles had not yet gone to war with each other — everything was still good.

Watching the Xifan slaves swarming below the staircase, Chen Qindai could not help a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth... There was no malice in that smile; he was simply seeing his former self.

In the past, he had been just like these slaves. He had not sought out a ladder — he had sought out a tent.

But different paths led to the same end. He had never once thought he was suffering; he had only felt that being a lowly soldier meant you took what you were given.

And besides, even if you were suffering, what could you do about it — go get yourself killed?

Only after surrendering from Meng Ruhu's troops to Liu Chengzong's Lion Camp, after marching out of the countless ravines of northern Shaanxi into the Shanxi basin, after seeing the great Buddha seated against the cliff face and crossing the Liupan Mountains that pierced the clouds, and finally charging toward the highest peak under heaven —

He could see that people everywhere under heaven were suffering.

At a time like this, when Liu Chengzong spoke of progress, Chen Qindai understood what progress meant.

But how to tell these people, how to make these people know... Chen Qindai believed that required a method.

At this thought, Chen Qindai, leaning on the wooden railing, shook his head in helplessness, somewhat regretting that before the age of ten he had always been too fond of play and had never studied properly with the Han uncles of Tumochuan.

His Eji, who followed the Yellow Hat sect, had always said those Han uncles believed in heterodox ways. Only when he grew up and entered Yulin did he learn what "Han of Tumochuan" really meant: White Lotus followers.

If Chen Qindai had studied properly back then, he could go down now and tell the slaves the story of the future Buddha Maitreya's descent — tell them that after fifty-six billion years, Grand Marshal Liu is the Maitreya who will create a new world for you.

Regrettably, he had not, so he still needed to observe more, to find his own breakthrough among these slaves.

He had already identified two slaves who stood apart from the rest — to be precise, two mutes.

One was the mute Depön Awang, captured on the city wall. Chen Qindai knew him; while helping the wounded set bones after the battle, Awang had assisted him, using surgery to extract shattered bone splinters from a wounded soldier.

After the battle, to keep him separate from the other captured Béri soldiers, he had been placed in this estate.

Chen Qindai paid very close attention to him. Men who had soldiered long enough all knew a bit about treating external wounds — just like their Grand Marshal, who was also a master of the suture needle.

But Awang's skill was not like the Grand Marshal's craft, learned from a corpse-stitcher; one look told you he was a trained physician.

The other mute's situation was somewhat more complicated. He had brought along a young woman, finely dressed and strikingly pretty.

When Xie Erhu brought him in, the herder-soldiers guarding him said this fellow had stolen a noble young master's concubine. To keep that concubine, even with his hands bound on the road, he had bitten open another slave's throat.

Fierce as they come.

Yet Chen Qindai could see no ferocity in this slave. He always wore an expression of meek submission, cowering and shrinking back.

If not for that woman called Meiduo, Chen Qindai would have found it very hard to notice that slave called Basang — but once he did notice, it became very hard to look away.

Not because he was special, but because he was cowardly.

A group quickly formed an internal hierarchy. Among the hundred-odd slaves in the estate, twelve had come from the same place. They seized the space beneath the ladder and drove Basang out.

They even struck him twice in the face.

Basang did not fight back. He showed not the slightest anger, still meekly squatting outside with his hands tucked into his coat, leaning against the wall to sleep.

Chen Qindai thought to himself: what a fool — scared just because the others outnumbered him. As a little Tatar who had grown up on the streets of Yulin, he understood the principle of the few against the many all too well.

If you are afraid, you will definitely get beaten — you can dodge the first of the month but not the fifteenth.

Fighting back, of course, also gets you beaten, and possibly beaten even worse. But as long as you grab hold of one and hit back hard enough, the next time anyone else wants to bully you, they will have to weigh it carefully — who wants to be the one you grab?

The same principle was why Chen Qindai had dared to openly kill the widely-followed Flying Mountain Tiger in Fuzhou.

No slave squatted outside; they looked down on the slave who squatted outside.

Outside, there was only Awang — and Awang looked down on the slaves squatting beneath the ladder.

Depön Awang opened his empty mouth and yawned. Everything in this estate bored him to death.

This was not his first time among slaves — only this time... He glanced at the Han soldiers guarding the estate and let out a silent sigh in his heart.

It was not very likely that he could escape.

The war was still going on. He might have to stay here for four or five months.

Depön Awang wanted to learn Han writing, to study under the Han army's physician, to verify what he himself had learned.

But that was even harder than escaping. The Han squad leader on the second floor had spoken to him while setting bones, but he could not understand, and even if he understood, he could not answer.

What a precious thing a tongue was — how desperately he wanted to speak!

At last, a slave whelp squatted down beside him.

Depön Awang had watched Basang's whole ordeal clearly, and he was furious inside.

Those bastards — bullying a mute!

He nudged Basang with his elbow, drew his hand out from his coat, and extended it over.

Basang looked down. In Depön Awang's hand lay a surgical knife with a grip no thicker than a little finger — a five-inch straight slender iron handle inlaid with silver, fitted with a two-inch straight-edged blade. It gleamed in the torchlight, wickedly sharp.

Basang did not take it. He shook his head, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

A moment later, Awang nudged him again, his single eye burning with the fury of one grieved that iron cannot become steel. He thrust the surgical knife toward him once more, and with his other hand pointed toward the space beneath the ladder.

This was the only iron blade in the entire ground floor of the estate, aside from those carried by the Han guards.

But he still didn't take it — he even scooted farther away, putting some distance between himself and this dangerous monk.

Basang had no desire to be a slave boss here. He needed to find a way to escape back to Baily and take Meiduo with him. Soon he would have a home of his own.

Seeing that the monk was actually trying to move closer to him, Basang glared, pulled a fist-sized stone from his chest, let the monk get one look at it, then tucked it back inside his clothes.

Monk Awang thought to himself, This little fellow's pretty clever! So why won't he fight back?

The stone was carved all over with the Six-Syllable Mantra. Basang had picked it up from a mani heap along the road when the Mongol herding soldiers weren't looking.

Who'd want your crappy little knife.

Basang had already heard people say that this mute monk had been the Baily King's garrison commander at Nangqian. When a Depön was in office, he'd be granted a manor — he was a noble officer. His manor might even be bigger than his own master's manor back home.

But that was useless. Basang didn't care. He didn't want to have any dealings with anyone here.

Nobles are stars in the sky; slaves are blades of grass on the ground.

At night, the grass can always see the stars. Other than that, they have no connection at all — and they don't need any connection.

Here, they were all slaves.

Once they got out, nobles would still be nobles, and slave brats would still be slave brats.

If this man was trying to get close to him, it had to be because he wanted to use him to help escape — and he'd most likely end up dead in this cursed place because of it.

Not worth it.

If they really did get out, they'd never see each other again in this lifetime.

Even with just a wall between them, nobles were honored guests in the master's hall, while slaves were filthy things kowtowing and kneeling outside. Who could even see who?

Even if they did see each other, it didn't matter — just play deaf and dumb, kowtow when it's time to kowtow, kneel when it's time to kneel.

Basang's ears twitched. There was a sound outside.

Horses in the manor stable were neighing. Iron-plated leather boots struck the stone slabs — step by step, clink by clink. Han soldiers were coming inside.

The wooden door was pushed open. Basang saw a figure in an oilcloth rain cape and iron helmet walk into the hall and shout something toward the upper floor. Right after, the Han officer who'd been standing on the second floor looking down came down. The two exchanged a few words. The Han officer seemed very agitated. In just a moment, the man threw his oilcloth cape back on and walked out into the rain.

Chen Qindai was indeed very agitated. The visitor was the Grand Commander's attendant, who had come down from the mountain through the rain to deliver the Grand Commander's order.

The Grand Commander wanted Monk Gama to recruit slaves into the army, granting farmland and houses to those who fought bravely. This was good news, but he had no way to deliver this order.

Was he supposed to use Chinese, or Mongolian, to convey the order to these Xifan slaves?

The Grand Commander's attendant was also furious. I just fucking came down from the mountain in the rain, and you want me to go back up again?

Half a shichen later, Teacher Chen, covered in mud, walked cursing into the manor.

He'd just lain down to sleep up on the mountain when the guards woke him. Teacher Chen thought to himself that the language barrier really was a big problem, so he'd go down.

But it was dark, and he didn't see the last two steps going down the mountain clearly — he fell flat on his face in the mud.

He was furious.

He walked in like he was coming home, stripped off his clothes first, looked up and demanded a room and clothes from Chen Qindai. Only after changing into something clean did he come back out, stand on the second floor, and say to the crowd of slaves below: "Do you want to regain your freedom?"

Downstairs was as silent as a pool of stagnant water.

Chen Qindai asked quietly, "Teacher, that Xifan speech of yours — is it any good?"

"What kind of talk is that!" Teacher Chen shot Chen Qindai a glare, then slapped the railing and shouted: "Wake up, wake up! Freedom — you don't want it?"

The slaves all looked up at him with eager eyes. Every word he said, they could understand individually, but strung together, they had no idea what it meant.

What the hell is freedom?

Everyone was plenty free. If they wanted to sleep in the sheep pen, they slept in the sheep pen. If they wanted to sleep on the stairs, they slept on the stairs.

The slaves looked at each other, all shaking their heads slightly... They couldn't understand. They had no idea what this man was saying.

Depön Awang stood up. He was anxious — regaining freedom, a good thing dropped right in their laps.

But Teacher Chen, already angry that no one was reacting, got even angrier seeing him stand up. He pointed at him and said: "You, the Baily officer — squat back down! This doesn't concern you!"

Depön Awang followed the order without question. He turned around, opened his mouth, and cursed: Aba aba.

Teacher Chen felt this reaction was off. He saw Depön Awang go back and nudge the slave next to him, signaling him to go — but that slave shook his head and squatted a little farther away from Awang.

Teacher Chen walked downstairs, squatted in front of that slave, and asked: "You don't want to regain your freedom?"

Basang shook his head. Teacher Chen furrowed his brow.

Depön Awang, beside them, pointed at Basang, then opened his mouth and pointed at himself, signaling: This man's like me — both mutes.

Teacher Chen sighed. All of them, pitiful souls.

He stood up and asked the slaves gathered beneath the hall staircase: "Is there no one among you who wants to regain freedom?"

It couldn't be said there was no one at all. From within the crowd, Meiduo stood up, timidly and hesitantly stepping forward one pace at a time. She knelt and asked: "Master is going to set us free?"

"Stand up to speak. The Grand Commander wants slaves to join the Nangqian Tusi's army. Those who fight bravely can regain their freedom and be rewarded with twenty to one hundred mu of land."

The slaves beneath the staircase whispered among themselves, looks of sudden understanding spreading across their faces.

Just as we thought — they want us to fight battles, and after the battles, they want us to farm the land... These people have never had a shred of good intention!

But unlike the men, Meiduo's face lit up with immense joy. She asked Teacher Chen: "Master, may I go and try to persuade him?"

Teacher Chen followed Meiduo's gaze and saw Basang squatting off to the side.

He thought to himself, Even the captured noble master beside him couldn't persuade him — and you can?

"Go and try to persuade him."

Teacher Chen didn't know why the slaves weren't stirred by this. Meiduo knew.

All the slaves were the same. They weren't the slaves who personally attended the nobles. They had never owned anything.

The clothes they'd worn for generations, the blankets they'd used for generations, the space beneath the stairs they'd slept in for generations — and their parents, and the children yet to be born.

Even the skin, flesh, and bones on their bodies — not a single bit belonged to them.

Spirit and flesh are inseparable. If they are forcibly separated, there is a purpose to that separation.

Heaven bestows life; the body is a boat. They are not the boat's owners — only passengers enduring the tossing within this boat.

Meiduo was different. She had a small honey-amber necklace that the lady had given her some time ago, saying that the master was going to match her with Basang, and that from now on she wouldn't be washed so clean anymore — to keep this thing as a memento of the dozen-plus years she'd lived in the manor.

Even though that necklace was taken by the Mongols, it was something she had truly possessed.

Talk to her about freedom, about owning land — she understands.

Telling anyone else is meaningless.

She crouched down and said, Basang, persuade the slaves to go to war with you. We can have a home.

Basang turned it over in his mind for a long time. Home… what is that?

At home there's the master, the mistress, young master Dorje, and a bunch of slave brats.

Basang didn't know. But Meiduo's request to persuade the slaves was not difficult.

He stood up and asked Master Chen: "Can I go kill someone?"

Awang Depön was dumbfounded. So he was the only mute in this room. Squatting on the ground, he cursed his mother with babbling sounds.

Master Chen was also taken aback for a moment. He looked at the fist marks on Basang's face, looked at the slaves, and sighed helplessly.

Basang understood from that sigh. From his shoulder-baring sheepskin coat he pulled out a stone carved with the Six-Syllable Mantra and gripped it in his hand. He stood up, walked beneath the stairs, dragged out the slave who had struck him, pressed down his head, and smashed it.

Then he laboriously raised his head.

"I am your master. I command you — all of you, come with me to war."