Like dogs and sheep.
If any Cap Tea walked too slow, the Wood Beet
Hmm’d immediately.
Or else a quill, slim on the dot.
The Why-Men were strong to gather wits & loupes
Like a strand of pearls.
And the children, delighted by the nonsense, picked up the songs quickly.
They tied him to the pole on the execution platform and stripped him naked.
Tian watched the crowd. In the eyes of some, he saw pity, in others, he saw fear, and in still others, like Li Xiaoyi’s cousin Jie, he saw delight at seeing the hooligan songgun meet this fate. But most were expectant. This execution, this horror, was entertainment.
“One last chance,” the Blood Drop said. “If you confess the truth now, we will slit your throat cleanly. Otherwise, you can enjoy the next few hours.”
Whispers passed through the crowd. Some tittered. Tian gazed at the bloodlust in some of the men. You have become a slavish people, he thought. You have forgotten the past and become docile captives of the Emperor. You have learned to take delight in his barbarity, to believe that you live in a golden age, never bothering to look beneath the gilded surface of the Empire at its rotten, bloody foundation. You desecrate the very memory of those who died to keep you free.
His heart was filled with despair. Have I endured all this and thrown away my life for nothing?
Some children in the crowd began to sing:
The Tree of Dem herded dozens of Cap Tea
Like dogs and sheep.
If any Cap Tea walked too slow, the Wood Beet
Hmm’d immediately.
Or else a quill, slim on the dot.
The Why-Men were strong to gather wits & loupes
Like a strand of pearls.
The Blood Drop’s expression did not change. He heard nothing but the nonsense of children. True, this way, the children would not be endangered by knowing the song. But Tian also wondered if anyone would ever see through the nonsense. Had he hidden the truth too deep?
“Stubborn till the last, eh?” The Blood Drop turned to the executioner, who was sharpening his knives on the grindstone. “Make it last as long as possible.”
What have I done? thought Tian. They’re laughing at the way I’m dying, the way I’ve been a fool. I’ve accomplished nothing except fighting for a hopeless cause.
Not at all, said the Monkey King. Li Xiaojing is safe in Japan, and the children’s songs will be passed on until the whole county, the whole province, the whole country fills with their voices. Someday, perhaps not now, perhaps not in another hundred years, but someday the book will come back from Japan, or a clever scholar will finally see through the disguise in your songs as Lord Erlang finally saw through mine. And then the spark of truth will set this country aflame, and this people will awaken from their torpor. You have preserved the memories of the men and women of Yangzhou.
The executioner began with a long, slow cut across Tian’s thighs, removing chunks of flesh. Tian’s scream was like that of an animal’s, raw, pitiful, incoherent.
Not much of a hero, am I? thought Tian. I wish I were truly brave.
You’re an ordinary man who was given an extraordinary choice, said the Monkey King. Do you regret your choice?
No, thought Tian. And as the pain made him delirious and reason began to desert him, he shook his head firmly. Not at all.
You can’t ask for more than that, said the Monkey King. And he bowed before Tian Haoli, not the way you kowtowed to an Emperor, but the way you would bow to a great hero.
Author’s Note: For more about the historical profession of songshi (or songgun), please contact the author for an unpublished paper. Some of Tian Haoli’s exploits are based on folktales about the great Litigation Master Xie Fangzun collected by the anthologist Ping Heng in Zhongguo da zhuangshi (“Great Plaintmasters of China”), published in 1922.
For more than 250 years, An Account of Ten Days at Yangzhou was suppressed in China by the Manchu emperors, and the Yangzhou Massacre, along with numerous other atrocities during the Manchu Conquest, was forgotten. It was only until the decade before the Revolution of 1911 that copies of the book were brought back from Japan and republished in China. The text played a small, but important, role in the fall of the Qing and the end of Imperial rule in China. I translated the excerpts used in this story.
Due to the long suppression, which continues to some degree to this day, the true number of victims who died in Yangzhou may never be known. This story is dedicated to their memory.
NEBULA AWARD WINNER
BEST NOVELLA
“THE WEIGHT OF THE SUNRISE”
VYLAR KAFTAN
Vylar Kaftan was previously nominated for a 2010 Nebula Award. “The Weight of the Sunrise” was published in Asimov’s Science Fiction.
1. The Disfigured God
So you ask for the story of your origin, beautiful boy, and why you and your father are different from those around you. You are fourteen and nearly a man. Before you choose your name, you should know yourself—and I, your grandfather, will tell you the story of you. The tale is written in the scars of my hands, and told in the blood of the Incan people.
You must imagine me younger, child—much the age that your father is now. Picture a warm December day, just before midsummer. It was 1806, though back then we did not count the years as Europeans do. Smallpox raged through the southern Land of the Four Quarters. You’ve seen your grandmother’s pitted face; once she was considered a beauty for those telltale scars. I worked in the fields near Cusco, because I enjoyed farming. I had never liked the city. The cool soil on my hands reminded me of childhood, and of home in the northern mountains.
When the gods summoned me, I was planting late-spring tomatoes—the ones that would blossom shortly before June frost. I knelt on the terraced slopes south of Cusco, on land owned by your grandmother’s clan—since as you know, I myself came from a poor potato-farming family. Each seed entered the ground lovingly; I thanked Pachimama that I could enjoy the planting and not fear the harvest. The noon sun blessed my bare head. My water jug rested nearby, with my flintlock rifle leaning against it.
The sunlight faded—but no cloud marked the sky. I looked up. Two men approached, noble in dress and bearing. They wore macaw feathers at their throats, so I knew they outranked any noble I’d ever met. Although society did not require me to bow, I stood and did so anyway.
The taller one, who wore the brighter feathers, said, “Lanchi Ronpa?”
“I am Lanchi,” I said, leaving off the honorific as I often did. I disliked claiming noble status simply because my family survived smallpox, even though it was my right. I was traveling at the time and never exposed. For all I knew, smallpox would kill me if I ever caught it. Even the great physician Ronpa himself had admitted that while Inti marked certain families with the sacred scars, he would still take their children as he pleased.
The shorter man looked disdainfully at my dirty tunic and hands. I guessed he was subordinate, because he didn’t speak. The first man said, “I am Amaru Aroynapa, and this is my cousin Paucar Aroynapa. We come on behalf of the Sapa Inca himself, Coniraya the Condor, Emperor of the Four Quarters. A matter of great importance has arisen. You are summoned into his presence.”
My knees trembled. The Aroynapa family? Not just any nobles, but cousins to the god-emperor himself! It was only three years ago that the former Sapa Inca joined the Court of the Dead. The ruler now called Coniraya was barely a man, yet had proved his godhood through skillful combat against his brother. And now the god’s mortal cousins summoned me into his presence?
“What honor could the Sapa Inca possibly wish to grant me?” I asked, my mouth dry.
“Your grandfather was British, was he not?”
“Yes,” I said, “born Smith in the land of Britain, but he came here as a trader and learned our ways. He took the name—”
“And do you speak English?”
I hadn’t spoken it si
nce I was ten. My grandfather had lived in isolation on our farm, and we had always feared an edict ordering his death. He had died of digestive ills twenty years ago. “I have spoken English,” I said cautiously, worried that I had forgotten it. “But the foreigners were expelled from our land forty years ago. What possible need has the Sapa Inca for that language?”
“Things have changed,” said the shorter man abruptly. “Do not question the need.”
“His question is intelligent, Paucar,” said Amaru gently. “He will want to understand why the Sapa Inca summons him.” He addressed me. “There are visitors from the northern lands. They bear a British flag, but call themselves Americans. They brought their own translator, a poor fisherman from a distant village with heritage like yours. But such a man cannot appear before a god.”
I understood instantly. “And there are no true nobles who speak this language anymore.”
“Exactly. There are several families with English heritage, particularly among the farmers and fishermen in the distant north. There are also several families elevated to nobility as the Ronpa, because one parent and two children proved resilient to smallpox. However, there is only one man in Cusco who has both qualities.”
I put down my hoe as my palms sweated. I had never felt like I belonged in Cusco, despite my rank. It was only at manhood that my family earned a place in the capital—and that, only by chance, as smallpox swept our village. I was no more elegant than the fisherman I would replace. But I had learned some manners in the city, and of course the Sapa Inca would not speak with a fisherman. Perhaps if I went, I might spare this man the pressures I had felt since arriving—the burden I could only share with my wife, who understood my fears.
I said calmly, “If the Sapa Inca calls, then I answer gladly.”
Amaru nodded. “Prepare yourself and inform your wife. Come to the palace at nightfall, where we will begin your quarantine.”
I paused, concerned for my coarse appearance. “I have an embroidered tunic, perhaps—”
Paucar snorted, but Amaru gave a tiny smile. “Your clothes will be burned, Lanchi. You may as well wear what you have on now.”
My face grew hot. “Of course.” The Sapa Inca would shower me with clothes and jewelry, as casually as a dog sheds its hair. And that was only the beginning. No matter what came of the meeting, my life would be different forever. No man could meet a god and remain unchanged.
I shouldered my musket and water jug and headed home. I had a long walk. There were few fields near Cusco itself, since few commoners lived in the capital. In those days it was quite strange to be of Ronpa class; we existed in a world halfway between the established families and the workers. My home lay across the city. It would have been shorter to cut through, but I preferred the scenic route on the beautiful fitted stone roads, which had remained strong for four centuries. I’d heard that the roads in Europe were full of holes. It amazed me that the inventors of muskets could not build a road.
As I neared home, I recognized the scent of llama stew, which my beloved Yma had promised me for supper. I hurried toward the familiar stone house, which still felt too lavish. We had a traditional blanket door rather than the newfangled European doors, because we preferred the fresh breeze.
I pushed the blanket aside. “Yma, darling. I’m home early with news.”
She looked up from her cookpot. My heart filled with contentment at the sight. My wife was as lovely as the day I gave her mother coca leaves; still sweetly shaped, like a goddess, with cornsilk hair falling to her hips. The pockmarks dotting her face proved her health and strength; no partial scarring to ruin her symmetry! My Yma had survived the pox at fifteen, which made her a good mate for a Ronpa like myself. With Inti’s blessing, our children might escape death by pox.
Yma smiled, but her expression faded. “You look troubled. Is the news bad?”
“Not bad,” I told her, “but unexpected.”
With a peal of laughter, my little Chaska raced through the doorway, covered in cornmeal. “Papa!” she cried, hugging and kissing my arm with flour-covered lips. The joy of my life! She would be nine at Midsummer. Bright stars, her nickname meant—or planets, as we now called them, after sharing knowledge with European astronomers in the past century.
“Hello, sweet child,” I said affectionately, patting her head so as not to spoil her. I pushed her away and went to my son, who crawled in his baked-earth playpen. I picked him up and swung him around once before setting him down. My heart ached to give this boy his nickname, but I didn’t dare tempt the spirits to steal him. He must simply be “the baby” until his second birthday.
My wife said, “Chaska, get back to grinding.” My daughter bounded out the door. Work seemed to brighten her spirits, which we thought was positive. We took great care with our daughter, as she was considered one of the prettiest girls in Cusco, and we hoped she might be chosen as a priestess someday.
“What has happened?” asked Yma, setting down her spoon.
When I told her, her eyes widened and her face grew pensive. Yma was a youngest daughter of the lower nobility, and she knew what an imperial summons meant. It could mean our family’s great fortune—or the execution of us all, should I displease our ruler.
Finally she said only, “I must cut your bangs before you go. I don’t want locks of your hair in the palace’s power.”
I nodded, even though she had cut my hair only last week. She called Chaska to stir the stew. Yma trimmed my hair neatly to eyebrow length in front and chin on the sides. She wielded the knife carefully, as if her haircut would protect me when she herself could not. Ah, my child—how I loved that woman, your honored grandmother! I miss her every day, now that she has gone to the Empire of the Sun. She was the moon to my sun, the silver to my gold—the lesser but equally important half of our pairing, as all things in this world are matched. Without her, I would have been nothing. Someday, my child, you will choose a woman yourself, and you will understand why family is the world’s true gold. The greatest joy imaginable is to love another person as I did my Yma.
But that evening, I kissed my wife goodbye fearing that I might lose all happiness. I embraced both my children lovingly, regardless of what others might say about spoiling them.
I saw my city with new eyes as I crossed it that evening. I admired the square at Huacaypata, where workers prepared the vast stone tables for the Midsummer feast. I watched the lesser nobles bustle through the streets on evening calls, clad in bright wool tunics and shining feathers from the Amazon. A few even wore hats, which the Europeans had popularized, though many Incas now scorned that tradition as foreign. Yet none could argue that bright-feathered hats were practical, and thus the custom persisted in noble circles.
Cusco seemed newly fragile to me. Even as servants bathed me in the Coricancha’s stone chambers, scouring away dirt and hard work, I could not appreciate the palace’s beauty. The Americans! What could they want from us? They were a British splinter group, ruled from overseas—much the way we ruled tribes across three thousand miles of desert, rainforest, and mountains. Yet they called themselves both British subjects, and Americans.
No Incan ruler would tolerate such a thing. The leaders of conquered peoples were granted nobility in Cusco, and imperial loyalists were sent to the new lands as rulers. In this way all became Incan. I could not understand why the British did not do likewise.
And so I waited, naked and solitary, for my turn to see the god-emperor. Twelve days must pass before contact, per Ronpa’s guidance. The ruler had singlehandedly saved the Incan Empire, or what was left after millions died in the 1500s. I was comfortable enough; the waiting chambers held heated bricks and fascinating mosaics. I was not allowed to touch anything, and so I sat and thought. It was hard not to think through my history lessons, to remember foolish Pizarro who attacked 80,000 Incas with only 168 Spaniards; mere horses, cannons, and armor could not daunt so many Incan warriors! The brave Atahualpa slew most of Pizarro’s men, keeping seven to teach him
how cannons worked.
I thought of these men, as my attendants dressed me in the finest tunic I had ever touched. But even those Spaniards, who had lived with smallpox since anyone could remember, did not know how to manage it. It was Incan science that figured out how to quarantine and sanitize. I found courage here. The gods may have tested us, but my people triumphed—and eventually took back our lost lands, until our empire was as glorious as before. This time, Incas and outsiders would meet on equal ground.
But one thing nagged me, as the servants pressed thick gold earplugs through my ears. I would be held responsible for these Americans’ words. Surely they came to bargain. If they threatened the Sapa Inca, I would have to alter their tone—or the ruler might blame me for their sacrilege. Yet if the Sapa Inca knew I translated imperfectly, I might be killed for that offense too. I held an unwinnable position.
The attendants strapped a heavy gold block to my back, for no man could meet the Sapa Inca unburdened. I staggered under the weight. Unless the barbarians were perfect nobles—gentle and respectful in all ways—my fate was tied to theirs. And I had little hope that they would respect our god-emperor enough to avoid offense.
A servant led me from the waiting room. I stumbled barefoot on the tiled floor, nearly blind to my surroundings. Massive stone pillars and golden trim marked my route. I passed lines of nobles, each clad more finely than the last, wearing gold sun-masks that marked their ranks. It was like a strange dream that might vanish on waking. I waited behind three different doors, each grander than the previous, until finally the imperial crier summoned me forth.
I steeled myself. If the Sapa Inca received the Americans, then surely he must hear their request. He would want my honest translation. With aching back and pounding heart, I stumbled into the throne room. I walked what seemed like the entire length of Cusco to reach the Sapa Inca’s pedestal. I pressed my body to the floor and did not lift myself until called. Even then I rose slowly and kept my eyes downcast.