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buzz round the jade pendants hanging from strings on my hat.
    My silk robes are hot and uncomfortable. Indeed, they smell of mould. There is no help for that. The morning passes pleasantly enough. I read the poems of Po Chu-i to remind myself of a just man’s courage. His voice strengthens my own. Eventually I fall into a doze.
    By midday, still no sign of General An-Shu’s men. A few of the village dogs adopt me, attracted by my lunch, which I share with them. I ask Wudi to send scouts to find out where the Imperial cavalry who rode through the village yesterday are hiding. Such information might give me power, and even avert a massacre. Women dragged from the houses, held down while raped. Man after man executed, the most senior first. Every store broken open, carried off by competing platoons. And the peasants beaten or simply stabbed should they protest. Finally, the smell of burning, smoke billowing up the valley, while drunken soldiers cheer. I saw such things in my youth. They are not unusual. They flow from war like dung from a sewer.
    The sun reaches its zenith and I order cup after cup of tea, every sip scrutinised by the peasants.
    An hour later, my test begins. One of the watchers runs into the village.
    ‘Lord Yun Cai!’ he cries. ‘They are coming!’
    ‘How many?’
    He spreads out his hands in a gesture which means more than he could count. So we are taken seriously by General An-Shu. This is worse than I expected.
    ‘How many are there?’ I repeat.
    He looks behind him nervously.
    ‘They are coming,’ he says, once more.
    ‘Wudi!’ I bellow.
    The headman trots over from the well, where he was bathing his head with a bucket of water.
    ‘Instruct everyone to remain in their houses, as should you.’
    He dries his face on his sleeve.
    ‘Perhaps I’ll stand behind you,’ he says. ‘It won’t look so good if you’re by yourself.’
    He’s right, of course. And I’m grateful for his loyalty.
    Already in the distance I can hear the beat of drums, cries of command.
    ‘This is not hunting crickets, Wudi,’ I say.
    He looks at me and grins, as he did when we were boys.
    ‘My Lord is himself again,’ he says.
    That is when I grow afraid. For I know it is my destiny to disappoint him, and all who trust me. The marching feet grow louder. An officer shouts unintelligibly. Finally a column of men, five across, enters the village square.
    Their armour is burnished leather and they bear sword and halberd. These are not the rabble I expected, but superior, well-drilled troops. For a long moment everyone in the square stands still, assessing one another. I hear more tramping feet and the gallop of horses.
    An officer on a fine, white charger rides into the square, his horse prancing. He is followed by a dozen cavalry bearing flags and drums, long lances tipped with pennants.
    I peer short-sightedly. The heat haze blinds my old eyes.
    Horsemen trot toward me and I rise, puffing out my chest.
    The captain’s helmet is crowned by a jaunty red plume.
    Bronze armour covers the horse’s head and flanks. Iron discs sewn upon the captain’s blue leather coat glitter like angry eyes. His cloak is blood red. At his side a sword and bow. In his right hand, a double-pronged lance, trailing scarlet and yellow ribbons.
    A dozen feet from me he reins in his horse. The beast snorts. My eyes are fixed on its rider’s face, one whose changes I charted from birth. My soul lurches. Youngest Son.

two

    ‘. . . War’s infection spreads from the borders: 
    this year, last year, next – honoured rites of slaughter.

    The phoenix flutters gaudy wings of sorrow.
    When war is the plough, crops of bone must follow. . .’
     
    Momentary balance, like a huge standing rock, its support of earth and shale eroded by seasons of rain. It could fall in any direction, crushing the unwary, or merely roll down the hillside to settle with a crash, throwing up clouds of dust. So it is in the village square. The rock of war could fall