Meng Huo was beside himself with joy at the good news. Placing himself at the head of his clansmen, he lost no time in setting out, with the harbingers of the happy news in the lead. But when he reached the valley he was greeted by the raging fire and the smell of death. He knew he had been tricked again. As he hastened to retreat there appeared two bodies of enemy troops at his sides, and they attacked at once. He tried to make whatever stand he could but a great shouting arose among his own men, who revealed themselves as men of Shu in disguise, and they quickly captured all his clansmen and followers.
Only Meng Huo broke through and escaped into the hills. As he galloped along he suddenly saw, emerging from a valley, a group of horsemen accompanying a small carriage, and therein sat Zhuge Liang, dressed in his Taoist robe and holding a feather fan.
“Meng Huo, you rebel!” cried Zhuge Liang. “What about this time?”
Meng Huo immediately turned to run away, but out dashed an officer from his side to block his path. It was Ma Dai. Meng Huo, caught unawares, fell a prey to his captor. His wife, Lady Zhurong, and the other members of his family were also taken.
Back in camp, Zhuge Liang assembled his officers in the main tent. He was still sad at the thought of the great killing and he said, “This plan that I used was against my best feeling. For this sin I will have to pay dearly.”
Then he went on to explain the plan he had employed to overcome the Mans. “I guessed that the enemy would suspect an ambush in every thicket, so I had flags set up in the woods to arouse their suspicion, but actually I posted no troops there. I told Wei Yan to lose battle after battle in order to lead them on and harden their hearts for pursuit. When I saw the Valley of the Coiled Serpent, with its sandy soil, treeless walls of sheer rock, and the wide road in the middle, I recognized what could be done. I sent Ma Dai to place there the black wagons, in which I had put fire bombs called ‘mines’, designed long ago for this purpose. In every bomb was hidden nine more bombs, and they were buried thirty paces apart in the valley. They were connected by fuses concealed in hollowed bamboo poles to set off successive explosions, and their destructive power was enormous. Once ignited, they would wreck hills and smash rocks. I also told Zhao Yun to prepare carts laden with firewood to be put at both ends of the valley and to prepare big logs and boulders. While all this was being arranged, Wei Yan led the chieftain on and on till he had enticed him into the valley. After Wei Yan had safely left the valley, its entrance and exit were sealed and the burning began. I decided to employ fire because I know what is proof against water cannot stand fire. And the oil-soaked rattan armor, excellent as a protection against swords and arrows, was highly inflammable material, catching fire easily. The Mans were so stubborn that the only way was to use fire, or we should never have scored a victory. But it is my great sin to wipe out the entire race of Wuge country.”
After hearing his explanation, the officers bowed to him and praised his wonderful ability, which was unfathomable even to gods and spirits.
Then Meng Huo was summoned. He fell upon his knees at the entrance of the tent. Zhuge Liang ordered him to be freed from his bonds and taken to another tent for some refreshments. However, Zhuge Liang gave secret orders to the officer in charge of food and drinks.
While Meng Huo and his family and clan members were treated with wine in another tent, a man suddenly came in and addressed the captive king: “The prime minister is too embarrassed to see you again, sir. He has sent me to release you. You may return and assemble another army and once more attempt a decisive victory. Now you may leave.”
But instead of going Meng Huo began to weep.
“Seven times a captive and seven times released!” said the king of the Mans. “Never has such a thing happened before in the whole world. Though I am ignorant of the imperial grace, I am not entirely devoid of a sense of propriety and rectitude. Does he think I can be so shameless?”
Then the king and his people crawled to Zhuge Liang’s tent, where he bared the upper part of his body and begged pardon, saying, “Oh, most powerful minister, we men of the south will never rebel again.”
“Then you will yield?” asked Zhuge Liang.
“I and my descendants will forever be indebted to you for preserving our lives. How can we not yield?”
At this long-awaited pledge Zhuge Liang asked Meng Huo to come up into the tent, where a banquet was soon given to celebrate the occasion. Then he confirmed Meng Huo’s perpetual leadership in the region and returned to him all the territories that had been seized by the men of Shu. The Mans were all overwhelmed by Zhuge Liang’s generosity, and they went away leaping with joy.
A poem was written by a later poet to praise Zhuge Liang:
He rode in his Taoist garb,
In his hand a feather fan.
Seven times he freed the Mans king
As part of his conquering plan.
To this day his prestige reigned
O’er streams and valleys of the south.
Lest his kindness should e’er be forgot,
The vanquished erected a fane.
This generous treatment of the Mans was hardly comprehensible to his subordinates and a senior official named Fei Yi ventured to remonstrate with Zhuge Liang on his policy.
“You, sir, have personally led the army to make this long journey into the wilds and have conquered the Mans’ country. Now that the Mans king has submitted, why not appoint Shu officials to share in the administration and hold the land together with him?”
Zhuge Liang replied, “There are three difficulties. First, to leave our men here entails leaving an army with them; and there is also the difficulty of feeding the soldiers. Secondly, the Mans families are broken and their fathers and brothers have died in the war. To leave our officials here without soldiers invites trouble sooner or later; this is the second difficulty. Thirdly, the Mans have a history of deposing or murdering their rulers. They are suspicious even of each other, let alone of outsiders, and our men will never be trusted; this is the third difficulty. Now I leave no men behind, so I need not send any supplies here. Peace will be maintained between our two sides.”
His words convinced Fei Yi and the others of the wisdom of the policy.
The kindness of the conqueror was rewarded by the gratitude of the conquered, who even erected a shrine in his honor, where they offered sacrifices at the four seasons. They called Zhuge Liang their “Gracious Father” and they sent gifts of pearls, cinnabar, lacquer, medicine, cattle, and battle chargers for the use of the army. And they pledged themselves never to rebel.
After the feasts were over, the army marched homeward to Shu. Wei Yan led the way. As he reached the Lu River, dark clouds suddenly gathered in the sky and a violent wind began to howl, sending sand and stones whirling in the air. The army was forced to turn back. Wei Yan reported the matter to Zhuge Liang, who called in Meng Huo to ask him what this might mean.
The Mans of the south have yielded now at last,
Ghosts in the water won’t let our men go past.
Meng Huo’s explanation will be related in the next chapter.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Zhuge Liang Offers Sacrifices at the Lu River and Leads His Army Homeward
The Marquis of Wu Proposes an Attack on Wei in His Memorial
As Zhuge Liang was leading his army homeward, Meng Huo, at the head of the Mans chieftains and leaders of various tribes, came to see him off. They lined the roadside and bowed to him in obeisance. In the meantime, the vanguard led by Wei Yan had reached the Lu River. It was the ninth month of the year and the season was fall. They were trying to cross the river when a tremendous storm swept up, hindering the army from advancing. When he learned of this, Zhuge Liang asked Meng Huo if he knew of any reason for such a storm.
Meng Huo replied, “Wild spirits have always troubled this water and those who want to cross have to propitiate them with sacrifices.”
“What sacrifices should be offered?” asked Zhuge Liang.
“I
n the old days when malicious spirits brought misfortune, our tradition was to sacrifice men to the number of seven times seven—forty-nine in all—and offer their heads, besides slaying a black ox and a white goat. Only then would the wind subside, the waters come to rest, and bounteous harvests follow year after year.”
“The war is over and peace has returned,” said Zhuge Liang. “How can I slay a single innocent man?”
Then he went down to the river to see for himself. Truly enough, a ghostly wind was howling and the waves were surging. Both men and horses were frightened. Much perplexed, he sought out some natives to inquire. They told him that they had heard moanings and cries from dusk to dawn every night since his army had passed the river. There were numerous spirits in the fog and no man dared cross the river.
“It is my sin,” said Zhuge Liang. “Earlier more than a thousand of Ma Dai’s men perished in these waters, and later the bodies of the slain Mans soldiers were also thrown here. These poor grievous souls are not yet freed. Tonight I myself will go and propitiate them.”
“You have to abide by the old custom and offer forty-nine human heads—then the spirits will disperse,” said the natives.
Zhuge Liang objected: “The cause of this is the unfortunate deaths of innocent men. What is the sense in slaying more men? But I know what to do.”
He told the army cooks to slaughter an ox and a horse and to make balls of flour paste after the manner of human heads, stuffed with the meat of oxen and goats. These, called man-tou, or buns, would be used instead of human heads.
By nightfall, an altar had been set up on the bank of the river with the sacrificial objects all arranged. Forty-nine lamps were lit and banners were hoisted high to summon the souls. The forty-nine man-tou were piled up on the ground. At midnight Zhuge Liang, in a white robe and golden head-dress, went to offer the sacrifice in person, and he bade Dong Jue read this prayer:
On the first day of the ninth month of the third year of the period Jian-Xing of the Han* Dynasty, I, Zhuge Liang, Prime Minister of Han, Marquis of Wuxiang, Governor of Yizhou, reverently order this sacrifice to appease the shadows of those men of Shu who have died in their country’s service and those of the southern men who have perished in this war.
Hear me out, ye shades.
The Emperor of the mighty Han Dynasty excels the five feudal lords in power and succeeds the three ancient kings in wisdom. Recently, when barbarians of the distant south, who loosed the venom of their sorcery and gave free rein to their wolfish hearts of rebellion, sent an army to invade his territory, I was commanded to punish their crimes. Therefore I led my mighty army to this wild land to destroy those mere ants of rebels. As my brave soldiers gathered in multitudes, the unruly rebels melted away. Like apes, they escaped on hearing the mere crack of a bamboo.
My men are warriors from the nine provinces and my officers, heroes of the empire. All of them have perfected their skills in the use of arms and joined my forces to serve under a wise king. They obeyed orders and carried out the plans for the seven captures of Meng Huo. They were true to their country and loyal to their lord.
But who could have foreseen that you, poor spirits, would fall victims to the enemy’s wicked wiles, due to mishaps in the strategy? Some of you went down to the deep springs wounded by flying arrows; others sank into the long night hurt by lethal weapons. Alive you were valorous; dead, you are remembered as heroes. Now we are returning home in victory and the prisoners are being handed over to our lord. Since your noble souls still exist, I presume you will hear my words. So follow the banners of my army, come after my men, and return with us to your country, each to his own village, where you may enjoy the savor of your own flesh and blood and receive the offerings of your own families. Do not become wandering ghosts in alien hamlets or restless shades on foreign soil. I will make a petition to His Majesty that your families enjoy his gracious bounty, with yearly allowances of grain and clothing and monthly payments of salaries for sustenance, so that you may rest in peace.
As for you, spirits of this place, shades of the deceased men of the south, you are not far from home and can enjoy the regular offerings of your people. Those who are alive are in awe of the heavenly majesty, and as dead ones you must also submit to the imperial rule. So hold your peace and refrain from uttering unseemly moanings. To show my sincerity of heart I reverently offer you sacrifices and implore you to accept them.
Alas, ye dead! To you this offering!
At the end of the prayer Zhuge Liang, overcome with emotion, broke into loud wailing, and the whole army was moved to tears. Meng Huo and his followers also moaned and wept. Then amid the sad clouds and angry mists they saw, vaguely, thousands of ghosts dispersing with the wind. Then the material portion of the sacrifice was thrown into the river.
The next day Zhuge Liang led his army to the south bank of the river, where he saw the clouds had lifted and the winds had hushed; and the crossing was made without further mishap. The men of Shu began their triumphant journey homeward. It was a magnificent sight, which was aptly expressed in the following two lines:
Stirrups jingle at the crack of whips,
Men return amid songs of victory.
At Yongchang, Lu Kai and another official were left behind to take command of the four districts, and Meng Huo and his men were permitted to return home. Zhuge Liang urged the Mans king to be diligent in his administration, maintain good control over his subordinates, care for his people, and never to neglect farming. Meng Huo wept as he bowed and took his leave.
When the army neared the capital, the Second Ruler rode out thirty li in his imperial carriage to welcome his victorious minister. The Emperor stood by the roadside as he waited for his arrival.
Zhuge Liang quickly descended from his chariot, prostrated himself, and said, “It is my fault to cause Your Majesty much anxiety for failing to conquer the south swiftly.”
His lord helped him to his feet and returned with him to Chengdu, their chariots riding side by side. Back in the capital, there was great rejoicing with banquets and rich rewards for the army. Henceforward distant lands, to the number of over two hundred, sent tribute to the Shu court. With the Emperor’s permission Zhuge Liang saw to it that the families of those who had lost their lives in the expedition were well taken care of. So all were appeased and the whole land enjoyed tranquillity.
Meanwhile, in the kingdom of Wei, Cao Pi had ruled for seven years. Cao Pi had first married a lady of the Zhen family, formerly wife of the second son of Yuan Shao. He had discovered her at the fall of Yecheng. She bore him a son, Rui, who had been an intelligent boy since early childhood and a great favorite with his father. Later, Cao Pi took as his gui fei (concubine) a daughter of the Guo family, a lady of exceeding beauty. Her father once said that she was “queen of all women,” and she styled herself with the title. With her arrival, Lady Zhen fell from her lord’s favor, but Lady Guo’s ambition soon led her to intrigue to replace Lady Zhen and set herself up as Empress. She took Zhang Tao, a minister at the court, into her confidence.
One day Cao Pi happened to feel indisposed, and Zhang Tao made up a story to the effect that he had dug up in the palace of Lady Zhen a wooden image on which was written the king’s date of birth, so as to harm him.* In his anger, Cao Pi put his consort to death and set up Lady Guo in her place.
But she had no children of her own. Therefore she nourished Rui as if he were hers. However, loved as Rui was, he was not then named heir. When he was fifteen Rui, already an expert archer and a daring rider, accompanied his father on a hunting expedition. In a valley, they startled a doe and its fawn. Cao Pi shot the doe, and the fawn fled. Seeing that the fawn was running in front of his son’s horse, Cao Pi called out to him to shoot it. Instead the youth burst into tears.
“Your Majesty has slain the mother—how can I bear to kill the child as well?”
Hearing these words, Cao Pi threw down his bow and said, “My son, you would indeed make a benevolent and virtuous ruler.”
&n
bsp; This incident helped Cao Pi make up his mind to confer on Rui the title of Prince of Pingyuan. In the fifth month Cao Pi fell ill with colds, and medical treatment was of no avail. So three chief generals were summoned to his bedside. They were Cao Zhen, Chen Qun, and Sima Yi. When they had come, the Emperor’s son, Cao Rui, was also called in, and the dying ruler said: “I am grievously ill, and my end is near. I confide to your good care and guidance this son of mine. You must support him and do not fail to live up to my trust in you.”
“Why does Your Majesty say such words?” they replied in alarm. “We will do our utmost to serve you for a thousand falls and a myriad years.”
Cao Pi said, “This year the city gates suddenly collapsed for no apparent reasons. That was an ill omen, and I knew then I was about to die.”
At that moment attendants came in to announce the arrival of Cao Xiu, another high-ranking general, who had come to ask after his lord’s health. When he was called into the chamber, Cao Pi said to him: “You and these three are the pillars and cornerstones of the state. If you will work together with one mind and uphold my son’s authority, I can close my eyes in peace.”
These were his last words. A flood of tears gushed forth, and he sank back on the couch, dead. He was forty years of age and had reigned for seven years.
The four ministers raised the wailing for the dead and forthwith busied themselves with setting up Cao Rui as Emperor of Wei. The late Emperor received the posthumous title of “Emperor Wen.” The late Empress, Lady Zhen, mother of the new Emperor, was given the title of “Empress Wen-Zhao.”