Chapter Eight: Where to Go from Here

In truth, what Liu Chengzong wanted most was to ask Cao Yao about the Battle of Sarhu. Yet Cao Yao refused to speak of it; everything that happened before and after could be discussed, but that battle—he neither wished to speak of it nor found words to say.

Night descended, and smoke curled up from cooking fires in the desolate countryside. On a mud-brick stove rested an iron pot. Cao Yao’s men had halved a goose which had lost its thighs, placing the pieces into two separate pots for the two groups to simmer. They fetched a handful of spices from the mule’s packs, making do with it to flavor the broth that would wash down their dry rations.

Soup was always best; a single flatbread, once gone, could not be conjured into two. But soup was different; halfway through, you could add water and suddenly have two bowls instead of one.

The real matter Cao Yao wished to discuss was their future.

“You two are scholars. If it weren’t for the drought and the failed harvests, Master Liu Four wouldn’t have fallen on hard times and had to send you off to serve as soldiers. You are men of sense and understanding.”

He gestured around the village. “My twenty-seven brothers here—they’re from Northern Zhili, Shanxi, Shandong, Henan—even those whose homes are in Shaanxi have no one left.”

“Your brother is a military fanatic. The moment he enters a village, he climbs high to scout and posts sentries, always hard to find. Let me ask you, and tell me true: what are you really planning, heading south with your group?”

Liu Chengzong, ever honest, wiped the grease from his mouth and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He was still uncertain whether, in a dozen years, the Ming court would be overthrown by that silver-haired courier who’d taught him to ride. In a flash, his elder brother was already being withdrawn from Yuhe Fort.

They’d received orders at noon, set out by afternoon, and now bivouacked in the wilderness at night, carrying only two and a half days’ rations. At times like this, whatever plans he might have seemed hopelessly pale.

Plan for what—how to defend the realm a decade hence?

He didn’t even know what they’d eat three days from now, or whether they could reach Ansai in three days’ time.

Yet, faced with the disappointment in Cao Yao’s eyes, Liu Chengzong felt a pang of guilt.

He knew that, lacking other options, Cao Yao would have no choice but to lead his men back to the mountains as bandits once more.

Liu Chengzong paused, then sighed. “Brother Cao, in your opinion, how far has the Left-Hanger advanced?”

The “Left-Hanger” he referred to was Wang Zhijue, known as the Left-Hanger, or Wang the Left, who had risen at Dragon’s Ear Bluff in Yichuan. The court had only learned of him the previous year, claiming he led ten thousand mounted bandits.

A native of Qingjian, he had turned to banditry in the mountains early on, together with the likes of Miao Mei, the Mountain Tiger, and the Red Wolf—leaders of the southern forest outlaws.

Cao Yao narrowed his eyes, rummaged in his bag, and produced a pipe and tobacco pouch, lighting it by the campfire. Amid the swirling smoke, he asked, “You mean, you want me to go over to the Left-Hanger?”

Tobacco was still a rarity in the north, having been brought from Luzon to Fujian for cultivation, and then carried north by southern troops, where people believed it warded off the cold. Among the border officers at Yansui Garrison, it had become a fashionable habit.

But whatever Cao Yao pulled from the mule packs—whether aged tobacco looted the previous year or bartered from a border officer—nothing surprised Liu Chengzong anymore.

“During the deliberation at Yuhe Fort, the Left-Hanger was mentioned. The official dispatch claimed he had ten thousand mounted bandits, but I don’t buy it,” Cao Yao said, shaking his head. “Count every horse, donkey, ox, and mule—two thousand mounted men at most.”

He clearly looked down on Wang the Left, and didn't consider him a proper path forward. Blowing out smoke, he waved his hand. “Better to seek out Wang Jiayin than throw in with him.”

Wang Jiayin was also a bandit, with followers like Buzhan Ni and Yang Liu, operating in Fugu County at the border of Qin and Jin, northeast of Yuhe Fort, specializing in robbing the rich.

Liu Chengzong quickly waved his hands. “I’m not talking about joining them—just avoiding them.”

His memory of the flood of rebel leaders during this time was hazy. He could recall just three names: Gao Yingxiang, Zhang Xianzhong, and Li Zicheng.

By chance, he knew all three.

Gao Yingxiang was an Ansai man, a horse thief, who’d once spent spring to autumn in the Mizhi prison for smuggling horses. He knew a great deal and had taught Liu and his brother horse judging, riding, archery, and some combat skills.

He’d taught them out of hope that Liu the Scholar would release him, but Liu was too timid—even when Gao’s brothers brought gold and silver to his home, he dared not accept. In the end, Liu Chengzong had even shared Gao’s last meal in prison. Only after Gao’s men bribed the county magistrate was he freed.

That very night, Gao led men back to the city, shot arrows at the Liu family’s door, and hurled a brick that broke their brass door-knocker.

Last year, Gao gathered starving peasants and rose in rebellion at Ansai. In another memory Liu Chengzong possessed, he became known as the “Chuang King,” fighting east and west.

As for Zhang Xianzhong, who would later become Emperor of the Great West, the Liu brothers barely knew him; they’d met only once. Before enlisting, the brothers had held a banquet at home, and recalled a constable named Zhang Xianzhong from Yan’an Prefecture who drank heavily, cursed the heavens, and made a spectacle of himself, full of complaints.

Then there was Li Zicheng, the courier from Yinchuan—at this time still called Li Hongji—who was the same age as Liu Chengzu, so Liu Chengzong addressed him as “Brother Huangwa” when they met, as was customary. Back then, when Liu the Scholar had invited the postmaster to teach them riding, he had been too stingy to offer a proper meal, and after a few visits the postmaster sent young Li Hongji instead, who gave them some instruction.

Liu Chengzong did not know which of these rebel leaders was good or bad, strong or weak, but he knew: to survive is what counts, and the one who lives longest is the most formidable.

Thus, none of these rebel leaders could be relied upon—going over to them was a dead end. He only asked, “In your view, where are these bandits now?”

Cao Yao did not answer immediately, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Avoiding them, eh? The Left-Hanger and Wang Jiayin both have more horses and men. That’s right, best to keep clear of them—but if we’re heading south, so are they!”

Avoiding them wasn’t only about sidestepping a head-on clash; men and beasts all needed to eat, and wherever the rebels passed, not even a blade of grass would remain in the hills.

To run into them was certain death; even following in their wake along their path would be fatal.

As he spoke, Cao Yao poked a short branch from the fire and began sketching lines on the ground. “Their forces are growing, and they must fear the court dispatching border troops against them. They’ll surely want to leave the borderlands—the farther from the border garrisons, the better.”

“Every road in northern Shaanxi runs across great mountains. The imperial troops can’t enter, but neither can the bandits. The hills north of Yan’an are bare—anyone who goes in starves. So they must either cross east over the Yellow River into the Lüliang Mountains, or head south, below Yan’an.”

Liu Chengzong watched Cao Yao’s traced routes and silently praised him as “a true old hand who escaped from the Liaodong campaign!” He pointed at the line of dots along the west bank of the Yellow River, heading south: “Mizhi, Suide, Qingjian, Yanchuan, Yanchang, Yichuan, Hancheng—beyond that is Yaozhou, right?”

Past Hancheng, Cao Yao bent the route slightly westward, marking three dots at the confluence of three rivers. Looking up with a smile, he said, “A man of letters—knows his geography.”

He patted those three points, continuing, “Fuping, Sanyuan, Jingyang—these approach Xi’an Prefecture itself, the richest and most fertile lands north of the Wei River. I’ve heard the tobacco we’re smoking is shipped from the south to Jingyang, and processed right there.”

“If I were the reckless Left-Hanger, I’d seize this place and then flee into Shanxi!”