Chapter 23: Partners

The Anxi Grand Protectorate and the four military governor offices established at the start of the Tianbao era were all situated at the heart of the inner city, aligned along the central axis of the entire urban area. They faced west to east, directly toward the city of Chang’an. This was meant to embody the will of “governing the people on behalf of Heaven, and defending the borders for ten thousand miles.”

According to Tang regulations, a military governor was granted twin banners and twin tallies—banners for exclusive awards, tallies for the power of life and death. When on the march, the tallies were raised, and six great banners were erected before the headquarters.

At this moment, above the Grand Protectorate fluttered six crimson standards, each one crafted from the finest tribute silk by the palace’s embroidery maidens, bordered with ivory, snapping fiercely in the wind.

Entering through the wide-open gates, Deputy Protector of Anxi and Left Martial Guard General Cheng Qianli immediately saw the old man standing beneath the Hall of Command. Though his hair and beard were snowy white and his cheeks gaunt, a flush of color burned upon them, and his eyes still shone with the fierce power of a tiger.

The master of the vast lands of Anxi and Beiting had personally come to greet him!

“My lord, Chief Censor,” Cheng Qianli strode forward, intending to support the elder, but the old man stopped him with a look.

“Is there news?” The old man’s voice was low and hoarse, causing Cheng Qianli to worry, but he dared not be overfamiliar; instead, he stepped back a few paces, received a scroll from his attendant, and presented it with both hands.

“By order of the Chief Censor, I traveled as envoy to the Arabs, bearing the tallies for several months. At last, I have not disgraced my mission. The treaty has been concluded, and I present the accord for your inspection.”

Upon hearing the words “not disgraced my mission,” Wang Zhengjian let out a sigh of relief, his legs nearly giving way. He waved his hand for an official to take the document, glanced through it, and saw that both the Han and Arabic scripts were present, with every seal and signature in order. His face brightened.

“Good, good. Let us speak inside.”

He beckoned Cheng Qianli to follow him into the Hall of Command. No sooner had he stood for a moment than he seemed already on the verge of exhaustion.

Seated in the grand hall symbolizing the highest authority of the Four Garrisons, Cheng Qianli felt inexplicably constrained, even though the only other presence was the aged and worn old man.

“I arrived at Samarkand on the seventeenth day of the first month,” he began, “and upon my initial contact with the local official, Ziyad, he raised no obstacles to our mission. I had a sense then that matters might succeed. On his introduction, I traveled to Merv, three hundred li west of Samarkand, where the Arabs’ governor of Khurasan resides. There, I concluded this treaty with their chief official.” He recounted the journey, keeping his account brief for the sake of the old man’s health.

“This Ziyad—is he not the one whom High General Gao defeated last year?” Wang Zhengjian inquired calmly after listening.

“He is indeed,” Cheng Qianli replied with a nod.

“What was your impression of him?”

“He’s not as tall as I am, and does not appear to be a man of great martial prowess. He must be a commander of cunning rather than force.”

Wang Zhengjian realized Cheng Qianli hadn’t quite grasped his intent, but pressed on.

“What do you think of the treaty? Is it solid?”

Cheng Qianli was startled by the question, then, after careful thought, replied cautiously, “In my view, the Arabs aim to consolidate their holdings and, at least at present, show no intent to invade. The agreement is eighty percent reliable.”

Eighty percent? Wang Zhengjian was a little surprised and signaled for him to elaborate.

“I do not say this idly. The Arabs have halted at the Oxus; they have not troubled even the various Zhouwu states. Clearly, their strength is stretched thin. I had my men investigate—at Samarkand, they station no more than ten thousand troops, and show no sign of pressing the cities of the Oxus. If they were truly preparing a major campaign, troops and intentions could be hidden, but their public preparations—requisitioning labor, gathering supplies—could not possibly be concealed so completely.”

Wang Zhengjian nodded in approval. “I anticipated this outcome before sending you as envoy. If they meant to strike, their best opportunity was last September, when I had only just taken command of Anxi.”

Cheng Qianli admired him all the more for this. At that time, the hearts of the Four Garrisons were in turmoil, everyone fearing the Arabs would seize the chance to sweep away more than fifty years of Tang rule. Commander-in-chief Gao Xianzhi’s will had faltered, the whole region had lost its spirit—only this old man, upon receiving the imperial edict, rushed to the post with all speed, bringing nearly half the troops from Beiting. He immediately reformed Anxi’s defenses, stabilizing the situation at a stroke.

“In fact, the journey yielded another unexpected result,” Cheng Qianli added, surprising Wang Zhengjian.

In Lesser Bolu, the base of the Tang’s Guiren Army, a savory aroma of roasted meat, tinged with smoke, drifted from a corner of the military encampment.

Liu Ji carried a well-prepared mutton leg, deftly scraping away the hide with a short knife before skewering it on a sharpened hardwood spit. The other end of the spit was fashioned into a zigzag crank, much like the village well handles of later generations.

He had already built a fire, and now, suspending the mutton between two wooden forks at just the right height, he had created a simple rotisserie. With one hand, he turned the spit at a steady pace; with the other, he sprinkled a handful of coarse, ground salt over the meat. Soon, the tantalizing aroma of grilling flesh wafted outward.

Though he appeared wholly absorbed in his task, it was the snippets of conversation reaching his ears that truly held his attention.

“What did the council of war decide? Will there be fighting or not?”

“Old Wang’s condition is dire; he can’t last much longer. It’s not up to us whether there’ll be battle. Feng Sima’s already sent someone back to headquarters—by the time they arrive, the obituary will probably have been posted.”

The speaker was an imposing man, easily six foot one, seated on a Central Asian stool much like a modern low bench, except he was half a head taller than the others. He sat beside Duan Xiushi.

“Mind your words!” Duan Xiushi gave him a nudge and lowered his voice. “That’s the Chief Censor and two-garrison governor you’re talking about. Who are you to call him ‘Old Man Wang’? If anyone overhears you, that’s another mark against you. Do you think being town commander is too easy?”

“They’re all our own people—what’s there to fear?”

The big man grinned, glancing at Liu Ji as he continued, “Who doesn’t know what the Chief Censor’s up to? He wants to use our brothers’ lives to prop up that madman Cheng. Bah! Is he even worthy?”

Liu Ji kept his composure, but inwardly he was stirred. He didn’t need introductions to guess the identity of the burly man Duan Xiushi had called “Bull Barbarian.”

Feng Changqing’s legendary career was due to the esteem of Gao Xianzhi; together, they were the very embodiment of partnership. Whenever Gao Xianzhi marched out, he would appoint Feng Changqing as acting governor, in charge of all logistics—their perfect coordination was the stuff of legend, at least until the disaster at Talas.

In Anxi, too, there was a similar partnership: if Duan Xiushi played Feng Changqing’s part, then this man was the fortress-smashing general.

He was certainly worthy, for he was renowned for wielding his sword across the Western Regions, striking terror into the Hu tribes, known as “Divine Power”—the mighty Li Suiye, General of the Right Martial Guard and Commander of Shule Fortress.