Sandalwood Death

CHAPTER TEN





A Promise Kept





1




Peking experienced a heavy snowfall on the eighth night of the twelfth month in the twenty-second year of the Guangxu reign, 1896. Residents awoke early to a blanket of silvery white. As temple bells rang out across the city, the chief executioner assigned to the Board of Punishments Bureau of Detentions, Zhao Jia, got out of bed, dressed in casual clothes, and, after summoning his new apprentice, left for a temple to fill the bowl tucked under his arm with gruel. After leaving the chilled atmosphere of Board of Punishments Avenue, they met up with a fast-moving crowd of beggars and the city’s poor. It was a good day for beggars and the city’s poor, as attested by the joyful looks on faces turned a range of colors from the biting cold. Snow crunched beneath their feet. Limbs and branches on roadside scholar trees were a collage of silvery white and jade green, as if clusters of white flowers were abloom. The sun broke its way through a dense layer of gray clouds, creating a captivating contrast of white and red. The two men merged with a stream of humanity heading northwest along Xidan Boulevard, where most of Peking’s temples were located, and where great pots of charity gruel sent steam skyward from makeshift tents. As they neared the Xisi gateway, whose history was written in blood, flocks of crows and gray cranes were startled into flight out of the jumble of trees behind the Western Ten Storehouses.

He and his alert, quick-witted apprentice lined up at the Guangji Temple to receive their bowls of charity gruel from an enormous pot that had been set up in the temple yard. The blazing pine kindling under the pot dispersed heated air in all directions, which created a psychological dilemma for the beggars in their tattered clothes, who craved the tempting warmth but could not bring themselves to give up their precious spots in the food line. Heat waves formed a mist high above the steaming pot, creating an invisible shield like one of those legendary carriage canopies. A pair of disheveled, dirty-faced monks stood at the pot, bent at the waist, stirring the gruel with gigantic metal spades. The scraping sound of the spades on the bottom of the pot set his teeth on edge. People in line stomped their nearly frostbitten feet on the snowy ground, quickly turning it into a dirty, icy mess. At last the smell of cooked gruel began to spread. In the cold, clean air, the unimaginably rich aroma of food had a stimulating effect on men whose stomachs were rumbling. The light in the eyes of the derelicts was impossible to miss. Several little beggars, their heads tucked down into their shoulders, ran up front and stuck their heads over the edge of the bubbling pot, like little monkeys, to breathe in deeply before running back to their places in line. The foot stomping increased in frequency as the men’s bodies began to sway visibly.

Zhao Jia, who was wearing dog-skin socks under felt boots, did not feel the cold. He neither stomped his feet nor, of course, swayed from side to side. He had not gone without food; for him, lining up for charity gruel had nothing to do with hunger. It was a ritual passed down by earlier generations of executioners. According to the explanation given by his shifu, lining up for a bowl of charity gruel on the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month gave executioners the opportunity to demonstrate to the Buddha that this profession merely provided a livelihood, like begging, and was not undertaken by men who were somehow born to kill other men. Lining up for charity gruel was an acknowledgment of their low standing in society. For executioners in the Bureau of Detentions, meat-stuffed buns were available every day, but this bowl of gruel was a once-a-year affair.

Zhao Jia considered himself to be the most dignified individual in the long line of men. But there, just beyond several beggars with their swaying heads and panting mouths ahead of him, was a man standing as tall and unmoving as Mt. Tai. He was wearing a black robe and a felt hat and carried a blue bundle under one arm. He had the typical look of a low- or mid-level official in what was known as a “plain water yamen,” one with limited funds and few opportunities to enrich oneself. He would change into his official attire, which was in the bundle under his arm, once he was inside the yamen. But no matter how hard up a Peking official might be, he could always get something from officials from the provinces on their annual treks to the capital on official business. At the very least, he was in line for “ice and coal fees.” But if he was so incorruptible that he refused even that sort of “iron rice bowl” subsistence, his government salary surely made a range of baked goods affordable, so there was no need to line up with beggars and the city poor for a handout of charity gruel at a local temple. He wondered what the man looked like, but was well aware that the capital attracted people of exceptional hidden abilities, that even the crudest inn could be home to a man of special talents, and that a customer at a won-ton stand could easily be a heroic figure. A true man does not reveal his identity; if he does, he’s not a true man. The Tongzhi Emperor, having tired of his imperial harem, ran off to Hanjiatan to cavort with prostitutes, and when he lost his taste for delicacies from the Imperial kitchen, he went to Tianqiao for bowls of soybean milk. How, then, could Zhao Jia be sure what lay behind the man’s purpose in lining up for charity gruel? He could not, so there was no need to go up to take a look. Instinctively the men in line edged forward as the aroma of gruel intensified, pressing the line tighter and tighter, which shortened the distance between Zhao Jia and the man up front. By leaning to the side, he had a view of his profile. But no more than that, since the man kept his eyes straight ahead. All Zhao could see was his somewhat unruly queue and a shirt collar made shiny by unwashed hair. Chilblains dotted the lobes and rims of his fleshy ears, some already oozing pus. Finally the anticipated moment arrived: it was time to hand out the gruel. Slowly the line began to move forward. Curtained carriages drawn by horses and mules and residents of the city with baskets to deliver gruel to friends and families made their way together to the oversized pot from both sides of the line. The alluring aroma grew stronger with each step closer to the pot, and Zhao Jia heard stomachs growling all around. Holding their bowls in hands that were black as coal, the men crouched down by the side of the road or stood against a wall to slurp the contents. The two monks were now leaning over the pot, dipping large, long-handled metal scoops into the gruel and impatiently pouring the contents into one bowl after another; inevitably some dripped to the ground from the scoop or the sides of the bowls, and was immediately lapped up by mangy dogs whose hunger was stronger than the pain from the kicks they received. Now it was the man up front’s turn. Zhao Jia watched as he took a small bowl from under his robe and held it out to the monks, who gave him a curious look. Each of the bowls held out by the others in line seemed larger than the one before, and some could rightly be called basins. He, on the other hand, could cover the lid of his porcelain bowl with one hand. The monks used extraordinary care when they poured gruel into his bowl, filling it to the brim almost as soon as they tipped the scoop, which held several times the amount of the bowl. With his bundle still tucked under his arm, the man gripped his bowl in both hands and politely bowed his thanks before walking, head down, to the side of the road, where he lifted the hem of his robe, sat down, and quietly began to eat. The moment he turned around, Zhao Jia spotted his high nose, large mouth, and sickly pallor, and he knew who the imposing man was—the director of one of the Board of Punishments’ many bureaus—though he did not know his name. He reacted by sighing inwardly at the man’s plight. To be the head of a Bureau in one of the Six Boards meant that he had passed the Imperial Civil Service Examination, yet here he was, so poor he had to beg a bowl of gruel in a charity tent. It was the height of absurdity. From decades of experience in official yamens, Zhao Jia was well acquainted with the means by which various officials fattened their purses and the vagaries of promotion. This fellow, who was crouching in the snow by the side of the road eating a bowl of charity gruel, was either hopelessly incompetent or a man of rare virtue.

After Zhao and his apprentice received their gruel, they too crouched by the side of the road, and as Zhao ate, his eyes remained on the man who had caught his attention. He was grasping his delicate ceramic bowl tightly in both hands, obviously for the warmth it afforded. The beggars and city poor all around raised a din as they slurped their gruel. He alone ate without making a sound, and when he was finished, he covered his bowl and his face with one of his wide sleeves. Zhao could not say for certain why he did that, but it was worth a guess. And he was right. When the man lowered his sleeve, Zhao could see that the little bowl had been licked clean. The man stood up, put the bowl back inside his robe, and headed southeast at a quick pace.

So Zhao Jia and his apprentice followed the man; that is to say, they too set out for the Board of Punishments. The man took long strides, his head tilting forward at each step, like a galloping horse, and Zhao and his apprentice had to trot just to keep up. Later, when he thought back to the occasion, he could not say what had motivated him to follow the man, who, as it turned out, slipped and fell as he was turning into a narrow lane near a hot-pot restaurant; his arms and legs were splayed on the ground, and his blue bundle went flying. Zhao’s initial reaction had been to rush over and help him up, but thoughts of the trouble that might cause held him back; so he stopped and watched to see what would happen. The man was having a hard time getting up, and once he was on his feet, he managed only a few steps before falling again, and this time Zhao could see that he was rather badly hurt. So, handing his bowl to his apprentice, he rushed over and helped the man, whose face was beaded with sweat, to his feet.

“Are you hurt, sir?” Zhao asked.

Without replying, the man took a few steps, supporting himself with his hand on Zhao Jia’s shoulder, his face twisted in pain.

“It looks to me, sir, that you are badly hurt.”

“Who are you?” the man asked with obvious suspicion.

“I work in the Board of Punishments, sir.”

“The Board of Punishments?” the man said. “If that’s true, how come I don’t know you?”

“You don’t know me, sir, but I know who you are,” Zhao said. “Tell me what you would like me to do.”

The man took a few more tentative steps, but his body gave out and he plopped down on the snowy ground. “My legs won’t carry me,” he said. “Find some transportation to take me home.”





2




Zhao Jia flagged down a donkey-drawn coal cart and accompanied the injured official to a broken-down little temple outside Xizhi Gate, where a tall, lanky young man was practicing kungfu in the yard. Despite the cold, he was wearing only a thin singlet; his pale face was beaded with sweat. As soon as Zhao Jia helped the official into the yard, the young man ran up. “Father,” he shouted, and burst into tears. Icy winds whistled through the flimsy paper covering the windows in the unheated temple, where cracks in the walls were stuffed with cotton wadding. A woman sitting on the chilled kang was shivering as she spooled thread. She looked like an old granny, with a sickly pallor and gray hair. Zhao Jia and the young man helped the official over to the kang, where, after a respectful bow, he turned to leave.

“My name is Liu Guangdi,” the man said. “I passed the Imperial Examination in 1883, the twenty-second year of the Guangxu reign, and have been the director of a Board of Punishments Bureau for several years,” the man said in a genial tone. “This is my wife, and he is my son. I must ask Grandma to excuse the humble place we call home.”

“You know who I am,” Zhao said, embarrassment showing on his face.

“Truth is,” Liu Guangdi said, “our jobs are essentially the same. We both work for the nation and serve the Emperor. But you are more important than I.” He sighed. “Dismissing several Bureau directors would have no effect on the Board of Punishments. But without Grandma Zhao, it would no longer be the Board of Punishments. Among all the thousands of national laws and statutes, none is more important than those upheld by your knife.”

Zhao fell to his knees and, with moist eyes, said:

“Excellency Liu, your words have moved me deeply. In the eyes of most observers, people in my line of work are lower than pigs, worse than dogs, while you, Excellency, esteem our work.”

“Get up, Old Zhao, please get up,” Liu said. “I won’t keep you any longer. One of these days we’ll sit down over something strong to drink.” He turned to his son, the gaunt young man. “Pu’er, see Grandma Zhao out.”

“I cannot let your honorable son . . .” Zhao was clearly flustered.

The young man smiled and made a polite gesture with his hands. Zhao Jia would not easily forget his fine manners and humility.





3




On the first day of the New Year, 1897, Liu Guangdi strode into the eastern side room of the executioners’ quarters, dressed in official attire and carrying an oilpaper bundle. The men were drinking and playing finger-guessing games to welcome in the New Year, and the sight of a senior official walking in unannounced threw them into a panic. Zhao Jia jumped down off the kang barefoot and knelt on the floor.

“Best wishes for the New Year, Excellency!”

The other executioners followed his lead:

“Best wishes for the New Year, Excellency!” they cried out from their knees.

“Get up,” Liu said, “all of you, get up. The floor is cold. Get back up on the kang.”

The men stood up but, hands at their sides, did not dare to move.

“I am on duty, so I figured I’d spend the day with you men.” He opened his bundle, which was filled with cured meat, then took out a bottle of spirits from under his robe. “My wife prepared this meat herself; the spirits were a gift from a friend. See what you think.”

“We would not dare to think of sharing a meal with Your Excellency,” Zhao said.

“It’s New Year’s, so we can dispense with the formalities,” Liu replied.

“We truly dare not,” Zhao insisted.

“What has gotten into you, Old Zhao?” Liu said as he took off his hat and official robe. “We all work in the same yamen, so let’s act like it.”

The other men looked at Zhao Jia.

“Since Your Excellency does us this honor, it is better to accept humbly than to courteously decline,” Zhao said. “After you, sir.”

Liu Guangdi removed his shoes and sat on the communal kang with his legs folded. “You’ve got this nice and hot,” he said.

The men received the compliment with a foolish grin. “You don’t expect me to lift each one of you up here, do you?” he said.

“Go on, get up,” Zhao said. “We mustn’t offend Excellency Liu.”

So the execution team climbed back onto the kang, where they made themselves as small as possible. Zhao Jia picked up a glass, filled it from the bottle, then knelt on the kang and held it out with both hands.

“On behalf of my fellows, Your Excellency, I wish you wealth and promotions.”

Liu Guangdi accepted the glass and drained it.

“Fine stuff,” he said as he licked his lips. “Now join me, all of you.”

Zhao Jia drank a glass and felt his heart bubble over with warmth.

Liu Guangdi raised his glass.

“Old Zhao,” he said, “I am in your debt for helping me get home that time. Come on, men, fill your glasses and accept my toast!”

They drained their glasses with great emotion. With tears in his eyes, Zhao Jia said:

“Excellency, not since Pangu split heaven and earth and the ancient emperors ruled the earth has a senior official actually joined a group of executioners to celebrate New Year’s with a bottle. Let us raise our glasses to His Excellency, everyone!”

The executioners knelt in place, raised their glasses, and toasted Liu, who clinked glasses with each of them and, as his eyes brightened, said:

“I can see that you are all men of indomitable spirit. It takes courage to engage in your profession. And nothing celebrates courage like fine spirits. So drink up!”

The men grew increasingly spirited as the level of the alcohol in the bottle dropped. No longer so tense or concerned about where they placed their arms and legs, they took turns toasting Liu, their constraints disappearing as fast as the spirits and the meat. Liu Guangdi, who had abandoned his official airs, picked up a pig’s foot and attacked it with such vigor that his cheeks shone from the grease.

By the time the meat and spirits were gone, they were all fairly drunk. Zhao Jia was beaming; Liu Guangdi had tears in his eyes. First Aunt was sputtering nonsense; Second Aunt was snoring with his eyes open. Third Aunt’s tongue was so thick that no one could understand a word he said.

Liu got down off the kang. “Wonderful,” he said, “this was just wonderful!”

Zhao helped Liu into his boots, and the young nephews helped him back into his official robe and hat. With the executioners in tow, Liu stumbled his way into the room where the tools of the trade were kept. His eyes fell on the sword whose handle proclaimed it “Generalissimo.”

“Grandma Zhao,” he blurted out, “how many red-capped heads has this sword separated from their bodies?”

“I never counted.”

Liu tested the rusty blade with his finger.

“It’s not very sharp,” he said.

“Nothing dulls a blade like human blood, Excellency. We have to hone it before we use it.”

With a laugh, Liu said:

“By now you and I are old friends, Grandma Zhao. If I fall into your hands one day, I hope this blade is at its sharpest.”

“Excellency . . .” It was an awkward moment. “You are an upright, incorruptible official, a noble man of great integrity . . .”

“An upright, incorruptible man deserves to die like anyone else. The slicing death repays nobility and integrity!” Liu sighed before going on. “Let’s say it’s a deal, Grandma Zhao.”

“Excellency . . .”

Liu Guangdi left the room weaving from side to side, watched by the executioners with tears in their eyes.





4




As a dozen horns blared their mournful music, the celebrated Six Gentlemen of the Wuxu Reform Movement were lifted down off a dilapidated prison van by a dozen uniformed guards and up onto the elevated execution platform, over which a thick red felt mat had been laid. A fresh layer of dirt had been spread on the ground around the platform. Zhao Jia, the principal “grandma” of the Board of Punishments, was somewhat comforted by the sight of these preparations. He and his apprentice followed the Six Gentlemen onto the platform. The mournful music was persistent and increasingly shrill. The musicians’ foreheads were sweaty; their cheeks had ballooned out. Zhao Jia took a good look at the six distinguished men lined up on the platform, and saw a range of expressions. Tan Sitong’s chin was raised as he looked skyward, a solemn, tragic look on his dark, gaunt face. The face of the young man, Lin Xu, who was next in line, was ghostly white; his thin, bloodless lips quivered. Heavy-set Yang Shenxiu had cocked his square head to one side; drool oozed from his twisted mouth. The delicate features of Kang Guangren were distorted by incessant twitches as he kept wiping tears and snot with his sleeve. Yang Rui, short in stature but full of energy, kept sweeping the area around the platform with his dark eyes, as if hoping to find an old friend amid the spectators. Liu Guangdi, the tallest among them, wore a solemn expression; eyes downcast, he was making a guttural sound.

It was approaching noon. The shadow cast by a fir pole behind the platform was slowly forming a straight line with the pole. It was a brilliant autumn day, with radiant sunshine and a deep blue sky. Sunlight reflecting off the platform mat, the red capes of the official witnesses, the red flags, banners, and umbrella canopies of the honor guard, the officials’ red caps, the red tassels on the soldiers’ helmets, and the red hilt of Generalissimo sent fiery rays of light in all directions. Flocks of doves flew in circles above the execution ground, round and round, filling the air with the whisper of flapping wings and their shrill cries. Throngs of spectators kept a hundred paces away by soldiers craned their necks and stared wide-eyed at the platform, waiting anxiously for the moment to arrive that would excite, sadden, or terrify them.

Zhao Jia was waiting too, waiting impatiently for the supervising official to give the order, so he could do his job and leave the premises. Facing the deeply affecting looks on the six men made him ill at ease. Even though he had smeared his face with chicken blood, which served as a mask of sorts, his nerves were still on edge, and he was actually somewhat self-conscious, as if standing in front of a gaping crowd without his pants. Never before in his long career had he been so unsettled or lost his sense of detachment. In the past, so long as he was wearing red and had chicken blood smeared on his face, his heart was as cold as a black stone at the bottom of a deep lake. He had the vague feeling that while he was putting someone to death, his soul was hibernating in the fissures of the coldest, deepest stone, and that a killing machine bereft of heat and emotion performed the deeds. And so, when the job was over, he could wash his hands and face and be free of any feeling that he had just killed someone. It was all a haze, a sort of half sleep. But on this day he felt as if the hardened mask of chicken blood had been peeled away, like the outer layer of a wall soaked by a rainsquall. His soul squirmed in the fissures of the stone, and a host of emotions—pity, terror, agitation, and more—seeped out like tiny rivulets. When an expert executioner stood on the platform to carry out his somber task, he was expected to show no emotion. If, however, indifference was considered an emotion of sorts, then it was the only one permitted; all others could serve only to ruin a reputation. He did not have the nerve to look at the Six Gentlemen, especially the one-time Board of Punishments Bureau director with whom he had established a unique and genuine friendship—Liu Guangdi. If he were to look into the man’s eyes, in which burned unalloyed rage, his palms would be wet with cold sweat for the first time ever. So he looked up at the doves circling above him. All those flapping wings made him dizzy. The chief official witness—Vice Minister of the Left, His Excellency Gang Yi—squinted up into the sky from his seat at the base of the platform before casting a sideways glance at the Six Gentlemen.

“It’s time,” he said in a shaky voice. “Criminals, on your knees to give thanks for the blessings of the Emperor.”

Like a man who had received absolution, Zhao Jia turned to his apprentice and took from him the unwieldy sword reserved for the decapitation of fourth-ranked officials and higher—Generalissimo. Out of respect for Excellency Liu, he had spent the whole night honing the blade to hair-splitting perfection. After drying his hands with his sleeves, he held his right arm across his chest so that the sword was pointing straight up.

Some of the Six Gentlemen wept; others sighed.

With appropriate decorum, Zhao Jia said:

“Please, gentlemen, take your places.”

Tan Sitong cried out:

“I have the intention to kill thieves, but lack the strength to change the course of events. It is a worthy death, and I have no regrets!”

His last words spoken, he had a coughing fit that turned his face the color of gold paper; his eyes were bloodshot. He then fell to his knees, placed his hands on the platform, and stretched out his neck. His loosened queue spilled across his neck down to the platform.

Lin, Yang, Yang, and Kang knelt beside Tan in utter dejection. Lin Xu sobbed like a mistreated little girl. Kang Guangren wailed loudly and smacked his palms on the platform. Yang Shenxiu also rested his hands on the platform, his eyes darting from one side to the other, but giving no hint as to what he was looking for. Liu Guangdi stood alone, his head held high, refusing to kneel. As he stared at Liu’s tattered boots, Zhao Jia said timidly:

“Your Excellency, please take your place.”

Glaring wide-eyed at the seated Gang Yi, Liu demanded hoarsely:

“Why are we being killed with no trial?”

Lacking the nerve to look at Liu, Gang Yi turned his fat, swarthy face to the side.

“Why are we being killed with no trial?” Liu Guangdi repeated. “Is this a nation bereft of laws?”

“My orders are to supervise the execution, that is all I know. I beg Peicun’s indulgence on this . . .” Gang Yi’s distress was palpable.

Yang Rui, who was kneeling alongside Liu Guangdi, tugged at his clothing.

“Peicun,” he said, “at this point, what is there to say? Kneel with us. It is what is expected.”

“Great Qing Dynasty!” Liu shouted, drawing the words out as he straightened his clothes, bent his knees, and knelt on the platform. A functionary standing behind the chief witness announced in a loud voice:

“Give thanks for the blessings of Her Royal Highness!”

Of the Six Gentlemen, only Lin, Yang, Yang, and Kang numbly performed the rite of kowtows to her. Tan Sitong and Liu Guangdi held their necks straight and refused to kowtow.

Then the functionary announced loudly:

“Criminals, give thanks for the blessings of His Imperial Majesty!”

After this announcement, all six men kowtowed. Tan Sitong banged his head on the platform as if he were crushing cloves of garlic, interspersed with shouts:

“Your Majesty, Your Majesty, I have failed you, Your Majesty!”

The thuds from Liu Guangdi’s kowtows were loud and insistent; tears lined both sides of his gaunt face.

In a voice that betrayed his discomfort, Gang Yi gave the command:

“Carry out the sentence!”

Zhao Jia bowed deeply to the Six Gentlemen.

“I will send Your Excellencies to your glory,” he said softly.

He braced himself to drive out all personal thoughts and concentrate his strength and spirit into the wrist of his right arm. In his mind, the execution sword and his body had already merged. He took one step forward, reached down with his left hand, and grabbed the tip of Liu Guangdi’s queue. With it he pulled Liu’s head toward him to expose the taut skin of his neck. Thanks to years of experience, he immediately spotted the precise spot where the sword would enter the neck. He lowered Liu’s head slightly as he turned to the right before he would swing back and bring down the sword in one motion, when a desperate howl emerged from the throng of spectators:

“Father—”

A tall, lanky, and badly disheveled young man stumbled forward at the very moment Zhao Jia was about to slice the sword through Liu’s neck. He aborted the move. His wrist felt the power of the bloodthirsty Generalissimo in that sudden stop. The young man staggering up to the platform was Liu Pu, Guangdi’s son, whom he had met that time in the little temple outside Xizhi Gate. A surge of compassion that had been suppressed for many years by weighty professional considerations flowed past his heart. Bewildered soldiers, armed with red-tasseled spears, recovered from their shock and rushed up in confusion. A badly shaken Gang Yi jumped to his feet and cried out shrilly, “Grab him.” Palace guards behind him drew their swords and converged on the young man, but before they could use their weapons, Liu Pu fell to his knees and was kowtowing to Gang Yi. That stopped the guards, who gaped vacantly at the handsome young man, whose ashen face was wet with tears and snot.

“Be merciful, Your Excellency,” he pleaded with Gang Yi. “Let me take my father’s place . . .”

Liu Guangdi looked up and, choked with sobs, managed to say:

“Pu, my son, don’t be foolish . . .”

Liu Pu crawled forward on his knees and gazed up at his father, his words muffled by sobs:

“Father, let me die in your place . . .”

“My dear son . . .” Liu Guangdi sighed. His face was haggard, his features twisted in his agony. “I want no extravagant funeral, and you are to take no bereavement gifts from anyone. Do not send my body back to my hometown, but bury it somewhere nearby. Once that is done, I want you and your mother to leave Peking and return to Sichuan. I want my descendants to receive an education, but I want no sons or grandsons to sit for an official examination. I entrust all this to you. Now, leave, and don’t make me waver in my resolve.” With that he closed his eyes, stretched out his neck, and said to Zhao Jia, “Old Zhao, do it now. For the sake of our friendship, make it a good job.”

Zhao’s eyes burned. He was nearly in tears.

“I promise, Your Excellency.”

Liu Pu howled from below the platform and crawled on his knees up to Gang Yi.

“Excellency . . . Excellency . . . let me take my father’s place . . .”

Gang Yi covered his face with his wide sleeve.

“Take him away!”

Soldiers rushed up and dragged the hysterical, sobbing Liu Pu away.

“Carry out the sentence!” Gang Yi commanded.

Zhao Jia grabbed Liu Guangdi’s queue for the second time. “An offense against Your Excellency,” he said softly as he made a rapid half circle, and Liu Guangdi’s detached head was in his hand. It felt extraordinarily heavy, the heaviest he’d ever held. Both hands—the one holding the sword and the one dangling Liu’s head—ached and felt swollen. Holding the head high over his own, he announced loudly to the Chief Witness:

“May it please Your Excellency, the sentence has been carried out!”

Gang Yi merely glanced at the platform before quickly averting his eyes.

Zhao Jiu followed custom by displaying the severed head to the observers. Some shouted their macabre appreciation; some wept openly. Liu Pu lay on the ground unconscious. Zhao Jia saw that the eyes in Liu’s head were open, the eyebrows raised. A grinding sound emerged from between chattering teeth; he was convinced that Liu’s brain was still functioning and that the eyes saw him. His left arm, in which he held the severed head, was getting sore and numb. Liu’s queue was like a slippery eel struggling to break free from the sweaty, blood-streaked hand holding it. There were tears in the great man’s eyes, which dimmed slowly, like cinders dying out from splashes of water. When Zhao Jia laid the head down, he noticed that it wore a peaceful look, and that made him feel better. “Excellency Liu,” he muttered under his breath, “as promised, I made a good job of it. You did not suffer, and I did no disservice to our friendship.” He now turned to the others and, with the help of his apprentice, dispatched Tan, Lin, Yang, Yang, and Kang with the same practiced skill. Thus, with consummate skill, he demonstrated his respect for the Six Gentlemen.

The capital was abuzz with talk of the spectacular execution, with most of the discussion centering on two aspects: one was the exceptional skill of the executioner, Zhao Jia; the other was the disparity in how the six men faced their deaths. People said that after Liu Guangdi’s head was severed, it wept copious tears and called out to the Emperor, and when Tan Sitong’s head left his neck, it proudly intoned a seven-syllable quatrain . . .

This new folklore, which contained particles of truth, burnished Zhao Jia’s reputation and elevated this ancient yet lowly profession far enough up the social ladder for people to take approving notice of it. It also insinuated its way into the Palace, like a gentle breeze, where it reached the ears of Cixi, the Empress Dowager. It would soon pave the way for great glory to find its way to Zhao Jia.