ITIEQ C15

Chapter 15 – Ambition of a Wolf

The refugees still lingered outside the city, temporarily placed under the control of the Commander of Arms. Emperor Zhaohuan further dispatched his elite Golden Armored Guards to inspect the situation. One decree after another issued forth from Hanchang Hall; under the young monarch’s decisive hand, every concerned official was set into motion. But when it came to selecting the person in charge of overall disaster relief, Xiao Yuanzheng (the Emperor) hesitated long, his movements stilled.

Shen Qinghe, silently discerning the Emperor’s wavering, straightened his robes and stepped forward before the officials.

“Your Majesty, my father, before assuming his present post in the capital, once served as Prefect of Zhuo Province. At that time, locust plagues struck, and countless refugees arose. Following him, I too learned some methods of disaster relief. Now that these people are in dire straits, this minister also wishes to contribute his strength. Might I be entrusted with the charge of disaster relief?”

This calamity touched wide domains, implicating every negligent official along the road. The ties of aristocratic families formed a net of interwoven marriages and affiliations. Unable to pull along all the mire, the Emperor struck instead at the foremost tumor: the provincial Censor attached to the Qi faction, sacrificing one to warn all. Now, though the work of settling refugees was dirty and thankless, Situ Qixiang of the Qi family was bound to take it on—both to distance himself from his disgraced ally and to earn back merit, appeasing imperial wrath.

Who could have expected a minor Attendant to leap forward halfway.

For long had the Chang and Qi factions wrestled in court—today you crush me, tomorrow I crush you. Shen Qinghe’s father, Shen Zhao, leaned faintly toward the Chang side among the Five Great Clans, but at best was a marginal figure. As for Shen Qinghe himself, long branded a frivolous libertine, he never mingled well with the self-proud aristocrats. In theory his stance could suit relief duty, but the problem lay in his shallow pedigree and paper-thin qualification. Compared to seasoned grandees, he was but a gnat.

Without even looking back, Shen Qinghe knew the officials behind him must bristle with discontent. If he wished to secure this chance, he needed something extra.

And his wager lay in this very moment.

The Emperor’s gaze remained lowered, heavy upon Shen Qinghe.

“This matter touches the lives of tens of thousands. Should anything go amiss, the one in charge cannot evade blame.”

The implication was clear—his rank low, his voice light, lacking noble title or prestige to command respect. More—such weight was far beyond one so small.

But Shen Qinghe knew well this was a bitter post. Yet if he succeeded, he would cleanse forever the stain of libertine notoriety. Then, soaring upwards, none would again belittle him for it.

If he failed—why, had not the dead Censor already furnished his example?

High risk. High reward. Precisely Shen Qinghe’s favored path.

“Lead by example, to die only after duty complete!” The young man in blue robes fell to his knees with a crisp sound. His black hat struck the ground sharply, his resolute voice ringing. The white-clad Deputy Censor himself turned a glance of surprise.

Emperor Xiao Yuanzheng’s pale pupils reflected the boy’s kneeling form. Slowly he said: “Since the policy of relief through labor was your suggestion, by your hand it is fittingly pursued.”

It was granted.

Shen Qinghe’s heart leapt with joy. He kowtowed deeply again. “My utmost thanks, Your Majesty!”

The officials dispersed. Quietly the palace attendants came to tidy the scattered memorials.

The Emperor sighed, yet in the end said nothing more. Personally, he bent down to raise Shen Qinghe, his face severe.

At that instant, Shen Qinghe felt as though returned to their first meeting in the Hall of Government.

“Refugees are horses without bridle. I shall dispatch Golden Armored Guards for your protection. I know you wish to do good works—but do not press rashly forward.”

“This minister obeys.”

“I shall also assign a Secretariat aide. He is steady of hand, and can assist you.”

“My gratitude, Your Majesty.”

Then, from his stern seat, the Emperor’s expression softened, gaze fixed upon him. His bearing was ever flawless—always striking to behold. Shen Qinghe recalled the aristocrats at the Qingtan Gathering: outwardly upright, inwardly puffed like peacocks. By such bloodline measure, perhaps imperial blood indeed crushed all noble pretensions beneath it?

Shen Qinghe, startled from his musings, realized the Emperor’s gaze lingered wordlessly long. Did this foretell some further instruction? Shen Qinghe braced himself, awaiting grave counsel.

But the Emperor merely said: “Take care in all things.”

“…Yes.”

A shade too tender, was it not? Did Emperor Zhaohuan take him still for a child to be spoon-fed? That would not do. He must become the Top One Headmaster of Great Yong, the greatest of educators, in time.

Suppressing a smile, Shen Qinghe quickened his steps upon leaving. This task—he must handle flawlessly.

—

The plight was dire and demanded haste. Bearing the edict, Shen Qinghe rode straight out the palace, taking the imperial carriage to the refugee encampment ten li outside the city.

…

The reality proved worse than he had imagined. Called a “camp,” in truth it was a sprawl of crude lean-tos—mere bamboo poles and thatched grass piled for meager shelter. From afar, it resembled a mass of hives, each hive packed with twisted human figures—though these could hardly still be called figures, so hollow were they, skin and bone curled into clumps.

Here and there lay ashen-faced wretches on the brink of death, breath failing. Soldiers, cloth over nose and mouth, stood waiting. As soon as breath ceased, bodies were rolled in mats and cast aside.

With a leap Shen Qinghe descended from carriage. He had braced himself for bleakness—but not such horror. Closer now, the air choked with a stench of rot. His gut surged to nausea; only by force did he suppress it.

“Who holds command here?” He strode forward, robes flaring in wind. Seeing his blue official robes, soldiers recognized a superior sent by the throne. They hurried to summon the local scribe.

Shen Qinghe swiftly demanded numbers and state. The scribe recited: “…a total of some thirteen thousand six hundred souls.”

Fengzhou was a populous province, easily in the hundreds of thousands. Even if half became refugees, and of those, only half again fled north to the capital, the count should far exceed mere tens of thousands. All others—each knew grimly their fate.

“Since yesterday noon and night—many more perished. Now perhaps twelve thousand remain,” the scribe added.

“So quickly!” Shen Qinghe’s face strained. He tried to enter deeper, but the scribe barred him hastily: “My lord, wear cloth. The miasma is heavy there.”

Presented with a white cloth soaked in wormwood brew, Shen Qinghe masked his lower face—the bitter herbal scent like a crude form of mask.

Within, refugees, once strong of labor, now wasted into skeletons. Clothes in tatters, feet layered in crusted sores, they sprawled in stupor. Some, still with feeble strength, staggered to tend their kin.

Most lay silent, eyes wide open, staring blankly at straw roofs, fingers clutching dried roots, mouths still clutching half-stalks.

“Why famine, and yet their bellies are so swollen?” Shen Qinghe pointed at thin children’s limbs, wrists brittle as twigs, yet bellies grotesquely round.

“They ate Guanyin Soil,”* the scribe answered.

* (Guanyin Soil 觀音土 – a kind of white clay dug from earth, eaten in desperation. It fills the belly but cannot be digested, leading to bloated stomachs and eventual death. Historically reported during famines in Chinese history.)

Shen Qinghe’s face darkened. “Guanyin Soil?”

“Yes. Clay dug from earth. Once eaten, it stalls in the belly, creating the illusion of fullness. In every famine, half the dead perish from starvation, half from swollen bellies after such clay.”

He added: “They were fortunate to find even that. I hear along their trek north, even the bare earth was stripped of such soil.”

Each step deepened Shen Qinghe’s dread. These people neither wailed nor rioted, like souls already departed, only carcasses marking the ground. He called to them—but no reaction.

Only death’s breath.

The scribe murmured: “My lord, do not waste yourself. We have asked what could be asked. They are half-mad, nothing more to be gleaned.”

Carbohydrate—the most basic fuel of human life. Without it, the brain shuts down. In long denial, people lapse into ruin.

Shen Qinghe turned back decisively.

“When does relief grain arrive?”

“Already en route, drawn from the Ever-Normal Granaries. It should be here soon.”

“Gather all who still can walk. These refugees hail from hundreds of towns and villages—many will know each other. Have them distribute among themselves, to prevent riot and loss. His Majesty invested me with authority—these soldiers will also obey my command. They must not stand idle. However wasted these people appear, dying desperation can be most lethal. Keep order—lest trampling break out. The Imperial Medical Bureau sends medicines; men will be needed to distribute as ordered. You attend this also.”

He rattled off command after command.

“And one vital thing—should more corpses appear, do not merely bury them. Burn them.”

“Burn?” The scribe recoiled.

Shen Qinghe: “Why?”

“Lord… though our army has burned corpses before—it was of rebels and foes, venting anger. Never of our commonfolk…”

Shen Qinghe nearly forgot. Here, burial was sacred—even a shallow grave was better than ashes. Yet times of plague brooked no leniency. To save the living, the dead must feed fire.

He could not explain contagion and corpse-rot’s terrors. Only: “Burn them. Leave not a trace. Post men along riversides too. Dredge every corpse. Bring them here and burn alike.”

Never before had relief demanded such—mobilizing soldiers often, collecting corpses ceaselessly. The scribe grew weary.

But Shen Qinghe read his heart, and said: “I am but a low-robed Attendant, seized this chance to stand before His Majesty. Do this well, and I shall speak your name to the throne.”

At once the man’s eyes gleamed. “I shall exert myself utterly!”

“And know—your talents outstrip this job of patrols. My father is close with Lord Taibao; a transfer to the Inspectorate is no stretch.”

Temptation complete, the man beamed wide. “My lord, say no more. I’ll see all done!”

The day stretched taut. For Shen Qinghe, first time commanding tens of thousands—a task magnified countlessfold in difficulty. Yet by day’s end, peace held. Refugees, drinking thin gruel, began at last to stir, their faces lightening, no longer wholly lifeless.

Night fell. Strain collapsing, weariness overtook him. His robes crumpled, his hat vanished, he slumped in carriage half-asleep.

Dragged within his mansion, attendants pulled him to the main hall.

Shen Zhao, his father, awaited—face black as coal.

“Father, your son is exhausted half to death. Can words not wait till dawn?”

“Still you call me father? You’ll drive me into my grave first!” Shen Zhao’s beard bristled as his eyes blazed. “A few days in office, I thought you safe enough. At the Qingtan you shamed us; for that, I punished you lightly, kneeling at the shrine two nights. Even then, your servant smuggled roast geese to you, turning shrine to kitchen—I stayed lenient!”

“But today—what madness! Matters that are not yours, you thrust in unbidden. That is overstepping! Do you think court empty of men? Only you, Shen Qinghe, clever beyond all?”

“Father, surely your courage is too small…”

“My courage—too small?” Nearly snorting laughter in fury, Shen Zhao rose and seized his son’s collar. “Chang and Qi Clans wrestle like titans—what space for you? And behind you stands the whole Shen house. Would you see our name, your sire and mother, your brothers and sisters—all cut down for your rash pride?”

“Father, do you feel no urgency at all?”

Pulled close, Shen Qinghe only smiled.

Shen Zhao stiffened. “What?”

“If I were born high-noble, I could rest easy. Step by step, still my place in the world assured.”

“But I was not. I am but drifting duckweed upon current. Today drifting east with father, tomorrow drifting west, until one wave comes, and I vanish wholly without sound.” Lounging lazily back into the grand armchair, Shen Qinghe murmured:

“I do not like being duckweed.”

“You—wolf’s child, heart of a beast!*” Shen Zhao’s pupils quaked, unable to believe.

* (狼子野心 wolf’s child, heart of wild ambition – a Chinese idiom meaning someone dangerously ambitious, wild, ruthless like a wolf.)

Shen Qinghe pressed: “What is wolfish ambition? I seek no usurpation, no throne. How is that ambition?”

His unbridled words made Shen Zhao quake, lowering his voice fast: “What spirit possessed you—that you dare speak such taboo!”

Gradually he cooled, staring at this son transformed into stranger before his eyes. With a sigh, he yielded:

“What is it you truly seek?”

“I seek—one man below, myriad men above.”

Shen Qinghe’s grin revealed sharp canine teeth, as he looked upon his father’s soul stricken.

“Is that not allowed?”