Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Volume 1

It fell upon the day of full moon of the fourth month, second year of the period Chien-Ning, that the Emperor went in state to the Wên-tê Hall. As he drew near the Throne a rushing whirlwind arose in the corner of the hall and, lo! from the roof beams floated down a monstrous black serpent that coiled itself up on the very seat of majesty. The Emperor fell in a swoon. Those nearest him hastily raised and bore him to his palace while the courtiers scattered and fled. The serpent disappeared.

But there followed a terrific tempest, thunder, hail and torrents of rain, lasting till midnight and working havoc on all sides. Two years later the earth quaked in Loyang, while [2]along the coast a huge tidal wave rushed in which, in its recoil, swept away all the dwellers by the sea. Another evil omen was recorded ten years later, when the reign-title was changed: certain hens suddenly developed male characteristics, a miracle which could only refer to the effeminate eunuchs meddling in affairs of State. At the new moon of the sixth month a long wreath of black vapour wound its way into the audience chamber, while in the following month a rainbow was seen in the Jade Chamber. Away from the capital a mountain fell in, leaving a mighty rift in its flank.

Yüan-tê was twenty eight when the outbreak of the rebellion called for soldiers. The sight of the notice saddened him and he sighed as he read it. Suddenly a rasping voice behind him cried, “Noble Sir, why sigh if you do nothing to help your country?” Turning quickly he saw standing there a man about [5]his own height, with a bullet head like a leopard’s, large eyes, a pointed chin and a bristling moustache. He spoke in a loud bass voice and looked as irresistible as a runaway horse. At once Yüan-tê saw he was no ordinary man and asked who he was.

“Chang Fei is my name; I am usually called I-tê” replied the stranger. “I live near here where I have a farm; and I am a wine-seller and a butcher as well. And I like to become acquainted with worthy men. Your sighs as you read the notice drew me toward you.”

Yüan-tê replied, “I am of the Imperial Family, Liu by name, and my distinguishing name is Pei. An I could I would destroy these rebels and restore peace to the land, but alas! I am helpless.”

“I am not without means,” said Fei. “Suppose you and I raised some men and tried what we could do.”

“We certainly will,” they cried, “and wish you long life.”

That night the tables were spread in an inner room and his friends gathered there. When the wine had made a few rounds the host suddenly covered his face and began to weep.

The guests were aghast.

“Sir, on your birthday too, why do you weep?” said they.

“It is not my birthday,” replied he. “But I wished to call you together and I feared lest Tung Cho should suspect, so I made that the excuse. This man insults the Emperor and does as he wishes so that the imperial prerogatives are in imminent peril. I think of the days when our illustrious founder destroyed Tsʻin, annihilated Chʻu and obtained the Empire. Who could have foreseen this day when that Tung Cho has subjugated all to his will? That is why I weep.”

Then they all wept with him.

Seated among the guests, however, was Tsʻao Tsʻao, who did not join in the weeping but clapped his hands and laughed aloud. [39]

“If all the officers of the government weep till dawn, and from dawn weep till dark, will that slay Tung Cho?” said he.

His host turned on him angrily.

Fear began to lay its cold hand on the assembly. Then said another, “I have a brave warrior among my men. Pʻan Fêng is his name and he could slay this Hua Hsiung.”

So Pʻan was ordered out to meet the foe. With his great battle-axe in his hand he mounted and rode forth. But soon [50]came the direful tidings that he too had fallen. The faces of the gathering paled at this.

“What a pity my two able leaders, Yen Liang and Wên Chʻou, are not here! Then should we have some one who would not fear this man,” said the chief.

He had not finished when from the lower end a voice cried, “I will go, take his head and lay it before you here.”

All turned to look at the speaker. He was tall and had a long beard. His eyes were those of a phœnix and his eyebrows thick and bushy like caterpillars. His face was a swarthy red and his voice deep as the sound of a great bell.

“Who is he?” asked the chief.

Kungsun Tsan told them it was Kuan Yü, brother of Liu Yüan-tê.

“And what is he?”

“He is in the train of Liu Yüan-tê as a mounted archer.”

“An insult to us all!” roared the chief’s brother from his place. “Have we no leader? How dare an archer speak thus before us? Let us beat him forth!”

But Tsʻao Tsʻao intervened. “Peace, O Kung-lu! Since he speaks great words, he is certainly valiant. Let him try. If he fail, then you may reproach him.”

“Hua Hsiung will laugh at us if we send a mere archer to fight him, said the chief.”

The news of the audience for Tung Chʻêng had been taken to the Minister, who at once went to the Palace and arrived as Tung Chʻêng was passing out at the gate. They met face to face and Tung Chʻêng could in nowise avoid him. He went to the side of the road and made his obeisance.

“Where are you from, State Uncle?” asked Tsʻao Tsʻao.

“His Majesty summoned me into the Palace and has given me this robe and beautiful girdle.”

“Why did he give you these?”

“He had not forgotten that I saved his life in the old days.”

“Take it off and let me see it.”

Tung Chʻêng who knew that a secret decree was hidden away somewhere in the garments was afraid Tsʻao Tsʻao would notice a breach somewhere in the material, so he hesitated and did not obey. But the tyrant called his servants. So he took off the girdle. Then Tsʻao looked it over carefully. “It certainly is a very handsome girdle,” said he. “Now take off the robe and let me look at that.”