Chapter Twenty: Sir, Oh Sir!

Every afternoon, when the sunlight blazed most intensely, Tie Xinyuan would take his homemade fruit juice, skirt the cool river, and enter an utterly abandoned mansion through the Tongtian Bridge to the left of the Western Water Gate.

This mansion was vast—the two massive stone lions at its gate alone proclaimed the status of its owner. Yet decades without inhabitants had left it desolate. Wild grass grew rampant in the courtyard, and foxes and other small creatures often darted through the thicket. The beams were thickly webbed with spiders, so much so that one could see fat spiders climbing boldly across their nets.

Once, this place had been the residence of Prime Minister Zhao Pu. After the decline of the family that had governed the realm with half a volume of the Analects, the mansion stood empty. Neither the late emperor nor the current one seemed to remember its existence, letting this beautiful estate succumb to wind and rain, turning it into a haunted house.

Foxes ran merrily; whenever one plunged into the grass, a flock of startled birds would burst skyward, fluttering about in panic. Occasionally, some birds flew into the house, their wings fanning dust from the beams, swirling it into the air.

At such times, Tie Xinyuan would stand with his little basket, grinning in front of a relatively intact, dilapidated house, waiting for the occupant to emerge. This trick worked well; soon, amid a fit of hacking coughs, a dust-covered man would storm out, cursing in annoyance.

Tie Xinyuan would straighten his clothes and respectfully bow. “Your student greets you, sir.”

Once the coughing subsided, the man would habitually lie on a broken couch, never sparing Tie Xinyuan a glance. Tie Xinyuan, unfazed, would take a rag and diligently wipe the stone table in front of the couch clean, then rinse it with fresh water. Only then would he open his lunch box and arrange dishes—a plate of braised meat, one of sliced pig’s ear, a serving of greens dressed in aromatic vinegar, several pieces of sweet-and-sour ribs, and finally, the fruit juice wrapped in a towel, beads of water still clinging to it, placed carefully on the table.

Today’s juice was watermelon, painstakingly pressed by Tie Xinyuan, sweetened and then chilled among ice cubes for half an hour—at this moment, nothing could be fresher.

Still ignoring Tie Xinyuan, the man would glare fiercely at him before turning away entirely.

Tie Xinyuan would then take out a large bowl of gleaming white rice and gently say, “Sir, please taste it. My mother prepared this especially for you. The braised meat is select pork leg, simmered for four hours—the flavor is exquisite. The ribs are only the finest cuts; mother brushed them with honey and twice fried them before tossing them in sauce for the sweet-and-sour taste. This method is a family secret. If you don’t try it, it would be a real shame.”

The man would sit up, eyeing the food before him, gulping down his saliva. Reaching for the chopsticks, he would spot Tie Xinyuan’s smiling face and, irritated, turn away and snap, “Ever since I met you, you little rascal, I haven’t had a single peaceful day. You come here every day to chatter. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after.”

Tie Xinyuan, smiling at nothing in particular, would reply, “Sir, you have been wronged, and your student cannot bear to see it. Victory or defeat is but a passing matter; it does little harm to our Song Dynasty. Why dwell on it? You exile yourself to this abandoned garden, suffering alone.”

The man would take a bite of rib, close his eyes to savor it, and after a while say, “I must praise your mother’s skill.”

Tie Xinyuan would laugh, “But of course. My mother feeds me and keeps me well, all thanks to her culinary prowess. In the pork trade of the capital, she stands unrivaled.”

The man would cast a sidelong glance at Tie Xinyuan and sigh, “Your mother’s resolve to remain faithful to your father is admirable. What I cannot fathom is how a woman so virtuous could bear a son as sly as a fox.”

Tie Xinyuan would reply, “That’s not her fault. My only playmate was a fox, so over time, I picked up some of its habits. I ask you, sir, to correct me, lest I stray too far.”

The man would lift the bottle and take a hearty swig of watermelon juice, exhaling contentedly. He’d pop a few pieces of braised meat into his mouth and laugh, “Now that I’m deserted by all, after the defeat at Haoshui River, though Han Qi led the battle, I, as the Overseer of Hedong, cannot evade blame. Sixty thousand brave men of Song died on the battlefield. Ren Fu, such a fierce general, stood alone and died upright. Han Qi returned home—thousands of villagers led his horse, asking where their sons had gone. Han Qi, shamed, spat blood and fainted.

One man alone cannot bear all the blame. If I don’t shoulder it, who will? When the imperial summons comes, it will be my execution. Boy, aren’t you afraid your hopes will be washed away?”

Tie Xinyuan would busy himself laying out the dishes and softly say, “I am just a child, and children speak simple words. Listen and see if they make sense. Han Qi’s blood was spilled at just the right moment—first, to cover his shame, second, to pull himself out of the whirlpool for now. The censors won’t quarrel with a man nearly dead from blood loss, but someone must be punished for such a defeat. A strong man like you is perfect for the role—not too much, not too little.”

The man would slam the stone table, furious. “Han Zhiqi would never stoop so low! But you, for one so young, are ruthless. If I hadn’t exp