Chapter Eighty-Six: The True Capital Crime

It was said that when a person dies, it is like a lamp being snuffed out.

When a man dies, all things are over.

That was what Ironheart had always believed. It was still what he believed now, and only moments ago that conviction had come crashing down around him.

He had returned to the scene of the crime, intending to assess just how much damage the pigs had done to the condemned building, when he witnessed the vilest, cruelest sight in the world.

Old Liang’s ruined body had been threaded through with ropes by the constables and hung high from a flagpole, swaying slowly in the cold wind, as though it were still trying to break free of the binding cord.

Perhaps Old Liang had foreseen the fate awaiting him before he died, and so had tried to burn his own body to ash.

It was a pity he had only burned part of it.

The rest had been found by the constables of Kaifeng County amid the rubble. After being doused clean with water, it had been hung from the flagpole, where it was said the corpse would be exposed for ten days.

His shattered head drooped miserably. His manhood hung naked in the daylight. All privacy had been stripped from him, for not a shred of his body was covered.

Ten Daoist masters tied one red cord after another around the skeleton remaining in Old Liang’s lower legs, muttering incantations under their breath, while thirty-six more Daoists stood nearby with peach-wood swords, singing and dancing.

Long ago, after the Yellow Emperor defeated Chiyou, he had dismembered Chiyou’s corpse. The head was left in Jizhou and forged day and night with fire, until fifty taels of pure gold were obtained. The limbs were sent to the frontier in the four directions of east, south, west, and north, so as to overawe the barbarians.

The government had hung up Old Liang’s body for one purpose alone: to frighten everyone else, including Ironheart, who was standing there watching the rubble.

Where the pig farm had once stood, carcasses of fat hogs were piled in mountains. The meat had been contaminated by sorcerous filth and could not be eaten, so a group of constables were pouring lamp oil over the bodies. With a single blaze, the stench would spread for miles downwind, and black smoke would rise straight up into the heavens.

The Sixth Prince, Zhao Zongyi, had gone mad.

The prince’s residence had posted a notice offering a generous reward to any master capable of helping Zhao Zongyi recover his lost soul.

Where there is a rich reward, brave men are sure to appear. Many had tried, but each one left shrieking in misery. The prince’s household beatings were severe; after one of them, a man would likely have to remain bedridden for three to five months before he could walk again.

Ironheart could not save Old Liang’s corpse any more than he could have saved the living Old Liang. The only comfort he had was that Old Liang no longer had to endure such suffering in life.

In truth, the government of the Great Song did not forbid Old Liang’s kin from sneaking out at night to lower the body and bury it. But no one dared try, not even Ironheart.

In order to clear away the condemned building that had been dumped into the river channel, the authorities had mobilized a great many laborers. In this bitter winter, unemployed drudges had to clear the waterway little by little before the river thawed.

As a result, the place where the condemned structure had stood once more grew lively, as though the work there had never ceased.

Bun crouched on the ground, grinning foolishly at Ironheart. He very much hoped Ironheart would hire him, because the petty officials supervising the riverwork did not want him. They thought he ate too much; just feeding him would wipe out all the profit they could squeeze from him.

Ironheart glanced at Old Liang, still hanging from the flagpole, and sighed. Then he gave up on hiring Bun.

Old Liang had already resolved to die, so Ironheart did not feel much guilt over sending him to it. But if he made a fool like Bun die for no reason at all because of his schemes, then, as his mother said, that would be true sin. Even if one reached the netherworld, King Yama would never spare a person burdened with such guilt.

Ironheart was not especially afraid of King Yama. He was more afraid of the disappointed look in his mother’s eyes. In two lifetimes, it had not been easy to have a mother at all; to make her sad and let down would itself be a grave crime.

In Ironheart’s heart, the latter sin was far more serious than the former.

“Carry me around the streets. But if you bang my head against a signboard again this time, I absolutely will not give you any more copper cash for meals.”

Bun nodded happily and, with one hand, lifted Ironheart up and set him onto his shoulders. He took a great stride forward as if he were about to sprint off at once, but then remembered the warning about no money for food and immediately slowed down, carrying Ironheart carefully toward Horse Market Street.

Only one day remained before the New Year. Many shops were busy seizing the final sales season, trying every trick they could to move their goods. A peddler selling cloth remnants stood pounding a huge bronze gong, shouting himself hoarse as he hawked his scraps to the women passing up and down the street. Ironheart thought the gong was a staggeringly stupid idea. It nearly deafened everyone; who would still have the mind to buy his cloth remnants?

Just then, a child in a woman’s arms burst into tears from the gong’s clamor. No amount of coaxing from the mother helped. Her husband, enraged, grabbed the peddler, slammed him to the ground, and gave him a ruthless beating while bystanders shouted their approval.

When the bruised and battered peddler finally struggled to his feet, he did not even wipe the blood from his nose. Instead, he grinned and bowed repeatedly in all directions, and even demanded that the very man who had just beaten him must buy some of his cloth remnants, or else he would report him to the authorities.

The many comic scenes playing out on the street were so amusing that Ironheart found himself reluctant to leave. He bought a large bundle of osmanthus cakes, stuffed one into his own mouth and two into Bun’s. The cakes were dry; soon they made him thirsty, so the two of them went to a sweet drink shop. Ironheart ordered a bowl of pear soup, while Bun needed an entire pot of red bean soup just to quench his thirst.

Bun’s shoulders were broad and sturdy, and riding on him felt very steady. What Ironheart liked most of all was how clean Bun’s hair was, clean beyond measure. His thick hair gave off the scent of soapberry, and not a patch of dandruff could be found.

When a child sits on a giant’s shoulders, no one looks at the child; all eyes are on the giant. Some little boys perched on their fathers’ necks looked at Ironheart with envy, hating that their own fathers were not so tall. They were so envious of his ability to stretch out a hand and pluck silk flowers right off an upstairs balcony that their mouths nearly dripped with saliva.

Bun did not care in the least when Ironheart tucked flowers into his hair. He was extremely satisfied with the day’s outing. Not only had his mouth never once been idle, he had also drunk an entire pot of red bean soup, something he had never tasted before.

The hot sausages were not tasty at all. Ironheart even saw a suspicious pale-green lump inside them. Bun, however, was not fussy. No matter what Ironheart stuffed into his mouth, he would quickly eat it all, which greatly sharpened Ironheart’s desire to spend money.

Before long, Bun’s hands were carrying countless bundles of every size, wrapped in lotus leaves and tied with hemp cord, and even a jarred chicken glistening with oil.

The roasted quail was not good either, but Bun liked it very much. So Ironheart bought five at once, and Bun devoured them one by one in no time at all.

With Bun’s tireless legs, Ironheart not only covered half of the Eastern Capital, but also, thanks to Bun’s massive build, walked into a gambling den and cast several rounds of dice. His luck was excellent; he won more than a hundred copper coins at a stroke. When the two of them left with their winnings, the tattooed enforcers of the little gambling house did not even dare stop them.

Inside the entertainment market, two beautiful women wearing nothing but a strip of white cloth bound around their hips were wrestling bare-chested on a platform. It was all rather uninteresting, really: just the process of one woman tearing away the last scrap of modesty from the other.

As for the other one, after Ironheart tossed a handful of copper coins onto the platform, she undid it herself and even performed a splendid split, drawing wolfish howls from all sides.

All of this was done after Ironheart had covered Bun’s eyes, fearing that his shameless antics that day might harm the boy’s innocent heart.

By the time it looked as though his money was nearly spent, Ironheart put the remaining two hundred copper coins into Bun’s pocket. He also gave Bun all the things he had bought that day, then had him set him down at the gate of Imperial Street. After that, he smiled and bade Bun farewell.

There was not a single coin left in his pocket, and the little bit of silver in his purse had been used up as well. Looking at his empty purse, Ironheart felt immensely satisfied. A wallet empty like his own heart—that was just right.

In the winter twilight, Imperial Street was often deserted. The great vermilion gates of wealthy mansions were shut tight, and the smaller households’ gates were shut tight as well.

Ironheart stood alone in the empty street and suddenly cried out at the top of his lungs. Then he threw the last sweet candy in his hand over the wall into the imperial district.

Fox emerged from the dog hole beneath the gate and stood at the entrance, panting like a dog as it looked at Ironheart with deep affection.

That made Ironheart’s nose sting. He hurried forward, embraced Fox, and buried his face in the animal’s fluffy silver fur, murmuring, “How could they punish a dead man like this? How could they punish a dead man like this?”

Fox could not speak. It only made soft whimpering sounds, trying to comfort the heartbroken Ironheart.

“Where did you run off to all day?” his mother’s voice came from behind him.

Ironheart lifted his face from Fox’s fur and said with a smile, “I had never once toured the Eastern Capital before. Since I had no lessons today, I hired Bun to carry me around the city.”

Lady Wang carefully looked him over from head to toe and, finding nothing amiss, frowned and said, “That much Mother knows. Little Hua’s mother saw Bun carrying you around when she was going to the medicine shop on Horse Market Street to fetch herbs. I’m only curious: on ordinary days, if I ask you to accompany me on a stroll, you look as though I’m trying to kill you. How did you suddenly become so interested in going out on your own today?”

Then she looked at her son’s empty hands and said, “It seems you didn’t buy a thing.”

Ironheart gave an awkward laugh. “I just went to have a look.”

“Just have a look? And that ‘just a look’ took you straight into the entertainment market? If you don’t tell Mother clearly what you saw there today, I’m afraid you won’t get through this gate.”

The smile vanished from Lady Wang’s face in an instant. She seized Ironheart by the ear and marched him through the gate into the house.