陆逊之死
The Death of Lu Xun

Written by 绎唇¹
Translated by Charmaine Sia

At the beginning, everybody assumed that this kingdom’s glory would fade with the demise of a man called Zhou Yu.

You were only twenty-seven when Master Zhou passed away. At that time, your name was Yì², a resplendent and elegant word. Under my brush, it would always be warped into another character: Yí³. You should have been known by this name, for when you stood among the assembly of civil and military officials in your immaculate white robe, you exuded an air of inborn nobility. The keen gazes of people could not see through you, nor could the specks of dust in the air stain your white robe.

Subsequently, I heard the whispers of people:

“Who’s that?”

“General Sun Bofu’s son-in-law.”

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?”

“Whoever that is, he isn’t Master Zhou.”

Sun Quan, standing in the hall, was also young then. His mournful gaze would sweep over the gathering of scholars and warriors, sometimes stopping at you. Then he would turn away without uttering a word. I think, at that time, he was the only person who knew that you were no less capable than Master Zhou. But even if he knew, he only knew, no more.

He said that Master Zhou was a loyal eagle, his claws so sharp that one could find no fault with them, whereas you were a whetted sword, gleaming menacingly, able to harm oneself if one weren’t careful. I wanted to say that you were only as pure and gentle as flowing water, and that your white robe veiled not the humming energy of a blade, but the glimmer of rushing water. A pity he didn’t know it.

That was where you were different from him. While you bided your time, he danced with the sword and played the zither. He was far more fortunate than you, for he met Ce, who loved to laugh and drink and dance with the sword and play the zither just as he did. Their lives were short, their glory fleeting, but they were fortunate and not ill-fated in this sense. Their tale ended at its most splendid moment and became immortal, whereas you had to gently but firmly smile, as before, from the time of Master Zhou, to your time, until the end. What you had to face was not only the helplessness of aging day by day, not only the departure of familiar faces one by one, not only the darkening gleam in your liege’s eyes, not only the soundless decline of a kingdom, but also many other matters that others would never think of. I can understand it, but I can’t describe it, for when I try to articulate it, tears begin to flow.

You were already forty when you burnt the enemy’s camps. Compared to the time when you quelled Danyang, the years had silently left their traces on your visage. When you stood on the highest mountain of the Eastern plains, observing the sea of fire below, you had simultaneously reached the peak of your career. They all commented that that was your Golden Age, but my memories choose to linger on the youth of twenty, full of vigour, who led a band of scattered soldiers and wandering heroes through the verdant forests and the dazzling sunlight. Your youth was lost in an unknown corner. When people saw your brilliance, they admired your fortune in meeting the correct ruler, but nobody saw the loneliness that accompanied you for twenty years.

Dashing into the Eight Arrays at Fishbelly Creek was probably the only juvenile and impetuous deed you did in your lifetime. Please forgive me for stubbornly using the phrase “juvenile and impetuous” on you at the age of forty. It’s just that I’ve never glimpsed eyebrows as limpid or a smile as firm but gentle on any other forty-year-old. Your years would slip away, your glory would pass, but your eyebrows and your smile would remain.

Let me return to Fishbelly Creek. You laughingly charged into that pile of disorganised stones, and in that instant, I saw the shadow of Master Zhou in you. Then the dust and sand shaped themselves into waves and hillocks one behind the other. You were lost in the chaotic heap of boulders, and the expression you wore made you seem like a helpless child. Yes, in all your life, I saw this helpless expression only once. From the time you were born, you were destined to have exceptional intelligence. You anticipated everything, including failure. All except this once.

Heaven will not thoughtlessly punish a person for the only mistake in his lifetime. Somebody appeared and led you out of the maze. You had always known that you were not Zhuge Liang’s equal, and this experience strengthened your conviction. I don’t know whether to rejoice or to despair at your foresight, for you were too intelligent, too intelligent to desire luck. Were you aware that when the torches of Cao Cao’s two hundred thousand troops illuminated the night at Chibi so that it resembled day, nobody, including Master Zhou, ever envisaged that East Wu would triumph? He only thought, Let’s give it a try. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be lucky.

Victory belongs to the lucky, but continued success belongs only to the wise. When you were stationed at Jingzhou, your reticence and modesty remained unchanged; what was different was that you now shouldered the burden of the entire East Wu and hence the admiring gaze of all China. Seven years later, you proved with another victory that your reputation was not undeserved. In Wuchang city, Sun Quan’s parasol screened the sunbeams that belonged to you and obstructed your future path. He smiled at you, an unfathomable smile, like the river surface at Fishbelly Creek, tranquil like a mirror, yet capable of becoming threatening at any moment. You grasped the implications of his smile, but no other option availed itself to you. The name of Lu Xun would tower resolutely as the strongest wall of defence of East Wu. You had climbed too high; there was no turning back.

That battle established your position and secured the Emperor of Wu’s implicit trust in you. When he consulted you on every issue, his countenance was one of genuine trust and reliance. I also had good reason to believe his trust and reliance, for in those tumultuous times, he had no alternative but to depend on you.

While you practised archery at the gate, the aged Zhuge Jin was hastening towards your camp, anxious and perplexed. You steadily shot arrow after arrow onto the target, then chuckled at the uproar of your zestful generals, “Lord Lu, you’re going to win all our dinners over!” When Zhuge Jin appeared before you, sweating heavily, you even enquired playfully if he wanted to join in. In stark contrast with his agitation, your composure gave the impression that you belonged to another world. Nobody appreciated what that expedition meant to you. If your report had not been intercepted, you should have witnessed the spoils of war in Hefei. That was the last opportunity to conquer Wei in your lifetime. However, you said nothing, just kept on smiling placidly, as you always had. The word “if” should never have been spoken by you.

Subsequently, you began to age irrevocably. You returned to Jianye and led the existence of an earnest and devoted advisor. People marvelled at your military talent, but they forgot that you were also adept at governance. Nobody else had eyebrows as pellucid as yours, capable of resolving affairs at a glance. You lucidly voiced what you perceived, never concerned about the trouble that drawing the line too clearly would cause you. Yes, you had completely stopped caring about yourself. When you ascended the Terrace of Appointment, you simultaneously delivered yourself onto the sacrificial altar of a kingdom.

You were already sixty-two when you became the Prime Minister. That was the seventh year of Chiwu, and a peculiar atmosphere permeated the palaces of Wu. At dinner, no official except you remained at home; they split into two factions and streamed into the palace of the Crown Prince or the Prince of Lu. At the unceasing banquets, people were numbed and bribed with wine; their tipsy eyes espied limitless prospects in the wine goblets.

At the same time, you were writing memorials in the peace and quiet of your home, your son by your side grinding ink. A steaming cup of tea would always rest on your broad and spotless desk, the only object in this austere dwelling which radiated warmth. Your body was already very frail, so feeble that I was worried about whether it would be able to withstand the chilly winter, but you never fretted about it. Your serenity made you appear like a ruler, even though your residence was far from fit for a Prime Minister.

Your successive petitions eventually let Sun Quan find the determination to take action against his fears. In reality, this apprehension had existed from the moment he glimpsed the gleam which your white robe could not conceal. For forty years, he had beheld your continual reticence and glory. He wielded this sword when it was necessary, but he wished to dispose of its keen edge when he no longer required it. He was as clever as you, although you never existed on your own scale. Initially, nobody expected that he would be able to outshine his father and elder brother, but in reality, he had unconsciously eclipsed and far surpassed them. He was more than a hero; he was a man of ambition.

That was a thriving era. Compared to the Jiangdong of forty years before, the fields were more luxurious, the cities more bustling. A wide river and your name were the firmest walls of East Wu. Behind this wall, the populace lived in happiness. Merry gatherings were held; peace and tranquillity prevailed.

That was an era of uncertainty. Nobody knew who all under Heaven would eventually come under. Most terrifying of all was the interval between wars, for without carnage, people began to have more energy to contemplate other matters. The waiting had lasted too long, and so they vented their indignation on the inhabitants behind the wall and thrust the swords meant for slaughtering enemies at the throats of their own countrymen.

When you vomited your first mouthful of blood on the edict delivered by the envoy, Sun Quan was soaking in his white jade tub, the Imperial Physician placing black leeches on his body—allegedly a method of treating minor strokes. You were both old; death was only a matter of time. But both of you could not depart so easily: he was a monarch, and as such, he had to be in complete control even after he expired, while your outcome was merely one that every individual whose achievements surpassed those of his sovereign would suffer.

But did it have to be this way?

“Did it have to be this way?”

A dim lamp drifted gloomily in the silent palace as Sun Quan lay lazily in the tub filled with chrysanthemums and medicinal herbs. Although his eyes were shut, he still warily took in the Imperial Physician’s every move. At some time, he had become overly suspicious of those at his side. Nevertheless, he was convinced of your loyalty.

“So, did it have to be this way?”

He could believe your loyalty, but he could not trust himself. That year, everybody knew that Wei had a subject named Sima Yi whose achievements surpassed those of his sovereign. He appeared absolutely faithful to the Cao clan, but there was something unsettling about his two sons and mischievous Cao Fang. He did not want his heir to be the protagonist of a similar episode. Therefore, you were fated to be the cornerstone of the well-trodden path he would take.

I think you had foreseen this conclusion long ago: when you left the battlefield, yet were unwilling to retire from the arena of life, you were fated to bear the lot of fighting to the very end. But when the finish arrived, I could still feel your resentment and grief—once again, you had not been lucky. All your life, you never encountered Lady Luck.

You passed away on a tempestuous night. You vomited your last mouthful of blood on the edict sent by Sun Quan. Then your clear eyes and benign smile departed forever. Your body had once been very beautiful, as beauteous as your soul. However, on this night, it unexpectedly atrophied, so that you were as light as a falling leaf when you died.

A star fell at the instant you closed your eyes, a star that Sun Quan saw from his palace. He suddenly remembered the first time you stood under his parasol, when the sun spread its dazzling rays over the land and both of you exchanged glances and smiled. The shadow of a tree shrouded his wrinkled face, thus I was unable to see if there were tears at the corners of his eyes.

Five years after your death, while he was still able to think and speak like a normal person, he deposed the Crown Prince and compelled the Prince of Lu to take his own life. That year, the Simas consolidated their absolute authority in Wei; that year, Jiang Wei of Shu deliberated how he should use the remnants of his troops to keep Wei in check, enfeebling that kingdom which already had one foot in its grave; that year, the people of Wu were already unwilling to think too deeply—they preferred to imagine that the walls of this kingdom could still stand erect without you; they would rather hide behind the wide river and lead a life that would soon end. The gentle and firm era that belonged to you, that struggled until your death finally ended.

Two years later, Sun Quan passed away. By that time, he was unable to speak, hence nobody knows what he was thinking on his deathbed. History limped beside inebriated bureaucrats for another twenty-nine years, concluding with the fall of Wu. When soldiers with Northern accents appeared south of the river, few were surprised.

Everything will pass; everything, no matter how desolate or flourishing, how lovely or hoary, will eventually dissolve into dust in the breeze, into words on the yellowing pages of a book. And then there was no longer Wu, and then no longer Jin, no longer the era of golden axes and battle steeds, no longer the Commander-in-Chief with bright eyes and a confident smile who surveyed the sea of fire from the mountains of the Eastern plains, dressed in his flowing white robe. People may occasionally remember, but it doesn’t mean that they haven’t forgotten.

And at this moment, I stand on the soil of Jiangdong, looking at the bustling world around me, and weep uncontrollably.

Endnotes:

¹ The original text may be found at the following website: 陆逊之死.

² 议, meaning “discuss”.

³ 仪, meaning “deportment”.

Copyright © Charmaine Sia