HCT – Chapter 190 Songs of Chu on the City Walls

Most of the time, defending a city did not mean holding out to the death atop the walls. Only when the disparity in numbers was overwhelming, and the city both vast and sturdy, would defenders have no choice but to rely on the walls until reinforcements came.

Like the Battle of Diaoyu Fortress at the end of the Song dynasty, and the Battle of Hongdu at the end of the Yuan.

The former surrendered when relief never arrived; the latter held out until reinforcements came, laying the foundation for Zhu Yuanzhang’s eventual unification of the realm.

When Li Mu wrote to Zhu Xiang, he drafted several versions of defensive strategies, leaving it to Zhu Xiang to decide according to circumstances.

Li Mu favored holding the walls.

Although Guangling was a small city, Li Mu had reinforced the walls after taking station there, and even dug a new moat. As long as there were enough men on the walls, Zhu Xiang could easily hold out ten days.

But Zhu Xiang thought that clinging to a small city was far too passive. Li Mu was underestimating Xiang Yan.

Though Zhu Xiang had not witnessed many city defenses in his previous life, in this world he had seen plenty—great and small. In particular, Lian Po was skilled at defense and often pulled Zhu Xiang aside to instruct him.

To defend a city, one must also fight in the field.

If the disparity in strength was no more than five to one, the gates should be opened, trenches and palisades built outside, and layer upon layer of defenses established, actively confronting the enemy in the open.

Once the attacking army reached the gates, that was already the last line of defense. The defenders would be forced into passivity, with no chance of victory—at best only clinging on until help arrived.

Lian Po said: the states had limited manpower, reinforcements were rare, and reaching that point was already a defeat. If an outstanding general both besieged and intercepted reinforcements, even arriving allies would still lose.

At present, though Xiang Yan had swept away Chu’s rebels, in the eyes of the other six states this was no true achievement. Li Mu was already a commander recognized across the Seven States, and so Xiang Yan was inevitably looked down upon.

But Zhu Xiang would never underestimate Xiang Yan—for this was the man who had once blunted the First Emperor’s drive to unify the realm.

If Li Mu had only given him one plan, Zhu Xiang would have followed the professional’s advice. But Li Mu trusted Zhu Xiang’s ability to hold Guangling even more than Zhu Xiang himself did. Thus, he provided multiple feasible strategies, leaving Zhu Xiang to decide based on his familiarity with Guangling and his observations of the enemy.

Li Mu stressed in his letter that his strategies were only predictions drawn from experience. The battlefield was ever-shifting; a commander had to adjust according to sharp observation at all times.

“If you lack confidence, then abandon Guangling.”

Though Li Mu had outlined his strategic intent, he also told Zhu Xiang he could retreat.

Xiang Yan’s momentum was fierce, and the Chu people north of the Yangtze had long been hostile to Qin. A temporary withdrawal could also be a sound move.

But since Zhu Xiang chose to remain, he had to shoulder the responsibility of command in Guangling.

Meng Tian, though destined to be a great general, was now far too green. The burden fell to Zhu Xiang.

Zhu Xiang asked himself again and again—could he truly lead?

Was he not just another Zhao Kuo, a commander only in maps and words?

But since he knew the way that could save most of the city’s people, there was no retreat.

He summoned Meng Tian and the other Qin officers, together with the Chu scholars of Guangling, and revealed the matter—though with some trimming of the truth.

“Xiang Yan leads the southern Chu army north. Many cities on the north bank of the Yangtze immediately turned on the Qin army and welcomed him. Therefore, General Wu Chengjun, Li Mu, has judged that clinging to the north bank is not worth the cost, and will withdraw to the south.”

Zhu Xiang swept his gaze across the assembly.

The scholars of Guangling looked ashen, despair etched on their faces.

He continued: “You are the same. You betrayed Qin once already. If you want Qin’s help now, you must show sincerity.”

Chen Qi immediately said, “This old man is willing to donate all my family property!”

Once he spoke, others followed one after another, offering their fortunes in exchange for Qin’s intervention.

Zhu Xiang shook his head: “Qin does not want your property. What Qin needs to see is the sincerity and strength of Guangling as a whole. Can you truly break with Chu? Do you truly hold value enough to warrant Qin’s aid? If you wish not to have the city burned and the people forced northward, it is not enough to withstand Xiang Yan once. The southern Chu kingdom will never cease trying to uproot this thorn from the north bank.”

He sighed: “Do you truly believe that surviving this one assault means you are saved?”

The scholars’ expressions grew even more mournful.

Zhu Xiang had pierced the truth they dared not think: even if Qin helped them hold Guangling this time, would Chu not return again? They would live forever under the shadow of war.

—Better to flee!

Zhu Xiang saw their wavering and said: “Those willing to migrate north, leave now—while Xiang Yan is still entangled with rebellious Chu people elsewhere. Though you will lose most of your wealth, at least you’ll keep your lives.”

Chen Qi asked sorrowfully, “And those unwilling to go?”

Zhu Xiang hardened his face, forcing coldness into his voice: “Then prepare yourselves for endless war with Chu. If you would protect Guangling, then show Qin your resolve to become Qin people.”

He raised a finger: “Ten-plus cities north of the river have been abandoned. General Li is redeeming himself by campaigning against Nanyue. It will take at least half a month for my message to reach him, and only then could Qin’s main forces return. If Guangling’s soldiers and citizens can hold for one month, Li Mu’s fleet will surely return. Can you hold?! Dare you hold?!”

His roar thundered in their ears.

One month—by themselves? Impossible!

A young scholar protested: “If we endure a month, will the Qin truly come to save us?”

Zhu Xiang said calmly: “If you dare to hold, I dare to stay in Guangling—and force Li Mu’s hand to send aid.”

Meng Tian, who had seemed distracted until now, turned pale: “Lord Zhu Xiang! You mustn’t!”

Zhu Xiang stood, stepped into the hall, and faced the Chu men of Guangling: “If you dare to save yourselves, I will help you. If you will stand, I will stand with you. I will share your fate—will you?!”

Meng Tian rushed forward, dropping to his knees: “Lord Zhu Xiang, you mustn’t! Since you came you’ve built canals, taught them to farm—have they ever spoken one word of gratitude? The people of Guangling know no loyalty, like wild dogs that can’t be tamed. You save them, they’ll only throw open the gates, hand you over to Chu, and beg for their lives!”

His blunt insults left the scholars trembling, faces pale, lips quivering.

Fu Qiu too gritted his teeth, knelt, and said: “Lord Zhu Xiang, General Meng speaks true. If virtue repays hatred, what repays virtue? They chose the Chu lord themselves. You already returned the city’s governance to them. Now that the Chu lord spurns them, they want to crawl back to Qin—are they not like house slaves who change masters at whim? How can they be trusted?”

Meng Tian had called them wild dogs. Fu Qiu, being a Confucian, was slightly gentler, calling them faithless slaves.

The Guangling scholars shook with rage, wanting to curse back, but dared not—and could not find words.

Since Li Mu entered the city, the Qin army’s discipline had been stricter even than Chu’s. And Zhu Xiang, in his half-year here, had treated the people as his own children, daily laboring in the fields to teach them farming—something even their own scholars had never done.

The Qin valued Guangling far more than Chu ever had. Yet the scholars only longed for Chu’s return, never seeing themselves as Qin people, never thanking Zhu Xiang—only mocking him in secret as a fool.

Now they were being asked to entrust their lives to this very “fool.”

Shameless!

Chen Qi trembled and fell to his knees, saying nothing.

He had been the first to beg Zhu Xiang to save the city. Now, he could not speak at all. Did he not know how shameless he was?

But it was a city’s lives at stake. Shameless or not, he could only bow his head.

Yet even prepared for shamelessness, he could no longer plead aloud—only knock his head against the floor again and again.

Zhu Xiang’s heart ached, but he did not lift him up.

Instead, he looked quietly at the others.

Under his steady gaze, the scholars one by one knelt, heads lowered in silence.

Zhu Xiang tilted his head back and sighed: “If Guangling can hold, I am confident it will become the thorn in Chu’s flesh, and I can persuade the Qin King to station heavy troops here. But all of this depends on you proving your loyalty and worth.”

“I am here, and I cannot just watch while the people are slaughtered. So I am willing to gamble.” He sighed again. “You have one day. If you would leave, go tomorrow. Once Guangling raises its hand against Chu, do not dream of surrendering later.”

He helped Meng Tian and Fu Qiu up in turn: “I will not die. With my reputation, both the southern Chu lord and Xiang Yan would treat me well. Whoever tried to use me as a hostage would only bring death upon themselves. At worst, I’ll be taken as a guest to the Chu king.”

“But Guangling, once it resists, will surely face massacre.” He lowered his eyes, looking at the kneeling crowd. “You’ve already seen the fate of other cities north of the river. I trust you won’t harbor foolish hopes.”

Meng Tian cried anxiously: “Lord Zhu Xiang! Think of the Crown Prince—he still awaits your return to Wu!”

Zhu Xiang said: “My words and deeds are from my own heart. No one can sway me.”

He drew out the tiger tally: “With the king’s command, I hold the authority over the three southern Qin commanderies. Meng Tian, hear my order!”

But before he could finish, Meng Tian—relying on his younger generation’s privilege—played the child.

He plopped onto the floor and sulked: “Uncle, if you want to take my tally, take it. But don’t think you can send me away. If anything happens to you, neither the Crown Prince nor my father will forgive me. I’d rather die here in battle.”

Zhu Xiang: “…”

It was the first time he’d seen Meng Tian throw a tantrum before him. He was utterly stunned.

Zhu Xiang had always been easy for the younger generation to “handle.” When Meng Tian started acting spoiled, Zhu Xiang could only change the subject: “Get up first, this is unseemly!”

Fu Qiu and Jiao Yun, who had kept quiet, hurriedly lifted the young general from the ground, one on each side, not letting him embarrass Zhu Xiang further.

Zhu Xiang straightened his expression and said: “You should all rise as well. Whether to defend or retreat, we must begin preparing now. Tomorrow night, I will come again to hear your decision.”

With a wave of his hand, Zhu Xiang had them escorted out.

The next day, he ordered the Qin soldiers to beat gongs, summoning the townsfolk and nearby farmers, informing them of their current situation. They were given two choices: flee, or enter the city to help defend it.

They had only two days to decide. After that, no outsiders would be allowed into the city.

While the Chu people were still weighing their choice, Zhu Xiang set about having the city walls repaired, the moat widened, and defensive equipment constructed.

At last, Xiang Yan arrived.

He should have arrived much earlier.

The Qin army had only put up token resistance before quickly retreating one after another. Retaking the lost territory north of the Yangtze should not have been difficult for Xiang Yan.

What slowed his steps were the massacres and the relocation edict.

Xiang Yan had not originally intended to go too far. The first massacre was meant to frighten both the Qin troops and those Chu who had surrendered to Qin, throwing the conquered cities into chaos.

Having achieved that strategic goal, he should have stopped. But the relocation edict, passed by Chu King and the Southern Chu ruler at his suggestion, forced his hand.

His plan had been for the edict to be implemented gradually by the Southern Chu ruler after he had reclaimed the cities.

But that ruler clearly did not want to shoulder the responsibility alone. Since the idea was Xiang Yan’s, he would drag Xiang Yan down with him.

What’s more, Xiang Yan had brought the Xiang family’s elite soldiers. By having him burn the cities during his campaigns, Southern Chu ensured that once Xiang Yan left, there would be no unrest to deal with later. If Southern Chu himself carried it out afterwards, internal strife might erupt, perhaps even toppling him soon after he had taken the throne.

Ironically, this had also been part of Xiang Yan’s original intent.

The relocation edict was the only real countermeasure against Li Mu, but it was a strategy of “fighting poison with poison.” If the Southern Chu ruler mishandled it, the new Southern Chu state—already lacking legitimacy—would quickly be consumed by the resentment of its scholars and populace, and be torn apart from within.

The Chu King could then easily swallow the territory again and depose the ruler.

Unfortunately, the Southern Chu ruler and his nobles were not fools. They immediately saw through Xiang Yan’s rather clumsy ploy.

The edict had to be carried out by Xiang Yan personally. Otherwise, they threatened to abandon the recaptured cities north of the Yangtze altogether—or even defect to Qin and become its vassals.

Xiang Yan was brilliant in war, but politically naïve. He had been outmaneuvered, shackled to the chariot, his reputation sullied, and his offensive bogged down.

Fortunately for him, the Qin were determined not to hold territory north of the Yangtze. Otherwise, had they counterattacked, Xiang Yan would certainly have suffered a crushing defeat.

Driven to desperation, even the lowly commoners—dismissed as numb and docile as pigs and dogs by the great nobles—rose up in resistance.

Chu was also full of wandering swordsmen. They rallied peasants to fight the Chu army. Though like arms raised to stop a chariot, they were swiftly crushed, each attempt left Xiang Yan’s army a little battered, his war chariot a little more worn, its advance slower.

Thus, Zhu Xiang gained a full half month to prepare.

Guangling was the last great city north of the Yangtze.

Xiang Yan stood on his chariot, gazing at the thick lines of bamboo palisades before Guangling City, and sighed deeply.

“Lord Zhu Xiang, I have long admired you.” He clasped his fists and bowed from atop the chariot.

Zhu Xiang nodded to those beside him. With Meng Tian and Jiao Yun at his side, he rode his horse around the palisades, fully exposing himself to the gaze of the Chu army.

“General Xiang, I too have long admired you. But you never answered my letter,” Zhu Xiang said evenly.

Seeing Zhu Xiang’s daring, Xiang Yan’s admiration only deepened.

Though he indeed dared not harm Zhu Xiang, it was another matter altogether for Zhu Xiang to risk himself like this.

“Lord Zhu Xiang sent me a letter? I did not know—perhaps it was lost.” Xiang Yan lied through his teeth.

Of course he had received it, but he could not reply.

Standing on the side of righteousness, whatever he wrote would be wrong.

What he had not expected was that Zhu Xiang would ride out personally, in the middle of a siege, to demand an answer face to face. It left him awkward and ashamed.

Xiang Yan still held to the nobles’ code of honor; he was no shameless rogue.

Zhu Xiang asked: “Is the Southern Chu ruler here?”

A man past fifty, with greying hair and beard, stood up on a canopied chariot: “I am here.”

“Then let us say the letter was lost. Today, I ask you again, face to face—will the Southern Chu ruler and General Xiang swear by the names of your ancestors that not a hair on the people of Guangling shall be harmed? And if they are relocated, that you will grant them land and homes, so they will not be left destitute?”

Zhu Xiang’s voice rang out, so loud that the Chu soldiers before and behind him stirred at the words.

But neither the Southern Chu ruler nor Xiang Yan answered.

They would gladly deceive Zhu Xiang, but swearing on their ancestors was too grave. The Southern Chu ruler’s claim to the throne was tenuous; Xiang Yan was a rising favorite at court with many enemies. Neither dared make such an oath lightly.

Zhu Xiang asked three times, and still they stayed silent.

He sighed: “Then there is nothing left to discuss. Let us fight.”

Turning his horse, he rode back openly, through the first palisade and ditch, over the second wall and traps, across the bridge over the third moat, and into the city gate.

The gates stood wide open. The defenders—both Qin and Chu—were already stationed along the three outer defenses.

Only when those fell would they retreat inside, shut the gates, and hold the walls to the death.

Guangling was not a large city, with only two main gates. One opened onto the water. Only this one faced open ground fit for an assault.

The Southern Chu ruler, Xiang Yan, and the Chu soldiers behind them all watched Zhu Xiang’s return in silence.

Another heavy sigh rose in Xiang Yan’s heart.

He knew that Zhu Xiang’s very appearance had dealt a heavy blow to his army’s morale. He could not tell whether Zhu Xiang had done this as deliberate strategy, or out of sincerity.

But he could not stop him. He had to let Zhu Xiang finish speaking.

If he tried to frighten Zhu Xiang with arrows or cursed him in anger, morale would plummet further. Worse—if Zhu Xiang were harmed before the battle even began, the Chu King would surely hand him over to Qin to appease its wrath.

Xiang Yan’s head ached. The fight had not yet begun, and already he knew it would be difficult.

Yet the bowstring was drawn—there was no turning back. He could only order the army to attack.

The defenders were ready. The battlefield constrained to this single front, there was no room for trickery—only brutal, head-on combat.

Zhu Xiang had pits and bamboo palisades for cover. Xiang Yan pressed forward with bronze war chariots as shields.

At this moment, the bronze war chariots’ power was no less than Wang Jian’s heavy cavalry.

And Xiang Yan, having seen Wang Jian’s cavalry, had also trained a force of armored riders. Though not as formidable as true heavy cavalry, they could still press close at the front, exchanging short-range volleys with the defenders, exerting tremendous pressure.

The battlefield was bloody and fierce.

The defenders had the advantage of terrain, and one of their lives was worth five or ten of the Chu attackers. But Xiang Yan had brought a hundred thousand troops, with thirty thousand elites. The defenders had fewer than twenty thousand in all, of whom perhaps fifteen thousand were true soldiers—and only half of those hardened Qin veterans.

Thus, though the casualty ratio was high, both sides were suffering terrible losses.

The first line of defense changed hands three or four times. Xiang Yan’s chariots forced their way in, only for the defenders of Guangling to drive them back with shields.

The armored cavalry and heavy infantry clashed head-on, neither side willing to yield an inch.

Zhu Xiang stood on the wall, peering through a crystal lens polished by Mohist artisans.

The battle line below was like a tide of flesh and blood, surging forward and back.

Yet this ferocity seemed like a silent play.

Apart from the commands of the officers, the usual roars and shouts of the battlefield were strangely absent. In this cruel contest, the waves of men fought in grim silence.

Two enormous beasts, locked in wordless struggle.

The battlefield was deathly still, like the realm of restless spirits.

Zhu Xiang inhaled deeply, the air thick with blood.

“Beat the drums. Sing the songs of Chu.”

His order carried.

Chen Qi, his hair and beard greyer than before, stripped off his robes, bared his chest, and struck the drums himself.

From the city tower, the sound of Chu songs rose.

The Songs of Chu would not be formally compiled until Qu Yuan, but Chu songs had long existed.

Most Chu folk songs were free-spirited, full of imagery drawn from local nature—orchids and blossoms, river tides and forest waves.

Even sorrowful, desolate songs carried a touch of romance and grandeur in their voices.

So it was now.

Most nobles of this age stood aloof, blind to “nation” and “world.”

And yet, many scholars of this same age still clung to “righteousness,” ready to die for it.

The scholars of Guangling had mostly sent their families away. But they themselves remained, along with their young men and household retainers. Especially the heads of families—hardly a one failed to stay.

Chen Qi was but one among them.

Those who could fight had gone to the outer defenses, clashing with the assaulting Chu soldiers who were once their compatriots.

Those who could not stayed on the walls with Zhu Xiang, watching the brutal struggle below, awaiting his orders.

When the outer lines fell and the defenders retreated to the walls, they too, though less skilled in arms, would fight and die atop the battlements.

Now, under Zhu Xiang’s command, they beat the war drums, took up traditional Chu instruments, and sang with all their voices the most grief-stricken of songs.

Born of the same root, why torment each other so bitterly?

Zhu Xiang spoke only in his heart.

He was no Chu man, and so did not sing. He only gazed down at Xiang Yan and the Southern Chu ruler, dimly visible beyond the lines.

And at the Chu army massed before and behind them.

He knew that among Xiang Yan’s hundred thousand troops, at least one-fifth had been conscripted from the local people north of the Yangtze.

Hearing these mournful Chu songs from Guangling’s walls— would they not feel the echo in their hearts?