Chapter Eight: Officials Oppress, Officials Resist

When Dou Jiande galloped home to Qinghe with his men, an ill omen hung in the air long before he reached the village—a deathly silence blanketed everything. Spurring his horse forward, he caught the faint flicker of flames. Circling around, he saw his family’s old house engulfed in a raging inferno.

Dou Jiande was about to rally his men to save the burning house when a commotion broke out nearby. His soldiers dragged over a captive. “Brother,” they reported, “we found this person hiding in the firewood pile of an old house. Sixzi tried to seize him, but he bit Sixzi’s hand. We suspect he may know something, so we brought him here.”

Dou Jiande, his heart burning with anxiety, nonetheless saw a thread of hope at the mention of a possible witness. He ordered his men to keep fighting the fire and strode over to the prisoner. Before he could speak, the captive, eyes brimming with tears, cried out, “Father!”

The voice was familiar. Dou Jiande wiped away the soot and grime to reveal the face of his own daughter, Dou Xianniang. Stunned, he stammered, “Xianniang? Where is your mother? Where is everyone?”

At the mention of her mother, Xianniang flung herself into her father’s arms and wept bitterly. “The soldiers took everyone away. I escaped only because I was delivering something to Granny Zhang. Later, I heard the soldiers were searching the village for me, so I smeared myself with soot and hid in the firewood pile.”

The fire finally subsided. Dou Jiande stepped inside the remains of his home, finding nothing but shattered bricks and scorched ash.

Just then, a man came running from afar, collapsing on his knees before Dou Jiande, breathless. “Brother, we’ve found a pit of bodies in front of the ancestral shrine on the back hill.”

The words hit Dou Jiande like a hammer. He steadied himself and hurried to the shrine, his men in tow. There, at the edge of a pit filled with headless corpses, he saw a woman’s body adorned with a jade bracelet—the very same he had gifted his wife. Dou Jiande swayed, nearly fainting.

In a daze, Dou Jiande noticed the tightly closed doors of the ancestral shrine and felt dread coil in his heart. Striding forward, he kicked open the doors. Inside, the severed heads of the villagers were piled into a grisly pyramid—his young son, his wife, his parents, all among them.

At this sight, Dou Jiande could no longer contain his grief and rage. Blood surged to his throat; he coughed up a mouthful and collapsed in a faint. After a time, revived by his companions, he sat up, clutching his chest, and cried out, “The pain is killing me! Gao Zitong, I’ll have your head for this!”

At that moment, another rider approached from outside the village. Dou Jiande recognized him as one of his clerks from the camp. Dismounting, the man saluted. “Centurion Dou, the Prefect orders you to report to the city for a council about the campaign to Liaodong.”

Dou Jiande scoffed inwardly. This was no summons for counsel—it was a summons for execution. Outwardly composed, he nodded. “Very well. Tell the Prefect I accept his command and will come at once.”

After the messenger left, Dou Jiande turned to his men. “Brothers, Gao Zitong has murdered my family. I cannot believe the Prefect did not secretly approve it. This summons bodes ill. Who among you will follow me in a great undertaking?”

There was a long, heavy silence. Just as Dou Jiande resigned himself to facing death alone, a gruff voice spoke up: “To rebel and kill officials is better than dying unknown in Liaodong. I’m in.”

Dou Jiande turned to see Iron Ox, a strong and trusted soldier from his hometown. The others quickly joined in—they owed their lives to Dou Jiande and would not let their benefactor die alone.

Roused by their loyalty, Dou Jiande set aside his grief. “Brothers, in this hour, true kin are revealed. I, Dou Jiande, swear here: if ever I ascend to the imperial throne, all of you shall be honored as kings and lords.”

Together, they buried their kin and the wronged villagers before the shrine and paid their respects. Dou Jiande then instructed his deputy, “Lead the men back to camp. Wait for me outside the East Gate, armed but traveling light. Our journey to Gaojipo is but a few miles.”

With preparations made, Dou Jiande mounted his horse and rode slowly toward the Prefect’s mansion, mind already plotting how he might kill his way out.

After exterminating Dou Jiande’s clan, Gao Zitong returned to the Prefect’s residence and reported, “My lord, I led troops to suppress bandits, but we were ambushed en route, suffering heavy losses. I was puzzled how the bandits knew our movements, then recalled that the bandit Gao Shida rampaged throughout Qinghe, yet never touched Dou’s village. I sent men to investigate and found outsiders frequenting the Dou family’s home. I went with troops to secure the village, but when we tried to search for rebels, the villagers resisted. The Dous burned their own house to destroy evidence. Forced to act, we suppressed the rioters and found these letters upon them.” He then produced forged letters.

The Prefect, already displeased with Dou Jiande for refusing to lead troops to Liaodong and making him lose face among his peers, feigned surprise. “Why would Dou’s village have ties to the army?”

Gao Zitong, skilled in official intrigue, caught the implication. “Because Dou Jiande himself serves in our ranks, my lord.”

Satisfied but hiding his pleasure, the Prefect feigned anger. “Absurd! Centurion Dou is known for kindness and honesty. How could he consort with rebels? You are comrades—do not let the bandits sow discord among us.”

“At first I doubted, too,” Gao Zitong replied, “but these letters contain army secrets. The evidence is overwhelming.”

Just then, a servant announced, “My lord, Centurion Dou Jiande requests an audience.”

The Prefect glanced at Gao Zitong, who nodded and patted his sword. “Show Centurion Dou in,” the Prefect ordered.

Dou Jiande composed himself, concealing a dagger, and waited at the gate. Soon he was ushered into the council hall. The Prefect’s expression was grim. “Centurion Dou, the authorities have treated you fairly. Why have you betrayed us to the rebels?”

“Your Excellency,” Dou Jiande replied, face darkening, “Heaven and earth can attest to my loyalty. Why do you accuse me?”

The Prefect produced the letters. “If you are so righteous, answer me this: you left camp without permission. Where did you go?”

Dou Jiande had not noticed the letters. He answered cautiously, “I received a report that Dou’s village was under attack, so I led men to fulfill my duty—nothing more.”

“Duty? More like protecting your own and aiding the rebels,” the Prefect sneered.

“Do you have proof of this, my lord? Why slander my name without evidence?”

“Proof? Here it is.” The Prefect threw the letters at him. They contained military secrets Dou Jiande knew nothing about. He realized this was a ruthless frame-up by Gao Zitong, compounded by his own prior offenses toward the Prefect—there would be no peaceful resolution today.

“What are these, my lord?” Dou Jiande pressed. “These are matters of military import. How could mere peasants know such things?”

Gao Zitong interjected, “There’s no need to pretend anymore, Centurion. Everyone knows you hail from Dou’s village. You passed on secrets to your kin, they relayed them to the bandits, and thus our campaigns failed.”

Dou Jiande now saw their resolve to shift blame for their failures onto him. “I have never acted in secret. Neither I nor the people of Dou’s village ever attacked government troops. Gao Zitong, your men tied the villagers too tightly—the marks on their wrists and ankles reveal everything. Since the Prefect trusts you so completely, I have nothing more to say. I’ll return to camp, hand over my duties, and await punishment.” He turned to leave.

“Stop!” Gao Zitong drew his sword, barring the door. “Don’t try to feign obedience. You’re just looking for a chance to escape.”

Dou Jiande reached as if to push past, but staggered instead, falling toward Gao Zitong. Gao, wary, reached out to catch him, but Dou Jiande struck like a viper, pulling a dagger from his sleeve and plunging it into Gao’s side. He shoved Gao aside and dashed for the gate.

Gao Zitong, shocked, felt a sudden chill, then warmth and searing pain—his hand came away slick with blood. Furious, he shouted for the soldiers lying in wait to seize Dou Jiande.

Dou Jiande, having wounded Gao Zitong, raced outside, mounted his horse, slashed the reins free, and spurred toward the East Gate, shouting that he bore urgent orders so the crowds scattered before him.

Gao Zitong, suppressing his agony, staggered out and ordered his men to alert the city guards and shut the gates. But it was too late. Dou Jiande burst from the city, reined in on the main road, and called out, “Sons and brothers, follow me to Gaojipo for freedom!” With his men and Xianniang, he rode to join Sun Anzu.

At Gaojipo, Zhang Jincheng led troops out to meet him. Dou Jiande felt uneasy at the sight—he had warned Sun Anzu before that Zhang bore the face of a traitor and should not be trusted, but Sun Anzu had treated him with sincerity nonetheless.

Dou Jiande forced a smile and bowed. “Thank you, Brother Zhang, for your show of force. You’ve scared off the government troops and saved my life. But where is Chief Sun?”

At the mention of Sun Anzu, Zhang Jincheng’s face turned somber. “The Chief was wounded in battle against the government troops. His injury festered and would not heal, fever never abated. Despite all efforts and countless physicians, nothing availed, and he passed away recently.”

Dou Jiande’s heart was hollowed by the news. “Brother Zhang, where is the Chief’s body? Has he been buried?”

“His wound festered and stank terribly in his final days,” Zhang replied. “Fearing plague after death, he ordered us to burn his body and bury the ashes in a jar.” He led Dou Jiande to the grave.

It was a simple mound with a stone marker: “Tomb of General Sun Anzu, Hero of the Celestial Treasure.” Overcome with grief, Dou Jiande clung to the stone, weeping and recounting his misfortunes and past friendship, moving all who heard him to tears.

Fearing for his health, Zhang Jincheng helped him to his feet and took him to the quarters prepared for him. That night, as Dou Jiande brooded over his next move, a whistling noise split the air—a steel arrow crashed through the window, embedding itself in a beam. Tied to the shaft was a slip of paper. Dou Jiande opened it and read: “Sun Anzu did not die a natural death.” His heart chilled. Examining the arrow more closely, he found three characters inscribed on the tail: Li Wenyuan.