Chapter Fourteen: The Triumphant Return of the Campaign Against Wu

In the first year of the Taikang era (280 AD), in May, Liu Xian was still studying under Chen Shou. This marked the third year since he began his tutelage with Chen Shou. As the seasons passed—spring to autumn, then spring to autumn again—he had quietly grown to five feet tall. Though not particularly outstanding among his peers, his demeanor was remarkably refined. At the tender age that just qualified him as a youth, Liu Xian had already shed his childish airs, instead exuding a gentle humility and scholarly grace.

This was all due to Chen Shou’s meticulous guidance.

Starting from the second year, Chen Shou began instructing Liu Xian in propriety: every posture and movement—whether sitting, standing, or walking—had to conform to ritual etiquette, down to the most intricate details. For example, when summoned by a teacher, one must quicken their pace with small steps, a practice known as “qu.” If an elder was indoors and one had to exit first, it was required to turn one’s back to the door and withdraw with a bow and cupped hands. Even when moving about alone indoors, one must face south before proceeding, for the sovereign and parents reside to the south and thus deserve reverence.

Of course, Chen Shou also continued to teach Liu Xian history. As the lessons deepened, there was no longer a need to teach him literacy or carefully select reading materials. Instead, Liu Xian was free to explore Chen Shou’s collection at will, seeking clarification on any perplexing points. Later, as Chen Shou became engrossed in compiling the *Records of the Three Kingdoms*, he simply had Liu Xian assist by organizing historical materials.

When Chen Shou sifted through sources such as the *Eastern Observations of the Han Records*, *Annals of Emperor Xian*, *Records of Heroes*, *Collected Works of Zhuge Liang*, *Cloud Biography*, *Wei Chronicles*, and *Biographies of Fei Yi*, he would pile them into a towering stack nearly as tall as a person, with Liu Xian poring over the documents within. Each time Chen Shou completed a chapter of biography, Liu Xian was fortunate to be its first reader. By then, the history of the past century no longer held secrets for him.

This sweeping, magnificent history stirred his soul. The fates of his great-grandfather and grandfather filled him with poignant regret. Yet, overall, aside from the bloodshed he witnessed at his doorstep at age five, Liu Xian had yet to truly feel the concrete impact of the figures in his books. After all, these were stories read on pages, and the characters seemed but literary figures. As he grew accustomed to his present circumstances, those scenes gradually faded from his memory.

Their stories were theirs; I have my own. Liu Xian thought instinctively. As for how his own story would unfold, the nine-year-old had yet to decide.

Just as he was immersed in these peaceful days of study, one day a messenger suddenly burst into Chen Shou’s humble study, delivering an invitation. Liu Xian was puzzled. In the three years he had studied with Chen Shou, aside from the maid Anan who brought food and clothing, visitors to the study were few—perhaps five or six, mostly travelers passing through. For quite some time, Liu Xian had thought Chen Shou had no friends or relatives.

Yet this messenger was unusually solemn. After Chen Shou read the invitation, the messenger bowed deeply and said, “Sir, my master has specially instructed me that this gathering is very grand. Such reunions happen but once every decade; we hope you will not decline.”

Chen Shou frowned slightly, then closed his eyes in thought for a moment before replying, “I understand. You may tell Chaozong that, regardless of Uncle Li Shulong’s opinion of me, I shall attend the gathering ten days hence.”

After the messenger left, Liu Xian asked, “Teacher, what kind of meeting is this?”

Chen Shou set down the invitation and smiled. “They are some old friends and juniors of mine. We haven’t seen each other for nearly ten years. Now, by chance, many have arrived at the capital, so some friends proposed meeting up.”

“Old friends?”

“Mostly my classmates from when we studied under Master Qiao. That was over twenty years ago.”

Liu Xian inquired, “Then why have they come to Luoyang now?”

Chen Shou answered, “This year, the court dispatched troops to conquer Wu. The naval forces under General Wang Jun, who accepted the Wu ruler’s surrender at Stone City, were largely composed of soldiers trained in Shu. The officers under General Wang Jun are mostly from Shu as well, many of whom are old acquaintances of mine. In three days, the prince will lead the troops back in triumph. They will enter the capital to present the captives, so they want to gather beforehand.”

“Ah?” Liu Xian’s interest peaked. He wished to meet his teacher’s friends and learn more of past events. “May I accompany you?”

Chen Shou shook his head, smiling. “This is a private gathering, and your identity is sensitive. Going might only bring trouble.”

Liu Xian was disappointed. Seeing his disciple’s expression, Chen Shou felt a twinge of sorrow but comforted him, “That said, the triumphant return and tribute is a rare spectacle. You may come with me to watch. They say you might even see the Wu ruler himself!”

Liu Xian brightened.

Three days passed swiftly. At dawn, Chen Shou appeared punctually at the Anle Duke’s mansion. Arranged by Zhang Ximiao, about ten children and youths from the household, including Liu Xian, followed Chen Shou to witness the event.

The venue for the victory ceremony was set five li south of Luoyang, on the southern bank of the Luo River. Upon exiting the Pingchang Gate, Liu Xian saw a vast sea of people gathered, stretching beyond sight. Once he joined the crowd, he could see no other person, yet at his neck, he felt the breath of many. It was truly shoulder to shoulder, a sea of humanity—there was hardly space to turn.

This was Liu Xian’s first time seeing such a multitude; the scene of Ma Long’s expedition two years prior paled in comparison. Amid the crowd, he first sensed how small and yet how immense humanity could be. Perhaps a single shout might throw the masses into chaos, trampling countless lives.

Fortunately, Chen Shou still held a court position. Presenting his official pass, guards opened a path through the crowd, leading them onward to the south. Gradually, the noise faded behind them, the clamorous throng disappeared, and a broad plaza suddenly appeared along the riverbank.

At the plaza’s center stood a raised platform, from which the altar and canopy were visible. Beneath it, hundreds of officials in court robes stood aligned on both sides, with over a thousand imperial guards arrayed in formation, brandishing blades. Directly south of them, a wide avenue more than twenty zhang across had been cleared, stretching toward the invisible southern plains.

One could imagine the emperor seated atop the platform, watching the triumphant army pass under the solemn gaze of hundreds of thousands.

Liu Xian and his group were led to the southwestern edge of the plaza, an area mostly reserved for relatives of invited officials. Opposite stood renowned Confucian scholars and recluse literati. Just as they settled, Zhang Gu pointed to two carriages aligned before the platform and whispered, “Biji, look, aren’t those your Fourth and Seventh Uncles?”

Liu Xian focused and saw Liu Zan and Liu Qu among the imperial guards stationed before the platform. Looking further ahead, there was Ninth Uncle Liu Ji. Why were they here?

He asked Chen Shou, who explained, “All three marquises hold positions as middle-ranking officers under the Guanglu Xun and belong to the imperial guards. Whenever the emperor travels, they are obligated to accompany him.”

Liu Xian blinked, then remembered he had not seen his father, Liu Xun, today. He asked again, “What about my father?”

“His lordship is a duke. For such an important occasion, he will be here, but likely not among the crowd—he should be beside the emperor.”

Just then, clear horn calls sounded from the platform, followed by celebratory drums. The grand ceremony had begun.

The cavalry surged forward like clouds. The first eight hundred riders sat atop pure-colored steeds, clad in military uniforms with crimson brocade robes draped over them, bearing tiger and bear banners of various colors. The banners fluttered in the wind; the horses’ hooves struck the earth in a thunderous cadence. Another eight hundred riders followed, similarly attired and blowing horns. Then two thousand elite cavalry formed columns, wearing iron helmets and gleaming armor, wielding spears and halberds. Their horses’ heads were draped with iron masks; the riders wore hide armor, appearing as descending gods. The long procession charged forth with majestic splendor.

Next came countless mounted warrior guards brandishing swords and halberds, their blades shimmering coldly under the summer sun. Behind them raced six war chariots, intricately carved with dragon and tiger motifs. Each chariot bore the commanding generals and aides of the Jin army, some clad in lacquered golden armor, others holding fans and wearing scholar’s scarves, exuding an imposing presence like colorful clouds enveloping the sun, inspiring awe and admiration.

“That is the prince!” Chen Shou pointed to one chariot. Liu Xian followed his gaze and saw an elderly man with white hair yet a tall, upright posture. Holding a battle-axe, he conversed with his aides. Beneath weathered eyes was a pair of calm, steadfast orbs, lending him both kindness and authority.

Beside Wang Jun stood several aides and deputy generals, ranging from their twenties to forties, all tall, strong, and stern-faced. Chen Shou introduced them one by one: “The one on the far left is He Pan, the slightly taller one in the middle is Qiao Deng, closest to the prince is Luo Shang, and the one on the far right is Li Yi—all distinguished gentlemen from Shu and old acquaintances of mine.”

No sooner had he finished than the crowd erupted in cheers, a tumultuous roar from hundreds of thousands that swallowed all other noise.

The captives from Eastern Wu had arrived.

Sun Hao, the Wu ruler, along with hundreds of royal kin and ministers, all clad in plain clothes, were escorted under armed soldiers wielding bows, spears, and halberds. They stood atop weak horses and carts, slowly passing down the avenue.

Liu Xian’s gaze swept over the captives and was immediately drawn to Sun Hao. At thirty-nine, he looked youthful, with fair skin and a dark, fierce gaze that seemed to harbor restless spirits. When their eyes met, Liu Xian felt as if he had been “stabbed.”

He rubbed his eyes and looked again; Sun Hao still stared, his expression like a wounded, hungry hawk. But this lasted only a moment before the procession moved on, and Sun Hao vanished from sight. Watching his retreating figure, Liu Xian wondered if their eye contact had been an illusion.

After the captives passed, the onlookers gradually quieted. The rear guard troops from Xuchang entered, their numbers vast, each step shaking the ground. Led by their commanding officer, they sang a military song in unison:

“The Xiongnu have betrayed the heavenly virtue,
Plotting chaos and disturbing the realm.
War chariots shake the northern plains,
Generals praise the sovereign’s might.

Soldiers united as one,
Moved by righteousness, forgetting self-interest.
Power amassed like a crossbow drawn,
Swift to duty like a triggered mechanism.

Their clamor shakes valleys and hills,
Golden light dazzles the plain.
Swinging halberds to crush fierce foes,
Warriors tread upon fallen enemies.

Whales and sharks all surrender their heads,
The northern lands forever peaceful and pacified.
In times past braving scorching heat,
Now they come amid swirling white snow.

Soldiers truly toil and exhaust,
Since ancient times praised in song.
Honors gained for noble ranks,
Rejoicing in triumphant return.”

This poem, written by Zhang Hua and titled “Song of the Weary Returning Army,” contrasted with the solemn and stirring “Song of the Commander Going to War.” It was heroic yet joyful, impassioned yet full of hope, as if heralding a new era of peace and prosperity. Quietly, smiles adorned all faces—even among the defeated captives, there was a glimmer of yearning and longing for peace.

As the song ended, all tribute armies had arrived, and the emperor finally appeared on the platform to receive the triumphant generals and captives.

From a distance, Liu Xian could not discern the emperor’s features, but the imperial yellow robe and magnificent canopy, flanked by countless guards armed like a forest, underscored the sovereign’s supreme authority and majesty. However, as the imperial seal of Wu was presented, a breeze swept across the platform, causing the emperor’s figure to sway slightly. To Liu Xian, this lent a delicate, almost fragile grace, reminiscent of a graceful yet vulnerable beauty.

Moments later, Liu Xian noticed his father behind the emperor. Liu Xun stood alongside several Western Jin dukes in the second row, his posture somewhat stooped. This puzzled Liu Xian. In his mind, his father, though harsh with others, was always mindful of his image, or rather deeply proud, never willing to show weakness in public. Yet today, Liu Xian perceived a certain desolation.

Many years later, when recalling this scene, Liu Xian fully understood his father’s thoughts.

Beside him stood Liu Kang, Duke of Shanyang, eldest grandson of Emperor Xian of Han; before him, Cao Huan, King of Chenliu, grandson of Cao Cao, the Wei Martial Emperor; and Sun Hao, grandson of Sun Quan, the Great Wu Emperor—descendants of the Han and Three Kingdoms rulers, now prostrate beneath the Sima clan. Did this mean the past glories were forever lost? Whether there was an answer in the future or not, at that moment the Duke of Anle certainly had none. His only feeling toward the future was long despair.

Yet for the current emperor, Sima Yan, joy was unmistakable.

This campaign against Wu was his triumph after much opposition. The unification of the realm delighted him beyond measure. After the victory ceremony, he did not dismiss his ministers and generals but held a banquet in the palace, where all drank and caroused until nearly dusk the following day. In just half a year, Western Jin had not only eradicated the great threat of the Tuoba Shuji Neng in Liangzhou but also subdued the decades-long separatist Eastern Wu, accomplishing a feat no great hero had achieved in a century.

Sima Yan had reigned for fourteen years, often constrained by powerful ministers like Jia Chong. This year, at last, he could hold his head high.

He spoke of the earlier appointment of Ma Long, mocking amidst wine, “Had we listened to you all then, would Liangzhou even remain?”

Jia Chong promptly stepped forward to apologize, lamenting his previous opposition to the Wu campaign. Sima Yan laughed heartily, letting the matter rest. After the banquet was cleared, he ordered wine brought to Yang Hu’s tomb to pay respects to the late Grand Tutor’s spirit.

Before parting, he turned to Sun Hao, pointing to a seat and saying, “I have reserved this seat for you long ago.”

Unexpectedly, Sun Hao replied with neither servility nor arrogance, “As a subject of the south, I have also reserved a seat to await Your Majesty.”

The surrounding attendants were furious, ready to seize Sun Hao and force submission. But Sima Yan remained unfazed, lifting his cup in a toast and smiling, “In that case, I shall drink a cup to you, in thanks for your kindness.”