Imaginary dialogue between Cao Lỗ and An Dương Vương
by Charactorium · An Dương Vương (250 av. J.-C. — 206 av. J.-C.) · Politics · Military · 6 min read
It is on the inner rampart of Co Loa, one evening in the dry season around 210 BC, that Cao Lo finds his king. Below, archers still practice: the sharp clack of nỏ liên châu rises up to the platform of the Ngu xa dai, the same crossbow that the engineer forged with his own hands. They have known each other since the days of earth and mud when the walls kept collapsing, and Cao Lo comes tonight to speak frankly — of the past war, but also of a marriage that worries him.
—My king, before these walls there was the last Hung. It is whispered that a marriage refusal drove you to march on Van Lang. What is the truth of it?
You know the tongues of the market, Cao Lo, they always embroider. Yes, I had asked for the hand of My Nuong, and the advisor Hung Hau shut the door in my face, sensing some trick or other. It stung me, I won't deny it. But it was not a refused woman that brought down Van Lang: it was an old king who thought himself protected by invisible forces and had let his spears rust. When my thirty thousand men arrived, his own soldiers laid down their arms without a blow. I united the Au Viet and the Lac Viet because the fruit was ripe, not out of spite. A kingdom is not taken with a grudge; it is taken with legs that walk and full granaries.
A kingdom is not taken with a grudge; it is taken with legs that walk and full granaries.
—Do you remember the years when Tu Thu and his hordes of Qin fell upon us? Ten seasons of forest and hunger. How did you hold out?
I remember it like a fever that wouldn't end. The emperor of the north, Qin Shi Huang, had launched against the Bach Viet an army so vast they said five hundred thousand men. Against such a mass, to stand in pitched battle was to offer one's throat. So we vanished. By day, we were rice fields and reeds; by night, we were knives. We let them sink in, starve, rot in a land that bit them. Nearly ten years, Cao Lo, ten years never giving them a front to strike. And one morning, General Tu Thu fell, and what remained of his horde ebbed away like stagnant water. You don't beat a giant by pushing him; you make him fall from his own height.
By day, we were rice fields and reeds; by night, we were knives.
—These walls, my king, collapsed so many times I thought the spirits were against us. What did you feel on those nights?
Ah, those nights, Cao Lo… Every morning we rebuilt what the earth had swallowed during our sleep. I saw your eyes as red as mine. There was talk of malevolent genies, and the people say that a golden turtle, Kim Quy, came to whisper the layout of the ramparts to us. I leave it to the soothsayers to believe that. What I know is that we finally learned to read the ground, to follow its curves, to gird the hill with three nested walls instead of one. And you, you forged me that crossbow that spits several bolts in one breath. A citadel is not piled clods: it is a military thought laid upon the earth. Our enemies understood too late.
A citadel is not piled clods: it is a military thought laid upon the earth.
—From the Ngu xa dai, you watch my archers every morning. What do you see in that nỏ liên châu that others do not see?
I see your mind, smith, as much as the bronze. Others see a weapon that shoots several arrows; I see what keeps a kingdom standing when the neighbors have ten times our men. That is why I climb this platform every dawn: not to count the pierced targets, but so that every archer knows his king is watching. A weapon without discipline is but a dangerous toy. What we built at Co Loa is not just walls and crossbows; it is the idea that a small people, well armed and well commanded, can make an empire tremble. Keep that secret as the apple of your eye, Cao Lo: the day it crosses our walls, our walls will be useless.
A small people, well armed and well commanded, can make an empire tremble.
—When you took Van Lang, many expected a purge of the old chiefs. You kept them. Why this choice, my king?
Because a victor who beheads everyone ends up ruling alone over ashes. The Lac tuong in their cantons, the Lac hau on the council, the Bo chinh in the hamlets — these men knew their rice fields, their tides, their people, better than any officer I could have appointed. I left them their seals, their bronze cords, their authority. In return, they gave me peace and harvests. Changing a king must not unravel the fabric of the country; it is enough to hold the thread. The Lac people continued to farm as before, and that is how Au Lac stood firm the day after the conquest. A new throne on old foundations: that is how you endure.
A victor who beheads everyone ends up ruling alone over ashes.
—Your days are full: shooting in the morning, the affairs of the kingdom in the afternoon. What weighs most heavily on you in this burden?
What weighs is not the fatigue of the body, Cao Lo, it is never being able to embrace everything with a single glance. In the morning, on the platform, I hold war in my hands; in the afternoon, bent over the granary accounts and the quarrels of the cantons with my Lac hau, I feel the kingdom stretching farther than my sight. In the evening, I must still think of the walls, the provisions, the tides that decide the harvests. A king does not govern stones; he governs seasons and men who doubt. The heaviest is knowing that the slightest crack — in a wall or in a loyalty — can sweep everything away while you look elsewhere. That is what sometimes robs me of sleep.
A king does not govern stones; he governs seasons and men who doubt.
—My king, this young Trong Thuy, son of Trieu Da, who now lives among us with My Chau — does his presence not trouble you?
You speak aloud what I turn over in silence, smith. The lord of Nam Hai, Trieu Da, offered me his son as a son-in-law, and a marriage seals peace better than a border bristling with spears — at least I have told myself so. But I confess to you alone: this boy asks too many questions, he prowls around the workshops, he lingers where he should not linger. My daughter loves him, and love has short sight. I watch. As long as the secret of our crossbows stays within our walls and in your head, Cao Lo, our wall holds. But an enemy brought in through the door of the heart no longer needs to scale the ramparts. That thought, I keep armed.
An enemy brought in through the door of the heart no longer needs to scale the ramparts.
—You entrusted me with the care of the weapon, and you know I am wary for you. What do you truly fear, deep down, for Au Lac?
I do not fear armies, Cao Lo — we have already broken the greatest. I fear what cannot be besieged: too much trust, the guard lowered on a feast night, the son-in-law taken for a son. Trieu Da could not defeat me by iron, so he will try by cunning and patience. A kingdom does not always die under blows; sometimes it falls asleep believing the war is over. That is why I urge you never to let the forge grow cold, nor the archers forget their discipline. The day Au Lac believes itself safe, that day alone it will truly be in danger. Stay vigilant at my side — your wariness is worth more than ten walls.
A kingdom does not always die under blows; sometimes it falls asleep believing the war is over.
—In uniting the Au Viet and the Lac Viet, were you aware of creating a new people, or merely expanding your domain?
At the moment, Cao Lo, one does not think so high: one thinks of borders, of men, of grain. But with the hindsight of these years, I believe we did more than bring two territories together on a map. The Au Viet of the hills and the Lac Viet of the delta had neither the same songs nor quite the same customs; today they raise the same crossbow, farm under the same seal, call themselves Au Lac. The name itself I wanted from both halves, so that no one would feel conquered. Peoples are not welded by fear; they are welded by a shared destiny. If my kingdom leaves a trace, it will perhaps be less my victories than this union.
Peoples are not welded by fear; they are welded by a shared destiny.
—One last thing, my king: after ten years of guerrilla warfare and these walls finally raised, do you sometimes allow yourself rest, or does the war never cease in your mind?
Rest? I know only half-sleep, smith. When you have spent ten years surviving in the reeds, your ear remains alert even in silence. The war against Qin taught me one thing: peace is only an interval that one fills either with preparation or with illusions. So I fill mine with walls, crossbows, archers, and granaries. In the evening, I sometimes look from the rampart at the village fires, the Lac rice fields drowned in moonlight, and tell myself that all this we wrested from an empire. That is my only sweetness. But it never lasts long: as soon as I close my eyes, I see again the door through which the enemy might enter. A vigilant king sleeps little, Cao Lo, but his people sleep better.
Peace is only an interval that one fills either with preparation or with illusions.
Sources
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in An Dương Vương's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.