Chapter Thirty-Five: Gathering Chrysanthemums by the Eastern Fence

Chapter Thirty-five: Gathering Chrysanthemums by the Eastern Fence

In truth, Ren Cong’s earlier suspicions were not entirely mistaken. At least in one aspect, he guessed correctly: Zhang Qian had indeed been deeply shaken by Ren Quan’s words that day.

As a Chinese man from the twenty-first century, even one well-versed in history and humanities, Zhang Qian had never imagined that the mighty Tang dynasty—whose former glory he had so often extolled on social media as a testament to the brilliance of Chinese civilization, and defended countless times in heated debates—could have decayed to such a degree!

From the chancellor down to the county magistrate, every official post had a clear price tag, and money could buy them all.

The imperial examination system, founded in the Sui dynasty, developed in early Tang, proven practical, and credited with elevating China’s feudal society to its zenith, had at this point become little more than decoration.

From the second enthronement of the “Sagacious Son of Heaven” Li Xian to the present, the ninth month of the third year of Shenlong, in less than three years, no fewer than eight thousand official positions—large and small—had been “wholesale distributed” from the hands of the Empress, her brother Wei Wen, Princess Anle, and Lady Shangguan Wan’er.

What did this mean? It meant that so long as one had money, even a fool could infiltrate the ranks of government.

This signified not only the utter collapse of the official selection system, but also the imminent breakdown of social order.

Certainly, the imperial examination system, much like the modern college entrance exam, has often been criticized by researchers.

Yet its inception ensured that fate was no longer decided solely by lineage. In principle, it offered a path for those born in humble circumstances to rise—a way for those of less “noble” birth to participate in the shaping of national policy, to sit and discuss matters alongside the sons of princes and dragons.

Of course, a single exam determining one’s entire future was far from perfect, and the system did not always produce qualified talent.

Still, in most cases, the imperial examinations managed to keep idiots out of government.

Yes, people found loopholes, just as in the modern age.

But for the underprivileged in this era, as in later times, the imperial examinations remained their last hope to change their fate without violence—their final measure of fairness.

And what had Zhang Qian heard from Ren Quan? That money could decide everything.

Those “irregular appointments” distributed by the Empress, Princess, and Lady Shangguan were not merely eligibility for future posts; Ren Quan had told him outright that with enough money and clever maneuvering, one could turn a pending post into a real one—and cited several classic examples from reality.

(“Irregular appointments” was the term used by official bureaucrats for those who bought their positions.)

Did anyone believe those who spent tens of thousands of strings of Kaiyuan coins to buy a post, then paid even more to secure the appointment, were simply seeking to honor their ancestors or indulge their dream of office? Impossible!

Even without asking, Zhang Qian could deduce that those who purchased posts and maneuvered themselves into real positions would, upon taking office, inevitably levy harsh taxes and extort the populace, recouping their initial outlay tenfold, even a hundredfold.

Greed would swiftly transform them into wolves and tigers.

And their prey? Certainly not the great noble families or descendants of princes and ministers—far less the imperial Li clan.

Their targets for recouping costs would, without doubt, be ordinary folk, especially those like Zhang Qian, who seemed prosperous yet had no family connections in Tang.

Viewed in this light, the more Zhang Qian succeeded in making his life comfortable, the quicker he would become a target for these wolves.

He understood well that, for the mighty Tang, this was merely a “birth pang”—it would not last long. Once Li Longji ascended the throne, order would soon be restored.

He knew that once Li Longji became emperor, the era of Great Prosperity would follow swiftly. Yet he could not guarantee he would survive until the end of this “birth pang.”

After his conversation with Ren Quan, Zhang Qian became distracted, unable even to focus on the sound of Zijuan counting coins outside his door.

After a sleepless, restless night, he painfully and reluctantly arrived at three conclusions.

First: If he wanted to survive until Li Longji’s ascension, he must stay far from Chang’an. If possible, never enter the city at all.

Second: Unless he raised a banner and rebelled, even hiding away in his manor and never stepping outside, he might still not escape the predatory officials.

Third: Since escape was impossible, and he had no talent for rebellion, his best choice was to become a wolf himself, or at least disguise himself as one, as quickly as possible.

Taking all this into consideration, if Zhang Qian wanted to “endure” safely until Li Longji became emperor, he needed to buy an official post as soon as possible—and not a minor one. If the post was too low, he’d remain a small fish, easy prey for bigger fish.

So, after that restless night, Zhang Qian embarked on a frenzied campaign to “develop” perfumes.

Through perfume, he hoped to earn his first barrel of gold.

With his first profits, he would join the ranks of the wolves.

By sharing the immense profits from his perfume business, he would entice other vested interests—especially those whom others dared not provoke—to become his partners, or at least create the illusion that he had many powerful allies.

With so many “big fish” shielding him, he could hide in their shadows and survive the troubled times.

This plan was far from perfect—full of holes, even. But it was the best option he could conceive of.

Without an old master at his side, no system granting him privileges, and certainly not blessed to be a crown prince, if he could accomplish even half of this plan, it would be a miracle.

The Great Wall was not built in a day. The Long March was not completed in a single step.

Even with a clear plan for his future, Zhang Qian knew he must proceed step by step.

Thus, after successfully producing perfume, medicated oil, and—incidentally—the cooling balm, he suddenly found himself “idle.”

It wasn’t that he was exhausted and wished to rest, but rather that Tang’s efficiency forced him to slow his progress.

This was not twenty-first-century China, where anything legal could be ordered online and delivered to your door within three days.

Just procuring the glass bottles for the first batch of perfume required a two-week wait—this with Ren Cong’s connections to Wang Yuanbao, the boss of the glassworks, who expedited the order.

The ceramic bottles for medicated oil and the iron tins for balm took a month. The former required a potter and artisan to design and fire each piece, while the latter, in the absence of modern machines, had to be hammered out one by one by blacksmiths.

“Forget it. From now on, I’ll just use ceramic bottles for the balm too!” Realizing he’d made another naive mistake, Zhang Qian made a swift adjustment.

Even so, little time was saved. His plan to develop new fragrance blends during Ren Cong and “Stinky Man” Guo Nu’s absence—while they invited new shareholders—proved wishful thinking.

Ren Cong and Guo Nu did go off to busy themselves in Chang’an.

But Zhang Qian, wanting to develop new fragrances, could not buy the necessary ingredients.

Unlike mint, wintergreen leaves, peach pits, and dried peach blossoms, which could be sourced from herbal shops, the flowers he needed for extracting essential oils—commonplace in the twenty-first century—were nearly impossible to procure.

As for roses, the most common and easily extracted natural fragrance source in modern times, heaven help him—at present, they had only just begun to be cultivated in Tang, with barely a few in the imperial gardens, let alone available for him to “waste.”

So, after exhausting his options with rose, peony, herbaceous peony, lotus, and jasmine, Zhang Qian was forced to accept reality and turn to chrysanthemums, the most common flower with almost the least essential oil content.

Immediately, he was dealt another blow.

Thanks to the Tang people’s unique aesthetic, chrysanthemums were prized for their lack of scent—the less fragrant, even completely odorless, the more highly regarded. Limited by his equipment, technique, and manual skill, his attempts to extract fragrance from several common chrysanthemum varieties ended in rapid succession with failure.

Helpless, Zhang Qian had no choice but to strap on his herbal basket, take up a hoe, and hang a waist knife for protection, setting out as a herbal gatherer.

Zijuan, of course, insisted on following him, sharing his hardships. Though her slender frame looked awkward compared to the basket on her back, Zhang Qian could not refuse. One attempt to do so only brought her to tears, so he resigned himself.

Whatever traumas she’d suffered before, the girl was afflicted with deep insecurity; she clung to Zhang Qian like a vine to a tree, unwilling to part for a moment.

The only thing capable of drawing her or her attention away from him was copper coins. Whenever she counted money, her expression would become utterly absorbed, her gaze peaceful.

But counting coins was usually reserved for evenings, when Zhang Qian read by lamp and she had nothing else to do. During the day, she preferred to trail after him like a little tail.

He could not shake off Ren Quan, either. After several scoldings from Ren Cong, Ren Quan became convinced that Zhang Qian’s change in conduct was due to his own remarks. Out of guilt, he swore to atone for his mistake. Whenever Zhang Qian left his manor, Ren Quan would shadow him like a ghost, always at a distance of ten paces, no more, no less, regardless of Zhang Qian’s speed.

“Fine, do as you please!” After several attempts, only managing to shake Ren Quan for less than the time it took to burn a stick of incense, Zhang Qian resigned himself to his “redemption.”

Zhang Qian, unfamiliar with the Tang dynasty, was even more a stranger to its outskirts. Having Ren Quan—a man with some martial skill and herb knowledge—accompany him did increase his sense of security, and at least deterred many ruffians from harassing Zijuan.

From leaving his landlord’s manor to entering the low hills nearby, in just forty minutes, at least three groups of young nobles, out riding in autumn, galloped past Zhang Qian.

When they saw Zijuan, basket on her back, their eyes glazed over. Yet, upon glimpsing Ren Quan, knife in hand and trailing Zhang Qian like a shadow, they realized Zhang Qian’s status was comparable to their own. They quickly abandoned any thoughts of “rescuing” the beauty, lest they invite unnecessary trouble.

“Gathering chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, I gaze serenely toward the southern mountains!” Bending down to dig up a wild chrysanthemum with a rich scent, he placed it—roots and all—into the basket, reciting the verse with carefree ease.

Mount Zhongnan lay far to the southeast, yet under the clear blue sky, it seemed almost within reach.

Zhang Qian had wandered into Tang, lost for over a month now.

He would ultimately lose himself here, slowly becoming one of its people, whether he willed it or not.