Chapter Ten: The Peaceful Fragrance of Champa—The Xianbei Ancestors (Part One)

Chang’an sent a memorial to Luoyang, a lengthy document. It contained the two proposals Li Wei had mentioned, as well as an analysis of the reasons for their failure—particularly the issue of men and horses not adapting to the plateau climate. This single point sparked prolonged debate among the high-ranking officials who remained in Chang’an. It wasn’t a matter of opposition, but rather of implementation.

Indeed, the highland climate had been largely overlooked. Even when Xue Rengui set out on his campaign, there had been plans to launch an unbroken assault straight to the city of Luoxie. But in truth, even reaching the Yak River would have been perilous—most likely, not even Xue Rengui would have returned. Li Wei’s assessment was grave, but neither Jiang Ke nor Liu Rengui had ever actually set foot on the Qingfan Plateau. This would require sending people to verify.

As for the two strategies: provoking the Tibetans into an offensive wasn’t easy, and dividing them proved even harder. There were many routes from the Tang Empire into Tibetan territory, but only one true great road—the Tang-Tibet Highway, running from Xianyang through Longxi, Shanzhou, Chiling, Dafeichuan, Baihai, and Zishan, right into the heart of Tibet and ending at Luoxie city.

Li Wei claimed that many tribal groups were dissatisfied with the Tibetans—a reasonable assumption, even without investigation—yet these groups were scattered throughout the region. The Dangxiang and Tuyuhun peoples were relatively close, bordering the Tang Empire, but Qiangtang lay above the source of the Yak River on the southern side of the Kunlun Mountains, Sunbo was south of Zishan, Yangtong to the west of Tibet, and Xiangxiong even bordered Nepal. If these tribes were to rise against Tibet, they would first need to unite—one or two would never dare move alone. Moreover, it would require Tang support: weapons, supplies, and so on, to give them the courage to rebel.

Sending scouts to negotiate with these tribes might yield solutions, but delivering supplies safely to them would be exceedingly difficult. Even if the Tang managed, who could guarantee these tribes wouldn’t simply accept the goods and arms, then turn against the Tang and support a Tibetan invasion instead?

Dispatching envoys to make contact was no easy task either. Deep in Tibetan territory, Han Chinese faces were rare and unfamiliar; the envoys would need fluency in the languages of the various Tibetan tribes. Scouts would first be needed to ascertain their true attitudes.

Jiang Ke, especially, was vigilant, guarding Liangzhou and the Hexi Corridor—a feasible task. But if he had to oversee both the Western Regions and the Four Garrisons of Anxi, how many troops could the court possibly spare him? Even if Anxi were retaken, it would be all they could do to defend, not attack. From Liangzhou to Shule was more than three thousand li—an impossible feat, even if Li Jing himself were reborn.

Yet the Four Garrisons of Anxi had to be reclaimed. Their strategic location was simply too important.

Even Liu Rengui had no good solutions. And with spring deepening, he too needed to return. If the Tibetans should suddenly shift their focus northeast, he would be gravely derelict in his duties.

Thus, the ministers wrote everything out in detail and sent the memorial to Luoyang for Emperor Gaozong and Empress Wu to review, hoping more minds could spark a solution. They didn’t omit the fact that the original idea was Li Hong’s—the crown prince’s credit was not something they dared to claim.

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The imperial physician took Li Wei’s pulse with great care.

Bier watched the old court physician anxiously, not daring to breathe.

After a long silence, the physician furrowed his brow, which made Li Wei’s heart start to race.

Only after some time did the old physician’s brow relax. He bowed and said, “Congratulations, Your Highness. Your illness has improved greatly.”

Tears welled up in his eyes as he spoke. The disease might not have been immediately fatal, but it was hard to treat. All the physicians treating Li Hong had hoped simply to delay the inevitable—if something happened after their own deaths, they’d be free of blame. Otherwise, they would bear responsibility.

Now, a miracle had occurred: not only had the illness improved, but it seemed to be heading toward complete recovery. Yet, out of caution, the physician left that part unsaid.

“Hooray!” Bier exclaimed, leaping with joy.

Even Li Wei couldn’t help but break into a broad smile. “A reward—a reward!” he declared.

He’d misspoken—this wasn’t the opera stage or some online platform where one tipped performers. The proper term should have been “bestow a reward.” But he couldn’t give too much, either; he recalled the time he’d been too generous with a eunuch beside Empress Wu, which had led to a stern talk from the palace’s treasurers.

At first, Li Wei had been displeased, until Bier explained things. Moving money was no different from moving officials or troops—the inner palace had its own treasurer, and the outer palace its own. Large sums required approval. Besides, as the crown prince, all his needs were already provided for—what use did he have for extra money?

This had frustrated Li Wei for quite some time. Who said money was useless? If things continued like this, it wouldn’t do. He needed trusted confidants beyond just Bier. She was loyal out of gratitude, but others? If he had money to bestow, and they saw hope for future advancement, then some would surely work diligently for him.

But there was no need to rush. So he said, “Bestow one hundred bolts of silk.”

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Such an amount shouldn’t draw complaints from the palace ladies.

The more Li Wei learned about his status, the more he realized that being crown prince was not at all what he had once imagined. In name, he was second only to the emperor. In real power, he was likely less influential than a single officer in the Imperial Guard. No wonder, years ago, Crown Prince Li Chengqian had grown so bored he’d sneaked out of the city to steal a farmer’s cow and ended up breaking his own leg.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” The imperial physician bowed deeply, overjoyed. The reward itself was modest; the main prize would come once news spread to the emperor and empress.

Indeed, the news soon circulated from the Eastern Palace all the way to Chang’an, bringing joy to many.

The former Li Hong, at least outwardly, had appeared even more benevolent than Li Wei; many commoners and soldiers had benefitted from his kindness.

Even the great temples and Taoist shrines in Chang’an saw their incense offerings increase these days.

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“Your Highness, this year’s peach blossoms are even more beautiful than last,” Bier sang out cheerfully.

“Your Highness, look how lovely the clouds are today.”

In her joy these days, Bier was like a lark, chirping merrily at his side.

Li Wei simply smiled, offering no reply.

A report came from outside: Yang Min requested an audience.

Bier’s smile vanished at once. She grumbled, “This Lady Yang is quite strange. When Your Highness used to seek her out, she was cold as ice. Now, these days, she visits again and again.”

“That’s my charm at work, much greater than the old Li Hong’s,” Li Wei thought smugly—but dared not say aloud.

When Yang Min entered, Li Wei’s eyes lit up.

Today, Yang Min had dressed with special care. Her hair was styled in a willow-bun, adorned with a slender crescent-moon headband set with rubies and sapphires, and a golden hairpin with emeralds. In the back, she had braided her hair into countless little plaits in the Hu style, but left two long locks before her ears, which danced lightly in the spring breeze and made her oval face all the more delicate.

Her eyelashes had been curled with tweezers and dusted with shadow, making them appear even longer. Her brows were painted green, and her cheeks bore a rare touch of rouge.

She wore a violet gown, cinched with a white sash to accentuate her slender waist—so tiny it seemed one could encircle it with a hand. The neckline of her dress formed a deep V, beneath which a white undergarment peeked out, revealing a hint of blushing, snow-white skin.

A woman adorns herself for the one who pleases her—had this little maiden begun to fancy him?

“You look very lovely today, Lady Yang,” he said.

Yang Min blushed deeply, unable to reply.

“Please, sit.”

Obediently, she took her seat.

Only after a eunuch served tea and she’d sipped did she finally speak. “Word in the city says Your Highness’s health is much improved?”

“So they say, though I am not yet fully recovered.”

“That’s wonderful. When my mother heard, she took me to Yongtai Temple to offer incense and fulfill a vow. She donated two hundred catties of oil to the Buddha, one hundred strings of cash, and two hundred bolts of silk.”

Was it the abbot or the Buddha who should be thanked? His recovery was, in truth, due to his own efforts at exercise. As for the real reason, Li Wei wasn’t certain—science could only explain so much. He exercised constantly—whether Tai Chi or the Five Animal Frolics, both focused on health. The Chen-style Tai Chi he practiced was also quite combative; several moves were outright strikes. He’d once trained in it long enough to take on three or four ruffians at once, dispatching them with ease. But perhaps the Eight Brocades had the greatest effect, emphasizing breathwork—excellent for the lungs.

Whatever the reason, the Buddha had little to do with it.

He didn’t quibble. Ever since crossing into this world, he dared not claim disbelief in spirits. He smiled. “Please thank your mother for me.”

“There’s no need for thanks,” Yang Min replied, her words holding a double meaning before she lowered her head.

Looking at his beautiful betrothed, Li Wei found he wasn’t besotted, nor did he dislike her. But whether it was Bier or Yang Min, both were so young that he felt a vague sense of guilt.

Still, it was inevitable. In this era, girls generally married at fifteen—by the old-style calendar, no less. Any older, and they were likely already married. Li Wei wasn’t opposed to married women, but he certainly had no special preference for them.

He considered for a moment, then said, “In a few days, I’ll visit your home to call on your mother.”

Yang Min’s face lit up. “Truly, Your Highness?”

“I wouldn’t jest about this.”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve embroidered a handkerchief for you, Your Highness. I hope you won’t find it too plain.” She drew a scented handkerchief from her sleeve, embroidered with trees, a stone, and a tuft of grass. Upon the stone sat a young couple gazing up at the Milky Way. In the upper right corner was inscribed the poem “Immortal at the Magpie Bridge.”

The embroidery was exquisite, the scene rendered lifelike.

The sachet had been arranged by Lady Yang herself, but this handkerchief was her own work. She’d stayed up three nights to finish it; on the last night, her mother discovered her and brought her some bird’s nest soup, making her so shy she wanted to sink into the floor.

At fifteen, she was not so young for her time; her heart and mind had already awakened. That day, when she’d asked who the girl in the song was and Li Wei told her it was Bier, she’d felt a pang of disappointment. Later, she’d asked around and learned why Li Wei had spoken so on Bier’s behalf. Through illness and rumor, Bier had never left his side, serving him faithfully—something even Yang Min herself might not have managed.

Having chosen her “target,” but unable to remain at his side, she sought another way to compete with the maid—thus, the idea of the embroidered handkerchief.

In ancient times, a girl’s affection was often expressed with scented silk or sachets. As their wedding was only months away, such a gift was not improper.

It was a young girl’s heart at play. By custom, so long as she remained proper and became the crown princess, she might one day be empress—mother of the realm. Was a lowly maid worth the rivalry?

Li Wei accepted it. The cloth was of fine silk, smooth and soft to the touch, subtly scented. Folding it, he placed it inside his robe and thanked her again.

“No need for thanks. So long as Your Highness is well, nothing matters more to me.”

Bier, watching their exchange, interjected sourly, “If Your Highness weren’t well, you wouldn’t be so happy, nor come visit.”

Yang Min’s face paled. “To recognize one’s faults and amend them is virtue indeed. I was wrong before, but now I understand. Besides, I embroidered this handkerchief before hearing of Your Highness’s recovery.”

“Bier!” Li Wei chided, as Bier was about to retort. He knew her jealousy was only part of it; Bier was no schemer, and wouldn’t try to prevent him from marrying a princess. It was simply that Yang Min had left a poor impression in the past.

Still, things couldn’t go on like this. He would need to find a chance to truly speak with her.

As he thought this, a soft sob broke the air. Turning, he saw Yang Min had begun to cry, aggrieved.

Li Wei couldn’t help but slap his own forehead. Here he was, struggling just to survive and one day become emperor—so he might have three palaces and seventy-two consorts. (If Emperor Gaozong ever learned of this ambitious plan, would he immediately strip him of his title?) Yet he hadn’t even one consort, and already the jealousy, tears, and drama had begun. What would happen if he truly had three palaces and seventy-two consorts?

He had been too naïve. In the inner quarters, jealousy was only the beginning.