Chapter Sixteen: The Shocking Emergence of a Tail

In the days that followed, more than a dozen eunuchs and palace maids each tried in their own way to curry favor with Li Wei. Liu Qun continued his audit of the accounts, but there was no further commotion. Some of the female officials in the Eastern Palace gradually grew bolder again, though none dared to be as brazen as before.

A few days later, Li Wei summoned these people, handed each of them a slip of paper, and watched as their faces turned pale and sweat beaded on their foreheads. He asked, “Shall I have you sent to the Court of Judicial Review?” At once, they fell to their knees and begged for mercy; being sent there would mean their utter ruin, their fate uncertain.

Li Wei paced back and forth; with every step, their hearts skipped a beat. In the end, he tempered justice with mercy: the officials among them were demoted, while the rest were relocated elsewhere, in keeping with the style Li Hong had shown before. The Inner Palace was just one office within the Eastern Palace; even the highest-ranked female official was only of the sixth rank, yet this place was the heart of the palace. As Bi’er once said, “Petty people are always worrying.” Since these people had already been disciplined, even leniently, they could not be kept close at hand—who could say when they might turn against him? Afterwards, Liu Qun, Jiang Luo, and others were promoted. The storm died down as swiftly as it had arisen, leaving all who heard of it astonished at the speed of its resolution.

Li Wei himself, meanwhile, grew ever busier. His studies could not be neglected. The further he delved, the more he realized the vast gulf between himself and the great scholars in understanding these ancient texts. It was hardly as simple as memorizing a few Tang or Song poems; even as a lecturer, he found himself lacking.

He also frequently went to the Yan Ying Hall to “oversee state affairs.” However, the imperial edict had so unnerved him that, even when he had his own opinions, he dared not voice them. Fortunately, the original Li Hong had been the same way, so his behavior merely restored things to how they had been, causing no surprise among the officials.

One thing puzzled him, though. His parents had reacted so quickly because Dai Zhide, Liu Rengui, and Jiang Ke had submitted memorials mentioning the incident. Yet none of these men was rebuked; in fact, Jiang Ke was promoted to Left Chancellor. Li Wei racked his brains, unable to fathom the reason, and could only surmise that Jiang Ke’s advancement had long been predetermined.

He still had much to do—difficult tasks that required both subtlety and strength. Rebuilding trust with his younger sister, fostering her affection, dependence, and even admiration, would not be achieved in a single day.

Having finished recounting “The Tale of Heroes and Heroines,” he had begun to tell the story of “Journey to the West.” This tale was even more captivating; even Li Xian, already a little man, came running to hear it every day. This was all to the good—after the bloody struggle between Li Shimin and his eldest and fourth brothers, which had caused such pain, Li Zhi had been made emperor in the hope that such fratricidal strife would not continue in the imperial family.

Li Wei’s conduct in this regard earned him even greater admiration from the officials of Chang’an. Yet he found his growing reputation both amusing and exasperating.

He also took care to exercise, his health improving steadily. As a modern person, he might not have mastered the finer points, but he understood the general principles: progress must be gradual, and overexertion would do more harm than good. The Eastern Palace offered its own sports—archery, horseback riding, polo—and with summer approaching, he considered building a swimming pool; only, he wondered if that might prove controversial.

On the table were plates of tuckahoe pastries, candied winter melon, preserved plums, and two bowls of snow pears and oranges brought up from the cellar. The tuckahoe cakes, made by the palace kitchen, were flecked with red and green threads, the tuckahoe itself rimmed with a tawny hue. The cakes, made from sugar and glutinous rice flour, were fragrant, soft, and sweet, pleasing in both look and taste. The candied winter melon was dusted with sugar, pale green flesh beneath the frosted surface. The preserved plums had come as tribute from the south. These were the best fruits the palace could offer, but as daily fare, even these confections lost some of their allure.

Li Lingyue was chewing away, never seeming to tire of the treats. Li Wei pinched her chubby cheek; she protested with a humph, but then sat down and demanded, “Tell the story, tell the story!” Clearly, she regarded Li Wei as her own court lecturer.

Everyone knew their parents doted on the youngest, so they could only accept it. After a few days’ observation, Li Wei realized that Princess Taiping was not close to him, nor was she affectionate with Li Xian. She got along passably with Li Xian, but was closest to the fourth brother, Li Xulun. Such, perhaps, was the gulf carved by age.

The pinch on her cheek had been a test, and its success showed that his recent efforts had not been in vain. And as he looked at his three brothers and his sister sitting before him, their faces filled with expectation, Li Wei felt more warmth and brotherly affection than calculation.

He resumed the story. His recollection of “The Tale of Heroes and Heroines” was patchy, so he omitted anything inappropriate and soon finished. But “Journey to the West” he remembered vividly, having read it several times and watched the television series; thus, he could spin the tale at leisure. He had only reached the part where Sun Wukong was imprisoned beneath Five Elements Mountain. When Tang Sanzang appeared, Li Lingyue’s eyes widened and she asked, “You mean the monk whom Emperor Taizong sent Duke Fang Xuanling and the officials to greet?”

“That’s right, but remember, this is a story, a product of people’s imagination, not history. Understand?” Li Wei explained.

The real Tang Sanzang had died only a few years ago, and Li Zhi had declared three days of mourning. The imperial brotherhood depicted in the novel was pure fiction. In reality, the Tang court forbade its subjects to travel abroad, and the monk had “smuggled” himself to India, where he was befriended by the King of Gaochang, who treated him as a brother—perhaps the source of the imperial brother motif. Upon his return, Chang’an emptied its markets to welcome him, but Li Shimin did not go to the city gates; he received him in the palace. Several times he tried to persuade him to return to secular life and take office, but the monk refused. Treating novels as history could be dangerous.

It was necessary to make this clear, lest his little sister go about telling people that the monk had three disciples who vanquished demons and that the eldest even wreaked havoc in Heaven, which would be a laughable scandal.

Li Xulun nudged Li Lingyue, saying, “Listen to the story.”

“Don’t take it so seriously—just enjoy the tale.” He was continuing when a eunuch announced the arrival of Yang Min.

Yang Min entered, surprised to see Li Xian and the others, then bowed. The princes returned the courtesy, and this time, their respect was genuine.

Yang Min said, “Your Highness, I have come to ask forgiveness on behalf of my brother.”

“For what offense?” Li Wei asked.

“The other day, he and some friends were drinking in Pinkang Lane, and they had too much…” Li Hong already knew of this incident and was not concerned. In these times, visiting courtesans was not a shameful thing, but rather a mark of sophistication. Some even wrote elegant poems about their experiences, as the later poet Little Du was fond of doing. No one mocked them for it. Yang Min’s brother and Yan Lide’s grandson were relatively well-behaved; some young rakes went so far as to use violence.

Li Wei inquired after the famous three courtesans. Their fame was not only due to their beauty but also their virtue; they had kept their chastity for years despite working in brothels, quite an achievement in so open an age. Each excelled in her own art: Hua Liu of the Departed Souls Hall was skilled in painting and calligraphy; Guiyan of Phoenix Tower, in dance and song—though Helan Minzhi, after forcing herself on her, had broken her maidenhood and would soon lose her place among the famed trio. These establishments, Li Hong knew, all had powerful patrons, but even the strongest could not withstand someone like Helan Minzhi, the only surviving maternal relative of the Empress.

Xiangxue of the Fragrant Pavilion, on the other hand, was a master of music and poetry, and delighted in fine verse. Yan Zhiwei, Yan Lide’s grandson, was gaining a reputation in the capital, so it was natural that Xiangxue received him that night. A martial brother-in-law might be intimidating, but in literary matters, Yan’s talents far outstripped those of the young nobleman. It was only reasonable that he produced some of his own compositions.

Li Wei cared little for the consequences; in the end, only Wu Zetian’s attitude mattered to him—everything else was fleeting. The verses themselves were unorthodox but high-minded, and even the censors could find no fault in them.

He cut the conversation short: “Enough. I know of this. It was an unintentional lapse by General Yang; the matter is closed. Since you are here, I have something to tell you. Since the heavy rains earlier this spring, not a drop has fallen in days, which makes me anxious. Tomorrow I intend to leave the palace to see for myself and will visit your family as well.”

“I am deeply honored, Your Highness.”

“Brother, I want to go too!” Li Lingyue clamored.

“My dear sister, I am going to see the people’s hardships, not for pleasure. Why follow?” Li Wei replied.

“But I want to go!” she insisted.

Li Wei looked to Li Xian. It was a good sign that Lingyue was attached to him, but he had business to attend to tomorrow besides observing the people’s suffering, and bringing her along would be inconvenient.

Li Xian spoke up, “Elder Brother, Emperor Taizong once said the ruler is a boat and the people the water. Let our little sister see for herself—it will help her grow. We should come with you as well.”

“Yes, Brother, we’re so bored in the palace. Let us come with you,” Li Xian added.

Li Xulun said nothing, but his eyes held the same anticipation.

One tail wasn’t enough; now there were three more.

Li Wei groaned, “Aren’t you going to the Hongwen Academy tomorrow?”

Li Xian, Li Xian, and Li Xulun replied in unison, “There’s no class tomorrow.”

How very convenient.

Seeing their eager faces, Li Wei scratched his head. “Fine, I’ll take you all, but remember, you must do as I say.”

“Yes, Brother!”

“And when I go to the Yang residence in the evening, you must return to the palace.” After all, a suitor’s visit to his future in-laws was not for siblings to attend.

They all agreed, except for Lingyue, who still protested; but Yang Min said, “Your Highness, please let the little princess go.” The princes were adolescent boys, not quite appropriate companions, but the princess, being a young girl, posed no such concern.

As night fell, Li Wei summoned Jiang Luo, Liu Qun, and Du Juan—the maids he trusted most. “Can you tell me about your families?” he asked.

After breakfast the next morning, Li Wei produced some plain clothes for his siblings.

“Why?” Li Xian asked.

“We’re going out to see the real lives of the people, not to disturb them.” In other words, they would be traveling incognito. The idea intrigued the others, so they quickly changed.

Of course, even traveling incognito was not like in the dramas, with just two or three attendants. These five youths comprised all of Wu Zetian’s children, and even Li Wei himself dared not be careless—any mishap would spell disaster for the responsible officials and for himself. So, besides the five siblings, Bi’er accompanied them, as well as Liu Qun, and seven or eight trusted guards, all in plain clothes but each with a sword at his side. Li Lingyue carried a handful of milk candies, munching as she walked out of the palace.

Their first stop was the Eastern Market. They rode there by carriage, alighting at the city gate. There, at the northern gate, they saw many refugees, dressed in rags and their faces sallow.

Li Wei was not as compassionate as Li Hong, but neither was he hard-hearted. Seeing the scene, he sighed. He was no longer so new to the Tang dynasty as to make foolish mistakes—he had read enough official documents to know that drought had afflicted not just the capital but forty prefectures, with Guanzhong suffering most. After the drought came locusts, then frost, and then a rare heavy snow in winter—three feet deep. Li Zhi had ordered rice shipped from the south, but the Weishui River was narrow and the boats small; it did little to help. Since his arrival, there had been but one welcome rain, and now, in late February, still nothing. This boded ill for the autumn harvest.

Li Lingyue gazed at the dazed, hungry people, clutching Li Wei’s hand. “They’re so pitiful,” she said.

Li Wei was overjoyed—his stories to his little sister had not been in vain; she was learning compassion. He patted her head. To his surprise, she did not resist this time, but clung to his robe and said, “Brother, help them.”

But how? With Chang’an as the political and economic center, already overcrowded, the court had repeatedly ordered people to be relocated here, swelling the population. Now, over a million people were affected by the disaster, and even if the entire treasury was emptied, it would not suffice.

Even so, Li Wei ordered, “Hand out the money.” He had brought a dozen strings of cash and some silk, meant as gifts for Bi’er’s family and perhaps presents for his siblings. After all, he was the eldest brother.

They distributed ten copper coins to each person, which immediately caused a commotion. Fortunately, their guards were burly and intimidating, keeping things in order.

Li Lingyue spotted a girl her own age, skin and bones, with huge eyes blinking on a gaunt face, a grass tag stuck in her hair. “Why do you have grass in your hair?” she asked.

The girl shrank behind her parents in fear.

Li Wei whispered, “Her parents are trying to sell her.”

“You call yourselves parents? How could you sell your own daughter?” Lingyue flared up, having just given them thirty coins. She strode up, hands on hips, and scolded them loudly.

The girl’s mother burst into tears.

Li Wei apologized and pulled Lingyue aside, explaining quietly, “They’re not heartless—they love their children, but look, they have four of them and can’t even feed themselves. Selling one may save the rest, and if she’s lucky, she’ll find a good home and survive.”

He himself was deeply shaken by the sight. The Tang Empire was vast, with over twenty million registered people, and there should have been no shortage of land. But low crop yields meant that when disaster struck, scenes like this were inevitable.

“Then, Brother, buy her,” Lingyue urged.

Li Xian interjected, “Sister, don’t say such things.” The palace was not a common place—even ordinary maids had to be of good family and carefully vetted, often the daughters of officials. Buying people was out of the question, unless the princes established their own households.

Lingyue seemed to understand and did not press the matter. Instead, she walked over and stuffed her milk candies into the girl’s hands. “Eat these, they’re delicious.”

In no time, the money was gone, and the refugees still looked on hungrily.

A guard came over and whispered, “Your Highness, though your heart is kind, a cup of water cannot quench a cart’s thirst. With so many princes here, we must be cautious. Just in case—let’s leave now.”

Li Wei nodded. He was just about to go when a clear voice rang out, “Porridge! Porridge is being given out!”

This was feudal society, with its stark divide between rich and poor. But not all the wealthy were heartless—some, seeing the misery before them, cooked porridge to relieve the refugees. The authorities, too, had set up soup kitchens outside the city, feeding the hungry. It was not enough to fill them but could keep them alive.

Li Wei had never witnessed this before; hearing the call, he looked up. Two middle-aged servants were carrying a steaming cauldron, with a young maid shouting and wielding a ladle. Beside her stood a maiden veiled in white muslin, her figure graceful. Behind them were three young noblemen—one in his twenties, another a few years older, and a boy about Li Xian’s age, fanning himself languidly.

It was a curious group indeed.