Chapter Three: The Great Fei River

This time leaving the palace, his aim was simply to familiarize himself with the imperial compound, to at least gain a sense of the environment where he would spend his days. He also wanted to take stock of the resources at his disposal, and, in addition, to exercise. This body was far too frail—even a leisurely stroll counted as exertion.

Yet he had only managed to walk through a small part of the Eastern Palace before he was so exhausted and out of breath he was forced to return and rest again.

After supper, however, Li Wei practiced a set of Tai Chi. He didn’t know many martial forms; in his previous life, though he may not have been a lover of tranquility, he was certainly not reckless. He was familiar with the standard Five Animal Frolics, the Chen-style Tai Chi, as well as the Eight Section Brocade. His goal wasn’t to fight evil or even strengthen his health; his curiosity was piqued watching others practice, and it became a hobby. Over time, he found it did benefit his body, and so he persisted.

Though now in a new body, these movements seemed etched into his very bones. But certain techniques, like the Protective Heart Hammer, which required a leap and a mid-air spin before landing in a deep horse stance and striking with both fists—those were simply impossible for him now. Even basic kicks and strikes left him drained.

Still, his temperament was gentle and unhurried—one might say mild to a fault—so he wasn’t impatient. Sometimes the movements looked graceful; other times, when the posture’s difficulty was too great, he nearly toppled over, appearing awkward and clumsy.

He stumbled through to the end, took a sip of tea, and then again bathed.

Watching the young maid sweat as she bustled about, Li Wei felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry to trouble you so much.”

“Your Highness, please don’t say that. To serve you is my greatest honor. Besides, you once saved my family.”

“Did I?” Li Wei asked, puzzled. “I can’t seem to recall.”

“I’m from Chang’an. When my mother was gravely ill, my family spent all we had on her treatment. I was just a child then, and when I heard the news, I wept quietly in a corner. You happened to overhear me, inquired into the matter, and gave us a generous sum. If not for you, I’d have lost everything.”

No wonder she treated Li Hong so well. Gratitude and loyalty were rare virtues—one must know that in this world, there were many who, the better you treated them, the less they appreciated it, and the more likely they were to plot against you.

“That was just a small gesture,” Li Wei sighed. “I never imagined it would earn such steadfast loyalty from you.” Perhaps this clever little maid was the only blessing Li Hong had left him. Otherwise, in this somber palace, he was utterly alone.

He returned to reading. At times like this, a gentle temperament was a blessing. Were it someone else, trapped in this environment—even as crown prince—knowing full well that his days were numbered, he might grow desperate, frantic, always scheming. Li Wei considered his situation, but knew that impatience would achieve nothing.

First, he had to adapt to this body. Li Hong was isolated, but that wasn’t entirely without advantage: with so few acquaintances, even if people noticed his strange behavior, they wouldn’t care. The young maid, so devoted and so young, would hardly notice.

But if Emperor Li Zhi or Empress Wu questioned him, they might well discover something amiss, even if he claimed illness as an excuse.

Reading through Li Hong’s annotated texts might yield some useful insights. Of course, he had to keep reading; Li Hong had been a voracious reader since childhood, to the point of becoming a sickly scholar. His knowledge was deep, especially in the Book of Rites, the Rites of Zhou, and the Etiquette and Ceremonial. To this day, Li Wei couldn’t tell the difference between the three, and even suspected the Rites of Zhou might be the same as the Book of Rites, but upon checking, he found they were not.

The next morning, after taking his medicine, he again practiced the Five Animal Frolics and Tai Chi, and added the Eight Section Brocade, before settling down to read.

Life depends on movement; by evening, Li Wei was already showing improvement in his complexion.

On the third day, he began running in the morning.

Bier followed behind him, and thanks to Li Hong’s not-yet-recovered condition, managed to keep up, panting, “Your Highness, there’s something I’d like to ask, if I may?”

“Of course,” he replied.

The little maid glanced around to make sure no one else was near. “Your Highness, do you think that by building your reputation and overshadowing the ruler, you’re trying to sully your own name?”

“To sully my own name?” he asked.

“Like Xiao He did,” she replied.

“Nonsense! Why would I imitate Xiao He? He was a prime minister; I am the crown prince,” Li Wei laughed. Li Hong had acted as regent, but did not involve himself in state affairs or keep any personal retainers. If he were truly useless, that would be one thing, but instead he sought renown—Li Hong’s motives were unclear, but he had gone too far. Not only his mother, even his father might begin to harbor unnecessary suspicions. If he realized this, he would correct it, but there was no need to go so far as to tarnish his own reputation just to set things right. Best to let things take their course.

“Then why are you running?” she asked.

Apart from soldiers, who ran to increase their speed in battle, no one used running as exercise at this time. Li Hong’s morning runs drew curious and puzzled looks from everyone in the Eastern Palace.

“What are you thinking? Running is good for the body—do you want me to be sick all the time?” he said.

Bier stuck out her tongue. Over the past few days, she had felt something was off, but the crown prince had become even gentler than before. He had always treated her well, but had been rather stern, so she always felt a little afraid in his presence. If not for her gratitude, she would have kept her distance like everyone else. Besides, besides…

“Then why haven’t I seen you do this before?” she asked.

“I never did it before, but that doesn’t mean I never will. After falling ill this time, I realized I couldn’t go on like this. So, I’m taking better care of myself,” he replied, brushing off the question.

But as soon as he returned, a eunuch brought word that several ministers were waiting for him in the Yan Ying Hall of the Daming Palace to discuss official matters. Li Wei now understood: because his mother disapproved, Emperor Li Zhi had moved the political center from the Taiji Palace to the Daming Palace. So-called “discussions” were really just lessons for him.

He took the carriage to Yan Ying Hall.

Several elders were seated in the grand hall, with rows of shelves behind them stacked with numerous files and scrolls.

Among them were Dai Zhide, Zhang Wenguan, Xiao Dezhao, and another man, Liu Rengui. Liu had originally been allowed to retire, but after Xue Rengui’s disastrous defeat at Dafeichuan, to guard against a Tibetan invasion, Liu Rengui was recalled and appointed Prefect of Longzhou to secure the capital’s safety.

There was also Jiang Ke; after Xue Rengui’s defeat, the Tuyuhun territory had been entirely annexed by Tibet. To prevent a further Tibetan invasion of Liangzhou, Jiang Ke had been appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Liangzhou Expeditionary Forces last September. But with so much preparation, he still had not departed by February. Meanwhile, the Tibetan threat was pressing, so Liu Rengui was summoned to the capital to discuss countermeasures.

Aside from Jiang Ke, the others all had some connection to Li Hong. For example, Liu Rengui also served as Left Tutor of the Eastern Palace.

Unfortunately, Li Wei did not recognize any of them, so he simply saluted, “Greetings, gentlemen.”

He glossed over the introductions.

Dai Zhide spoke, “Your Highness, I have just heard that, thanks to your advice, His Majesty decreed the marriage of Yiyang and Xuancheng. I was deeply moved by this matter.”

So you’re Dai Zhide! At least you’re still Minister of Revenue and a statesman—don’t you know this move by Li Hong does more harm than good? Li Wei fumed inwardly but said nothing.

But in the midst of things, who could foresee the future storms Empress Wu would bring? Not only Dai Zhide—even Emperor Li Zhi, who shared her bed, could not have guessed. Otherwise, would he have allowed her to rise unchecked? Besides, all these men held concurrent posts related to Li Hong; they weren’t truly responsible for his education, merely guiding him by example in virtue and propriety. The more Li Hong acted as he did now, the more they felt they were fulfilling their duty. As for the palace intrigues, what did that matter to them?

Having said his piece, Dai Zhide left it at that. Two insignificant princesses were not worth his attention; on the contrary, Li Hong’s show of compassion piqued his interest. He quickly outlined the day’s business. This was a formality—by custom, Li Hong would sit quietly and listen.

But today the crown prince broke with tradition. “Minister Dai, may I see the relevant reports?”

The Battle of Dafeichuan—who had not heard of it? The Tang dynasty’s first major defeat, and it had been suffered by the War God himself, Xue Rengui. Countless forum threads in later generations had dissected the battle.

Dai Zhide was surprised, mouth opening, but he restrained himself. Li Hong had the right, so he quickly produced a stack of documents.

Li Wei found it amusing. Compassion was all well and good, but putting on airs without the strength to back it up was courting disaster. Sometimes it was no bad thing to reveal a little insight.

But the forum analysis was only armchair generalship, so he read the reports carefully.

The room grew quiet, broken only by the cheerful chirping of birds outside the window as the ministers exchanged glances.

Liu Rengui, on the other hand, was intrigued and wanted to see what the crown prince was capable of. Military matters were not like the Book of Rites; not even Dai Zhide or Li Hong had figured out the reasons for the defeat at Dafeichuan. Even Liu Rengui himself had only a vague idea.

After a long while, Li Wei set down the reports and said cautiously, “I have some thoughts, though I am unsure if I should speak.”

“Please do, Your Highness,” Jiang Ke replied, though inwardly he found it amusing. As a descendant of the famed general Jiang Wei of Shu and a veteran commander himself, he was not easily impressed in military matters.

“First, Guo Daifeng missed the opportunity, and General Xue did not adjust his response in time.”

The ministers nodded; this was the official conclusion, which was why both Guo Daifeng and Xue Rengui had been punished.

“Second, the enemy had superior numbers; our army was outmatched. Though the Tang dynasty had often won against the odds, the enemy’s valor and intelligence made the difference. Since the fifth year of Yonghui, Tibet had repeatedly invaded the Bailan and Tuyuhun tribes. Though General Su Dingfang once repelled them, for several years now, floods and droughts have plagued us, and we have had no time to attend to other matters. This allowed Tibet to seize most of Qinghai. The Tuyuhun tribes, once friendly to us, largely migrated to Liangling and other places, while those who remained grew closer to the Tibetans. General Xue was deep in enemy territory, enjoying neither the advantages of time, place, nor popular support.”

The ministers nodded again—now he was getting to the heart of the matter.

“In fact, our best chance was when Tibet first invaded Tuyuhun a few years ago. Had the Tang dynasty sent even a small force, we could have worked with the Tuyuhun to defeat Tibet. But now, Gar Trinring is a figure we must beware—he is a war god.”

At this, the others were dismissive. Even Liu Rengui believed the defeat was due to Xue Rengui’s overconfidence, but Li Wei vaguely remembered that there were two or three more disastrous defeats to come, even worse than Dafeichuan, all at the hands of Gar Trinring—the Tang called him Lun Qinling—a man who single-handedly humbled the great Tang.

“Lastly, there is the matter of mountain sickness.”

“Mountain sickness?” Liu Rengui asked, puzzled.

“Yes. The highland climate differs greatly from that of the central plains. Soldiers from the plains struggle to breathe at high altitude,” Li Wei explained carefully. He couldn’t mention high-altitude pulmonary edema—if he, confined to the palace, spoke so knowledgeably, it would seem unnatural. “But the Tibetans live even higher. In battles around Qinghai, our troops are at a severe disadvantage. Now that Tibet has gained both the land and population of Tuyuhun, we have but two ways to win.”

“What ways?” Liu Rengui was interested now.

“The first, a lesser plan, is to lure the Tibetans into lower terrain for battle. Also, since Tibetan soldiers are used to the cold, it is best to fight in summer. One reason for General Xue’s defeat was choosing autumn for battle—advantageous for us, but even more so for the enemy. Still, this is not a good plan—the Tibetans are led by a great general, unlikely to be deceived.”

“What do you mean by ‘deceived’?” someone asked.

As the idiom had yet to be coined, Li Wei quickly changed his wording: “I mean, unlikely to fall into our trap. The second way is truly brilliant, but must be handled carefully. The ancients said: ‘The best generals achieve victories without great feats.’ There is no need for a bloody clash with Tibet. Their core is made up of several tribes along the Zang River, united only in the past century, and internally riven by many divisions—such as Zhangzhung, Sunpo, Yangtong, Qiangtang, and the newly conquered Tuyuhun. Some of these tribes have been treated unfairly; tensions abound. The court could send clever envoys to make contact with these groups, offer support, and sow discord, turning Tibet into a chaos like that of the Warring States. It may cost some resources, but far less than mobilizing an army of tens of thousands, and our brave Tang soldiers would be spared needless sacrifice. If it succeeds, the problem would be solved for good. Of course, this is just my humble opinion—please forgive me.”

He ended with a modest smile.

But Liu Rengui’s eyes shone with excitement. “Your Highness, are these your own ideas, or has someone been advising you?”

“What insight could I have? Does General Liu think these two strategies have merit?” Through the conversation, Li Wei realized this was the famous Liu Rengui, whom he deeply admired—a hero against the Japanese pirates and one of the Tang dynasty’s legendary generals.

“Your Highness is both wise and talented. I have some military treatises and strategies, with my own annotations,” Liu began, then fell silent. After all, the crown prince was not meant to study the art of war—should he, like Emperor Taizong, campaign in person?

Yet Li Wei’s words had not only impressed Liu Rengui; those present, all men of great wisdom, soon realized their significance. Their gazes toward Li Wei changed, growing bright and intense.