Chapter Four: The Thunderous Imperial Decree and the Terminal Illness of the Ancient Era

Even Jiang Ke lowered his stance and asked again, “Then, Crown Prince, in your opinion, what outcome would the Tang army have if we engaged the Tubo forces in Liangzhou?”

“Liangzhou, hmm?” Li Wei pondered. In those moments when one regrets not having read more books, he vaguely recalled that even during the reign of Emperor Gaozong and Wu Zetian, there had been great victories over Tubo, but far more crushing defeats as well. However, he couldn't pinpoint exactly where or how those defeats occurred. Thus, he answered with extra caution, speaking slowly, “In Liangzhou, our Tang dynasty has operated for many years, and the people are loyal to us. As long as we seize the right opportunity, we can claim the advantage of timing, terrain, and unity. Of course, much depends on the general’s leadership and ability to maneuver the troops. In truth, it’s not only in Liangzhou; in the flatter regions of the Western Territories and He Yuan, the altitude isn’t too high, so it doesn’t affect our troops much. But past Chiling, where the land rises, or east of Chiling, fighting in the high mountains would put us at a disadvantage.”

“So, you’re saying Qinghai cannot be reclaimed?” Jiang Ke pressed further. He was not directly concerned, but as the acting Grand Commander of Liangzhou, if the court ordered him to retake Qinghai, what then?

“General Jiang, in my opinion, there’s no immediate worry for Liangzhou. Tubo has only just reabsorbed Tuyuhun and needs time to digest its gains. Liangzhou is a vital trade route of the Tang and the gateway to the Western Regions—if they enter Liangzhou, they would inevitably clash with us directly. Tubo is not yet strong enough for that. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t attack Liangzhou now; instead, I’d target here.” He pointed at the map, indicating the Four Garrisons of Anxi. “The four garrisons of the Western Regions are remote from the Tang, populated by many non-Han peoples. Their loyalty is uncertain, and our support there is weak. Large-scale military campaigns need robust supply lines, and delivering provisions to the Western Regions is extremely difficult. As for counterattacking Qinghai, that is essential. There is salt, and there are horses.”

With just those words, everyone fell silent.

At this time, salt was not yet extracted by evaporation; the coastal regions boiled seawater, the interior relied on lake salt from Hedong, well salt from Bashu, and the salt ponds in Yanzhou—or the lake salt from Qinghai. The salt tax was a major source of state revenue. Losing Qinghai meant the court lost a significant fiscal pillar. Tubo equally lacked salt, so gaining Lake Qinghai shifted the balance, harming the Tang while greatly benefiting Tubo’s growth.

The warhorses of Qinghai were of unquestionable military value.

And then there were the Four Garrisons of Anxi—perhaps that report had not been presented earlier, so the Crown Prince had not seen it. It was just last spring that Tubo captured the Four Garrisons, leading to their abandonment and the court’s fury, sending Xue Rengui to war.

Could it be the Crown Prince hadn't heard this news? Was his amnesia genuine?

Yet it only highlighted his wisdom.

“To reclaim Qinghai without first dividing and weakening Tubo would require a general of the caliber of Duke Shen, Lord Li. If not, there is only one way: to have our soldiers train atop the high mountains for three or four years, acclimatizing to the altitude, and then be led by a famed commander. Otherwise, facing Tubo’s Goerqinling, the result would not be pleasant.” After a moment, he added, “People have their strengths, and so do horses. Not only our soldiers, but even our warhorses may not match Tubo’s steeds on the plateau. Beyond this, I can think of nothing else.”

To boast, one must have substance.

These viewpoints came from the hindsight of later generations, but since Li Wei remembered them, in this world they became his knowledge. Even if he could recite and transcribe all the poetry of the Tang and Song, who would dare claim it wasn’t his own work?

But to go further would be to risk exposing himself with details.

What he had said was enough.

Li Wei’s ideas had already opened an important window for these wise elders, who began a lively discussion.

…

Perhaps it was truly out of anger at Li Hong that Wu Zetian randomly appointed two palace guards and decreed two princesses to be married off.

But she quickly realized this was unwise. Though both guards came from respectable backgrounds, they were still beneath the daughters of an emperor. Moreover, handling imperial marriages so carelessly would only invite criticism. Hence, she issued another edict, appointing Wang Xu as the Commandant Consort and Prefect of Yingzhou, and Quan Yi as the Left Courageous Guard Consort and Prefect of Qichuan. She also commanded the officials of the Imperial Clan Court and the Ministry of Rites in Chang’an to prepare the wedding ceremonies.

…

Spring deepened day by day.

Despite the severe drought, the Longshou Canal had not dried up and continued to nourish the palace gardens.

The sky turned somber, and as Li Wei left the Hall of Extended Counsel where the chancellors met, a gentle and welcome rain began to fall. The flowers appeared even more vibrant in the mist.

Returning to the Eastern Palace, he soon heard the news.

Li Wei frowned, then couldn’t help but smile—though the smile was bitter. His two half-sisters had finally seen their day. As long as they cooperated with their husbands and kept a low profile, they would be free from suffering for the rest of their lives. But as for their mother, the resentment in her heart would surely only deepen.

At that moment, a report came from outside the palace: “An edict from the Empress!”

…

It was an imperial decree from Wu Zetian. Li Wei immediately left his chamber to receive it. The eunuch who carried the decree was neat and refined in appearance. Li Wei welcomed him inside and instructed Bi’er to prepare tea, but the eunuch declined, “Your Highness, I have official duties and must return to Luoyang immediately. Please accept the decree.”

Though he smiled, his hurry and deliberate avoidance made the air turn cold.

Li Wei could only bow to receive the edict. The eunuch intoned, “Crown Prince, all is well, all is well…”

All is well, all is well? These four words alone betrayed Wu Zetian’s simmering anger!

After a heap of irrelevant platitudes, the eunuch continued, “You are frail with illness and preoccupied with the affairs of state, lacking the energy to mind palace matters. The empire belongs to all, not to one alone…”

She did not write “the house of one man,” though the Tang’s realm was in fact the Li family’s. The phrase “the empire belongs to all” was a high-sounding excuse. But had she written “one man,” it would have been different! Who were these two princesses? They were daughters of Consort Xiao, not of the legitimate wife. Think of Wu Zetian’s grudges with Queen Wang and Consort Xiao.

Li Wei broke out in a cold sweat once more as he listened.

The only sharp rebuke in the decree was this sentence, but it was enough.

After hearing the edict, he replied in a low voice, “Your son accepts the Empress’s command.”

Turning to Bi’er, he said, “Bring three hundred bolts of silk to thank the eunuch for carrying the decree.”

Unable to think of a better way—after all, being Crown Prince wasn’t so bad; in this vast world, being second to the Emperor was plenty. Why insist on being Emperor? But who would believe such modern thinking? No matter what, he had to mend ties with Wu Zetian.

Though she had acquiesced to the marriages of the two princesses under his urging, Wu Zetian was deeply displeased, and so she used this scolding. There are so many matters of state left unattended—how could you have the leisure to meddle in palace affairs!

Hidden within her words was her dissatisfaction and disappointment that her son did not understand her pains. If Consort Xiao had been left unchecked, Li Hong would never have been Crown Prince. She could not state this outright, so she used the most tactful language in her decree.

If one disregards later history, Wu Zetian’s greatest accomplishments weren’t merely her own, but for Li Hong. Yet the two princesses remained unmarried in the palace—was it truly unknown to all? How could that be! They were the daughters of Emperor Gaozong, and how many daughters did he have? No one dared to speak of it, and in the end, it was Li Hong who brought it up so directly in a memorial.

Li Wei sighed inwardly. Had it been him, he would not have acted so bluntly. This Li Hong…

The eunuch carrying the edict was undoubtedly Wu Zetian’s trusted confidant.

Three hundred bolts of silk—neither much nor little—were of the finest quality from the Eastern Palace, each fetching nearly seven hundred cash, about two hundred coins altogether. In a normal year, a coin could buy fifty or sixty bushels of rice. Of course, prices shouldn’t be measured only in rice, but a coin was worth about five hundred yuan in modern terms.

“Your Highness is too generous; I dare not accept. Your Highness would do well to take care of yourself,” the eunuch said with biting sarcasm. On the surface, Li Hong had acted out of filial piety; on another, he had sacrificed his mother’s dignity for the sake of reputation.

Li Hong was anxious—he wanted the world’s concern, but not that of his own mother. Real filial piety would have to wait until he was Emperor. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Then, might I trouble you to carry a letter to the Empress?”

“Certainly.”

Li Hong picked up a brush and wrote on yellow hemp paper: “Mother’s words are absolutely right. Your son is young and inexperienced; I beg your forgiveness. At this time of year, the drought is severe. Occasionally, a spring rain brings joy, and I ventured out to pray for it. Yet the rain ceased, and your son was left dizzy from standing in it. Far away, spring bursts with flowers, yet the season is still cold. Father is frail, and Mother toils for the country. On top of this, you worry for your son, leaving me guilt-ridden. Unable to fulfill my filial duty, I have instructed the Wardrobe Office to make several spring garments for Father and Mother, hoping to keep you both in good health. When you are well, I am at peace. The other day, seeing an infant’s swaddling, I suddenly thought of a mother’s hardships in pregnancy, so I composed a poem for you, Mother: ‘A month in your womb passed unnoticed. Two, you felt the change. Three, food lost its taste. Four, limbs grew weak. Five, dizziness. Six, anxiety. Seven, heavy as a mountain. Eight, too cautious to smile. Nine, each step a struggle. Ten, finally parting from your embrace.’”

“What kind of poem is that?” Bi’er asked in surprise.

To avoid repeating the tragedy of Li Chengqian and Li Tai, Emperor Gaozong had moved Li Hong to the Eastern Palace at the age of eight, hiring renowned scholars to instruct him. Li Hong, diligent in his studies, became frail with lung disease from lack of exercise.

But his literary talent was exceptional and he would never have written such a crude poem.

“Is it not good?” Li Wei asked. The poem was plain, but sincere. What Wu Zetian needed now wasn’t ornate language, but warmth for her disappointed heart. No poem, however elegant, could surpass Cao Zhi.

…

The eunuch, upon reading the letter, commented, “Your Highness, you write well. But have you forgotten that the Eastern Palace has three eighth-rank seamstresses and several palace maids dedicated to making garments? The Wardrobe Office is part of the Imperial Palace’s staff.”

A clever rejoinder.

Li Wei truly hadn’t known. His lie exposed, he smiled awkwardly, “Eunuch, I was quite ill this time—perhaps I’ve contracted amnesia. Since my illness, many matters escape me.”

“Amnesia?”

“But His Highness is already much improved,” Bi’er said nervously.

“It’s nothing; perhaps I’ll recover in time. In fact, it might not be a bad thing—at least my writing has improved.”

Li Hong, gentle outwardly but firm within, had always had strong, forceful handwriting, though it lacked charm. Li Wei had tried to imitate his writing but failed. He had trained in the Yan style since childhood, and his calligraphy was presentable. Unexpectedly, with Li Hong’s hand—honed over a dozen years—plus his own understanding, his writing surpassed Li Hong’s, gaining a vibrancy and the essence of the Yan style.

Yet to Li Hong, calligraphy was but a minor art; at this time, there was no practice of identifying people by their handwriting. The pressing matter was his relationship with Wu Zetian, so no one cared much. This letter, however, was enough for the eunuch to see an opportunity and offer a gentle reminder. As for amnesia, what did it matter? What concerned the eunuch was that Li Wei was willing to yield to Wu Zetian.

Li Wei continued, “Bi’er, did you not hear what the eunuch said?”

Bi’er took the hint and went off at once to find the palace seamstresses.

Sensing an opportunity, the eunuch was shrewd enough to sit and sip his tea, saying, “However, Your Highness’s writing carries a grandeur beyond the ages.”

The Yan style had not yet appeared. Calligraphy then was still evolving from the Wei dynasty’s clerical script, prized for its delicate beauty. Even the robust brushwork of Yu Shinan was still gentle at heart. Ouyang Xun’s hand was forceful yet refined. Chu Suiliang’s was all elegance and charm. Even Li Shimin, the great Emperor Taizong, wrote with a delicacy like a maiden from the south.

A script as bold and vigorous as Yan’s was almost unheard of in history.

Its grandeur might not be appreciated now; in this era, both writing and poetry favored refinement, just as Su Dongpo’s poetry was not revered until well after his death. But the spread of such a hand would surely astonish the world.

“Eunuch flatters me,” said Li Wei, and continued writing: “With Chancellor Dai and other wise ministers in charge of affairs, your son is of little use and can only observe. Mother, might you permit your son to leave Jingzhao and go to Luoyang, to fulfill his filial duty at your side? Your son, Hong, bows in tears.”

If one wanted Wu Zetian to be pleased, to serve at her side was best. Staying in Chang’an as regent was a pretense; the main reason was Emperor Gaozong’s wish for him to learn statecraft from the chancellors. But when life itself was at risk, what use was an empty title?

The eunuch, satisfied, gently dried the ink. “I will guard this letter well and deliver it to the Empress at once.”

“Thank you,” Li Hong said with a deep bow. Being Crown Prince meant nothing if he could not please his mother; he needed those around her to speak well of him.

“Your Highness, you humble me,” the eunuch said, hurriedly helping Li Wei up.

The Eastern Palace was a vast, well-staffed institution; once set in motion, things happened quickly. Soon, several spring garments were prepared. The clothes themselves didn’t matter; it was the filial intent that counted. This time, Li Hong presented five hundred bolts of silk, and the eunuch did not refuse, accepting them with a pleased smile.

Watching him depart, Li Wei breathed a long sigh of relief. After this round of remedies, things were moving in a better direction. He turned to Bi’er and asked, “Earlier, in Mother’s letter, she said ‘frail with illness.’ What does that mean?”

“Your Highness, have you even forgotten that? ‘Frail with illness’ means tuberculosis.”

Li Wei swayed on his feet. This transmigration was truly ill-fated. No sooner had he arrived than he offended Wu Zetian—and, on top of that, had tuberculosis. Tuberculosis in this medieval era—what did that mean? A death sentence!