Chapter Sixteen: Daring to Betray One's Master

Quan Ce had no idea that by grafting together parts of two different figures in a painting, he had inadvertently inspired Empress Wu to begin adjusting her figure. In the painting, from the neck up, the likeness was that of the Empress, but from the neck down, it was actually modeled after a certain actress from a later era who had played the Empress herself.

“Faster, faster!” came Zheng Zhong’s booming command from afar. This unruly scion from a prominent family, ever since joining the Thousand Oxen Guard, had brought about a catfish effect—his presence neutralized the sense of superiority once enjoyed by Quan Ce’s fellow Longxi clansmen such as Han Zhai and others. Quan Ce appointed Zheng Zhong as a member of the Guard, also placing him in charge of drilling a hundred bodyguards. Now, on the road to the Eastern Capital, each day began at the crack of dawn, and the men were drilled to exhaustion.

Among the Thousand Oxen Guards and their lieutenants, there were twelve men each from the Longxi clans and the gentry east of Mount Xiao. Their enmity stretched back to the late Sui dynasty. The Longxi scions were loath to lose to “acid scholars,” while the eastern gentry were equally unwilling to be outdone by mere upstarts. Their rivalry was subtle but persistent; they spurred each other on, and though their diligence did not match that of the less privileged landed gentry, the competition was fierce nonetheless.

Quan Ce was pleased by this outcome. He had selected these men partly to bolster the Empress’s political base, but he also harbored his own, less obvious motives. The illegitimate sons of the landed gentry, the frustrated scions of Longxi, and the outsiders from east of the mountains—all of them were unremarkable in adversity, easily overlooked and thus unlikely to harbor ulterior ambitions. But in times of smooth sailing, even the most circuitous influences could gather strength.

Quan Ce had no great ambitions, at least not yet. He simply wanted to use the little authority he possessed to secure some extra protection for himself and his family.

In Quan Ce’s carriage, Lu Zhaoyin held the painting he had copied, his face flushed with shame. “Master Quan, my brushwork is inadequate. I tried to paint a tiger but ended up with a dog. Please, Master, offer your advice.”

The painting was a long scroll, its protagonist Lu Jiong, Lu Zhaoyin’s eldest son. He wore a Taoist topknot, tight-fitting martial garb, short boots, and a martial belt at his waist, making for a striking figure. At times he crawled and leapt, at times raised his hands and stepped forward, at times carried heavy loads while running, or lay on the ground and sat up clutching his head, or climbed over rocks—such were the scenes. The original painting brimmed with vitality, but Lu’s copy was awkward and clumsy. Lu Zhaoyin had watched Quan Ce paint it in a single hour, yet he himself had struggled from dawn to dusk, only to produce something unworthy of display.

“It’s all right—you’re just starting out, but there are already merits in your technique,” Quan Ce offered a few words of comfort, then leaned out of the carriage. “Quan Xiang, go call Zheng Zhong over.”

At the command, Quan Xiang spurred his horse to the hillside. Before long, Zheng Zhong came charging down, helmet and armor in place, sweat beading his brow, steam rising from his head. “General, your orders?”

Quan Ce handed him the copied painting. “I learned something from watching your drills. Take a look—if you find anything useful, make use of it.”

Zheng Zhong bowed, glanced at the figure’s attire, and nodded repeatedly, rolling his neck. “In these days of training, I’ve found that the embroidered green robes are all show and no substance, while the armor is too heavy. The clothes in this painting are common enough, but the combination is new—looks light and agile, perfect for training.”

“When we get to the Eastern Capital, I’ll find a way to apply to the Ministry of Summer for the attire. Once it arrives, I’ll train with you all,” Quan Ce thought to himself. This body was still in its teens—perhaps with some exercise, he could grow a bit taller. Training with his men was also a good way to establish authority. Still, to avoid embarrassment, he’d need to lay some groundwork first. “When we get to the capital, you’ll stay at my residence. Can’t have you making too much of a spectacle.”

“Yes, General.” Zheng Zhong tucked the scroll into his tunic, saluted, then spurred his horse and sped away.

Lu Zhaoyin’s joy was plain to see. “I am grateful you think so highly of me, Master Quan, but in my humble opinion, your own work is far more vivid. If the officers use my crude copy, I fear something may go awry.”

Quan Ce chuckled. “If they used my painting, wouldn’t everyone recognize that the figure is Lu Jiong?”

Lu Zhaoyin blushed to the roots of his hair.

When the company reached Luoyang, dusk was falling. Lu Zhaoyin caught his son on his way to the barracks. “How has Master Quan arranged for rest days? The same half-day shifts as in Chang’an?”

Lu Jiong looked anxiously at the retreating squad. “Father, the Empress is not in Luoyang, so the duty is more relaxed and the numbers fewer. Each man stands guard for one day, trains for two, and rests one day.”

“Wouldn’t that be more exhausting than the Thousand Oxen in Chang’an?” Lu Zhaoyin was surprised, but waved his son on. “Remember, on your rest day, come home on time. I want to paint you. Off with you.”

Lu Jiong didn’t quite understand, but seeing his father let him go, he ran back to the ranks, neat and orderly as they marched into the Eastern Capital.

Both the Luoyang Prefectural Office and the Ziwei Palace had sent people to welcome them. The Thousand Oxen Guard was stationed at the Xuande Gate on the east side of Ziwei City, with all arrangements for food and lodging made.

Quan Ce brought Zheng Zhong to his new home at Shanglin Lane. Learning his father was not present, he went straight to the inner quarters to greet his mother. The house was far larger than Princess Yiyang’s mansion in Chang’an—spacious, bright, and free of rigid, boxy conventions. There were pavilions, flowing water, the whole place like a grand garden.

“Little sister, Chichi, I’m Second Brother. Say ‘Second Brother’!” From afar, he heard the childish voice of Quan Zhu, eager for Quan Luo to call him brother.

Without waiting for the maids to announce him, Quan Ce called out, “Mother, your son has brought a friend to pay his respects.”

“Eldest Son, you’re back?” Footsteps hurried out; Princess Yiyang quickly pulled him inside and called to Zheng Zhong, “Young sir, come in—it's cold outside.”

Zheng Zhong was about to kneel, but stopped mid-motion, entered, and saluted. “Your subject, Zheng Zhong of the Thousand Oxen Guard, pays respects to Your Highness.”

“If you are my son’s friend, there’s no need for so many formalities.” The princess gently asked after his family, and upon learning that Zheng Zhong had lost both parents, her compassion was stirred. “How unfortunate. When you have spare time, come to the house often with my son. You’ve all had a long journey—go rest and bathe first. I’ll have the kitchen send food over. You may have some warm wine to ward off the chill—two cups each, no more.”

“Yes, Mother,” Quan Ce bowed and withdrew, Zheng Zhong following, his face downcast, silent all the way.

Back at their courtyard, they unexpectedly found a tense scene. Quan Zhong was kneeling outside the main room, while Shazha Fu gripped a furious, ashen-faced Quan Li, a short knife lying on the ground.

Chrysanthemum shielded Chisu and the new maid, Shuang Li, behind her, all flustered. Pomegranate glared at Quan Li, eyes wide, “How dare you brandish weapons in the house—are you trying to threaten your master?”

“I would never betray our master! Quan Zhong, now he’s the traitor!” Quan Li struggled, only for Shazha Fu to tighten his grip, making Quan Li yelp in pain.

Quan Ce strode from the shadows, his face dark. His first time bringing Zheng Zhong home, and already such disgrace.

“Quan Xiang, prepare the family discipline. Twenty strokes each, then bring them to the study—I will question them myself.”