Chapter 40: Jealousy and Rivalry (Part II)

Taichu Palace, Xuanzhen Gate, the parade ground of the Thousand Oxen Guard in the Eastern Capital—General Zheng Zhong sat high upon the platform, flanked on either side by enormous bamboo scrolls. One bore two bold characters: “Spirit of the Army.” Below, a smaller inscription read, “Within the Thousand Oxen Guard, we are kin; honor one another, do not let talent or virtue breed arrogance. Support each other, do not let fame or profit sow discord. With the people, be as fish in water; with enemies, fight to the death. Uphold discipline, obey together, today as every day.” The other scroll bore two large characters: “Army Discipline,” and beneath, a dense array of small script detailed everything from drills to formations, from meals to sleep, from the camp to the streets, battlefield, and home—nothing left unaddressed.

“By the grace of the Empress, the number of Thousand Oxen Guards in the Eastern Capital has doubled, now two hundred and forty-eight. Congratulations on passing the examination and joining the pride of the Eastern Capital. My welcome ceremony is rather unique,” General Zheng Zhong, leaning on his sword, shouted loudly. “The original Fifth Squad had ten men; now only six remain, all expelled. From this day forth, the Eastern Capital’s Thousand Oxen Guard shall no longer retain the Fifth Squad designation.”

A stir ran through the ranks below. Those in the Fifth Squad stood straight-backed, tears streaming down their faces.

“I remind you: the honor and discipline of the Thousand Oxen Guard are forged in blood and steel. No stain, no transgression is tolerated. Do not speak to me of your family’s rank or your own achievements. A single misstep brings everlasting regret, even ruin for your comrades. I will show no mercy, no leniency.”

The Fifth Squad was where Hu Chang belonged.

“If any among you wishes to withdraw, step out and show it now.” Silence. After all the labor to enter, these passionate young men feared neither blade nor fire—who would shrink from army rules or discipline?

Zheng Zhong smiled, greatly relieved. He had followed Quan Ce’s example closely, copying even his personnel structure. Their first action had gone well; his confidence soared.

Within Xuanzhen Gate, training was fervent as fire. In Luoyang, waves stirred.

The song “The River Flows East” had swept through every tavern and brothel. Whenever the final verses rang out, tears fell like rain, sighs mingled with sobs, and applause thundered. Cups were raised among kindred spirits, celebrating a masterpiece.

Its author vanished within the palace; the Empress Wu did not pursue its origins. Outside, singers and listeners alike were certain: it could only be the work of Quan Ce, the historian.

Xue Huaiyi, borrowing another’s glory, regained favor—the frequency of his service within the palace increased. Though his bedchamber skills could not rival those of the gutter, he found a new path, focusing on the union of spirit and flesh. He was candid, never taking advantage of his apprentices; when the storm passed, he publicly declared the work was Quan Ce’s, earning much goodwill. In the city, people praised him as a straightforward man.

Not long after, Empress Wu appointed Quan Ce as Attendant-in-Residence and concurrently as Hanlin Academician, retaining his rank as upper-sixth grade. Yet, though Attendant-in-Residence served before the throne, it was subordinate to the Phoenix Pavilion, still a department official. Hanlin Academician, however, was an inner-court attendant, a household official of the imperial clan—since the founding of the Hanlin Academy in Emperor Taizong’s reign, it had been the closest station for ministers, with many prime ministers emerging from its ranks.

For Quan Ce, this was not a blessing. Bearing the title of Hanlin Academician meant a flood of work—none of it serious, all poetry and literature, requests for critique and appraisal. He would never truly revise others’ essays, but to avoid offense, he read everything carefully, memorizing fine phrases and striking passages to flatter their authors when occasion arose. Such was the way among men of letters.

Hanlin Academicians socialized frequently, composing and feasting together became fashionable. Quan Ce occasionally participated, rarely plagiarizing, preferring to play the supporting role and earning many friends.

Among the Academicians was one named Cui Rong, from Qi Prefecture, nearly forty, whose prose was splendid and deeply valued by the Empress Wu. Alas, his poetic talent was lacking, often ridiculed during banquets. Yet he loved to attend, repeatedly embarrassed. Quan Ce felt sympathy, frequently defended him, offered poetic gifts, and Cui Rong was deeply grateful, regarding him as a close friend.

“Brother, brother, Academician Song is hosting today. I hear he has prepared over a dozen peppered lamb legs. First come, first served—you mustn’t delay!” As soon as Quan Ce left the palace, Cui Rong, who had been waiting at the gate for some time, dragged him off.

“Wait, Brother Cui, allow me a word,” Quan Ce said, half laughing, “I’m afraid I can't attend today. I have an appointment with Minister Wu.”

“Oh? Where? May I accompany you?” Cui Rong asked bluntly.

“Uh, at Yongfeng Lane.” Quan Ce felt embarrassed. In Chang’an, he frequented Pingkang Ward; here in Luoyang, it was Yongfeng Lane. This wasn’t just Wu Youji’s habit—flirtation was the mark of the gentry in the flourishing Tang.

Cui Rong was intrigued, stroking his short beard shamelessly. “Other places, perhaps not, but since it's Yongfeng Lane, this uninvited guest is settled.”

“I ought to invite you, Brother Cui,” Quan Ce replied helplessly. One mounted a horse, the other a carriage, both clad in blue official robes, swaggering toward Yongfeng Lane.

Wu Youji had chosen a brothel of high refinement. The “Dispersed Melancholy” in Chang’an still lingered in memory; this establishment, “Songs of Joy,” favored a southern pastoral style, exquisitely arranged. Unlike the strictly private “Dispersed Melancholy,” “Songs of Joy” had a spacious hall for performances, named “Shared Happiness.” Tables were scattered, not crowded, each guest had their own seat to enjoy the music and dance, reminiscent of later theater halls.

The host led Quan Ce and Cui Rong to the central seats of the hall. Wu Youji was already there, beside a delicate, handsome young man.

After greetings, Wu Youji invited them to sit. “Academician Cui, Brother, today we have a treat. Lady Fuqu will sing ‘Immortal by the River.’”

“Lady Fuqu?” Quan Ce was surprised. The delicate young man explained, “Lady Fuqu arrived in the Eastern Capital just yesterday, to perform in Yongfeng Lane for a week.”

Her voice, like a yellow oriole emerging from the valley, was clearly a woman disguised as a man. Quan Ce stared, dumbstruck.

“Brother, don’t be rude—that’s my wife, you should address her as Auntie,” Wu Youji said, displeased.

Quan Ce hastily paid his respects. So this was the woman Wu Youji loved so deeply, Lady Wu, whose courtesy name was Rui Lai. Cui Rong, meanwhile, sat calmly, unfazed. Bringing one’s wife to a brothel was evidently a Tang gentry trend, a rustic feeling overwhelmed Quan Ce, leaving him defeated.

“The river flows east…” Fuqu’s performance began. Her voice was sweet and gentle, not suited to such heroic lyrics, yet as she sang, a torrent of grief poured forth, piercing the heart. At the end, applause thundered, gifts showered the stage, and a dozen attendants rushed about, unable to keep up with the offerings.

On stage, Fuqu’s sorrow melted into springtime joy. “Friends, a daughter must eventually marry. My parents are gone; I am alone. A woman is like a flower; youth is fleeting. Today, I must give myself away…”

The crowd roared. Even the proprietress and attendants changed color, clearly an improvised act. A man with a goatee went up to talk with her at length; Fuqu shook her head, refusing. “I am free, with modest means, devoted to literature. For the next hour, any gentleman may display his talent. Whoever moves my heart, I will give myself to him.”

She waved her hand, and attendants brought forward a desk and bench, as if she were an examiner.

Lady Wu’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Brother, is your neck stiff? Why not look at the stage?” She had noticed: Fuqu’s transformation from grief to joy was because she had glanced at Quan Ce in the crowd.

Quan Ce only smiled.

“Alas, such a beauty, and I lack the power of poetry!” Cui Rong beat his chest in despair.

Within the time it took for one incense stick to burn, many had presented their works; Fuqu merely collected them, not reading.

“This is lively—I’ll join in as well!” A clear, noble voice—it was none other than Wu Yanshou. He didn’t behave, striding onto the stage and reading his own poem aloud: “The immortal stars meet by the water every year. The shuttle halts for crickets, cleverness entrusted to spiders. The day passes with clouds, the wheel returns with the sun. Don’t say the meeting is distant; days in heaven are different.”

“Lady Fuqu, what do you say? Everyone, what do you think?” Wu Yanshou was brash, pressing Fuqu for a verdict. Some in the crowd cheered him on; others were silent. He was influential, his poem skillful—not to be challenged.

Cui Rong glanced over and shook his head. “Song Zhiwen—ha!”

Quan Ce noticed too. Song Zhiwen was also a Hanlin Academician, skilled in poetry but notorious for his conduct—arrogant and oppressive toward Cui Rong and others, yet obsequious and slick toward those with talent like Quan Ce.

Fuqu forced a smile. “Gentleman, I promised an hour, and there’s still a quarter left. Please wait, if you will.”

“Half an hour couldn’t yield a poem; what difference will a quarter make?” Wu Yanshou tossed his paper aside, sat on the floor, and shot a cold, vengeful glare at Quan Ce. “I’ll sit here and wait.”

Fuqu’s face grew anxious, regretful. She checked the hourglass—less than thirty breaths remained. The cruel gentleman in the audience sat unmoving. Her hope faded; she rifled through the collected poems, seeking one that was passable, resigned to accept any, as long as it wasn’t that scoundrel on stage who maliciously provoked Mr. Quan, making her furious. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she searched.

The hourglass dwindled; only ten breaths remained. Wu Yanshou’s face was twisted with vengeful glee.

Quan Ce sighed, rose, and walked slowly to Fuqu. In a clear voice, he recited, “The beauty rolls up her beaded curtain, sits deep in thought, brows furrowed; only the traces of tears are seen, but no one knows whom she hates.”

“I do not hate—I love,” Fuqu cried, throwing herself into his arms.

The hall erupted in joyous cheers. The guests, unrestrained, surged toward the stage, showering it with gifts and colored ribbons. Wu Youji embraced his wife, holding a huge basket, tossing offerings with great merriment.

Wu Yanshou, sitting on the floor like a clown, boiled with rage. Unable to judge the poetry, he sought out Song Zhiwen, only to find him shriveled like a defeated rooster, lost and pushed about by the crowd, utterly at a loss.