Chapter Sixty-Six: The Junior Minister of the Imperial Secretariat

Mid-November of the first year of Yongchang, Empress Wu returned to Chang’an from the Eastern Capital, accompanied by all the officials. She promptly issued an edict: General of the Left Guards and Acting Minister of the Ministry of Civil Affairs, Wu Youji, was to marry Princess Taiping, and the wedding was to be completed within the year.

Wu Youji received the imperial command in his late wife’s mourning hall, his expression vacant, as lifeless as a walking corpse.

Quan Ce went to pay his respects before the spirit tablet, offering words of comfort for a long time. Only when Wu Youji’s emotions had steadied did he leave for the Court of Reception. His mind was restless along the way. Princess Taiping brimmed with confidence, intent on taming her future husband, while Wu Youji was sunk in grief, utterly dispirited—a union of fire and ice, unlikely to end well.

Upon arriving at the Court of Reception, Quan Ce set aside his worries and began to fulfill his duties as Assistant Minister. The court’s affairs sprawled far and wide, entangled and complex. There were many guild halls and commercial offices from various regions, and emissaries from tributary states mingled in a web of conflicting interests. Internal matters of these states often required imperial reporting, all channeled through the Court of Reception. Even more vexing were the trade disputes between merchants of different nations, which also fell under the court’s jurisdiction—truly a sea of endless concerns.

After reading a few memorials, Quan Ce’s head throbbed with pain.

The flourishing of poetry in the Tang dynasty was unparalleled, especially at court, where everyone strove to speak in verse. Quan Ce’s close friend, Hanlin Academician Cui Rong, was from a distinguished family and possessed great learning, yet his advancement was hindered because he lacked poetic talent. The cultivation of poetry and elegant exchanges was beyond reproach in private, but when this fashion seeped into official business, it became a real bane. The memorials before him were filled with ornate antithetical prose, rhymed and adorned with flowery language, rambling far afield, quoting classics, and running to a thousand words while missing the point entirely—leaving the reader bewildered.

Quan Ce endured it through the morning. After lunch, he discussed the matter with Doulu Qinwang and convened a meeting of subordinates. He issued a clear directive to reform the style of official documents in the office: clarity of facts must be the guiding principle, and any report exceeding eight hundred characters would be downgraded in evaluation. He also selected two seasoned clerks with strong writing skills to serve at the main hall, responsible for drafting concise summaries for the chief officials. It was a strong signal: from now on, no matter how ornate their writing, subordinates’ documents would not reach the chief’s eyes, nor would such writing be rewarded or promoted.

The order provoked strong backlash, not only within the Court of Reception but across central ministries. Some accused Quan Ce of stifling expression and disgracing scholarly tradition; others decried his isolation from subordinates and unfair dealings. Some even cited his morning’s written directives as evidence, criticizing their terse, numbered lists and commanding tone as dry and uninspired—a sign of idleness and incompetence.

At court, Empress Wu ordered Quan Ce to defend himself. He refused to yield. “As an administrator, my chief responsibility is the management of affairs. I seek only to understand the causes and consequences of the matters under my charge, to supervise and guide key actions, and I believe I have not fallen short.”

“Not so,” retorted Grand Chancellor Fan Lübing, a former scholar of the Northern Gate. “Words reveal the heart, writing shows one’s character. An official cannot merely manage mundane affairs: it is also a matter of recognizing and employing talent. Assistant Minister, you are still too young.”

Quan Ce responded at once, “With all due respect, I cannot agree. Talent and virtue are not one and the same. History is replete with those who possessed talent but lacked virtue. To judge a person solely by their writing or calligraphy is as shallow as judging by appearance—certainly a cause for regret.”

At this, the court erupted. Many high officials renowned for their calligraphy stepped forward to rebuke him, their anger mounting. Some seized on his youth, others, hot-tempered, hurled outright insults. Quan Ce thought to himself: were it not for the poetry he had ‘borrowed’ in the past, someone would surely have accused him of jealous spite by now.

“Enough,” Empress Wu finally interjected, having seen the fierce debate. “Though there is reason in Quan Ce’s words, in such weighty matters his actions have been too abrupt and unbefitting his office. He shall forfeit two years’ salary as punishment.”

The court quieted somewhat, but Fan Lübing and his fellows remained resentful. The Empress had punished Quan Ce, it was true, yet she had not repudiated the actions of the Court of Reception—clearly, she was sidestepping the issue and showing partiality.

Before this atmosphere of discontent could truly take hold, Empress Wu changed the subject to matters of state. “Gentlemen, the Khusra tribe of the Western Turks wishes to submit to imperial authority. How should we proceed?”

The reception of foreign states was the purview of the Court of Reception, but such weighty matters were the province of the Grand Chancellors; the Court merely executed their orders. The Khusra tribe was a powerful branch of the Turks, but after Khusra ascended as khan, he ruled with cruelty and harsh law, driving his people to fear and scatter. Their territory and grazing lands shrank, pressed by the Eastern Turks’ Mochuo Khan from without, and internally troubled by the powerful Turgesh. Left with no recourse, they turned to the Tang, seeking submission as a form of refuge.

For this reason, many ministers objected, but after debate, acceptance gained the upper hand. After all, pacifying distant tribes and receiving their tribute was at the heart of imperial aspiration.

Empress Wu decreed that Khusra should lead his people to the capital on New Year’s Day the following year to offer tribute, tasking the Court of Reception with arranging the journey and ceremonial protocols.

After court, Su Weidao invited Quan Ce to leave the palace together. He earnestly advised him, “The ways of the world cannot be changed by the strength of one man. As a newly appointed Assistant Minister, it is best to proceed with caution, blending in with the times—do not set yourself against convention.”

Quan Ce gave no reply, deftly changing the subject to lighter matters. He had his own views: whether in civil or military office in the Tang, one was either a chief or an independent scholar-official, and having reached this rank, he already had the self-assurance of one in high office and would not easily be swayed.

Their conversation soon lost its harmony. At the Gate of Announcements, Su Weidao stopped to return to the Department of Phoenix Pavilion, while Quan Ce continued toward the palace gates. Watching Quan Ce’s departing figure, Su Weidao felt no displeasure—rather, a touch of admiration. In his own youth, he too had been bold and tenacious, but after years adrift in officialdom, he had grown indecisive.

Back at his office, Quan Ce had just settled in when someone requested an audience. “Assistant Minister, I am Deng Huaiyu, Director of the Trade Bureau. I have urgent business to report.”

“Come in.”

The visitor’s hair was graying, his face weathered by wind and frost. Though his official robes were tidy, their scarlet had faded to gray and white. Life in Chang’an was difficult; without a powerful family background, most officials lived in poverty, yet rarely to this degree.

“Assistant Minister,” Deng Huaiyu began, “the candle trade route passes through Tubo, transiting Langqiong Zhao and Tuyuhun, then along the western trade roads to Chang’an. All necessary customs seals and documents have been prepared; all that remains is to organize a merchant caravan.”

His words were official, but also held a private implication. His face was impassive, yet a flicker of disdain shone occasionally in his eyes.

“Thank you, Director. Someone will collect the documents tomorrow.” Quan Ce nodded, whatever faint ambition he’d had to profit from this matter now vanished without a trace.

“It’s nothing. I take my leave,” Deng Huaiyu said, wasting not a single superfluous word before departing.

Quan Ce stood there, then broke into a wry smile. This man’s demeanor, after all, matched perfectly the official style he himself had advocated.