Chapter Thirty-Nine: Beyond the Frontier

When Cen Shen regained consciousness, he saw only a tall figure.

Even among the geniuses of the Mid-Tang poetry circle—names such as Li Bai, Du Fu, and Wang Wei, resonating like thunder—Cen Shen held his own place. His highest artistic achievements came during the years he served as an aide in Anxi and Beiting. After last year's crushing defeat, Gao Xianzhi was reassigned elsewhere; the officials of the Grand Protectorate scattered, some departing, others seeking new posts. Cen Shen followed Gao Xianzhi, first attempting to relocate to Hexi, which failed, and then journeyed to Chang'an.

The days in the capital felt interminable to him. The Southern Secretariat was nothing like the Grand Protectorate, which operated almost as an independent kingdom, able to recruit its own aides. During his time in Anxi, he served as Judicial Officer, responsible for arms, logistics, and various trivial matters; in truth, he worked under Feng Changqing, forming a deep bond.

Gao Xianzhi left him with an impression of a stern, rigid commander, never given to laughter, and to this day Cen Shen could not fathom why he had been chosen to accompany him to Hexi.

But now, that impression was utterly shattered.

He saw a woman draped in red silk, tightly embraced by Gao Xianzhi around her waist. Gao took a sip of wine, his face adorned with a seductive smile, pressed his lips to hers, and drew a deep kiss from her, ending with a sound of admiration.

“Excellent wine! More, and there shall be a reward!”

This was unmistakably the revelry of a Wuling gallant carousing with courtesans!

Cen Shen could barely bear to look. He was not some upright Confucian; he had indulged in his share of romantic affairs, in the company of beautiful women and fragrant blossoms. Yet the contrast was too much for him; he turned his head aside, only to glimpse a lovely face, flushed with rouge or perhaps with passion—radiant and enchanting.

“Sir, would you care for some more soup?”

Before he could reply, a voice rang out with brazen laughter: “Feed him! If he resists, follow your sister’s example and let him taste the ‘meat casket’ game.”

“Sir?” The woman beside him cast alluring eyes, as if she might press her tempting red lips to his at any moment.

Cen Shen waved his hands repeatedly: “I shall manage on my own, no need to trouble you, madam.”

“Haha, Master Cen, where has the poetic elegance gone—the composure you showed moments ago amidst the flowers?”

Ashamed, Cen Shen could not even recall whether he had recited any verses; his mind was a haze. He drank a few mouthfuls of soup offered by the courtesan, the bitterness bringing him slightly back to himself.

“You two, one play the clappers, the other sing—sing the fine poem penned by Lord Cen.”

With that, Gao Xianzhi pushed the beauty from his arms, rose, and shifted to sit cross-legged beside Cen Shen, a posture imported from the Western regions, now a fashionable trend in Chang’an.

“On the day of opening the mansion, do you have worries in your heart?”

When the two courtesans withdrew, Cen Shen set aside the soup and spoke calmly. The unusual behavior troubled him; he was no fool, and being an aide required keen insight.

“The might of Heaven is inscrutable; those words have not deceived me.” Gao Xianzhi uttered just eight words, but their meaning silenced Cen Shen.

Returning from audience with the Emperor, whether honored or disgraced, nothing could be gleaned from Gao’s expression, nor could Cen Shen offer any suitable words of comfort. Gao Xianzhi clearly had no intention of confiding; he poured himself a drink and spoke.

“Old Cen, it has been five years since you went to Anxi, hasn’t it?”

“Six years. I departed Chang’an at the beginning of the fifth year of Tianbao, and traveled nearly two months.”

Cen Shen was surprised; Gao would not use such familiar address unless well-acquainted, but their relationship hardly warranted it. If it were Feng Changqing, it might be appropriate.

“In the fifth year of Tianbao, I served as Military Commissioner, preparing to campaign against the Daxi tribe. My eyes saw only weapons and war; your literary talent, to me, seemed useless, even as a scribe—superfluous.”

Was this a case of shallow acquaintance and deep words? Cen Shen was startled—not by the assessment itself, but pondering its purpose. Gao’s gaze drifted away, his cup turning in his hand, eyes glancing toward two figures nearby.

His heart was weary; every moment of that brief audience required careful calculation, for one never knew where a trap might lie. Scholars may seem useless, but they can kill without a sword.

The sound of clappers, sharp and clear, filled the room.

“A touch of rouge upon peach-blossom lips, the morning’s beauty shyly adorned, hair in a crooked bun.”

Cen Shen listened—perhaps it was his own poem—and was momentarily entranced, until a voice reached his ears.

“The capital is not a place for you. Go to the Western Desert; there lies the land of heroes, where clouds gather and men should ride horses along the frontier, lest they waste their lives.”

Cen Shen was startled, turning sharply. Gao Xianzhi seemed enraptured by the courtesans’ singing, his eyes red, humming along with the melody.

“A seven-foot man with loyalty in his heart, gallops a thousand miles far from home; distant frontier, summer comes late, in the northwest foreign land grass begins to grow; the galloping horse outpaces a flying bird, racing toward the sunset at the horizon.”

The poem was his own, but the words were not in Chinese, nor in the Turkic or Sogdian tongues common in the Western regions, but in the rare language of Goguryeo.

A language of a vanished kingdom, lost for seventy years!

Though the song was meant to celebrate victory, Cen Shen heard the desolation of the vast desert, the sorrow of heroes at the end of their journey. Gao’s graying hair reminded him of last year’s defeat; the poem itself had been composed before the campaign.

“The new Protector launches his campaign, in May the army’s gear is readied, two million soldiers, shining with gold.”

Unconsciously, he continued in Chinese.

Gao Xianzhi turned, and the two exchanged a smile, singing together in Chinese:

“Flags wave over Kunlun, drums shake Puchang, the bright star leads the army, Heaven’s power descends upon the wilderness, westward clouds slither like snakes, the barbarians know their doom, we drive the Ferghana horses, seize the king of Loulan…”

The two courtesans stood helplessly, watching the men clink their cups and sing until their voices were hoarse and tears streamed down their faces. The grandeur and sorrow were palpable, even to the women.

When the song ended and the guests dispersed, night had already fallen. Gao Xianzhi’s attendants helped the two men out toward the gate; from the palace to Xingcheng Palace, this area was patrolled by the Imperial Guard, but they could pass unimpeded.

“Old Cen, spend the night in my humble abode,” Gao Xianzhi insisted, without waiting for a response, as they entered his luxurious mansion.

The night breeze sobered Cen Shen; looking at the lavish residence, he felt uneasy. He still could not fathom the meaning of Gao’s earlier words—was Gao about to leave the capital again? That should not be the case.

“To speak frankly, it was Second Feng’s idea for you to follow me. He meant well, hoping to secure your future. But unforeseen events led you to idle away your time in the capital. Now, there is good news.”

“Second Feng will take up the post of Military Commissioner of the Four Garrisons. Serving under him is far better than holding a minor office here. Are you willing?” Gao Xianzhi paused, meeting Cen Shen’s gaze.

“To cross the frontier once more?”