Chapter Forty: Hidden Truths

In the northern frontier, May had driven away the chill of winter, and spring was at its height. Several rivers, fed by snowmelt from the mountains, now surged with greater volume, their waters carrying a biting cold from the peaks. To drink from them was to taste the purest sweetness.

“My men, in camp, are strictly forbidden from drinking raw water. Out in the field, filter it as best you can before you drink—this is my order. If you can’t manage it, or can’t bear it, get lost! Go wherever you please, for all I care.”

Liu Ji’s voice, though not as brash as Yang Guozhong’s, was equally unyielding, leaving no room for argument. Under his command, a few soldiers carried barrels to the river, drew water, and hauled it back to camp. There, they poured it into a cauldron as tall as a man, already set over a fire—not for bathing, but for drinking. In this era, with no abundance of antibiotics, drinking raw water meant courting parasite-borne illness, and Liu Ji had no desire to die young.

“Damn, he controls everything—even our water,” grumbled one voice.

“Well, what do you expect from someone born to a grand family? They’ve always been particular.”

“With a garrison chief like this, what choice do we have? Disobey, and we’ll be dismissed and sent home, not even a grain of stipend. After all these years risking our lives, it would all be for nothing.”

“You think he’d withhold our wages?”

“Shh, keep it down. Haven’t you heard his reputation? In Kucha, he walks wherever he pleases. Best not to provoke him. Carrying water isn’t the end of the world.”

Such murmurings drifted to his ears, no different from the grumblings found in modern barracks. In terms of creativity, these men were far outdone by the pampered city soldiers of later times. Liu Ji paid them no mind; only the distant mountains and whatever lay beyond them concerned him.

Among his many titles—whether as General of the Gentlemen or Senior Cavalry Commandant—they were mere honorifics, signifying rank and pay. His real duty lay in the four words: Chief of Qian Pit Garrison.

Under Tang law, the frontier was divided into various military units: armies, towns, bastions, forts, passes, garrisons, beacons, and posts. The garrison was second to last in this hierarchy, beneath armies and bastions, making it the lowest administrative level. A “superior garrison” held over fifty men, a “middle garrison” thirty, and anything less was considered “inferior.” Liu Ji’s own Qian Pit Garrison, with a hundred men, was already twice the size of a superior garrison, making it a special case.

A hundred men, about the size of a modern company—Liu Ji would have had no complaints, save that he wished he had a political officer to aid with logistics.

Because of its size, his garrison had two deputies: Zhang Wuji, a native of the Western Prefecture, and Xu Guangjing from Gua Prefecture. The former, a forty-five-year-old who seemed honest and a bit dull, had nearly thirty years of military service, having served through almost the entire Kaiyuan and Tianbao reigns, and seen seven different Commanders of Anxi. Xu Guangjing, at thirty-seven, was more talkative.

At the beginning of the Tang Dynasty, following Sui precedent, the military implemented the militia system, dividing the realm into over six hundred commanderies, each led by a Commandant of Commanderies or a Commandant of Valor.

In the middle Tang—especially during Empress Wu’s reign—the equal-field system collapsed, and commoners avoided the draft en masse. The state had no choice but to recruit volunteers. Fortunately, martial prowess was still held in high regard, and by this dynasty, the emperor valued border achievements, and the nation was strong. Military service became an avenue for advancement.

One need look no further than this army’s current commander: Feng Changqing, who held military authority as Acting Military Commissioner and Marching Marshal. He began as a retainer, rising step by step from garrison chief to town commander, bastion chief, and finally commissioner—even though he had rarely campaigned in the field.

A “retainer” was not a slave, but a paid servant; any official soldier could, for a price, hire commoners as their assistants—a bit like auxiliary troops. In Western terms, if a knight counted as one fighting man, he might have two or three attendants, comparable to retainers.

Feng Changqing first became a follower of Gao Xianzhi, and through sheer effort, made a miraculous ascent—though at first, it was achieved in a rather dishonorable way: he shamelessly latched onto Gao until he could not be shaken off.

Such miracles were not rare in the Tang armies of this era. Cheng Qianli, Li Suiye, and Tian Zhen all rose from recruitment to become generals, their achievements the result of merit, not birth.

This was a martial age; hot-blooded young men flocked to the army to win glory and honor, admired by all regardless of birth, race, or even gender—the best of times!

In the army, only one thing mattered: strength. When Liu Ji noticed that one deputy was indifferent and the other perfunctory, he suspected it was his youth that earned him the disdain of these old campaigners.

He could hardly be blamed. Take Zhang Wuji, for instance: with nearly thirty years in the ranks, he had already attained the second-rank title of Senior Pillar of the State five years prior—higher than Liu Ji’s own fifth-rank title of Senior Cavalry Commandant. Among his one hundred soldiers, Liu Ji found to his surprise that fewer than ten held military honors lower than his own; twenty-three had achieved the highest merit, and of those, seventeen were mere ordinary soldiers—not for lack of qualification, but for lack of positions.

Clearly, this was a band of tigers and wolves, yet their tiger-head had not won their respect.

The pressure weighed heavily on him.

For now, before deciding what to do, Liu Ji took on the role of a political officer, focusing solely on logistics and leaving training untouched. He used the time to observe and to learn.

The Tang army emphasized formations. The basic unit was the squad—fifty men to a squad. His two deputies each led one. Training mostly consisted of formation drills: sometimes alone, sometimes with other squads. Every ten days or so, there was a massive drill involving several thousand, like an inspection of each camp’s progress.

For ten days, Liu Ji sat alone at the edge of the fields, watching his men line up neatly and, under their leaders’ orders, practice turning, advancing, and retreating. At first, the men were bewildered, but soon they grew accustomed to their silent garrison chief, who only watched and never commented.

His odd behavior sparked much speculation among the camp’s officers. Most attributed it to an injury, suspecting he was still recovering and unable to move freely. Only Yang Yu, who knew him well, doubted this.

Yang Yu was the squad leader of a unit of “light horse”—the so-called “Youyi,” light cavalry who wore little armor and specialized in mounted archery and spears.

One day, as his squad passed the edge of the drill ground, Yang Yu spotted Liu Ji squatting by the fields like a farmer. He handed his unit to his deputy and rode over.

“What’s so fascinating about these drills that you watch so intently? Got another scheme brewing?” he teased, flicking Liu Ji with his riding whip.

But Liu Ji’s mind was elsewhere; he hadn’t yet earned his men’s loyalty, and as for his two deputies, he still hadn’t figured out how to win them over. He had no mood to banter with Yang Yu.

Seeing Liu Ji silent, Yang Yu squatted beside him, both gazing across the field. He caught sight of a middle-aged man and joked, “Old Zhang hasn’t slipped a knife into you while you slept, has he?”

“Why would he? I haven’t stolen his wife.”

“No, but you did steal his girl.”

Seeing Liu Ji’s blank look, Yang Yu waved a hand in front of his face. “Hey, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? Well, no wonder—with all the girls you’ve carried off, forgetting one or two is only natural.”

Was it possible? Had he really done such a bold thing?

But wait—how could a villain who bullied men and women alike be called one of the “Four Talents”? There must be more to the story.

Liu Ji, who prided himself on being a law-abiding and upstanding citizen, was left utterly bewildered.