Chapter 7: The Courage to Face

When the machinery of the state bares its fangs, the scent of blood permeates the air. Principal Zhang, along with his son and grandson, was executed at the public market of Anyi Ward; the headman He Da and his associates, together with the men of their households, met the same fate at the same marketplace. All the women were exiled to the Ward of Correction, and the remaining relatives were banished to Lingnan. No one pitied them; after all, the misery of one family cannot compare to the tears of an entire street. Their transgressions and tyranny led, in the end, to death and exile, and the common folk spat and cheered at their downfall.

For days, the stench of blood kept Anyi Ward deserted. Cui Hua, deemed derelict in his official duties, was not executed, but was nevertheless demoted and sent to Lingnan.

“When I rose for office, I had friends throughout Chang’an. Now as I depart, only you, an eight-year-old child, come to see me off. Fame and fortune truly are but a fleeting dream.”

An old horse pulled the cart, half-filled with boxes of books. A mere half month in prison had left Cui Hua’s temples frosted with white. The warmth and coldness of human relationships left no words to say; at this moment, he no longer cared for officialdom or renown.

Cai Cong had come, of course, to return the books. He was not one to offer consolation, but felt he owed a debt of gratitude. After a moment’s thought, he said, “You should not have sat for the examination, nor should you have become Magistrate of Chang’an. If you cannot see through this, you will have no future in officialdom.”

“And why do you say that?” Cui Hua spoke to Cai Cong not as to a child of eight, but as to a peer.

“It cannot be spoken! To say it aloud serves no one.” For could Cai Cong reveal that Li Shimin had long grown weary of the Five Surnames and Seven Clans, and was slowly eroding their influence?

Had Cui Hua realized this, had he aligned himself with Li Shimin, his future would surely have been limitless. But then Cai Cong would never cross paths with him again; one who betrays his family would think nothing of betraying a friend.

“You, little one, so small in stature and yet so old in your manner of speech—your words are as foggy as clouds, impossible to grasp. Well, I’m off; may we meet again someday.”

“Safe travels.”

There were no parting poems, nor sorrowful words; it was more like a brief exchange between travelers on the road. Watching the cart disappear into the distance, Cai Cong climbed onto his own ox cart.

The village was a scene of chickens and dogs running wild. No household had spare grain to raise chickens, so they were left to roam free, scattering droppings everywhere. Quarrels never ceased—wild chickens all looked alike, and as they laid eggs wherever they pleased, disputes arose whenever two people spotted an egg at the same time.

Such matters were impossible to judge; the old clan chief dared not declare whose egg it was, and would only grin, saying, “Whoever keeps the chickens, go ask them.”

Upon returning and hearing this, Cai Cong thought it simple: divide the eggs in half, fry two plates of fennel eggs, and let the disputing parties take them home to eat. The next day, he tied scraps of cloth with written names to the legs of every chicken in the village, so that each could be identified.

Each day, the old clan chief watched several chickens peck about the courtyard. The court had returned their taxes, and Cai Cong led the villagers in selling their educated chickens; the fortunes of Cai Family Village had greatly improved. Even if he were to die now, he could hold his head high before his ancestors.

“Old master, you have it easy, hiding here every day in leisure, while we, your grandchildren, are nearly driven mad by all the fuss.” Cai Cong dashed in, grabbing the water jug and taking a long swig without ceremony. Only here in the courtyard could he find a moment’s peace.

“Heh… I’m old; of course I must find a place to rest. You are clever, and the villagers trouble you because you manage to keep them all fed.”

“Haha… Easy for you to say. Ensuring everyone in the village has enough to eat is no simple feat.” Cai Cong laughed as well. He enjoyed talking with wise elders—whether it was his teachers from his past life, or his great-uncle in this one. One brimmed with knowledge, the other with the wisdom of years.

“Cong’er, you’re a good child. Even those scoundrels who once spoke nonsense, you never took offense. But why is there always a shadow of worry on your brow?”

The old man reached out with a withered hand, gently smoothing Cai Cong’s brow, his eyes full of affection. Others saw only Cai Cong’s calm and courtesy, not the anxiety hidden in his gaze.

“I can barely sleep. I sense a great calamity is coming, and I don’t know what to do. Even if I spoke of it, who would believe me? If it were you, what would you do?”

Cai Cong was indeed anxious. He was not a wicked man, but as the days passed, his unease only grew. It was already August; the Turks could invade at any time, but even that was not the worst. The real crisis was next year’s drought, the locust plague in the sixth month of the second year of Zhenguan, which would sweep through Guanzhong and Shandong, leaving countless dead of starvation, with bandits and refugees everywhere, and the cries of the suffering resounding throughout Tang. He could not turn a blind eye.

“If it were me, I would speak up! If I kept silent, I’d eat and sleep poorly. If I said it and they didn’t believe me, then what befell them would be no fault of mine.”

The old man stroked Cai Cong's head with loving care, unable to fathom how such a small person could carry so many burdens in his heart, never once relaxing his brow.

He was already in his seventies, had seen much in his life: the hardships of the Great Enterprise era, the chaos of the warlords rebelling against Sui, the blood and tears as Tang conquered the world. He was no great scholar or sage, but he held to the simplest view of life.

“Very well, I’ll heed your advice.”

Cai Cong, in truth, just wanted someone to help persuade himself, to give himself the courage to face the scorn of the world. Cai Jie had no opinions of her own; Cai Gang would likely say it was enough if their own family suffered no misfortune. Only the old man, who had lived so long, could give him a fair answer.

The old man, growing drowsy with age, soon fell asleep on the reclining chair Cai Cong had made for him. The chair was also Cai Cong’s invention—sitting on a foreign-style chair was even more uncomfortable than squatting, so he had a set of furniture made, and provided one for the old master as well.

No one dared meddle in the educated chicken business anymore. Never mind that Cai Cong’s grandfather, great-uncle, and uncles had all died in battle; just the bloodshed over this secret recipe in Anyi Ward was enough to deter would-be schemers.

Thus, every day in the East and West Markets, villagers from Cai Family Village sold their educated chickens, turning most of the money into grain. In just half a month, the village had accumulated a large store of food. Many did not understand why they needed to hoard so much grain, but they followed Cai Cong’s instructions nonetheless. In this era, however, frequent and massive grain purchases were highly sensitive. So, when Cai Gang and the others tried to leave Chang’an with their grain today, they were stopped by the Imperial Guards and interrogated about their intentions.

To have two years’ worth of grain was nearly impossible for ordinary farmers. Even capable families dared not be so ostentatious as to openly buy enough grain to feed a thousand people for several years—such actions smacked of rebellion.

The villagers had no idea what it was for, stammering and unable to explain, so they were beaten and arrested. Only Cai Gang returned, bruised and limping, calling for Cai Cong as soon as he entered the village.

His wife took one look and burst into tears, wiping her face as she wept; his left eye was swollen to a slit, and his knees were frightfully swollen as well.

“Auntie, keep your voice down. The old master just fell asleep; don’t wake him.” Cai Cong paced and spoke softly. He was troubled too—the village was so open that a loud voice could be heard by all.

“Si Zi, Da Liu, Guo Zi, and the others have all been taken by the Imperial Guards. They said we were up to no good, hoarding grain with ill intent. They want you to go to the guards and explain, or else Da Liu and the rest will be treated as conspirators. They’re even planning to send soldiers to our village.”

One could only wonder if Cai Gang had been spared just to deliver this message—his whole body was battered, but his mouth was unscathed.

“They want me to go?”

Cai Cong frowned. Could someone in the Imperial Guards have set their sights on his secret recipe? Or was someone foolish enough to think anyone would dare plot rebellion right under the nose of Chang’an?

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I’ve asked you several times—this rice is enough for us for two years, yet you keep buying more. Why? I told you trouble would come, but you wouldn’t listen. What do we do now?”

Cai Gang spoke with resentment. He had asked many times before—so much rice, plus the returned taxes, would last them two and a half years. Yet Cai Cong kept buying, and neither he nor anyone else understood why.

Not understanding, they obeyed anyway. Now that trouble had come, resentment was inevitable. Treason! Who in history has ever come to a good end with that word attached to them?

“I have my reasons for these arrangements. Uncle Gang, go see the doctor; get money from my mother. Brother Weiguo, take me to Chang’an.”

Cai Cong arched an eyebrow, his expression calm but brooking no argument—a bad habit from before. In the past, his decisions brooked no questioning, but he quickly remembered this was the Tang dynasty, an age of family rule and clan society, and so he suppressed his irritation.