Chapter 9: The Tolling Bell

At that moment, a deep, resonant chime echoed from the distance. Li Ji and Yuchi Gong’s faces changed dramatically. They knew this sound all too well—the bell of Jingyang. Usually, when the bell rang five times, court officials and palace attendants would begin their duties. Yet it had never sounded in the dead of night since the reign began.

The two dukes listened in silence, their faces dark, and no one else dared utter a word. The chime rang out nine times in succession. Yuchi Gong immediately drew the pair of iron clubs from his belt, while Li Ji shouted, “Send word—impose a citywide curfew, strengthen the defenses, and close all gates. No one may enter or leave the city.”

They exchanged a glance and strode away. Five chimes were customary; seven meant the army’s triumphant return; nine signaled national peril—when officials must rush to the palace, or face execution for delay.

“Dukes, what about me?” Cai Cong called after them, anxious as they neared the gate.

“Sit tight. Wait for my return before anything else,” Li Ji replied without turning. With the situation unclear, how could he let Cai Cong leave?

“Damn!” Cai Cong’s face shifted. If he were locked up, his mother would worry herself sick. Suddenly, he remembered the Turks were about to invade—otherwise, why would Li Shimin be so urgent? He dashed after them, waving his arms and shouting, “Let me go! The Turks are coming—I need to protect my mother!”

“What did you say?” Li Ji halted abruptly, turned, and fixed Cai Cong with a murderous gaze. If he was merely a descendant of an old acquaintance, so be it—but if he had ties to the Turks, Li Ji would show no mercy.

“In August, the Turks will invade. Wugong, Gaoling, and Jinyang will be trampled under their cavalry. Next year, there will be a great drought; the year after, a locust plague; then another drought in Guanzhong, floods elsewhere. I’ve seen all this—I’m telling you so you’ll let me go, so I can bring my mother and villagers into the city for safety.”

Cai Cong spoke rapidly. History recorded the massacre and abduction of countless commoners—no one knew how many outside Chang’an were taken. He had to bring his mother into the city before disaster struck.

“Lock him up. Without my order, he doesn’t leave,” Li Ji said coldly. “Seen it? How could you see the future? Even a child wouldn’t believe that nonsense.”

He had barely finished speaking before two Jinwu Guards emerged from the shadows, seized Cai Cong by his thin arms, and threw him into a room. Li Ji stared at him icily, then spoke in a harsh tone, “Who is behind you? You’d best be honest. I’ve razed cities and slaughtered lands more than once—a child’s life means nothing to me.”

“I’ve told you—no one is behind me. I risked my life tonight only so the people might suffer less. The rise and fall of the nation is every man’s duty. Believe me or not. Hurry to the palace—the affairs of state cannot wait! Tell His Majesty: neither fight nor refrain from fighting!”

A sacred solemnity glowed in Cai Cong’s young face, his eyes full of compassion for the world. As a master thief, adopting a thousand faces was essential; now, he was the very image of a sage concerned for his country and people.

Li Ji felt his throat tighten—damn it, why did he feel so moved, his eyes stinging? “Stay put. Wait for my return before anything else. Watch him carefully; don’t let him contact anyone. You’re responsible for his meals—don’t let him go hungry.”

Li Ji finished, and a soldier quickly responded, shutting Cai Cong’s door with haste, as if afraid anyone might glimpse inside.

The Tang imperial palace was a whirlwind of activity; soldiers donned armor, swords at their waists and bows in their hands, eyes sharp as wolves. At the slightest hint of disorder, they would not hesitate to unleash their arrows.

Civil and military officials hurried in, presenting their waist tokens for inspection, then carrying lanterns as they made their way to the Tai Chi Palace.

Within Tai Chi Palace, Li Shimin, just thirty years old, sat above with a stern expression, watching as the officials arrived one after another. His face gradually returned to calm; as a ruler, concealing one’s emotions was a basic requirement.

“Are all the ministers present?” he asked quietly, surveying the orderly rows below.

“Your Majesty, all civil and military officials are assembled. What occasion requires the Jingyang bell to be struck?” replied the foremost civil official, Changsun Wuji, Li Shimin’s brother-in-law.

“The Turks have moved south, breaching Wugong and Gaoling, killing, burning, and pillaging everywhere. Tens of thousands have been abducted, cries resounding to the heavens. Jinyang is likely lost, and once they cross Jingyang, they’ll press straight to Chang’an.”

“Damn it, Your Majesty! I request to lead troops against these beasts!” Yuchi Gong stepped forward, shouting loudly. Niu Jinda, Zhang Daliang, and others followed, also requesting to fight.

Li Shimin’s face remained calm, betraying nothing of his thoughts. But those who thought further ahead—Changsun Wuji, Du Ruhui, and Fang Xuanling—remained silent, brows furrowed.

In later generations, the Tang dynasty’s name would ring gloriously. But now, Tang was so poor not even mice were plentiful in the treasury; the Minister of Revenue would split a penny in two if he could. Wars burned money—Turkic forces numbered in the tens of thousands, surviving by pillage. What of Tang’s army—would they pillage as well?

Fang Xuanling, his goatee framing a thoughtful face, coughed lightly and stepped forward. “Your Majesty, I believe we must not rashly begin hostilities…”

“Nonsense! Fang Xuanling, what are you saying? If we don’t fight, should we open Chang’an’s gates and let them plunder? If you fear for your life, crawl home. Your Majesty, I request to lead the Right Martial Guard—grant me your favor!” Before Du Ruhui could speak, Zhang Daliang stepped forward, cursing.

Fang Xuanling’s gaze was sharp as lightning as he swept his eyes over Zhang Daliang. Who was he? Chief among the Eighteen Scholars, Li Shimin’s chief advisor. Zhang Daliang, for all his merit—especially his steadfastness under Li Yuan’s interrogation—was a man of note. Yet, to interrupt Fang Xuanling and use him to highlight his own valor—was he courting death?

“Your Majesty, General Zhang’s loyalty is commendable. I propose he lead the army. I will allocate five days’ rations to the Right Martial Guard, trusting he can defeat the enemy within five days,” Fang Xuanling said with a faint smile, bowing to Zhang Daliang.

Zhang Daliang felt his forehead flush, his eyes reddening. Five days’ rations—was this a joke? The others watched his changing expression with amusement, faces shifting from blue to red.

“Your Majesty, Fang Xuanling’s mockery is too much…”

He was interrupted by Fang Xuanling, who spoke with a bitter expression, “Your Majesty, there is little grain left in the treasury, harvest is yet to come. If war breaks out, I fear…”

The implication was clear to Li Shimin. His throne was not won by rightful succession; if war erupted now, hidden enemies would seize the chance to stir chaos, and Tang’s realm would be rocked by storms. “Then what is the ministers’ opinion—should we fight or not?”

“Fight! Destroy those beasts!”

“We cannot fight—the treasury cannot bear it.”

“Damn you—are you in league with the Turks? Coward!”

“Nonsense! I’m thinking of Tang. All the regional armies need time to mobilize. Do you think Chang’an’s forces can withstand tens of thousands of Turkic cavalry?”

“No matter how many come, we’ll kill them all. Kill until none are left.”

“Fool—bravado is easy, but true courage is rare.”