Chapter Sixty-Three: Pang Tong and Xu Shu

Relocating the capital to Xuchang.

Cao Cao had three considerations in mind.

First, Luoyang was indeed in ruins.

Second, Xuchang was his stronghold, making it easier to control Emperor Liu Xie.

Third, Luoyang was too close to Jizhou, and with his current strength, he could not yet rival Yuan Shao.

Therefore, moving the capital of the Han dynasty to Xuchang was an extremely favorable move for him.

Liu Xie was somewhat hesitant and sought the advice of Dong Zhao, the Keeper of the Imperial Seal, unaware that Dong Zhao was already secretly collaborating with Cao Cao. In fact, the proposal to relocate the capital to Xuchang had originally been Dong Zhao’s suggestion to Cao Cao.

With the help of this insider, Cao Cao quickly obtained Liu Xie’s consent and began making enthusiastic preparations for the move.

By September, the Emperor’s carriage reached Xuchang. Yang Feng fiercely opposed the relocation and attempted to intercept the imperial convoy, but ultimately failed.

Cao Cao renamed Xuchang to Xudu, and Liu Xie appointed him as Grand General and Marquis of Wuping.

In October, Cao Cao launched an attack against Yang Feng, forcing him to flee south to Huainan to seek refuge with Yuan Shu. In November, Cao Cao assumed the position of Minister Steward and Acting General of Chariots and Cavalry, consolidating supreme authority.

In Jingzhou, at Xiangyang—

By year’s end, Xianshan Academy was already on holiday, and the students had all returned home.

Beside the Han River, Wang Can wore a somber expression.

After Liu Xie relocated the capital to Xuchang, grateful for Shisun Rui’s past service in rescuing the Emperor, he posthumously honored Shisun Rui as Marquis of Danjin Pavilion.

Since Shisun Rui was deceased, his son Shisun Meng inherited the title and was now required to travel to Xudu to assume his duties.

A group of friends had come to see him off by the riverside.

Wang Can felt the most sorrow, for it was with Shisun Meng that he had left Chang’an in the first place. Now, the two friends were about to be separated by vast distances, and his heart was a tumult of emotions—genuine blessings for his friend succeeding to the marquisate, yet also the loneliness and melancholy of impending separation.

“Zhongxuan, Chengming, Derong, Hongguang, Achen…”

Shisun Meng stood at the dock, clasped his hands in farewell to his friends, and said, “Now that we part, who can say when we will meet again? But our friendship will never change.”

Though the first winter snows had not yet fallen in Xiangyang, the weather was bleak and cold. All were bundled in thick fur cloaks, and Wang Can’s cloak in particular bulged with something hidden inside.

He reached into his robe and produced a bamboo scroll, stepping forward to offer it. “Wenshi, as you depart for Xuchang, I have little to give you. Last night I wrote a poem for you—take it with you, and when you are in Xuchang, read it often.”

Shisun Meng unrolled the bamboo scroll and read: “Heaven sends down chaos, no land is spared. I and my friends, from that great capital, our ancestral guardians lost, forced to flee. Come to Jingchu, dwell beside the Zhang…”

It was a four-character poem in the style of the Spring and Autumn Classic of Poetry—since the Classic of Poetry was a Confucian standard, such four-character poems were the mainstream of the time.

Although Cao Cao composed five-character poems, he wrote more in four-character lines, such as “Viewing the Blue Sea” and “Though the Tortoise Lives Long.”

Thus, according to the literary values of the era, this four-character poem was more esteemed.

“A fine poem indeed.”

“The grief of national calamity and exile in a foreign land is truly poignant.”

“Ah, I understand Zhongxuan’s feelings.”

The friends sighed one after another.

Wang Can sorrowfully added, “On this journey, Wenshi, you must take care.”

Shisun Meng replied, “Rest assured, I will take care.”

All were deeply saddened.

Sensing that the atmosphere was turning into a scene of life and death parting, Shen Chen smiled and said, “There’s no need to be so sorrowful, everyone. Brother Wenshi is only going to Xudu to take up his post, not to his doom. We should wish him a glorious future instead.”

“That’s true,” Wang Can said, wiping away the tears gathering in his eyes, forcing a smile. “Wenshi is going to Xudu to assume office; there’s no need for such sadness. By the way, Achen, why don’t you compose a poem to bid Wenshi farewell?”

“Let me think,” Shen Chen said, lowering his head in thought, glancing around, pondering hard.

The group all watched him.

After about half a minute without inspiration, he looked up and, glancing toward the plains in the northeast outskirts of the city, an idea suddenly struck him.

“I have it,” he declared. “The grass on the old plain stretches far, each year it withers and flourishes anew. Wildfires cannot destroy it; in the spring wind, it grows again.”

“Mmm.” Wang Can scratched his head. “The poem is good, but isn’t this supposed to be a farewell for Wenshi?”

Shen Chen smiled. “I’m not finished yet. The distant fragrance invades the ancient road, the fresh green reaches to Xiang City. Today I bid Wenshi farewell, the lush grass thick with parting feelings.”

Many who studied Bai Juyi’s poem in elementary school only know the first four lines. In reality, the editors of those textbooks had abridged the poem, keeping only the first four lines and changing its original title, “Farewell to the Ancient Grassland,” to simply “Grass.”

That would have made Bai Juyi himself want to say, “Grass.”

Perhaps the textbook compilers thought that in doing so, they could impart to children the idea that people should persevere like wild grass. But this stripped Bai Juyi’s lines of their original intent, turning them into paeans to the tenacity of life, rather than the farewell poem he had meant.

“Excellent,” Wang Can’s eyes lit up, and he exclaimed, “Using the resilience of wild grass to tell Wenshi that even if his path is rough, he will persevere in the end. The poem is indeed filled with an uplifting spirit.”

“The Sage discerns the harmony of yin and yang, distinguishes the virtues of myriad things, so that life may prosper, and thus the spirit finds peace in form, and longevity is attained,” Shisun Meng praised. “Such a state of mind is truly admirable.”

Shen Chen replied modestly, “I was simply inspired by seeing the wild grass’s tenacious growth.”

“Thank you, Achen, for your poem. I will remember it always,” Shisun Meng said, clasping his hands in gratitude. “Friends, let us part here.”

“We will meet again.”

“We will meet again,” they replied.

As Shisun Meng boarded the boat, he waved to his friends from the rail.

Wang Can and the others watched until the vessel disappeared amidst the vast waves of the Han River, heading toward Fancheng, shrouded in distant mist, then prepared to leave.

At that moment, a new passenger boat docked at the crowded Xiangyang pier.

This was not unusual. Though Xiangyang was considered a southern frontier in the Han era—Wang Can himself wrote in his “Seven Sorrows” that “Jing and the southern barbarians are not my home; why stay so long in exile?”—the chaos of the Central Plains and the prosperity of the south were undeniable facts, and thousands of people came and went from Xiangyang daily.

The dock was packed, and a new passenger boat arriving was nothing remarkable.

Yet this boat happened to moor not far from the group. Wang Can glanced over casually and suddenly saw a plain-faced young man disembark. He called out loudly, “Pang Tong!”

Hearing the name, Shen Chen quickly turned to look.

He had visited Yuliangzhou that year, and Pang Degong’s fame was known throughout Xiangyang—even Liu Biao had personally visited the island several times to invite him out, but had been politely refused.

Thus, many scholars in Jingzhou sought him out. Though he did not take students, he rarely turned away those who came seeking his counsel.

Although Shen Chen was now in a child’s body, his mind was as keen as ever. In two years at Xianshan Academy under Song Zhong, he had mastered the classics, and with knowledge from the future, his insights were often original.

Even Song Zhong felt that, in some respects, he was already surpassed by Shen Chen, and often visited great scholars such as Liu Biao and Pang Degong to seek their advice.

Unfortunately, he had never met Pang Tong. It turned out Pang Tong did not reside on Yuliangzhou, but rather in the Pang clan’s hamlet, about ten miles northeast of Xiangyang.

Since Pang Tong was not yet famous, an abrupt visit would have seemed odd, so Shen Chen decided to let things take their natural course.

Last year, Pang Tong, having heard of a great scholar named Sima Hui in Yingchuan, had traveled over two thousand li north to visit him, and had not been seen since. Only recently had word of his return reached them, so the two had not yet met.

Now, at last, they did.

Pang Tong was about sixteen or seventeen, his appearance quite ordinary—someone you would not notice in a crowd.

He was accompanied by several young men, all around twenty.

“Master Zhongxuan!” One of these young men waved to Wang Can.

Wang Can said in delight, “Yuan Zhi, Guang Yuan, Zhou Ping, Gong Wei, you’re all here!”

These were Xu Shu, Shi Tao, Cui Jun, and Meng Jian.

Historically known as Zhuge Liang’s Four Friends, these four also had a good relationship with Pang Tong.

The “Records of Wei” notes that Xu Shu and Shi Tao, driven south by the chaos of the Central Plains, took refuge in Jingzhou, and were close friends with Zhuge Liang and Pang Tong. This was because Xu Shu was on good terms with Pang Degong, frequently seeking his counsel.

The “Records of Xiangyang” recounts that after Sima Hui arrived in Jingzhou, he became close friends with Pang Degong. Once, when Pang Degong was away, Sima Hui visited and treated Pang Degong’s house as his own, instructing Pang’s wife to prepare food, saying that Xu Shu had told him guests would be arriving for discussion. Pang Degong’s wife thus set a meal for Sima Hui and Xu Shu.

Treating a friend’s house as one’s own suggests a deep bond between Sima Hui, Xu Shu, and Pang Degong.

Zhuge Liang, meanwhile, began his scholarly pursuits after his uncle Zhuge Xuan died in the second year of Jian’an (197 AD). He frequently called upon Pang Degong for guidance, and over time, Pang Degong came to value him highly.

It was during this period that Zhuge Liang became acquainted with Xu Shu and Pang Tong, eventually joining their circle.

In other words, Xu Shu and his friends knew Pang Tong before they met Zhuge Liang.

However, Wang Can was well-connected, and his reputation in Jingzhou was considerable—Pang Degong, Huang Chengyan, and other prominent figures knew him, and so as students of Pang Degong, Xu Shu and the others had met him a few times.

The group approached. The young man who had waved at Wang Can—about twenty, tall and thin, and strikingly handsome—asked, “Master Zhongxuan, what brings you to the docks today?”

“I’m here to see off Wenshi. His father was posthumously honored as Pavilion Marquis by the court, and he has inherited the title, so he’s going to Xuchang.”

Wang Can waved his hand. “But enough of that—what brings you here?”

Xu Shu replied, “Pang Tong has just returned from Yingchuan. We happened to be in Deng County, so we’re accompanying him home.”

Wang Can smiled. “Why go home? I’ve just lost a friend and feel a bit down. Now you’re here—come drink with me! The weather’s cold, but you know that strong wine? One cup will warm you up, and someone else is buying.”

“Well…” Xu Shu looked at Pang Tong, saw him nod, and said, “Let’s go, then.”

And so, the group headed into the city.

On the way, they introduced themselves. At that time, Pang Tong and Xu Shu were not yet famous. It was only after Sima Hui arrived in Jingzhou and spread word that Pang Tong was the foremost scholar in the South that he became well-known.

As for the titles “Crouching Dragon” and “Young Phoenix,” those would not come for another seven or eight years, when Pang Degong appraised the scholars of Jingzhou and named Zhuge Liang the Crouching Dragon, Pang Tong the Young Phoenix, and Sima Hui the Water Mirror.

Of this group, Wang Can was the most renowned, followed by Shen Chen.

Pang Tong, having studied with Sima Hui in Yingchuan over the past year, had not heard of Shen Chen’s reputation, but Xu Shu and Shi Tao, living outside Xiangyang and often visiting great scholars, had.

Thus, they were surprised to find that the recently celebrated Shen Chen was just a ten-year-old child.

Still, prodigies were common in that era. Wang Can himself had been a child prodigy—at fourteen, Cai Yong had called him a genius, saying he himself was far inferior and that all the rare books in his family should be turned over to Wang Can. By age fourteen, Wang Can’s learning already surpassed eminent scholars.

They entered the city and arrived at the Yellow Gate Tavern. Looking at the bustling crowd, Xu Shu marveled, “To think we’ve come to the Yellow Gate Tavern! This is the most expensive tavern in Xiangyang—I could never afford to eat here.”

Wang Can waved his hand with a smile. “Didn’t I say? Someone else is buying. Isn’t that right, Achen?”

Shen Chen laughed. “Eat as much as you like—anything you want.”

“Is this tavern…” Xu Shu asked in surprise.

Shen Chen nodded. “My granduncle owns it.”

“Then I’m reassured,” Xu Shu said, striding confidently to the front.

Inside, the main hall was packed, upstairs and down, with even a line forming outside.

In the Han dynasty, taverns were not called taverns but wine houses, and they were generally not large. Only great cities like Luoyang or Chang’an boasted luxurious establishments.

But in recent years, Xiangyang had become very lively, and large-scale taverns were on the rise.

Noticing the opportunity, Shen Chen had encouraged his granduncle to open the Yellow Gate Tavern here, specializing in stir-fried dishes that would only become widespread in the Tang and Song dynasties.

No one can resist a bowl of egg fried rice, and if they can, just add some stir-fried chicken or duck.

The reason stir-frying didn’t catch on before the Tang and Song was due to primitive ironworking. While stir-frying appeared in the Southern and Northern Dynasties, it only became popular after the Tang dynasty’s advances in iron production.

However, Shen Chen had already introduced the steelmaking process ahead of time. The output of ironware from the Huangmen Pavilion in a year surpassed all of Liu Biao’s Jingzhou, so there was no shortage of iron woks for stir-frying.

The Yellow Gate Tavern was packed, much like a hotpot restaurant thriving in winter. When it’s cold, who doesn’t want hot dishes and strong wine?

There were no seats available, but Shen Chen’s standing carried weight. The manager, seeing him, sent a servant to the back to prepare a table for them in the private inner hall.