Chapter Nine: Need a Permit? Tang Dynasty Style

Chapter Nine: Papers, Please? In the Tang Dynasty

"Damn, if I’d known people in the Tang Dynasty were this unfriendly, I should have risked chatting with that fellow Ren a bit longer. At least find out what Li Longji is up to these days, and which way his house faces!" After being turned away at several doors and nearly bitten by a dog, Zhang Qian couldn't help but secretly regret his decisions.

That group led by Ren, though a touch overenthusiastic, hadn’t shown any ill intent so far. In contrast, from Jixiang Temple onward, every single person Zhang Qian had met treated him like a harbinger of plague. By comparison, Ren and his companions suddenly seemed rather endearing.

Yet, having just left with such bravado, Zhang Qian now felt a little embarrassed to turn back. Just as he straightened up, catching his breath and preparing to try his luck at the next farmhouse, a familiar voice suddenly sounded in his ear: "Sorry, sorry..."

"I'm not a master, I've told you before!" Zhang Qian replied, thoroughly exasperated, turning his head to correct the speaker—only to see Ren Cong’s face, slick with sweat.

This time, Ren Cong was alone, without his usual entourage, nor was he on horseback. His rather plump legs moved at surprising speed, and, afraid Zhang Qian might ignore him, he ran as he frantically waved the leather pouch in his hand. "Sorry, drink, drink!"

"Thank you!" Having experienced it once, Zhang Qian already knew the pouch contained fermented rice wine. A surge of gratitude rose in his heart as he smiled, stepped forward, and took the pouch Ren Cong had brought especially for him. He untied the cord and drank deeply.

The rice wine, brewed from millet, still carried a faint sourness, but to Zhang Qian, it tasted sweeter than before. As he drank, Ren Cong stood by, watching happily, his chubby eyelids curving into crescent moons, as if he too were enjoying a drink.

"This chubby kid can’t be a bad person," thought Zhang Qian. Though more guarded than most his age, he wasn’t cold-blooded. Seeing Ren Cong flushed and sweating from his run, Zhang Qian quickly stopped drinking, wiped the mouth of the pouch, and handed it back with a smile. "You should have some too!"

"No, no—" Ren Cong didn’t fully understand Zhang Qian’s words, but he caught the gesture and shook his head sheepishly. But in the end, unable to resist thirst and Zhang Qian’s insistence, he laughed, took the pouch, and drank heartily.

Two young men, both just finished running, made short work of the wine. In three minutes, the pouch was empty, and the rapport between Zhang Qian and Ren Cong had grown noticeably closer.

"Where are the others? And your horse?" Zhang Qian looked around in the deepening dusk but saw neither the scruffy doctor nor the rest of the group. He asked with a smile.

Ren Cong still didn’t fully understand, but followed Zhang Qian’s gaze, then replied cautiously, "Wulei vine, the vegetable patch has that wulei vine!"

"Sigh—" Zhang Qian shook his head in frustration, then squatted and wrote on the ground with a stone: "Where are the others? Where’s your horse?"

The sentence wasn’t in proper Tang-era grammar, and some words came from later periods. Still, after pondering, Ren Cong managed to grasp the gist. He squatted, smiled awkwardly, and wrote: "Clumsy, disturbed the master, following at a distance!"

"So they’re following from afar," thought Zhang Qian, again sensing goodwill. He smiled and quickly corrected, "I’m not a master, my surname is Zhang!"

"Fine, if you say so," Ren Cong thought, eyeing Zhang Qian’s bald head and odd clothes. He continued writing: "This place is called Wuliting. The Vermilion Bird Gate isn’t far. Are you headed to Chang’an? Hurry, the city gates will close soon!"

There were no punctuation marks, but he carefully spaced the words and sentences apart. Zhang Qian immediately understood, tossed aside the stone, stood up and bowed. "Chang’an, I’ll go ahead!"

"I’m going the same way as you!" Ren Cong quickly stood and strode ahead.

Knowing full well that Ren Cong couldn’t really be heading the same way, Zhang Qian couldn’t refuse his kindness. He hurried to catch up with a smile. "Thank you, Brother Ren."

Knowing Ren Cong wouldn’t understand, Zhang Qian only nodded. Ren Cong waved his hand and pressed on, but after a few steps, he realized there wasn’t much hope of reaching the city before the gates closed at this pace. He stopped again, wrote with a stone: "Horse, ride?"

"I can’t!" Zhang Qian refused flatly.

Ren Cong understood the gesture, stood up helplessly, and continued forward, soon sweating profusely again.

Seeing how unfit Ren Cong was, Zhang Qian felt bad. He stopped and said, while writing: "I’ll walk, you ride. Have them bring your horse!"

"Let’s go together!" Ren Cong, panting, stubbornly shook his head.

This time, he didn’t squat to write, but Zhang Qian understood. He smiled and slowed his pace.

The chubby Ren Cong immediately realized that they could manage a simple conversation without writing everything down, and was so pleased he forgot his fatigue. As they walked, he gestured: "Sorry, Brother Zhang, how old?"

"How old?" Zhang Qian was momentarily puzzled, but soon understood. Smiling, he answered, "Twenty-one—no, twenty-two, by your calendar." Fearing Ren Cong might not understand, he held up two fingers twice, one upright, one reversed.

Ren Cong understood, clapping in delight. "I’m eighteen. I’m younger, you’re older!"

Zhang Qian immediately grasped the meaning and nodded with a smile.

Encouraged, Ren Cong gestured again. "I’m from Chang’an. Where are you from, Brother Zhang?"

The question stung Zhang Qian. He looked around, a touch of melancholy on his face. "I’m from Shi—no, Hejian."

"Hejian?" Ren Cong was skeptical: could the Hejian accent really differ so much from Chang’an? Still, he didn’t dare question a supposed master and quickly changed the subject.

The chubby youth clearly hoped to become Zhang Qian’s disciple and was eager to make conversation. Zhang Qian, for his part, wanted to learn some Tang dialect as quickly as possible. So they worked together: what could be mimed, they mimed; what couldn’t, they squatted to write. Their conversation grew smoother and more congenial.

Four years older and used to fending for himself, Zhang Qian was careful to avoid discussing his origins. Every time Ren Cong asked, he dodged with phrases like "far away" or "not convenient to say." The more evasive he was, the more mysterious he seemed to Ren Cong, who was now practically starstruck.

For the information he urgently needed, Zhang Qian kept his questions simple and direct. Ren Cong, though sometimes suspicious, rationalized that perhaps this was a test from a great man, and answered honestly.

By cross-referencing what he learned with the scraps of history in his mind, Zhang Qian finally began to understand his circumstances. He also learned why the monks and villagers had treated him so warily.

Not long ago in Chang’an, a bloody incident had occurred. The crown prince, Li Chongjun, was suddenly "taken hostage" by his closest followers. With three hundred men, he stormed the chancellor Wu Sansi’s residence and tore him limb from limb. The rebels then "kidnapped" the crown prince and assaulted the imperial palace.

But three hundred men were no match for imperial might. The emperor himself gave a shout, and the rebels scattered like birds.

The crown prince, Li Chongjun, was "forced" by a handful of rebels to flee to the foot of Mount Zhongnan. He begged for mercy, was refused by Empress Wei, then, in a fit of remorse for his father and the empress, found an opportunity to end his own life.

The emperor was wise and merciful, and Empress Wei "full of compassion." Innocents weren’t implicated; only a few troublemakers in the city were punished, and the prince’s body was retrieved from the mountain. Even so, when retrieving the body, the Imperial Guards inevitably clashed with the rebels.

The result: the city ran with blood, and outside, countless died near Mount Zhongnan. The stench of blood lingered for days.

With so much recent death at the mountain’s foot, no scion of Chang’an’s nobility would visit Jixiang Temple to admire the autumn scenery. The wild beasts in the mountains, too, were drawn out by the smell of blood.

Of all times to get lost, Zhang Qian had to do so just after the carnage. Who else would the wolves, now used to human flesh, chase but him?

And sheltering rebel remnants was a crime punishable by extermination of one’s family. The monks and villagers, having no ties to Zhang Qian, were already showing great kindness by not turning him over to the authorities. How could they possibly let him into their homes and offer him meals?

"Brother Zhang, don’t trouble yourself too much," Ren Cong said kindly, seeing Zhang Qian’s face grow grim. He knew a true master shouldn’t react so strongly to mundane affairs, but he offered the reminder anyway.

Thanks to their earlier halting exchange, Zhang Qian could now converse with him more freely. He smiled and nodded. "I know. I won’t. Thank you, Brother Ren."

"Brother Zhang, you’re too polite," Ren Cong replied, shaking his head with a smile, and continued to chatter about this and that.

With Chang’an having just witnessed a bloodbath, it seemed unwise to head there now. Zhang Qian had wanted to ask Ren Cong if he knew a man named Li Longji or what he was up to, whether he was gathering talented men or was overlooked. But reflecting on his own situation—at best, he’d just be cannon fodder—he decided to drop the idea.

As they chatted idly, a checkpoint suddenly came into view ahead. Travelers to Chang’an, whether in carriages, on horseback, or carrying loads, lined up in two neat queues before the post—one to the left, one to the right.

"What are they checking for? Rebel remnants?" Zhang Qian wondered, stopping instinctively to watch.

In the dusk, he saw that those on the left—riders, passengers, and people wearing hats with rabbit-ear flaps—were producing bamboo tokens from their robes for inspection by the officials. Those on the right, carrying loads or not, but with cloth headbands, raised their faces to be identified by a few elderly men at the post.

"Brother Zhang, your permit, your permit, quickly!" Ren Cong, afraid they’d be late and miss entry, grabbed Zhang Qian’s hand and hurried toward the checkpoint, whispering, "I know someone, we can get through!"

"Permit?" Zhang Qian, realizing Ren Cong intended to sneak them through, was puzzled why he needed a permit and frowned, stopping again.

"Permit—Brother Zhang, don’t you have one?" Ren Cong looked Zhang Qian up and down, taking his time before confirming he wasn’t pretending. Stamping his foot, he quietly explained in archaic Tang dialect, "Travel pass, Brother Zhang, travel pass, for inspection!"

"Travel pass?" Zhang Qian could now match some Tang pronunciations to his own era’s Chinese, but didn’t understand what a travel pass was. He shook his head hesitantly.

"Really? You truly don’t have one?" Ren Cong could hardly believe it and lowered his voice, suspicious.

By now, he was seriously doubting whether Zhang Qian was any kind of master at all.

Legend had it that such people were either monks or Taoists, but Zhang Qian had neither the monk’s nor the Taoist’s required permit!

But even if he wasn’t a monk or Taoist, there were supposed to be hermits living in the wild, sometimes emerging to seek disciples. Yet this supposed sage didn’t even have a travel pass!

Without a pass from the local authorities, and not being a monk or Taoist, how could he possibly have come from Hejian to Chang’an?

How had he gotten through checkpoints or stayed at inns along the way?

He’d have been stopped by petty officials before he’d gone twenty miles from home, tied up, hauled back, and whipped raw by the village head!

"Truly!" Zhang Qian, now anxious, forced himself to nod solemnly.

At last, he understood what a travel pass was—it was like the travel permit of the Ming dynasty. Damn those martial arts novels! Heroes roamed the land, but none of them ever carried such things!

"Thank heavens we haven’t reached Chang’an’s main gate yet—this is only the first checkpoint!" No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than, before the soldiers and officials could notice them, Ren Cong grabbed Zhang Qian and turned away. "Brother Zhang, you’re bold! Don’t you value your life?!"

"Where are we going?" Zhang Qian, realizing he’d be in serious trouble without a pass, didn’t resist as Ren Cong led him quickly away from the checkpoint.

"Let’s go!" At this point, Ren Cong didn’t care whether Zhang Qian was a master or not—what mattered was not getting his own family implicated.

Glancing back, he broke into a jog. "We’ll go to my house. As for the pass, I’ll help you figure something out!"