Chapter Thirteen: Drawing My Sword, I Gaze Around—My Heart Lost in Confusion

Chapter Thirteen: Drawing My Sword, Gazing in All Directions, Lost at Heart

“Ren, my friend, thank you!” A warm current surged swiftly through Zhang Qian’s heart as he clasped his hands gently toward the retreating figure of the chubby Ren Cong.

No matter how the others in the manor treated him, Ren Cong’s loyalty and generosity were beyond question. The mulberry-paper document, still carrying the warmth of a human touch, was proof enough of that.

“Ren Quan, Ren Wu, go fetch his clothes and return them. While you’re at it, find out who’s so petty as to covet a few old garments. Thrash them, expel them, and let them fend for themselves!” At that moment, Miss Ren Yingying, who had already reached the rear gate with her maid, suddenly turned her head and shouted at Ren Quan and the others, who were trying to slip away along the wall. Clearly, she was still indignant, intending to settle the score once her father was out of danger.

Zhang Qian merely smiled at the implied threat in her words. She was overthinking it—clearly imagining he would cling to the place. Now that he had the travel permit, he could roam the Tang realm freely. Why should he remain under someone’s roof, relying on their whim?

Moreover, as far as Zhang Qian remembered, Emperor Zhongzong’s reign was brief. Soon the throne would pass to Li Longji.

The early years of Li Longji’s rule would usher in the illustrious Kaiyuan Era, a renaissance in Tang history.

During that time, the Tang Dynasty would sweep away previous decline, reassert control over the Western Regions, and reopen the Silk Road. Its fame, culture, and commerce would spread for thousands of miles.

The common people would flourish, the treasury would be full, and disasters—natural or manmade—would be rare. As long as one had hands and feet and was willing to work, none would starve in the streets.

People from neighboring lands would pride themselves on speaking Tang dialects, donning Tang attire, and those who could immigrate to the Tang and obtain even a minor, insignificant post would bring honor to their descendants for generations.

Anyone who obeyed the laws of the Tang, who bore arms for the empire, would be accepted, regardless of origin, nationality, or race.

If even foreigners could carve out a life in Tang, why couldn’t Zhang Qian, with all his limbs and the advantage of over thirteen centuries of accumulated knowledge, earn a living?

At the thought, Zhang Qian’s heart burned with excitement. He hurried to the desk, laid the documents before him, and examined them carefully, his warmth growing.

Just as he had surmised, the travel permit was the Ming equivalent of a road pass, or a twentieth-century letter of introduction. It stated his name, age, place of origin, appearance, and stature, as well as the reason for passage: scholarly travel. At the bottom, it bore the guarantee mark of the local headman and the seal of the household registry in Weinan County.

Considerately, the permit’s expiration date was left blank!

This meant that henceforth, Zhang Qian could travel wherever he wished, so long as the destination was not forbidden. He could wander as long as he liked; as long as the validity was unfilled, the checkpoints would not trouble him.

More complex and ten times more precious was the “Household Register” of the Tang—a veritable family record. Not only did it mirror the permit’s information, but it also recorded when and why he was registered: In the first year of Shenlong, the Tang Emperor, recalling the hardships of founding the dynasty, decreed the restoration of Lingyan Pavilion, pardoned the scattered descendants of meritorious officials, and restored their titles, regardless of cause. The authorities were ordered to grant land to these descendants in the capital region.

In essence, it was a Tang Dynasty version of rehabilitation and official redress. In this “vast imperial benevolence,” the descendants of Duke Zou, Lord Zhang Gongjin, were included, and by imperial order, their official fiefs were restored.

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However, the descendants of Duke Zou were numerous, and their retainers and kin who had attached themselves after Duke Zhang’s rise were many. The capital could not accommodate them all at once, so the officials found a compromise: less prominent members of the Zhang clan were relocated to Weinan.

One such collateral, Zhang Junbao, fell ill and died soon after arriving in Weinan, leaving three sons. One was still a minor and supported by his elder brothers. This year, having come of age, he petitioned for land and a separate household as per the law. This was Zhang Qian.

As for the “twenty mu of hereditary farmland,” in reality, only half could be granted by the authorities. The fields lay near the Wei River, adjacent to those of his brothers Zhang Sheng and Zhang Xu. Since he was to leave for scholarly travels, the land title was in his name, but the management was temporarily entrusted to Zhang Sheng.

“This favor is rather immense!” Putting down the land deed, Zhang Qian rubbed his eyes and smiled.

He had thought Ren Cong would, like someone from the twenty-first century, find a counterfeiter to whip up a fake permit. Never did he expect such thorough kindness: not only had Ren Cong secured the permit, but also arranged for the household registration.

Judging by the documents’ completeness, they were likely genuine, able to withstand any level of scrutiny. Once the final formalities were complete, Zhang Qian would become a true Tang citizen, immune from harassment over his household status.

In short, the chubby Ren Cong had spent money and pulled strings to purchase a household registration for Zhang Qian in Weinan. The price for Zhang Qian? He gained two nominal elder brothers and ten mu of hereditary land he neither had to care for nor could profit from.

“Make way, make way! The imperial physician is here!” A clamor at the gate interrupted Zhang Qian’s musings.

Massaging his sore neck, he knelt and peered outside. An elderly man in a green robe and black, winged cap hurried in, flanked by three young men carrying medicine chests. The servants who were supposed to fetch his clothes, Ren Quan and Ren Wu, led the way with comical caution, as if any moment an assassin might leap out and cut the physician down.

“Young Lord has arrived! Open the main gate! Have the Young Master come out to welcome him!” Before Zhang Qian could even make out the imperial physician he’d only seen in television dramas, the steward Ren Fuxing’s excited shouts rang out beyond the gate, as if the likes of Bian Que or Hua Tuo had come to perform a miracle cure.

The courtyard instantly descended into chaos. Servants rushed to open the gate, and soon, Ren Cong appeared in Zhang Qian’s line of sight, like a marionette, escorted by attendants toward the entrance, where he bowed deeply before a two-wheeled carriage.

“Are they here to visit the patient or torment his family?” Zhang Qian watched in exasperation. He stood, closed the window, and decided it was best not to meddle or dwell on the indignity of Ren Cong having to welcome some self-important young lord. Out of sight, out of mind.

Turning back to the desk, he crouched to carefully pack the travel permit, household register, and land deed back into his bag. In a few days, he would be free. Once Ren Cong accompanied him to Weinan to finalize the last formalities, the world would be his oyster.

But what next? The elation of solving his identity crisis was quickly replaced by a wave of uncertainty.

He knew the Kaiyuan Era was approaching—the golden age of the Tang. It would last many years, until the An Lushan Rebellion broke it by force.

As a certain Du—who, in Zhang Qian’s mind, ought to have his palm caned for mischief—wrote: In that era, “rice flowed like oil, millet shone white, public and private granaries were full, and the nine provinces had no wolves or tigers; one could travel far without waiting for an auspicious day…”

And yet—a large “yet.” From the third year of Shenlong to the first year of Kaiyuan, how much time remained? Zhang Qian racked his brain, but couldn’t recall. How did Emperor Xuanzong take the throne? What did he do beforehand? Whom did he befriend? Zhang Qian drew a complete blank.

He remembered the Reign of Zhenguan, the Kaiyuan Era, the An Lushan Rebellion, and the achievements of Empress Wu Zetian. But the interval between Wu Zetian’s abdication and Emperor Xuanzong’s accession was a foggy void.

The reason was simple: the first four were key exam topics; the last was irrelevant to any test. Zhang Qian was no history buff—why would he memorize details that would never be tested?

Had he been born a few decades earlier, he might have gleaned something from the historical drama “Palace of Daming,” even if its details didn’t match the official record. But he was born too late: by the time he had the leisure to watch TV or chase dramas online, the screens were filled with beauties time-traveling to the Qing, nothing to do with the Tang, and even less with a six-foot iron-blooded man like him.

This was the price of knowing only the broad sweep of history, but being clueless about its details. Finding a suitable starting point was as hard as scaling the heavens.

“Perhaps I really should travel and study, as the permit says?” A sudden flash of insight lit his mind, but Zhang Qian could only smile wryly.

Without a good entry point, he’d be hard-pressed to catch the coattails of Li Longji. Without that, Chang’an would not be a safe place. If he inadvertently attached himself to Li Longji’s rivals, or simply remained an ordinary citizen, he could not guarantee he would escape disaster in any future upheavals.

To stay far from Chang’an would be safer; at least he wouldn’t fear being murdered in his sleep by rampaging soldiers.

But though he now had a travel permit, he didn’t have a single coin to his name. In this era without trains or long-distance buses, if he set out like this, he’d likely die of hunger or wild beasts long before reaching his destination.

“Already mistaken for a fraud, I can’t very well borrow travel money from Ren Cong, too!” With a sigh, Zhang Qian went to the bedside, considering what he could sell.

The phone and solar charger were off-limits. The paracetamol and cephalosporin were his lifeline in emergencies. All he could spare was a small, Yiwu-made Swiss Army knife and a high-quality imitation “Green Water Ghost” watch. The watch had a quartz movement, but the buyer couldn’t very well open the case on the spot.

“So this is how Qin Qiong felt, selling his horse and mace in old tales.” He took out the watch, rubbing it repeatedly in his palm, his heart sinking deeper with every stroke.

Bang! The outer door was suddenly flung open.

“Who’s there?” Zhang Qian hastily stuffed the watch into his bag and turned, displeased.

Ren Cong hurried in, then suddenly dropped to his knees and kowtowed in silence.

Once, twice, three times…

Before Zhang Qian could stop him, blood was already staining the floor.