Chapter Thirty-One: The Most Profitable Business in the Great Tang

Chapter Thirty-One: The Most Profitable Business in the Great Tang

Five strings of coins—enough to buy a servant girl! Forty strings for pocket money could purchase eight of them. A hundred strings would get you twenty, and three hundred would fetch sixty. But a hundred thousand strings—what then...

Having lived in the Tang Dynasty for so long, Zhang Qian had, on occasion, secretly compared local prices to those at a modern farmers’ market in twenty-first-century Xi’an. Yet not until now did he truly grasp the purchasing power of the Kaiyuan Tongbao coins in the most visceral way—so stark it was almost heartbreaking.

If, in the twentieth century, some lucky soul had landed an angel investment and instead of seeing a contract and a soulless string of digits in a bank account, had been confronted with the lives of so many daughters or out-of-school children, he would surely have cherished the opportunity and the investor’s trust all the more. In such a case, his chances of success would no doubt have doubled.

The same logic applied to Zhang Qian in the autumn of the third year of the Shenlong era in the Tang. Realizing that a moment’s carelessness could squander the equivalent of three or four servant girls, the already meticulous Zhang became even more exacting in his efforts.

The academic database he’d downloaded to write his thesis was pored over again and again while his servant slept. Whether humanities or sciences, if knowledge could be found in his phone’s memory—or if he could recall it—he wove it together, cross-examining it repeatedly. When his battery was low, he’d charge it at once. If the charger’s energy was spent by night, he’d recharge by day...

When one throws oneself into work, time passes in a blur.

For five or six days straight, Zhang Qian devoted himself entirely to preparations for replicating and manufacturing medicated oil, to the point that even when completing his household registration and picking up his travel documents, he was absentminded.

Fortunately, the minor officials handling his registration and paperwork all respected the Guo family and were well aware of the real reason behind this supposed branch of the Zhang clan setting up a separate household. Thus, they overlooked Zhang Qian’s distracted manner throughout the process. Once they’d received the customary “lucky money,” they let matters slide.

It was Zhang Qian’s “brother” Zhang Sheng who seemed most concerned. Observing Zhang Qian’s dazed demeanor, needing constant reminders, he worried about his health. After the paperwork was done, Zhang Sheng sought out Guo Qiu, the steward sent by the Guo family to oversee matters, and warned him earnestly: the real third son of their family had passed away young; if anything were to happen to Zhang Qian, they mustn’t blame it on fate or try to reclaim the ten acres of hereditary farmland. Otherwise, Zhang Sheng would go to the yamen and beat the drum, exposing everything, even if it meant a beating for himself. (Note: In ancient times, “land skin” referred to the right to use land, a workaround the populace devised to circumvent state restrictions on land accumulation. Land was divided into “skin” and “bone”; in a sale, the “skin” went to the new owner, the “bone” stayed with the old.)

“Don’t worry. Your third brother has good fortune. He’s just bought a huge estate by the Wei River—at least thirteen or fourteen hundred acres,” Guo Qiu snapped, rolling his eyes. “Even if you handed back the ten acres of farmland, people would say you were bringing bad luck!”

Zhang Sheng, undisturbed, glanced a few times at Zhang Qian, who looked like a marionette, shook his head, and strode away.

Unaware he had become, in others’ eyes, a doomed soul, Zhang Qian, once the registration was done and the documents stuffed into his bag, refocused entirely on developing the process and equipment for his locally improvised medicated oil.

He lost track of time again, working straight through until the sixth day, when after countless revisions of his initial plans and sketches, he finally arrived at the most feasible and efficient production scheme.

Meanwhile, the transfer of his new estate was also completed, thanks to Ren Cong’s diligent arrangements.

This saved even more time. Guo Nu and Ren Cong chose an auspicious date and, accompanied by their best men, helped Zhang Qian and his servant move house with much fanfare. At the same time, they prepared all the vessels and components needed for “alchemy,” setting them up carefully in two central rooms of the new estate.

There were no screws or welding in those days. Assembly and sealing relied entirely on hammers, tin strips, and borax. It took another two days and a night of hard labor before they finally finished what, to twenty-first-century eyes, could only be called a makeshift, primitive workshop.

As the chief designer and architect of the whole system, Zhang Qian could not simply hand the blueprints to the craftsmen and wash his hands of the matter. But for the heavy work—building stoves, assembling oversized spiral-spouted copper kettles, and soldering—he need not lift a finger. For most of the installation, he could achieve satisfactory results merely by directing.

The craftsmanship, particularly in the assembly and welding of the kettle body, spout, and exterior cooling tank, far exceeded his expectations—every seam was as fine as a strand of hair, impervious even to gas, let alone water.

But, considering the cost, he was less surprised. The gourd-shaped copper kettle, the vine-like spiraling spout, and the cooling tank alone came to a staggering two hundred and thirty strings of coins! (Note: Museums house similar ancient Persian apparatuses used for distilling spirits.)

And this didn’t even include the craftsmen’s wages. According to Guo Nu, the artisans were lifelong family retainers, fed and clothed since childhood, given gifts on holidays—who would pay them wages? Anyone who did would be ridiculed as a prodigal son from the city walls of Chang’an all the way to the foot of Mount Zhongnan.

“Brother Zhang, I know you have a kind heart, and your school is famed for its compassion,” said the chubby Ren Cong, who, for once, showed keen insight. From Zhang Qian’s attempt to pay the Guo family’s craftsmen, he deduced that Zhang would make a poor estate master. So, finding a private moment, he warned him gently, “But since you can’t return to your school for now, you must adapt to local ways. Otherwise, not only will the wealthy families of Chang’an see you as a thorn in their side, the servants who benefit from your kindness will only laugh at you—they’ll never truly appreciate you!”

“Look at you, already bold enough to lecture me!” Zhang Qian, embarrassed, put on a stern face and scolded, “If you have time to talk, go oversee the craftsmen cleaning the alchemy kettle. Any errors, you’ll pay for them yourself!”

Despite the rebuke, Zhang Qian knew well that Ren Cong’s advice was heartfelt. So, after regaining his composure, he earnestly sought out Ren Quan, the head of the guards assigned by the Ren family to protect the workshop, to consult him on managing the estate.

Ren Quan, profoundly impressed by how Zhang Qian had saved his own master from the brink of death, was eager to help in any way, hoping to build a bond of gratitude. So, while the workshop was still idle, he readily played the role of advisor, teaching Zhang Qian, step by step, how to be an effective estate master.

According to Ren Quan, running an estate was much like leading an army. A general neither could nor should know every soldier under his command. Likewise, an estate master had no need to know each and every servant and tenant.

A general only needed to know his aides, quartermasters, and a few key officers—through them, he managed the troops just as the arm commands the hand, and the hand controls the fingers.

An estate master, similarly, relied on his steward to maintain order, his accountant to balance the books, and a handful of trusted managers to oversee the servants and tenants. The rest was dealing with taxes and figuring out how to make the estate more prosperous year by year.

Zhang Qian’s estate, gifted by the old master out of gratitude for saving his life, came with the steward, accountant, all managers, male and female servants, and all tenants as part of the transfer. The steward, accountant, and tenants were employees; managers and servants were household slaves. Thus, it sufficed for Zhang Qian to meet these key people, say a few encouraging words, and that would do for the year.

When spring came and he’d grown familiar with the main figures on the estate, he could then decide—based on their abilities—whom to retain, promote, or dismiss.

Of course, if he had spare funds, it would be even better to buy himself an official rank. He needn’t seek a real post or appointment; at the very least, dealings with minor officials would go more smoothly, and if he ever had to see the county magistrate or prefect, he wouldn’t have to kneel in the dirt like a commoner.

“What, you can buy official rank?” Zhang Qian was astonished, forgetting his original question as he stared in disbelief.

“Of course!” Ren Quan replied matter-of-factly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Otherwise, how could Guo Erlang’s father wield power in both the underworld and the officialdom, all while wearing a fourth-rank prefect’s robe? I never needed it, having served the old master since childhood. But if I had the money, I’d buy a court title in Chang’an myself! Even if I never got a real post, it’d bring honor to my late father in the afterlife.”

“Is it expensive? Where does one go to buy such a thing?” Zhang Qian’s heart raced—not for the thrill of power, but so he’d never have to kneel before officials again.

“The starting price is thirty thousand coins, or three hundred strings—not too expensive, not too cheap either. There are three main brokers: the Empress’s brother General Wei, Princess Anle, and Lady-in-waiting Shangguan Wan’er. The real boss is the Empress herself.” Ren Quan smiled and shook his head. “But for three hundred strings, you only get a county bailiff’s title, or a monk’s or priest’s certificate. Double that, and you can buy a county magistrate’s post. Higher ranks go up accordingly. If you want to buy a prefecture chief’s post, that’s about three thousand strings; as for a chancellor, you’ll need at least eighty thousand at current rates!” (Note: This is historical fact.)

“You can even buy a chancellor’s post!” Zhang Qian was so stunned his jaw nearly dropped.

This was nothing like the Great Tang he’d read about in history books or seen in television dramas.

In his memory, the Tang was a land of wealth, good governance, military might, and cultural splendor. Even if it declined somewhat under Emperor Zhongzong, it surely hadn’t fallen so far!

Chancellorships for sale—this didn’t even happen in the later Qing, as far as he knew!

“Of course you can. That’s why they say the Empress’s family knows better than anyone how to make money!” Ren Quan, baffled by Zhang Qian’s astonishment, shook his head in admiration. “Guo Erlang’s father may be famous, but compared to the Empress’s clan, their business is nothing. The Guos earn maybe a hundred thousand strings a year at most, but the Empress can toss out two chancellor posts and make more than that—without spending a thing!”