Chapter Seventy-Three: On Wine

A burst of laughter erupted all around, echoing through the hall. The young gentlemen laughed so hard they doubled over, each one wiping tears from the corners of their eyes.

Fat Jar Lu Ting, with his mediocre talents and utter lack of self-awareness, had long been the subject of private disdain. His persistent attempts to reach above his station only made matters worse. Most, however, had tolerated him for the sake of his father, Lu Zhengming, the Vice Minister of Personnel—a man whose casual intervention could easily throw obstacles in their career paths. None dared to provoke him lightly.

But today, when Wang Han unexpectedly spoke out on behalf of justice, the pent-up irritation in everyone’s hearts could no longer be restrained. Even those wary of the Lu family’s vengeance in days to come could do nothing more than turn their heads aside, struggling to stifle their laughter and not make it too obvious.

And so, Lu Ting’s face was utterly tarnished, as if it had been ground into the mud. Furious, he leapt three inches into the air, his fingers curling into a fist which he swung at Wang Han’s nose. “You brat, how dare you insult me! Today I’ll—”

“Brother Lu, spare Uncle Zhang some dignity!” Before the punch landed, Wang Zhihuan had already darted between them. His shoulder took the brunt of the blow intended for Wang Han, and then, with a gentle grip on Lu Ting’s wrist, he continued, “Both of you are accomplished in the six arts. If you wish to test each other, choose another time. Why must it be today?”

“Indeed, indeed!” Wei Dao, seeing how things were escalating, forced himself to suppress his annoyance, and from behind, wrapped his arms tightly around Lu Ting’s broad waist. “Brother Lu, you are gifted in both civil and martial virtues, with talents to benefit the nation. Why compete in something as minor as poetry? Today, let us talk only of literature, not raise our fists. Otherwise, if Master Bi over there sees us, we would not leave a good impression!”

With these words, he both flattered Lu Ting and reminded all present of the possible consequences of causing a scene. Instantly, both sides reconsidered.

The reason was simple: Bi Gou was on the other side of the garden, enjoying wine and conversation with Zhang Shuo, He Zhizhang, and others. Although he was not currently favored in his career, he was a true paragon of integrity in the officialdom. In both seniority and reputation, he far surpassed Lu Ting’s father, the Vice Minister of Personnel.

Moreover, Master Bi would not know the cause of the quarrel. Should he see young men brawling, he would surely blame both parties, and a single comment from him about someone being “impetuous” could soon become common judgment among scholars.

“In my view, there’s no need for such contention,” said Zhang Jiuling, seizing the opportunity as both sides grew quiet. “Let the world and the passage of time judge. Since the Wei and Jin dynasties, the literary giants of history have written hundreds of thousands of poems, yet only a few thousand have survived to this day. Aside from those lost by misfortune, most were simply forgettable.”

“Hmph. Could commoners even understand my poetry?” Lu Ting, pleased with the logic, rolled his eyes in agreement.

“Brother Zishou speaks wisely!” Wang Han, unwilling to entangle himself further with Lu Ting, also gave a cold, sarcastic response.

They exchanged glares before separating. Several bold and spirited youths gathered around Wang Han to drink and converse, while the more prudent ones, or those wishing to curry favor with Lu Zhengming, accompanied Lu Ting, listening to his self-aggrandizing tales.

No one emerged as the clear victor from the commotion. The real beneficiary was Zhang Qian, for no one remembered to ask him to present his own verses for critique.

Zhang Qian was only too happy to escape such embarrassment. Instead of joining any table of scholars, he busied himself with his brush, admiring lines of poetry and the youthful calligraphy of Zhang Xu, the future Sage of Cursive.

To his surprise, the more he looked, the more insight he gained.

On the paper were both renowned lines and many mediocre ones—most, in fact, were not much better than his own poem on chrysanthemums. At least, the difference was not as great as heaven and earth.

Clearly, Zhang Jiuling’s earlier words rang true: the world and time are the ultimate touchstones. Poems of little merit would fade from memory within a century, while only the truly unique, those illuminated by the ages or blessed by imperial favor, would endure.

By these standards, the vast majority of twenty-first-century poetry would perish with their authors. As for certain much-hyped poets and their popular works, as Wang Han had said earlier, if those were considered good poems, one must wonder whether they insult readers or the very art of poetry itself.

Amused by these thoughts, Zhang Qian suddenly felt someone standing at his side. Turning, he saw Zhang Xu—Zhang Bogao—with a face so beautiful it could inspire envy.

“Brother Bogao, thank you for your brush,” he said, cheeks flushing as he assumed Zhang Xu was there to reclaim it. He hurriedly returned the nearly dry brush with both hands.

“You misunderstand, I haven’t come for the brush,” Zhang Xu replied, pausing before smiling warmly. His manner was like a spring breeze. “I was simply admiring your calligraphy. Upon closer inspection, it possesses a unique charm all its own!”

“Brother Bogao flatters me! I dare not accept such praise!” Zhang Qian, embarrassed down to his toes, quickly stepped back, waving his hands.

To boast of one’s calligraphy before the Sage of Cursive was like selling family names before Confucius himself. Though He Zhizhang had once said that one must dare to show one’s work before the masters, it required a certain confidence and skill—otherwise, it was not seeking advice but inviting humiliation.

Yet Zhang Xu would not allow him to be overly modest. Stepping forward, he pointed at the first character in the line he had copied for Wang Zhihuan—“Today we shall drink with chrysanthemums”—and commented with a smile, “Especially this character—it stands tall and elegant, like a white crane spreading its wings. I have practiced it many times but never captured such spirit.”

He broke out in a cold sweat—half from embarrassment and half from embarrassment.

The first part was because, of the thirty-three characters in the farewell poem and the author’s name, only this “Today” stood out to Zhang Xu. That character came from Zhang Qian’s own countless copies of “Cold Food” during his student days in the twenty-first century. It bore traces of Su Dongpo’s style, making it quite different from the others to a discerning eye.

The other half was due to the fact that, at just twenty-three, Zhang Xu had not yet become the Sage of Cursive, and yet here Zhang Qian was, daring to show off before him. If, in Zhang Xu’s prime, he acted so boldly, he would not only be scorned by the master’s admirers but perhaps dragged out by his peers to have his fingers chopped off.

“Brothers Zhang, why aren’t you hurrying over for a drink? The newly warmed chrysanthemum white is already on its third round—if you wait any longer, there won’t be a drop left!” Fortunately, Wang Zhihuan’s timely invitation interrupted any further discussion of calligraphy.

True to his reputation as one of Du Fu’s “Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup,” Zhang Xu abandoned his favorite art at the mention of fine wine. “Many thanks, Brother Jiling! I was late last round and missed it. This time, I won’t let it pass me by!”

He then turned to Zhang Qian, smiling, “Brother Yongzhao, come join us for a drink. The wine at Commander Zhang’s table is unlike any other.”

“Brother Bogao, you go ahead! I’m not much of a drinker,” Zhang Qian replied, bowing slightly and shaking his head.

He knew the wine well—it was his own, distilled with a touch of wild chrysanthemum essence. It was nothing exotic to someone from the twenty-first century. If he were to drink, he’d rather have the Liu Ling Drunk, a popular Tang Dynasty liquor, for its ancient charm.

“Nonsense, how could you not be a drinker? If you weren’t, why would Commander Zhang be so eager for your friendship?” Zhang Xu, thinking Zhang Qian was being modest, paused to urge him again.

“No need, Brother Bogao. This wine is a specialty from his estate—naturally, he doesn’t find it novel,” Wang Zhihuan interjected, saving Zhang Qian the trouble.

“So that’s it! The wine was brewed under your guidance, no wonder you’re indifferent to it!” Zhang Xu laughed in realization, bowing again before heading straight to the nearest table. “I’ll fetch some now—without this chrysanthemum white, the festival would lose half its fun!”

Knowing Zhang Xu’s love of wine from Du Fu’s verses, Zhang Qian did not detain him further. He watched him go with a smile, then turned to Wang Zhihuan.

He was about to ask whether, by Tang custom, it would be rude for him to take his leave now, when suddenly, Lu Ting’s grating voice rang out: “What rare vintage! Have any of you tasted the Hero’s Blood from the Roman Empire, brought by the envoys from Dashi? Now that’s a true rarity—crimson as blood, served in luminous cups. Under moon or candlelight, even without drinking, just looking and smelling it is enough to make you feel intoxicated!”

This was thoroughly inconsiderate of the host’s feelings, especially since the gathering was co-hosted by He Zhizhang to nurture young talent.

Immediately, the more cautious gentlemen at Lu Ting’s table bowed their heads, focusing on food and wine, and refused to take the bait.

Oblivious, Lu Ting was pleased with his own performance. Raising a cup of white wine, he pontificated, “Moreover, this wine, though clear and fragrant, is too strong. Wine is like a person—too bland and it is unappealing, too fierce and it repels. Only those that burn like fire yet go down like strong tea possess the spirit of a gentleman. By that measure, Hero’s Blood is the gentleman of wines, while this chrysanthemum white is no more than a woodcutter’s brew!”

“So, you dislike it? My mistake for making you uncomfortable!” Wang Zhihuan, unable to endure any longer, strode over and snatched the cup from Lu Ting’s hand. “I’ll get you some western grape wine instead—it may not be Hero’s Blood, but it’s not inferior!”

“What do you mean by that, Jiling?” Lu Ting, cut off mid-speech, glared with his bulging eyes, voice rising. “Is this how your host treats his guests, forbidding them to speak the truth?”

“If this were my home, I’d have punched you already,” Wang Zhihuan fumed, but for the sake of their elders present, he merely clenched his fists, his face dark with suppressed rage.

“Jiling, don’t be angry. Brother Lu’s words weren’t entirely baseless. Hero’s Blood is indeed a precious wine in the Roman Empire. Shipped all the way to the Tang, its value only increases!” Seeing Wang Zhihuan on the verge of losing his temper, Zhang Qian hurried over, pressing down on his fist with a smile.

Lu Ting, oblivious, did not recognize Zhang Qian as the very same young master who had once nearly driven his uncle to despair. Seeing a cheerful stranger supporting him, he laughed and clapped. “See? There are those with taste. Jiling, you might silence me, but you can’t silence everyone here.”

“Brother Lu, don’t misunderstand. Jiling only worries you’ll drink too much chrysanthemum white and harm your health,” Zhang Qian responded with a smile, deftly taking over. “After all, this wine, like Hero’s Blood, has another name: the Measure of the Heart!”

“Measure of the Heart?” Slightly drunk, Lu Ting failed to realize it was a trap and asked excitedly, “Which ‘measure’? The good of ‘good-hearted,’ or the measure of ‘to weigh’?”

“Both!” Zhang Qian seized a jug and a clean cup, poured himself half a measure, and turned the porcelain in the sunlight as he explained, “It can refer to goodness of heart, or to measuring one’s character. In the first sense, it’s simple: those who, after drinking, nitpick their host’s wine lack a good heart!”

A few nearby, suddenly enlightened, lifted their cups and burst out laughing.

“You brat, who are you calling heartless?” Lu Ting, both embarrassed and furious, leapt up. “Who do you think you are? Name yourself and let me teach you a lesson!”

“Brother Lu, don’t be hasty—I was speaking of wine, not people!” Zhang Qian deftly sidestepped Lu Ting’s attack, turning his gaze to Zhang Jiuling. As he dodged, he continued, “As for measuring character, that’s the true meaning. For those with concern for the world, three cups of this wine will dissolve all worries, freeing them to benefit the people. The result? A true gentleman!”

He spun lightly away from another of Lu Ting’s grabs, heading toward Wang Han while speaking, “For the passionate hero, three cups will set the blood ablaze, sword drawn to defend the Tang, or to rid the land of bandits. The result? A true hero!”

With one hand, he blocked Lu Ting’s clumsy punch, pushing him aside. Then, with another deft step, he raised his cup to Zhang Xu across the room. “For the upright scholar, three cups will ignite inspiration, for painting or writing masterpieces to be admired by posterity. The result? A true talent!”

“Stop right there, you brat! Enough nonsense!” Lu Ting, growing more flustered, chased after Zhang Qian.

Short and stout, with too much wine in him, Lu Ting was no match. After a few agile dodges, he tumbled to the ground, saved from splitting his head only by Wei Dao’s timely intervention.

As for Zhang Qian, disliking Lu Ting’s disruption at Zhang Ruoxu’s home, he turned with a gentle shake of his head. “But if one is nothing but a braggart with no real ability, three cups will expose his true nature—boasting, picking fights, maybe even going home to bully his wife and children. The measure? A scoundrel! No matter how fine or costly the wine, it’d be better fed to a dog!”

“Well said—a scoundrel indeed!” Wang Han, already delighted, leapt up, raising his cup to the assembly. “Gentlemen, let us each drink and measure our own hearts!”

“To the measure of the heart!” Zhang Xu, Qin Lü, Wang Zhihuan, and the others echoed, laughter bursting forth as they drank.

Even the older, more experienced Zhang Jiuling wiped away tears of mirth, then raised his cup and drained it in one go.