Chapter Thirty-One: The Grand Banquet at the Eastern Palace—The Crown Prince Invites Hu

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“Candy!” Li Wei had just finished his run when he saw Li Lingyue holding out her chubby little hand, standing before him, asking for milk candy.

He glanced at the sun and asked, “Why aren’t you at school?”

“Big brother, you lied to me—the Sacrificial Field Ceremony isn’t fun at all.” At first, following Li Wei to the ceremony was exciting: crowds cheered in the streets, the officials lined up for the rituals, and the new setting piqued her curiosity as she wandered about. The next morning was still enjoyable, with music and ceremonial dances, but then the plowing began—push a little here, push a little there—and the novelty wore off. She wanted to leave, but at that point, even the precious child of Wu Zetian and Li Zhi couldn’t just walk away.

Bi’er came over to soothe her. She agreed to stay if Bi’er would tell her stories from “Journey to the West.” But Bi’er, caught off guard, could only muster a couple of simple tales she’d heard as a child before entering the palace. When she finished, Li Lingyue pointed to Bi’er’s forehead and pronounced, “You really don’t know how to tell stories. So boring.”

Boring or not, nothing compared to “Journey to the West.” The young princess had developed a taste for good stories, thanks to Li Wei. Not only did she dismiss Bi’er, but she also forced the servants in her quarters to tell her tales at night, driving a group of eunuchs to desperation. Some eunuchs even went outside the palace and paid for entertaining stories, knowing that any good tale would earn them a reward from her. The whole affair was rather amusing, and word of it spread as a charming anecdote—filial to her parents, benevolent to the people, caring to her siblings, she was the embodiment of perfection.

Li Wei said, “Didn’t I tell you from the start that was official business? There’s nothing fun about it. When have I ever lied to you?”

“I just don’t want to go to school.” Though she was growing attached to Li Wei, following him around like a shadow, the bad impression left by Li Hong lingered, so Li Wei’s words still lacked authority.

“Come on, be good. How about this: I’ll tell you a story, and then you’ll go to school?”

Li Lingyue tilted her head, thought for a long while, and said, “It has to be a good story. If it’s not, I’m not going.”

“Alright, listen closely.” He told her the story of “The Little Match Girl,” though he changed it to “the little girl who sold fire tongues.”

“How pitiful,” she said.

“Yes, you’re a princess and have the greatest scholars to teach you, but what about poor children? They don’t even have a chance to study.”

That was the reality. The Tang Dynasty valued education, with more than a thousand dormitories at the Imperial College and normally three to five thousand students, sometimes as many as ten thousand. Schools were also set up in every prefecture and county. But due to government policy, private schools were forbidden, except that scholars could study at home—especially prominent families, who hired great scholars or had them among their own kin to teach the young.

Even so, the scale of education far surpassed previous dynasties, but truly poor families still rarely managed to send their children to school. Brushes, paper, and ink were expensive. Even families who were getting by had their children practice writing with sticks in the sand, unwilling to waste real supplies.

Dai Zhide, Zhang Wenhuan, and Li Jingxuan walked over to invite Li Wei to the banquet, just in time to hear this conversation. They exchanged glances and nodded approvingly. Though it was a story, it was educational and carried a positive message.

“Well, I’ll go to school now.”

“That’s my good and obedient sister,” Li Wei said, taking Li Lingyue’s hand and heading for the Hongwen Hall.

Li Jingxuan was about to call out, but Dai Zhide gestured for him to stop.

The three of them watched as the tall and the short figures gradually disappeared into the morning light, lost in thought.

...

The grand banquet began!

Apart from the officials staying guard in Chang’an, venerable elders were also invited to join the feast in recognition of their service. Of course, scholars like Wei Yuanzhong still weren’t qualified to sit among them.

There was another special guest, invited by Li Hong himself: Liang Jinzhu, a merchant from Chang’an. Not long ago, he had donated three thousand strings of coins to aid disaster victims and the poor. Three thousand may not sound like much, but in copper coins, it was a staggering three million pieces. In recent good years, with favorable weather, a dou of rice sold for only five copper coins, and all taxes and levies combined amounted to just over ten million strings of coins for the entire empire.

When the guests were seated and Liang Jinzhu was introduced, Li Wei gave him a deep bow.

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Poor Liang Jinzhu was just a merchant. In the hierarchy of society, merchants ranked lowest, barely above prostitutes, beggars, and slaves. Of course, reality wasn’t always so clear-cut—money brought power, and vast wealth could build a network of connections. But in terms of status, merchants were still at the bottom, and their children were barred from taking the civil service exams.

He quickly said, “Your Highness, you flatter me far too much.”

“Liang Jinzhu, the other day at the East Market, I said it myself: the country has seen hard times these past few years, disasters and calamities. The treasury is strained, and the people suffer. In times like these, we must all work together to overcome hardship. That day, I even praised a courtesan for her good deeds. Your charity is the greatest of all virtues and deserves my deepest gratitude.”

“Your subject, your subject—” Perhaps it was from drinking too much porridge lately, but Liang Jinzhu burst into tears as he prostrated himself, unable to speak.

Li Wei thought, I’m just thanking you, is it really so moving?

Truthfully, what Liang Jinzhu had done was no small feat. After the Eastern Han’s suppression of commerce, the likes of Sang Hongyang from the Western Han could never rise again. Even if one donated all their wealth, there was no hope of gaining office or honors. And three thousand strings of coins was an enormous sum. A first-rank metropolitan official only received seven hundred shi of rice annually. Yes, there were also various fields and monthly stipends, but at most, the total monthly income wouldn’t exceed a thousand strings of coins. Some officials, short on extra allowances, couldn’t even afford homes and lived in monasteries.

Li Wei took out a handkerchief to wipe Liang Jinzhu’s tears.

This only made things worse—what had been a drizzle now became a torrential downpour.

Li Wei let him be and handed the handkerchief to Bi’er to deal with, then turned to address the assembly: “Spring plowing will begin soon, but the drought may not improve. All the more reason for us to pull together—those who have resources should give what they can, those who have strength should lend it, just as Liang Jinzhu has done. Then there will be no obstacle we cannot overcome!”

“Bravo!” The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

Li Wei nodded in satisfaction, and the ceremonial officials stepped forward to announce the rites. Palace maids and eunuchs from the Eastern Palace served tea and pastries. Even the banquet was frugal.

People sat and chatted, pleased enough despite the thrift and haste. Many rituals had to be rushed, and the sacrificial ceremonies were somewhat lacking in solemnity. But the unveiling of the new plow overshadowed all shortcomings.

Yet soon disputes arose.

With the Sacrificial Field Ceremony over, the even grander Rain Prayer Ceremony was about to begin. The former was just for spring plowing, but now the crucial need was for rain. Even if it rained as much as it had recently, ten more downpours wouldn’t be enough. There was no excuse for haste, so the Ministry of Rites and other officials itemized requirements, while the Ministry of Revenue objected.

Resources were already insufficient, the drought severe, and food scarce in Guanzhong. The Wei River was shallow, and grain from the south and other regions couldn’t be transported in time. Prices had soared—just a few years ago, a dou of rice cost five coins using the large measure; now it was over fifty, and the measure was smaller. Not every merchant could be like Liang Jinzhu. Otherwise, merchants wouldn’t have been relegated to such low status since the Eastern Han.

This made government expenditures even tighter. Dafeichuan and Tuyuhun had been lost, requiring more troops in Longyou to guard Guanzhong. The army had fields on the frontier, but with more soldiers and less self-sufficiency, more food had to be brought in.

If the army won, the credit was theirs. If they lost, blame would fall swiftly, and the Ministry of Revenue could not escape responsibility for poor supply.

Thus, the officials began to argue.

Li Wei frowned and asked Dai Zhide, “Why don’t we set up Ever-Normal Granaries?”

Five coins per dou of rice might seem good, but it meant people’s real income was lower. In a famine year, the price soared to more than fifty coins per dou, using a smaller measure—a huge difference.

“Your Highness, the government does have Ever-Normal Granaries. In the second year of Emperor Taizong’s reign, a decree ordered each county to set up charity granaries, collecting two sheng per mu for storage and distribution in bad years. In the thirteenth year, another decree established Ever-Normal Granaries in Luoyang, Xiangzhou, and Youzhou. Under His Majesty, more Ever-Normal Granaries were built in the east and west markets of the capital, and officials were appointed to manage them.”

This was a rather obscure institution, so Dai Zhide explained patiently.

“Then why...?”

“Your Highness, the scale is too small. The granaries are meant for emergency years, but consecutive disasters are rare. In years of plenty, new grain fills the granaries, but then it becomes old and spoils. Some officials, seeking to improve their evaluations, shift the losses onto the people or even compete with them for profit. Others sell the grain privately during bad years, but in good years, the losses are covered by the government. The treasury is drained, but the people see little benefit. That’s why the granaries were often abolished in the Eastern Han. In our dynasty, though Emperor Taizong and His Majesty value preparedness, the granaries are still small in scale. After several years of disaster, their stores cannot resolve the crisis.”

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So that’s how it was. This was a vivid lesson in politics—what seemed easy in theory was another thing in practice.

He sighed, “In the end, it’s all about low yields.”

“Your Highness, yields are not low. In the Han, an acre yielded only one shi, and a bumper crop was one and a half. Two shi, and you’d report it to the court for commendation. Now, each acre yields one and a half to two shi, and some high-yield fields can produce five shi across two harvests.”

He said this with pride.

But Li Wei let it go in one ear and out the other. Two shi per acre—how much was that really? He wasn’t sure, given that the units were different from those in later times. The chi was shorter, the jin was lighter, but from experience, a dou of rice was about ten or so jin, and a shi was just over a hundred jin. He reckoned that in modern times, a farmer scattering seed on a field could get more than two shi per acre in a single season, not to mention modern high-yield fields with over a thousand kilograms per acre. In this era, a field yielding nineteen shi per acre would probably shock his parents out of their wits.

There was a problem with seeds, of course—but hybridization wasn’t as simple as mixing pollen together; insects and wind might blow pollen around, but that never produced a ten-shi field. Then there was fertilizer, but both were out of reach for now.

But there was a comparison: by the end of the Qing, China had four hundred million people. Now, there were fewer than thirty million, and even counting refugees and nomads, at most thirty million. The Qing had neither fertilizer nor hybrid seeds—so how did they feed so many?

It seemed he ought to take another trip to the countryside. If nothing else, it would be a good deed for the people.

Thinking of seeds, he remembered the foreign merchant. Many crops and fruits from later times were nowhere to be found in Chang’an. Since the foreign merchant could bring in European women, he must have traveled far and wide. If offered a reward, he might bring back some useful new seeds. At least things weren’t as tough as they had been for Zhang Qian in Western Han.

With this in mind, he subtly beckoned Bi’er, who was waiting behind him, and the two slipped out one after the other.

“Your Highness, why did you call me out?” Bi’er asked.

“Do you remember when we went to the East Market together a while back?”

“I’ll never forget it as long as I live,” Bi’er replied, her eyes flashing with excitement.

“Alright, I’ve heard enough gratitude in the hall for one day. No need for formalities with me. I called you for something else—do you remember that foreign merchant at Li’s Tavern?”

“He was a scoundrel,” Bi’er spat. That day, the foreign merchant and a few others had sat at the next table, making crude jokes and plotting to bring a Russian woman from the land of Fulin to Tang for their own amusement.

“Everyone has good and bad sides. They’re rough men—you can’t judge them by everything. I’m asking you to inform Liu Qun to find that merchant—I have business with him.”

“Your Highness, this isn’t proper.” The drama in the hall had indeed been for the people’s benefit, but meeting privately with a merchant—especially a foreign one—would be scandalous if word got out.

“This could benefit our Great Tang. My reputation can take a little tarnish; in fact, it’s too good right now—a little mud won’t hurt,” Li Wei said.

Not just for the chance of getting new crop seeds, but also for the information the merchant might have about the Arabs. It was also a bit of preparation for a possible escape in the future.

Thinking about escape again—if those in the hall knew, half of them would probably faint on the spot.

Recommended: “The Promotion Manual” — the story of a down-and-out youth who finds a handbook for career advancement and embarks on an extraordinary journey. Book number: 2003599