Chapter Fifty: Three Sages Illuminate the Path

Yet Li Wei was inwardly overjoyed. He had been preparing to flee for some time—he had no choice. His grasp of history might be limited, but he certainly knew the fate that befell Wu Zetian’s sons: either they died mysteriously, went mad from fright, or were cowed into silence by terror. Or, if they resisted, it was to no avail; after all, he wasn’t stupid—he’d made his way from a rural scholar to a lecturer. But when it came to the arts of political intrigue, he might as well have been a mere academic, useless as any official who lacked such cunning. The greatest virtue is self-awareness, and so his mind was set on escape.

But this invitation card offered him a glimmer of hope. Who was Di Renjie? He might not know all the details of his deeds, but as long as one was Chinese, save for the youngest children, nearly everyone had heard his name. Of course, the television stories about his detective work were dramatized, but the man himself was remarkable.

Truth be told, he’d misunderstood somewhat. In history, Di Renjie was a pillar of the Wu Zhou dynasty—if not responsible for half its achievements, then at least a third. He truly did excel at solving cases, rising through the ranks thanks to his investigative prowess. During his year at the Court of Judicial Review, he resolved countless cold cases, involving up to seventeen thousand people, not one of whom cried injustice. The entire capital, from high to low, was left in awe. Most importantly, Di Renjie was not like the other pedantic scholars at the Academy of Letters; he was adaptable, and this was crucial to Li Wei now.

Yet, as for Di Renjie himself, he never imagined he would one day be revered as a statesman of the post-Tang era. Li Wei, for his part, merely knew he was extraordinary; the rest was a muddle. Luckily, he knew that much—otherwise, he might have tossed aside this invitation, dismissing it as unworthy of his attention. If a mere legal official wished to meet him, well, let them wait, he thought.

Wei Yuanzhong was even more of an enigma—he only knew he was a famous prime minister, and to reach such a rank was no easy feat. To be renowned as well, he must have been remarkable indeed. Yao Yuanchong gave him pause; only after a moment did Li Wei recall that he was also known as Yao Yuan. Now that was another extraordinary figure—among all the chancellors in history, he would certainly rank in the top twenty.

Perhaps these were merely namesakes, but for all three to share the same names as their illustrious counterparts? It seemed improbable. Thus, of the four names on the invitation, at least three belonged to truly famous historical figures.

Yao Chong was also known for his adaptability, his flexible strategies as famed as those of Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui. This, too, Li Wei did not know in detail. But one thing was clear: these men were capable, and, it seemed, had not yet risen to prominence. They were ripe for alliance. Or rather, with this invitation and the subtle hint it carried, the significance was self-evident.

He said, “Prepare yourself. I will go and meet them.”

Bi’er and Liu Qun began to understand—these must be men of great renown, to bring such delight to the Crown Prince. But Liu Qun said, “Your Highness, it is already late into the night. Moreover, due to the Duke of Zhou’s plot against you, the city is under lockdown, and it would be difficult for you to go out now. Besides, you have not yet had supper.”

This brought Li Wei to his senses—he was being hasty. Yet the subtleties of the situation, even Di Renjie might not fully grasp. Who could have foreseen that Wu Zetian would become an empress in her own right? If that had been known, perhaps Li Zhi would have risked his health to have her executed at once.

He paced twice, then said, “Here is what we’ll do: Liu Qun, send someone to the post station and inform Di Renjie that I will receive them tomorrow morning.”

“Certainly,” Liu Qun replied, and set off to make the arrangements.

...

The big black bird circled the eaves, full of joy. Never had its days been so comfortable—it no longer needed to hunt, for every day the humans below left out heaps of grains and insects for it. If it wanted grain, there was grain; if it grew tired of that, there were insects, and failing that, a few wheat berries. It brought a worm to its mate, and the pair began to sing merrily.

Di Renjie and his three companions entered the Eastern Palace. From afar, Li Wei himself came to greet them. Di Renjie and Wei Yuanzhong exchanged glances, deeply satisfied. They had worried, so they’d spoken in carefully ambiguous terms. If the Crown Prince were wise, he would understand; only then would he be worth aiding. Otherwise, not only the Prince, but even their own families might perish without knowing how.

Yet the Prince not only “understood,” but after surviving his recent calamity, still treated them with great respect, sending for them in the night. It was more than they’d hoped for.

Their spirits were lifted; after years toiling at lower posts and now in their forties, this might be their chance to rise. Yet the Prince’s insight owed more to his knowledge of rare moments in Wu Zetian’s history, and his regard for them stemmed from this as well. It was as if he had arrived in the Three Kingdoms era—could he not value Zhuge Liang, Pang Tong, or Zhou Yu? Or, in the late Yuan, would he not prize Xu Da, Chang Yuchun, or Liu Bowen? It had less to do with their cryptic words.

With a deep bow, Li Wei said, “I greet you, Lord Di, Lord Wei, Lord Yao, Lord Ximen.”

Poor Yao Yuanchong, only a year older than the Prince, and Ximen Chong, a humble-born scholar, seemed at a loss for how to respond to such ceremony from the heir apparent. Di Renjie and Wei Yuanzhong managed a little better, but were still moved. All four bowed in return, Yao and Ximen nearly touching the ground.

“Please,” Li Wei invited them into his private chamber, watching them as they went.

Di Renjie had piercing, panther-like eyes, full of energy and severity. Wei Yuanzhong, not yet forty, had phoenix-like brows and slightly narrow eyes, giving him an air of scholarly elegance. Yao Chong was young, tall, and robust, a result of his lifelong passion for martial arts—this, Li Wei did not know. Ximen Chong was a few years older than Yao, also handsome, though plainly dressed, likely from a poor family. To be in such company, and introduced by Di and Wei, he must have some talent.

Once seated, Li Wei said to Bi’er, “Bring out the box of ancient tea from the gorges, the tribute my father awarded me.”

At first, he hadn’t understood the significance, but now he did—among Tang teas, that from the gorges was finest, with the most famed coming from the old tea trees in the deep, rugged valleys near the Yangtze’s Xiling Gorge. Unfortunately, the yield was low; even as tribute, only a dozen or so jin were presented each year, and the Eastern Palace received merely three or four small boxes, less than a jin altogether. This was the first time Li Wei had served it to guests.

The four were both honored and overwhelmed. Li Wei waved the maids and eunuchs away, leaving only Bi’er to serve them, then addressed them solemnly: “I have written my poem ‘Meeting at the Summit.’ Lord Di, what do you make of it?”

“Your Highness, it was precisely for this reason that I came to see you. The Emperor is wise, the Empress intelligent, the Prince benevolent—this is the fortune of the nation.” He could hardly say he had come to pledge allegiance, so he wrapped his intentions in lofty words. In truth, Di Renjie’s pride was formidable. If not for the Prince’s actions—especially his impassioned plowing ceremony—he would never have bent so low. At most, he might have given some help for the sake of the country and the people, but to truly devote himself to assisting Li Wei would have been unlikely.

“How dare I accept such praise? The state owes everything to my father and mother.”

“That is true, but Your Highness has also won my deep respect. Yet, if I may be so bold, there are matters I must speak of, even if it offends.”

Li Wei treated him as a national treasure, though Di Renjie himself had yet to acquire such self-awareness. Confidence he had, as did Wei Yuanzhong, but this was an era of peace—heroes arise in troubled times. Zhuge Liang’s pride was only justified because Liu Bei was so pitiable in Xinye; Jiang Ziya, too, in his own time. In this age, would such pride be tolerated?

He then said, “There may not be any harm, for fortune and misfortune are hard to discern. This poem, once spread, will win the admiration of the nation’s heroes. Yet, in other respects... it is not entirely good.”

Whether or not the nation’s heroes were truly awed, at least he had caught Di Renjie’s attention. Yet, with his low rank and little influence, even if he spoke, it would be in half-phrases, but that was enough for Li Wei to understand.

“Yes,” Li Wei said, somewhat troubled. No matter how many heroes admired him, if his parents were displeased, what did heroes and ministers amount to? That was the real crux.

“It is not just this matter. Yesterday, at the Duke of Zhou’s residence, though Your Highness acted decisively, it was not entirely appropriate. In truth, Your Highness had no authority to handle the Duke. It would have been better to remain low-key and sorrowful; after all, you are the Crown Prince, the Emperor’s and Empress’s own son, whereas he is only an in-law. It might have led Their Majesties to deal with him in a way favorable to you. But by making a spectacle of it, you have cost them face. Still, if you had not acted, there would have been more Dukes of Zhou in the future. Which is better, which worse? Who can say?”

Even he could not fathom it.

As for Li Wei, in his anger, he hadn’t considered it at all.

With a single sentence, Li Wei bowed deeply and said, “Lord Di, your insight is profound.”

“It was not only my own reflection. Scholar Wei and I deliberated long over this, and even Lord Yao and Lord Ximen contributed excellent ideas.”

“My thanks to you all.”

“We dare not claim such credit.”

“Then, sirs, how should I proceed?”

“In truth, whether to act or not, right or wrong is hard to discern. Laozi said that the reason heaven and earth endure is because they do not live for themselves. If you act, you become mere appearance—just as Your Highness in the Eastern Market, or in the Academy, ostentatiously praising the Emperor and Empress. If you are without caution, why make such a show?”

Li Wei was startled, leaping up to bow deeply and said, “I was wrong. I beg you, Lords Di, Wei, Yao, and Ximen, to instruct me.”

Di Renjie’s words struck the mark: if you do not guard against your parents, why put on such a display? An ordinary parent would be pleased to hear of their child’s filial piety. But were Li Zhi and Wu Zetian ordinary parents? Had Li Zhi not been brought low by illness, he would have been another Emperor Wen or Emperor Jing of Han; as for Wu Zetian, what can be said? The daughter of a secondary wife, raised in poverty, bullied by her brothers; in the palace, after Li Shimin’s death, she lived under the shadow of two powerful noblewomen, each with mighty clans behind them, with countless officials supporting them at court. She rose step by step to her position today—who in the world could match such cunning and wisdom?

His own little schemes would be seen through at once. Should his parents come to suspect him even a little—“This child is wary of us”—what fate awaited him?

There was no need to guess: he would have to run. The sooner, the better; if he delayed, he would not get a single step.