Chapter Eight: Two-Seven-Two-Seven, Not So Small, Not So Small

“Your Highness, there is something I wish to say, but I am unsure if I should.”
“Go ahead.”
“In truth, the Crown Princess… the Crown Princess…” Biyu stammered, repeating the title several times.
“Speak your mind,” Li Wei urged. Whether she was Crown Princess or consort, it mattered little to him as Li Wei, and even less to Li Hong. He felt more affection for the delicate young maid before him than for Yang Min.
“Then I must be bold,” she said hesitantly.
“Speak,” Li Wei replied, frowning slightly. Though he felt no fondness for Yang Min, he would soon be wed to her, and he did not wish to hear ill rumors.
“The Crown Princess treats Your Highness poorly. Do you not remember last year, at your birthday banquet, when you invited a host of nobles? She laughed and joked with Duke Zhou and his circle but was cold as ice toward you. Duke Zhou even took the opportunity to mock you, and you returned so angry you shattered several teacups.”
“Who is Duke Zhou?”
“He is Wu Minzhi, Lady Han’s son and Lady Wei’s elder brother.”
“You mean Helan Minzhi?”
“Precisely. The Empress, angered by her two brothers’ disrespect toward Lady Rong, exiled them and appointed Lady Han’s son as Duke Zhou, compelling him to take the surname Wu.”
“And what of it?” Li Wei replied.
This society seemed even more liberal than the one he remembered. They were all kin, and Helan Minzhi held an honorary post as guest of the Crown Prince. If mere conversation provoked jealousy, then one would die of envy. Li Hong smashing teacups had nothing to do with Yang Min; if anyone was to blame, it was Helan Minzhi’s arrogance, who, as he recalled, was later executed by Wu Zetian.
“Your Highness, you have said yourself: never seek to harm others, but always guard against harm. Duke Zhou is strikingly handsome and notoriously lecherous. A few months ago, Lady Rong passed away, yet during his mourning, he still indulged in pleasures—the scandal spread throughout the capital.”
“So what? Do not forget, the Yang girl is the Crown Princess.”
The young maid fell silent. Li Wei’s words were reasonable; no matter how lustful, would anyone dare covet the Crown Princess? Unless he was utterly mad. Still, after the previous incident, she could not help but view Yang Min with disfavor.
“One must be magnanimous. When Duke Zheng aided the hidden prince, Emperor Taizong did not hold it against him but made him one of the Twenty-Four Meritorious Ministers of Lingyan Pavilion—a shining example. I am afflicted with a chronic illness; the Yang girl’s coldness is understandable. You think everyone is like you, never disdainful of my illness. Tell me, how many in the Eastern Palace are as loyal as you?”
“That is only because Your Highness has been so generous to me,” she replied, a blush rising to her slender neck.
“Besides, even if Yang Min treats me poorly, can I refuse this marriage?” Li Wei said.
The young maid did not answer.
“In truth, why cling to rank and formality? If she treats me well, I will be good to her; if not, she will receive nothing from me.” His words had a chilling edge, reflecting his sour mood. Yet he knew well what was necessary: first, to strengthen his body and, with the palace physicians’ help, cure his consumption. At least his tuberculosis was not severe—the coughing lessened, his health improved, and early-stage tuberculosis was not necessarily fatal in this era.
Then, he must please his mother; if she wished to grant him the throne, so be it. If not, he must convince her he had no interest in the throne, offering himself as a supportive Crown Prince. That would be even harder.
If he solved these two problems, he would ascend in glory; even if not fickle, he would still have dozens of concubines. What did it matter if she were Empress? If the Emperor lost favor, she could be deposed! Even the Wang Empress, from the illustrious Wang family of Taiyuan, was deposed and died mysteriously.
For now, refusing this marriage was out of the question.
At this, the young maid nodded eagerly. “Your Highness is wise, I am foolish; I never thought of that.”
“No matter. In this palace, I regard you as kin. Rest assured—there will always be a place at my side for you.”
It was a vague promise.
Biyu’s heart raced; she recalled the story of the gilded chamber and was lost in fanciful thoughts, neglecting the fate of Lady Jiao. Dazed and blushing, she said, “Your Highness, when you recover, let me share your bed.”
She glanced involuntarily at Li Wei’s lower half. Each time she bathed the Crown Prince these days, that part would stiffen.
“To share my bed?” Li Wei laughed heartily and asked, “Biyu, how old are you?”
“I am fourteen, Your Highness.”

“You are only fourteen, still too young.”
“Fourteen is not so young,” Biyu protested, glancing around to ensure no one was watching. She took Li Wei’s hand and led it to her bosom, whispering shyly, “Your Highness, feel for yourself.”
Indeed, it was not so small; his hand could not entirely encompass it. The maiden’s breast was firm, crowned by a tiny bud, still undeveloped.
The sensation was pleasant, and Li Wei could not resist giving it a gentle squeeze.
Biyu quickly removed his hand. “No, Your Highness, not yet. Wait until you are well, then I will share your bed.”
Blushing, she hurried away, her laughter tinkling like silver bells.
Li Wei withdrew his hand, still scented with the maiden’s fragrance. This was too wicked, he thought.
………………………………
In the early days of the Tang dynasty, ancient customs prevailed: work at sunrise, rest at sunset. At nightfall, the city gates closed. Yet the capital still buzzed with life—taverns teemed with diners, and the brothels and pleasure houses shone with lanterns.
Especially in Pingkang Ward, southeast of the imperial city, the largest “red-light district” in Chang’an. The North Gate, with its three bends to the east, was lined with brothels—the most famous being the South Bend, followed by the Central and North Bends, the latter home to the lowest courtesans.
Tonight was particularly lively.
Yang Chengyou was in high spirits, not merely for climbing the ladder of power. He genuinely wished his sister a good match. He was over twenty years her senior, both brother and father to her. He had met Li Hong several times before; though the Crown Prince was kind, he spoke little, was introverted, and sickly—traits Yang Chengyou disliked.
But today, he realized he had misjudged. The Crown Prince, though gentle, was wise and broad-minded, otherwise he could not have composed such poetry. Moreover, his complexion seemed to be improving. This meant his sister’s future husband would not only be noble but talented and healthy.
So he invited his friends—Lieutenant Xiao Chong, Guoyi Duan Xiushi, and General Qin Zhong—to the Pingkang Ward to enjoy the flower wine.
Four horses trotted leisurely down Chang’an Avenue. Xiao Chong asked, “General Yang, which establishment are you heading to?”
“Wherever you wish, General Xiao.”
“The Fragrant Pavilion,” Xiao Chong replied with a hearty laugh.
“Not only the Fragrant Pavilion, but we must request Lady Xiangxue’s company,” Duan Xiushi added.
The Fragrant Pavilion was one of the top pleasure houses in the South Bend, and Xiangxue was famed throughout the city—her name, along with Xiangxiang, Fenglou Guiyan, and Lihun Huali, marked her as one of Chang’an’s three celebrated courtesans. Yet all three were refined entertainers, selling their art but not their bodies. Unfortunately, Guiyan had recently suffered a misfortune.
Whether Xiangxue could be persuaded was uncertain, and if she could, it would not come cheaply.
Qin Zhong, rubbing his ample belly, agreed, “That suits me perfectly.”
“Very well, I’ll indulge you tonight. But if the cold beauty refuses, do not blame me.”
“All right,” the three replied in unison.
The horses quickened their pace and soon reached the Fragrant Pavilion. They handed their steeds to the attendants and entered.
A group of powdered girls rushed to greet them, but Qin Zhong waved them off. “Go, fetch Lady Xiangxue.”
The madam hesitated, seeing their distinguished bearing, and said, “Gentlemen, Lady Xiangxue is unwell tonight and cannot entertain guests. Please forgive us.”
Yang Chengyou laughed. “No matter, if she can, fine; if not, so be it. Bring us some pretty girls instead.”
They had come for amusement, to drink and enjoy music, accompanied by beautiful women. If they sought pleasures of the flesh, the Fragrant Pavilion was not the place—its entertainers were refined, many former palace maidens bought from the music bureau, often fallen from noble families, educated and courteous.
“Of course!” The madam retreated, returning with six or seven youthful, attractive women, who greeted them sweetly.
The men drank and chatted about city gossip.
Suddenly, a commotion stirred outside. “Lady Xiangxue is coming! Lady Xiangxue is coming!”

Qin Zhong lifted the curtain and saw a girl of dazzling pale complexion emerge. He was irked; he was an important officer in the Imperial Guards, from a good family, and Yang Chengyou was the Crown Prince’s future brother-in-law.
If she refused to see them, that was her right—but why treat them like children? He had been drinking and stormed over to confront the madam. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Please calm yourself, sir. That is the grandson of the former Minister of Works, Yan Shangshu, and the grandnephew of the current Right Chancellor, Yan Xianggong—Yan Xiaolang. We dare not offend him.”
“So you cannot offend him, but you dare offend us?” Qin Zhong grew angrier.
Yang Chengyou and his friends joined him and, upon hearing the explanation, Yang Chengyou was displeased. “He is merely an artisan—what is so special?”
The Yan brothers, Yan Lide and Yan Liben, were famous for their painting and craftsmanship, and their careers were built on this. Yet in those days, painting was not as esteemed as calligraphy, and engineering expertise even less so. Artisans ranked below farmers in status.
Even as Right Chancellor, Yan Liben had little authority at court, seldom voicing opinions, and was mocked for it.
Their dispute drew attention, and someone recognized them, coming over to greet them. On hearing Yang Chengyou’s identity, the madam’s face changed; not only was he the Crown Prince’s brother-in-law, but he was related to Wu Zetian—not someone the Fragrant Pavilion dared cross. She looked anxiously between Yang Chengyou and Yan Zhiwei, Yan Lide’s grandson, unsure what to do.
Yan Zhiwei was equally embarrassed—he could not yield, or the whole city would mock him. Besides, he was not afraid of the Yang family.
Xiangxue, understanding the situation, approached gracefully. “Generals, the madam spoke truthfully—I am unwell tonight. But Young Master Yan composed a poem that delighted me, so I agreed to accompany him.”
She produced a scroll from her sleeve, bearing a short poem:

“Spring warmth on Zhongnan’s slopes,
The hills glow with morning light.
Peach blossoms burn on new fields,
Plum blooms echo last year’s attire.
Ten miles along mountain paths,
A beauty beside the blue stream.
Silk brocade shames wild colors,
Gem hairpins shine in jade halls.
Where lies the road? The oriole answers in song.
How old are you? Companions call out long.
Fragrance clings to the air, voices fade in the valley.
Hesitant, I stand; Taiyi is shrouded in mist.”

It was not exceptional, but its mood was serene and gentle.
Yan Zhiwei puffed up, proud, as if to show off to Yang Chengyou—many could compose better, but none of these military men could.
Yang Chengyou was unimpressed and snorted, “A mere poem? I have a lyric that surpasses yours.”
He recited Li Wei’s “Magpie Bridge Immortal.”
Xiangxue’s eyes sparkled, but she had already promised Yan Zhiwei, so she said, “This lyric is delicate in feeling, but it is just a lyric.”
“Then let me add two more.”
Yang Chengyou recited “Fisherman’s Pride” and “Yearning for the Fair One.”
With three lyrics delivered, everyone was astonished, especially the courtesans, whose eyes shone. Regardless of their poetic merit, the lyrics seemed easier to sing and more refined than the common, vulgar street ditties.
Xiangxue bowed to Yan Zhiwei, “Forgive me for leaving you.”
Though she had agreed to accompany him, the three lyrics had moved her deeply. She entered a private room and immediately sang “Magpie Bridge Immortal.” But when she reached “Yearning for the Fair One,” she frowned, unable to sing it properly.
Yang Chengyou laughed, “The Crown Prince said that to sing this lyric requires great drums and heroic song—a delicate maiden like you cannot manage it.”
She knew the lyrics could not have come from the four warriors before her. Xiangxue’s eyes gleamed as she asked, “Did the Crown Prince compose these three lyrics?”
Yang Chengyou sobered instantly, realizing he had let slip a secret. If his father learned he had used the Crown Prince’s works to compete for a courtesan’s favor, he would surely beat him.
“I have long heard of the Crown Prince’s kindness, but never imagined his talent,” Xiangxue murmured, her voice growing softer as she considered his status. Her bright gaze dimmed, thinking that such a romantic soul was far beyond her reach.