Chapter 19: Knocking at the Palace Gate-Above Chang'an(Sir Dybala)

In the palace, Wang Shou stood silently outside the hall. The eunuchs on both sides kept their heads lowered, their eyes averted—none dared meet the gaze of the emperor’s watchful hound.

A eunuch emerged—gaunt, with reddened eyes. He looked up, glanced at Wang Shou, and said coolly, “Come in.”

Wang Shou followed him without a word.

As soon as he stepped inside the hall, Wang Shou spoke softly, “Does Han Stone from the Secretariat also wear old shoes now?”

The eunuch ahead was none other than Han Stone, the high official of the Secretariat, a man of great prestige—yet his shoes were worn and mismatched to his lofty status.

Han Stone entered with indifference.

Watching his back, Wang Shou laughed coldly to himself. Both of them were the emperor’s hounds—the only difference was that he was the guard dog, while Han Stone was the dog at the emperor’s side.

Who would willingly choose to be a guard dog?

Wang Shou.

He glanced up at the emperor seated upon the throne, a feverish devotion flickering in his eyes before he bowed respectfully and said, “Your servant greets Your Majesty.”

The emperor gazed into the void, silent, his thoughts unreadable.

Wang Shou said, “Your Majesty, Yan City has once again submitted a memorial…”

The emperor continued to stare into space, his expression remote.

Wang Shou lowered his head and glanced at Han Stone.

Han Stone stood calmly below, his eyes resting on his nose, his nose toward his heart—as still as a statue, though somewhat gaunt.

At some point, the emperor withdrew his gaze from the void and said, “Go.”

Wang Shou lifted his head. “Your servant understands.”

He had been the emperor’s confidant since his days as a prince. Though outsiders might find the emperor’s words puzzling, Wang Shou understood their meaning at once.

He withdrew, with Han Stone seeing him out.

Outside the hall, Wang Shou turned, his lonely right eye fixed on Han Stone.

The two of them locked eyes in silence.

Suddenly, Wang Shou smiled. “I’ve never managed to figure you out. Care to share a drink someday?”

Han Stone turned away without a word and returned inside.

Wang Shou shook his head slightly—his eyes now cold and murderous.

…

Yan City was bent over his desk in the duty room, writing furiously.

From time to time, he would look up, gazing into the void, longing bright in his eyes.

…

At the same moment, in a pleasure house, Yang Xuan was hearing the famed Lady Ninth sing for the first time.

“Alone I lie, cold-hearted, dreaming often; how many times, unsure if dreams are real. Knowing such dreams are useless, yet still I wish to be yours, if only in dreams.”

Lady Ninth’s voice was enchanting; her rendering of the love poem moved the audience deeply.

Zhao Sanfu turned excitedly, “Well? What do you think?”

Yang Xuan remained calm. “Not bad.”

Zhao Sanfu was taken aback. “You think it’s ordinary?”

I’ve heard countless songs—old ballads, rock and roll…

A thought passed through Yang Xuan’s mind, and he remembered the Vermilion Bird hidden in his robe.

On stage, Lady Ninth suddenly covered her face with her sleeve, signaling her departure. The audience erupted in clamor.

“Lady Ninth, I’ll pay a hundred thousand coins!”

A richly dressed man shouted, nearly delirious.

A hundred thousand coins—if only I had such wealth.

Yang Xuan glanced at the man with envy, then said, “Let’s go.”

Zhao Sanfu sighed, “Too bad I can’t even catch a whiff of Lady Ninth’s fragrance. I’d trade ten days of my life for that. Wait!”

Suddenly, Zhao Sanfu started, then called out, “Lady Ninth, I have a poem…”

Lady Ninth sold only her art, not her body. To win her heart, talent was the only path. Several men were already reciting their verses aloud.

Seeing Zhao Sanfu’s eagerness, Yang Xuan nodded, giving him leave.

Zhao Sanfu recited in a ringing voice, “With night-bright goblets, we drink the finest grape wine. About to drink, the pipa urges us on from horseback.”

The crowd fell silent. Lady Ninth, who had been about to leave the stage, stopped and looked at Zhao Sanfu in surprise and delight.

Zhao Sanfu continued proudly, “If I must die drunk upon the battlefield, let no one mock me—since ancient times, how few return from war?”

Since the founding of Great Tang, warfare had been constant, and its people took pride in serving as soldiers. Border poems flourished in this era, but famous works were few.

With the recitation of this frontier poem, its impact was electrifying.

Yang Xuan whispered, “Don’t mention me!”

He quietly slipped back, his gaze passing over Lady Ninth, then over the crowd, before vanishing into it.

Once outside, Yang Xuan felt an unexpected emptiness. He left the pleasure house—the empty street outside only amplified his sense of loneliness.

Smack!

Someone clapped him hard on the shoulder.

Yang Xuan turned to see Zhao Sanfu.

“Did Lady Ninth ignore you?” Yang Xuan was curious. He knew the power of that poem—never mind Lady Ninth, even Lady Tenth would have yielded.

Zhao Sanfu replied boldly, “When have women ever been out of reach?”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Let’s get a drink!”

Arm in arm, they found a secluded tavern. Zhao Sanfu boasted of his successes in the pleasure houses, while Yang Xuan listened quietly.

The tavern was filled with porters and laborers, shouting and cursing, the smell of food mingled with sweat and foot odor. The innkeeper dozed behind the counter… Across the table, Zhao Sanfu bragged of his legendary “conquests.”

Yang Xuan occasionally glanced outside, thinking, If only Yang Lue would walk in right now.

That traitor…

Am I the traitor’s son?

Yang Xuan felt there was a ninety percent chance he was Yang Lue’s child. But he wondered—if so, why had Yang Lue left him in the village rather than keeping him close?

Could it be that Yang Lue had found another woman, one so domineering he dared not bring me along?

Yang Xuan found this possibility rather likely, and the thought soothed his sour mood.

Later, the two left the tavern. In the sunlight, Yang Xuan felt as though an age had passed.

“Let’s head back!”

Zhao Sanfu was returning to the Mirror Terrace. He slung an arm over Yang Xuan’s shoulder and said seriously, “You don’t even know the history of Great Tang. People will laugh at you. I have some books—you should take them and read.”

A man who risked his life daily would hardly carry history books—Zhao Sanfu must have prepared them especially for Yang Xuan.

The two made their way toward the imperial city.

But as they reached the great gate, they found a crowd gathered.

A somber throng surrounded the city gate.

“Let’s take a look.”

Zhao Sanfu led the way, pushing in.

A man looked back in annoyance, “Stop shoving!”

Zhao Sanfu raised his badge. The man recoiled in alarm, “It’s the Mirror Terrace’s men!”

For the five noble clans, the Mirror Terrace was nothing but the emperor’s hound, but for everyone else it was a death sentence.

The two pressed forward on the strength of the Mirror Terrace’s fearsome reputation.

Yan City stood there, facing the city gate.

It was not uncommon for civil officials to carry swords as a show of martial spirit, but not when reporting to court. Yet today Yan City wore a sword at his side.

A dozen city guards stood at the gate, tense and alert.

“Drop your sword!”

A familiar figure to Yang Xuan—Vice-Commander Han of the Golden Guard—pointed at Yan City, his face drawn with anxiety.

The Golden Guard kept order in Chang’an. If Yan City, sword in hand, were to shout some treasonous words, Vice-Commander Han knew he’d be forced to act.

Yan City’s official robes flapped in the wind. Yang Xuan wondered what he meant to do. Zhao Sanfu found a familiar face and asked, “What is Yan City doing?”

The man replied, “He submitted a memorial, but it was rejected. The authorities told him to go home and rest—he’ll be sent out to serve as a local official.”

That was tantamount to exile.

Was Yan City enraged?

Yang Xuan thought it wasn’t so bad—at least Yan City still had a chance to stage a comeback.

Behind the crowd, He Huan stood surrounded by followers, a sneer on his lips. “What’s he up to? Bidding the emperor farewell?”

Yan City walked forward slowly.

Vice-Commander Han’s face darkened. “Stop right there!”

Yan City replied calmly, “I will not enter the imperial city.”

Not entering meant he was not breaking the rules.

Vice-Commander Han watched him approach the gate, a chill creeping into his heart.

He was about to order his men to seize Yan City when Yan City suddenly fell to his knees with a crash.

He knelt before the city gate and bowed his head, striking it against the gate.

Thud!

Blood dripped silently to the ground—the sound as faint as his head striking the gate.

Yan City looked up, blood streaming down his face, and cried out, “Your Majesty, Great Tang can have but one emperor!”

He Huan’s face turned ashen. “That wretched dog dares compare us to the emperor? Men—”

One of his aides approached, and He Huan narrowed his eyes. “Find someone with no fear of death…”

Yan City was performing the ultimate protest before the gate.

Zhao Sanfu was stunned. “Since the beginning of the chronicles, this is only the third time such a protest has occurred—and only in the previous dynasties. This is the first time since Great Tang’s founding—the first time…”

Vice-Commander Han wanted nothing more than to bash his own head. He personally led his men to drag Yan City away.

“Clear the way!”

The guards formed a human wall—a wall that once stood firm on the northern frontier, but now appeared in Chang’an to block a protesting official.

Yan City turned, staggering away, and said in a slow, heavy voice, “The heavens have but one sun. The five noble clans stand high above, unacknowledged as emperors. How should national policy be decided? Is it for Great Tang, or for the sake of the powerful? If this continues, the nation will cease to be a nation…”

A burly, ragged man stumbled toward him.

No one noticed the man gripping a dagger behind his back.

Yan City’s brow furrowed with resolve. He looked up and shouted, “If the five noble clans do not fall, I shall die with my eyes unclosed!”

Awe gripped the crowd—they knew this man had set his life aside.

Zhao Sanfu exclaimed, “A true man, that Yan City—no wonder I admire him.”

Yang Xuan, too, felt sincere respect for such iron-willed men.

Zhao Sanfu added, “Those books were sent by Yan City through an intermediary. He refuses to come near the Mirror Terrace—says it’s filthy.”

It was him?

A rare feeling of being cared for warmed Yang Xuan’s heart.

Yan City moved forward slowly.

Suddenly, the burly man broke into a run.

Someone shouted, “Watch out!”

Yan City, face streaming with blood, wiped it from his eyes just as a sneering face loomed before him—

Thud!

A dagger plunged deep into Yan City’s abdomen, was withdrawn, then stabbed again—

Thud!

Yan City stared blankly at his assailant.

The man yanked the dagger free, turned, and leapt about. “I am the emperor! Hahaha! I am the emperor!”

Vice-Commander Han was terrified by this sudden violence, but finally came to his senses and shouted, “Seize him!”

The Golden Guard soldiers charged.

The madman, still leaping, drew the dagger across his own throat, blood spurting. He glanced back at the crowd.

Yang Xuan looked back and saw He Huan surrounded by his followers.

He looked back again.

Yan City knelt, clutching his abdomen, blood pouring from him, pooling at his knees. He convulsed in pain, gazed blankly at the crowd, his lips moving silently—

“This Great Tang… what… what will become of it?”

…………………………

Ps: The poem “Alone I Lie, Cold-Hearted” is by Wang Wei of the Ming dynasty.