Chapter Eighteen: A Recommendation from Zhang Jiuling

Chang’an, Hall of Martial Virtue.

After court was dismissed, Li Longji, bored with official affairs, retired to the rear palace, fetched his pipa, and began to play and sing for his own enjoyment.

Since ancient times, music in China had always been divided into the refined and the popular. Refined music was reserved for grand ceremonies of state—sacrifices, ancestral rites, and court gatherings. Its melodies, played on stately instruments, carried a certain political weight. Popular music, on the other hand, existed solely for personal pleasure and entertainment. The distinction was not unlike that between classical and popular songs in later ages. Confucius himself had esteemed the refined and dismissed the popular, and so generations of Confucian scholars came to regard popular music as vulgar and refined music as noble.

But Li Longji did not share this sentiment. Gifted in music from childhood, he adored song and dance and felt that though popular music lacked some of the dignity and solemnity of the refined, it was richer in artistry and far more pleasing to the ear. His love for it surpassed even his regard for the stately strains of ritual music.

At this very moment, the tune he played was a foreign melody from Kucha in the Western Regions. Compared to the gentle grace of the Central Plains’ music, the young emperor found himself drawn to the bold and stirring rhythms of these western airs. His fingers danced nimbly across the strings, the powerful melody surging through the hall. The lyrics, wild and impassioned, poured from his lips as he lost himself in the music, swaying his hips and rocking his body in delight. If anyone had witnessed the scene, who would have believed this was the Son of Heaven of the Great Tang? He seemed more like an actor on stage, clad in imperial robes.

“Your Majesty, Your Majesty!” A brawny figure, far from the frail image of a eunuch, burst into the hall.

“Lishi, can’t you see I’m busy?” Li Longji frowned, annoyed at being interrupted in the midst of his pleasure. Among all the eunuchs, only Gao Lishi had leave to enter the hall without announcement. Their bond was deep—master and servant in name, yet more like friends in truth—so the emperor would not truly take offense at a minor intrusion. Still, his mood was dampened.

Gao Lishi hastily explained, “Your Majesty, the Right Remonstrator requests an audience. Otherwise this old servant would never dare disturb your leisure.”

At the mention of the “Right Remonstrator,” Li Longji’s back stiffened involuntarily, as though he were Taizong confronted by Wei Zheng.

The current holder of that post was Zhang Jiuling, a native of Qujiang in Shaozhou, scion of a long line of officials. A prodigy from youth, he could compose essays at nine, and by thirteen had written a work that caused a great stir. He passed the imperial examinations in the second year of Empress Wu’s reign and had served as Secretary ever since. Though his achievements were considerable, he had not been promoted, and had thought of retiring home. Just then, Li Longji, eager for talented men, summoned the best scholars in the realm for personal interviews. Zhang Jiuling excelled in the examination on the classic “Yilu,” and was promoted to the post of Right Remonstrator. The title literally means “to pick up what the emperor overlooks”—that is, an official whose duty it is to admonish the monarch.

Since the days of Emperor Taizong, the Tang had granted these officials great authority: though their rank was not high, they could meet with the emperor at any time and point out his faults.

Zhang Jiuling was sharp and fearless, much like Wei Zheng of old. Li Longji, though talented and enlightened, was fond of pleasure, especially music—and particularly popular music. Zhang Jiuling had more than once chided him for neglecting his duties, so much so that the mere mention of the “Right Remonstrator” filled the emperor with dread. He sometimes lamented in private, “This is a mess of my own making.”

Hurriedly, Li Longji handed his pipa to Gao Lishi and said, “Quick, hide it! If he sees it, he’ll lecture me again.”

From outside came the announcement that He Zhizhang and Zhang Jiuling requested an audience.

Li Longji pretended not to hear, and only when Gao Lishi had concealed the pipa did he finally admit the two officials.

With He Zhizhang present, the emperor felt much more at ease. Unlike Wei Zheng, Zhang Jiuling never reproached him before other officials; this was the main reason Li Longji kept him close. Not every emperor was as tolerant as Taizong, able to bear being publicly shamed and storming off in anger.

“My loyal ministers, what business brings you here?”

Zhang Jiuling, with his handsome, square face, bowed and replied, “Your Majesty, I have come to recommend a talented individual.” Besides correcting the ruler’s mistakes, the Right Remonstrator was also charged with identifying and recommending talent.

Li Longji immediately perked up. Most of the current officials were useless, and those few with ability mostly sided with Princess Taiping, becoming her confidants. What he lacked most was talent. “And whom does my loyal minister recommend?”

“Pei Min of Huairou County, Youzhou.”

He Zhizhang had been unable to determine the merits of the conscription system and had thus consulted his friend Zhang Jiuling, whose literary gifts were matched by his political acumen. Zhang Jiuling, well aware of the flaws in the militia system, knew that change without a sound replacement would only bring chaos. Thus, even knowing where the true problems lay, he had made no move. But Pei Min’s recruitment system suited him perfectly; upon careful consideration, he saw that in the present circumstances of the Tang, it held great promise.

From his first day as Right Remonstrator, Zhang Jiuling had stressed the importance of talent to Li Longji: he advocated for careful selection of local officials, correcting the tendency to favor central over regional appointments, and argued that merit, not seniority, should guide promotion. Discovering such a man, how could he sit still? He had at once invited He Zhizhang to the palace to present the candidate.

“Pei Min? The name rings a bell,” mused Li Longji, faintly recalling it.

Zhang Jiuling replied, “He is the youth who slew the prince of the Xi tribe half a year ago.”

“Ah, him…” Li Longji had heard of the disaster at Youzhou, when Sun Quan had suffered a crushing defeat, and as crown prince had naturally been apprised of the matter. Pei Min had led the people of Huairou County to annihilate over a thousand elite Xi cavalry; this, too, had reached his ears. “I recall he is quite young. What virtue or talent has won your favor?”

Zhang Jiuling responded gravely, “Ambition is not measured by age, nor talent by years. Has Your Majesty never heard of Gan Luo, who became chancellor of Qin at twelve, or Huo Qubing, who fought on the battlefield at seventeen?”

Sensing Zhang Jiuling was about to launch into a lengthy discourse, Li Longji quickly interjected, “I understand the principle, but what exactly are Pei Min’s accomplishments?”

Zhang Jiuling deferred to He Zhizhang. The latter recounted in detail how he had met Pei Min, the tests he had set him, and above all Pei Min’s analysis of the militia system and his proposal for recruitment—a thorough account, with nothing omitted.

Li Longji was moved, rising to his feet and exclaiming, “Did Pei Min truly say all this?”

He Zhizhang replied, “I dare not conceal a single word from Your Majesty.”

Li Longji, a little agitated, paced back and forth. As emperor, he was all too aware of the decline of the militia system and had many times discussed with his closest advisors how it might be restored. The key lay in the equal-field system; without its full implementation, the militia could not be revived.

Only Chancellor Zhang Yue had suggested abandoning the militia and solving the manpower problem through recruitment. Yet even Zhang Yue, for all his talent, had only considered it in broad outline, without working out the details.

But Pei Min had described the recruitment system in such complete and practical terms—it was truly astonishing.

Zhang Yue was his most trusted right hand, a minister without whom the empire could not function. Could this Pei Min see even farther than Zhang Yue himself?