Chapter Fifty-Nine: Playing Dumb

Dragged out of bed at dawn, still half-asleep, he stood there like a clothes rack, allowing two maids to dress him as they pleased. Yun Hao still hadn’t figured out the intricacies of Tang dynasty attire—he’d once tied his clothes the wrong way and received a slap from his mother for it. Wearing hair loose and fastening robes on the left was the style of the barbarians, she said; as descendants of the Han, how could they imitate the Hu? King Zhao Wuling adopted barbarian dress, and look what befell him—starved to death by his own son in the palace at Shacheng.

Yun Hao wondered how his illiterate mother knew about King Zhao Wuling’s tragic end. Had she crossed time as a historian? He had probed her many times, killing countless brain cells, before finally understanding: it was the fault of storytellers. On festival days, storytellers would appear at village fairs and recount tales. In the Sui dynasty, with ninety percent illiteracy, storytellers were the bearers of culture. Who knew—perhaps in these times there was a storyteller named Shan Tianfang with a raspy voice.

His mind still clouded, a warm towel brushed his face, jolting him awake. He opened his eyes to see the two maids of Changsun had already prepared the toothbrush sticks, beside which lay a small dish of fine green salt. (In the days before toothpaste, this ensured the dental health of Tang nobility. The Tang Dental Defense committee solemnly recommends: take note of the refined salt from Gao Clean brand—scrub for better health; he’s good, I’m good, everyone’s good… Hmm, seems I’ve wandered off track!)

Looking down, he felt like a prisoner, wrapped in straps from head to toe. The socks needed ties, the inner garments needed ties, even the robe outside required a belt. He was still bewildered about the robe’s width when the belt was fastened around his waist. Good heavens, did people in ancient times spend their days tied up like this?

His clothes were a hastily made Shu brocade robe, both material and craftsmanship managed entirely by Li Xiuning. One had to admit, Sui nobility were remarkably efficient. Tailored, handmade—measured two days ago, delivered today. The attendants were exceedingly courteous, apologizing for any delay and begging forgiveness. Yun Hao couldn’t comprehend it: in modern times, bespoke garments would take a month or two. How had they managed it in two days? The stitches were so fine and evenly spaced, no sewing machine could do better.

When Mrs. Zhao moved to powder Yun Hao’s face, saying it would be a shame not to adorn such a handsome youth, his mind snapped awake from its dreamy haze. His mother’s words smacked of self-praise. Yun Hao refused at all costs—the thought of powder made him want to burn the house down, especially since the maid beside him was holding a silk flower as big as a human head.

The reason for such elaborate dressing today was that Li Er was returning home. Yun Hao thought “discharged” might be a more apt term. As a noble, it was only proper to have a chief physician, or health doctor, accompany him. Yun Hao was precisely that chief physician! Chai Shao had probed, both openly and subtly, asking if Yun Hao could treat dizziness. Connecting this to the notice posted at the city gate, Yun Hao understood: he was to treat Li Yuan. Li Yuan’s illness had worsened; he now lay bedridden, unable to rise. The safety of the entire family depended on him. The Duke of Tang must not suffer the slightest mishap.

Yun Hao’s nerves were frayed. Who knew what ailment the future founding emperor of the Tang suffered from? If it was a neurological disorder, how on earth was he supposed to treat it? The brain was the most difficult malady—no contest. The tragic Hua Tuo lost his life over treating Cao Cao’s brain illness, killed in a manner more brutal than a pig.

Beside him, Hou Junji was delighted—he had never worn such fine clothes in his life. So this was silk, smooth and comfortable against the skin. The color, though, was not to his taste: black clothes with a black hat, making him look like a servant. Glancing at Laishun and Qi Biao, he felt a bit better. The two had clearly mixed up their outfits: the tall, thin Qi Biao in Laishun’s clothes looked as if he’d donned a burlap sack; the short, stout Laishun seemed to be squeezed into a tight suit, his bulging belly reminiscent of a pregnant woman.

Once dressed and ready, Yun Hao and Li Er boarded the carriage. Luxurious—outrageously so. This was Li Yuan’s own vehicle; though called a carriage, it resembled a small room. Li Er sprawled on a heap of felt blankets, bare-backed, sipping honeyed salt water and chatting with Yun Hao.

One might expect Li Er, famed for his military exploits, to be a typical cavalry emperor; after all, he had defeated the Eastern Turks, who had plagued the Central Plains for over a century. Yet he could converse on astronomy and geography with ease—a truly versatile talent, as they would say in later times.

Faced with such a man, Yun Hao could only feign ignorance, sometimes purposely asking foolish questions. In this era, anyone too extraordinary would not be tolerated. If Yun Hao showed too much brilliance, the first thought of Li Yuan and his son would not be to employ him, but to raise the butcher’s knife.

“The celestial dog swallows the moon because there’s a giant dog in the sky known as Howling Sky Dog, raised by a deity named Erlang Shen. It’s said Erlang Shen lives at Guanjiang Pass, commanding three hundred minor gods beneath him...!

Erlang Shen’s father, Yang Tianyou, was a ‘Left Golden Boy’ sent from heaven, living as a scholar in the city of Quezhou. His mother, Yaoji the fairy, descended for love and married Yang Tianyou, giving birth to Erlang Zhenjun...!” Yun Hao told the tale with spittle flying, a veritable storyteller, gesticulating passionately, a mischievous child at heart. The little maids nearby listened, spellbound, forgetting even to fan Li Er, their thoughts swept away by the grand romance of Yaoji and Yang Tianyou. Living all their lives within deep mansions, when had they heard such captivating stories?

Li Er glanced at Changsun Wuji beside him. Both shared a smile. After all, Yun Hao was only seven or eight years old—perhaps a bit clever, but not so exceptional as to arouse suspicion. The father had guessed he was a child sent by a hidden sect, but perhaps he’d overthought it. Watching Yun Hao tell stories, he seemed nothing more than a chatterbox of a youngster. Yet the tale itself was engaging; who knew which village scholar had invented it.

Soon, Li Er and Changsun Wuji were absorbed in the story. When Yun Hao spoke of Yang Jian stumbling into a treasure mountain and obtaining the three-pronged double-edged blade and yellow robe, their eyes lit up. As they pondered Yun Hao’s words, the carriage stopped—the story unfinished. The maids felt a pang of disappointment; if possible, they wished the journey would last a year.

“Erlang! I heard you were hurt—a grave wound, I feared for you as your elder brother!” A voice suddenly called in from outside the carriage.