Chapter 4: Little Fan, the Old Man

The Aura of Literary Heritage?

Su Ze looked at the note in his hand, the characters scattered haphazardly yet possessing an orderly charm all their own. Only then did he recall that Wang Anshi, besides being a renowned statesman and writer, was also a celebrated calligrapher.

Later generations dubbed his calligraphy style “hurried and flustered”—bold, freehand characters flowing like wind and rain, inscribing his residence in Bianjing with an effortless flourish.

Since the Tang dynasty, scholars favored using letter paper as business cards. Officials would note their ranks on the paper, while those without official titles might inscribe a favorite piece of their own work in tiny script, using it to promote themselves.

Among these, paper from the Shu region was the most prized. Nobles would sometimes press gold leaf onto the sheets, calling it “Golden Flower Paper,” a single sheet worth half a string of coins.

Of course, living in Bianjing, Wang Anshi’s means were modest; his letter paper was plain white.

Compared to Wang Anshi, Su Ze’s situation was even more strained.

By tradition, scholars exchanged letter papers as tokens of friendship, but Su Ze could only force a smile and say, “Since Brother Wang already knows my address, spare me the cost of this sheet.”

Wang Anshi laughed heartily, finding Su Ze a witty companion. After parting at a tea stall, Su Ze made his way home.

How to make use of the “aura of literary heritage” he had obtained?

As he walked, pondering this question, a fleeting red shadow from home flashed through his mind. At that moment, a sharp voice rang out from the street ahead:

“No passage ahead! What punishment awaits those who dare to collide with a noble’s carriage?”

Su Ze immediately stopped. Ahead, the main street was blocked off, with fierce soldiers lining both sides. Which high-ranking official was traveling now?

In Bianjing, such scenes were common several times a year.

Sure enough, a pure white warhorse trotted past. Su Ze spotted the saddle adorned with a “Rong” seat, signifying a dignitary of rank “Two Systems” or above.

The “Rong” was a small northern primate, barely larger than a rat, measuring six inches. The smaller the creature, the more valuable it was. Saddles woven from its tail hair—called “Rong seats”—were imported at great expense from the Liao kingdom through mutual trade.

But only those with proper status could use them: civil officials ranked “Two Systems” or above, or military governors and commanders.

Use was also strictly regulated, allowed from September until revoked in February.

The “Two Systems” referred to the “Inner System”—the Hanlin Academician in charge of imperial edicts—and the “Outer System”—the Chief Secretary of the Central Secretariat. Both held the prestigious duty of drafting imperial decrees and were considered prime ministerial candidates.

Su Ze silently cursed his luck. When such high officials passed, the roads were closed, forcing him to take a detour and waste precious time on his way home.

Yet curiosity gnawed at him. Who, among the “Two Systems” or higher, would be traveling now? Most lived near the palace, while Su Ze’s home lay in the southern city near the Bian River. Few such officials would pass here at this hour.

Moreover, the procession seemed to be moving from outside the city toward the imperial palace. Was some high officer summoned back to court?

The citizens of Bianjing were well-informed. Su Ze soon overheard the answer from chatting passersby.

“Little Fan’s back in the capital!”

Hearing that, Su Ze instantly knew which noble was causing the road closure.

In the northwest, there were two “Fans”: “Big Fan” and “Little Fan.”

“Big Fan” was the former governor of Yanzhou, Fan Yong, a typical civil-military border commander.

Years ago, when Yuanhao of Western Xia declared himself emperor and marched on Yanzhou, “Big Fan” ordered his deputies Liu Ping and Shi Yuansun to reinforce the city.

Yuanhao’s strategy was to besiege the stronghold and annihilate the reinforcements. At the Battle of Sanchuan Pass, both Liu Ping and Shi Yuansun were utterly defeated and captured.

Ignorant of military affairs, “Big Fan” barely held onto Yanzhou. That battle nearly destroyed Song’s northwest defenses, leaving Western Xia unchecked.

Despite this, “Big Fan” issued misleading reports claiming the Song army received aid from the divine soldiers of Xiling Mountain, forcing Yuanhao to retreat.

The court believed this absurd tale. Emperor Renzong even decreed that the mountain god of Xiling be enfeoffed as Duke Weixian.

However, the northwest campaign truly exposed “Big Fan” Fan Yong’s failings. Court officials knew he was incompetent and dispatched Fan Zhongyan—the “Little Fan”—to the northwest as deputy military commissioner and governor of Yanzhou.

Yet this “Little Fan” also failed to achieve significant victories.

In the first year of Qingli (last year), Western Xia invaded Haoshui Chuan again. Han Qi, recommended by Fan Zhongyan, led troops against them but suffered another crushing defeat.

The sole bright spot was Fan Zhongyan’s steadfast defense of Yanzhou, preventing further territorial losses. Later, heavy snow and logistical strains forced Yuanhao to withdraw, leaving only minimal land under Western Xia control.

“Big Fan” was a failure, and so was “Little Fan,” but the court needed to save face. In Bianjing, Fan Zhongyan’s campaigns were lauded as exemplary, almost elevating him to the level of Zhuge Liang for masterminding a clever empty city stratagem that forced Sima Xuanwang’s retreat.

The northwest even had its own folk song:

“There’s a Fan in the army, the western bandits tremble in fear.”

Coupled with Fan Zhongyan’s celebrated poetry, especially the popular “Fisherman’s Pride” in Luoyang, with lines like “The Qiang pipes wail softly over frost-covered earth; sleepless are the people, the general’s white hair and the soldier’s tears,” which moved many frontier families to tears, the Song retained some dignity after two harsh defeats.

With the northwest front calm, Fan Zhongyan had returned to court to report. No wonder the streets were closed for his procession.

Su Ze wished to see this celebrated minister of the Northern Song, but perhaps due to fatigue, Fan Zhongyan did not ride into the city. Su Ze only caught a glimpse of a heavily curtained carriage passing by.

After this brief interruption, Su Ze resumed his journey home.

Yet this time, a new thought took root.

Fan Zhongyan’s return might not be solely for reporting military affairs.

According to history as Su Ze knew it, the Qingli New Policies, led by Fan Zhongyan, were set to commence in Qingli’s third year—next year.

Though court reforms seemed distant to a commoner like Su Ze, he knew one reform might impact his life: the reform of the imperial examination system.

In the upcoming provincial exams, poetry and prose remained the focus.

Su Ze knew his poetic talents were insufficient to rival the ancients.

However, under Fan Zhongyan’s Qingli reforms, the emphasis would shift from poetry to policy essays, an area where Su Ze could perhaps leverage his modern keyboard-driven political commentary skills to compete.

If history remained unchanged, the Qingli reforms would be abolished by the fifth year, returning the exams to their former poetic focus.

The next significant reform of the examination system would only come decades later under Wang Anshi’s administration.

Provincial exams were biennial, but during the Qingli reforms, special exams were held annually to select talent, meaning Su Ze had only three chances.

A cold wind blew, causing Su Ze to shiver.

With a thousand tangled thoughts, he resolved to return home and contemplate further.