Chapter Sixty-Seven: Li Judou

Since the Song dynasty, the principles of promoting education and restraining military affairs, of governing the world through culture, and of upholding freedom of speech—refraining from executing ministers or scholars for their words—had already become established law. Of course, everything has its limits; if one were to launch a grand campaign of slander and unfounded accusations against high officials, or even the emperor himself, that would be another matter entirely. The same held true for treason: one could not touch upon the emperor’s most sensitive taboos. Should anyone actually commit treason, then there would be no obstacle to the execution of scholars or officials.

At this moment, Li Sanjian and his companions were sipping warm wine as they criticized the government, even going so far as to curse the court officials in the harshest terms, yet no one found this remarkable, nor did anyone interfere. The person conversing with Li Sanjian and the others was a scholar from Changzhou, surnamed Ye, given name Mengde, courtesy name Shaoyun, four years older than Li Sanjian.

Ye Mengde, too, was the regional top scorer from Changzhou, skilled in both poetry and prose, especially renowned for his mastery of the ci form, and was learned in many fields. His great-grandfather was Ye Qingchen, a famous minister of the Northern Song. His ancestor four generations back, Ye Can, had passed the imperial examinations in the fourth year of Xianping and rose to the rank of Grand Master of Ceremonies. His mother, Madame Chao, was the sister of Chao Buzhi, one of the “Four Scholars of Su’s Gate.” It is said that one year, Ye Zhu and his wife Madame Chao went to Zhu Lane in Dongshan to offer sacrifices at the ancestral shrine of Ye Kui, the founder of their line. That night, Ye Zhu dreamed of a dragon coiled upon the beam of their house, and not long after, Madame Chao became pregnant and bore a son, hence the name Mengde, “obtained in a dream.”

Because Ye Mengde’s mother was the sister of one of the “Four Scholars of Su’s Gate,” his writings were deeply influenced by them. Although Ye Mengde had never met Su Shi, he always considered himself one of Su’s disciples.

Previously, Ye Mengde had heard from Ran Yunbiao that Li Sanjian was a student of Su Shi, which made him pay special attention to Li Sanjian. Later, he learned that Li Sanjian had been expelled from Su’s tutelage, which brought a wry smile to his lips.

“So it is the esteemed Brother Shaoyun from Changzhou—my apologies, my apologies,” Li Sanjian cupped his hands to Ye Mengde and said, “But I do not quite grasp your meaning. Would Brother Shaoyun be willing to speak freely and dispel my doubts?”

At present, Li Sanjian knew almost nothing of the court’s affairs, yet one of the topics for the provincial exam, just like the qualifying exam, was current affairs policy, which was impossible to discuss without understanding the political situation. Thus, Li Sanjian’s attitude was the utmost humility, sincerely seeking Ye Mengde’s guidance.

“I dare not presume,” Ye Mengde replied with a nod. “May I ask your name, young sir?”

“I am the candidate from Lingnan, Li Sanjian,” Li Sanjian answered.

“Li Hanren from Lingshan County in Lingnan?” Ye Mengde exclaimed in surprise upon hearing this and hurriedly asked.

“Indeed, but how does Brother Shaoyun know my courtesy name?” Li Sanjian asked in puzzlement.

“The Li Hanren who invented the method of punctuating texts?” Ye Mengde pressed on.

“Yes…” Li Sanjian looked at Ye Mengde. “How do you know so much about me, Brother Shaoyun?”

With a laugh of delight, Ye Mengde said, “The marvelous method of punctuation has now spread widely throughout the south. Everyone says such a method could not have been created by an ordinary man. I never expected to meet the very Li of punctuation here—what a stroke of fortune! But to find that Li Hanren is so young—truly, a remarkable prodigy.”

Li of punctuation? You’re the Li of punctuation, your whole family is the Li of punctuation, Li Sanjian grumbled inwardly.

Li Sanjian had, for his own convenience, marked many punctuation symbols in his books, a matter known only to Professor Huang at the county school and a few fellow students in Lingshan. Never had Li Sanjian imagined that his “invention” would be spread throughout the south, let alone widely adopted. This left him utterly perplexed.

Could Professor Huang have done this? Li Sanjian wondered inwardly.

Indeed, this was the case. Huang Huan, recognizing the ingenuity of Li Sanjian’s punctuation method, had recommended it to friends in the south via correspondence. Soon, it was circulating in official schools and academies throughout Jiangnan. Everyone found the method highly effective: it solved the problem of reading difficulty, and the simple symbols could even convey certain meanings, so that for short sentences, one could sometimes use only symbols without writing out the words.

Such a brilliant method could not have been invented by anyone who had not spent decades in diligent study—so people surmised. All assumed Li Sanjian must be a man of many decades.

Thus, the nickname “Li of punctuation” became quite renowned among scholars.

“Mere trifling skill, not worth mentioning,” Li Sanjian hastily replied. “It was something I stumbled upon by chance, nothing more. Brother Shaoyun, why not speak about court affairs instead?”

“Li of punctuation, how can we discuss affairs without wine?” Ye Mengde replied, grinning.

Can’t discuss things without wine? Li Sanjian could only feel helpless. It seemed as if in this world, without wine, nothing could be done at all—as if a lack of wine would kill a man.

But fortunately, the wines in this world were not strong spirits; their alcohol content was low, and their flavors were excellent—especially those from the capital, Kaifeng.

“My friend, I am rather short of funds…” Li Sanjian spread his hands apologetically.

“Bring wine!” Ran Yunbiao shot a glance at Li Sanjian. Of course you’re poor—dragging along your whole family as well. No one expects you to pay. Back in Lingshan, it was always Ran Yunbiao or Zeng Gongming who rushed to settle the bill.

The attendant soon brought the wine to the table.

Awkwardly, Li Sanjian snatched up the jug and filled the three cups before them.

“This wine is called Sangluo,” Ye Mengde said, lifting his cup. “Who will share this Sangluo wine with me this year? Its color is more delicate than cool nectar, its fragrance as sweet as spring dew. For ten thousand coins you can carry a ladleful away, to bid farewell to friends heading south to the Xiang. Sangluo wine is made from sorghum, peas, and mung beans—common ingredients, yet the result is as cool and refreshing as chilled nectar, truly a fine vintage.”

Ye Mengde’s sudden mention of Sangluo wine must have something to do with a person, using wine as a metaphor, Li Sanjian thought.

Sure enough, after a moment, Ye Mengde said, “Minister Li has been dismissed from office. Did you know?”

“Minister Li? Which Minister Li?” Li Sanjian asked.

Could it be the father of Li Qingzhao, Li Gefei? Li Sanjian wondered silently.

Li Sanjian did not know, but Ran Yunbiao had some knowledge and asked, “Does Brother Shaoyun mean Li Qingchen, Vice Minister of the Right, who could recite thousands of words at the age of seven?”

“Exactly,” Ye Mengde nodded. “Minister Li was born of humble origins, both his great-grandfather and grandfather were commoners, and his father was a mere county magistrate. He lost his father young, but his talent was extraordinary—by seven, he could read and write and had a prodigious memory. As a youth, his writings became famous throughout the land. After passing the imperial exams, he served with uprightness and integrity, strictly adhered to the law, loved the people as his own children, never bent the rules for personal gain, remained frugal even in high office, and never changed with fortune. Minister Li served under four emperors—an elder statesman of four reigns—always advocating for reform and innovation, ever troubled by the stagnation of the law, and was the first to propose the Shaosheng reforms. Such a renowned figure has now fallen from office—where is justice? Where is fairness?”

I could read and write by the age of five or six, recite three hundred Tang poems by seven, Li Sanjian thought to himself.

Reciting thousands of words at seven? The key is: what kind of words? If they’re just nonsense, it’s nothing to boast about.

Wait—just as Li Sanjian was feeling rather smug, it occurred to him: served under four emperors? Which four? If he could figure this out, wouldn’t he know exactly which reign of the Song he was in?

He immediately asked, “Minister Li served under four emperors—which four?”

Ye Mengde glanced at Li Sanjian and replied, “Our Emperor Renzong, Emperor Yingzong, Emperor Shenzong, and our present sovereign.”

Li Sanjian breathed a silent sigh of relief—thank goodness it wasn’t the reign of Emperor Huizong.

Though not well-versed in history, Li Sanjian knew well enough that the Northern Song fell under Emperor Huizong, whose era was the darkest in Song history—corruption, decadence, and the misery of the people from beginning to end.

Had Li Sanjian arrived just in time for Emperor Huizong’s reign, it would have been disastrous: war, displacement, the fall of the Northern Song, the end of all things. Under such circumstances, Li Sanjian would have shared the fate of the common people, his destiny as fragile as a blade of grass.

Could the current emperor be Huizong? Li Sanjian very much wanted to ask, but how could he phrase it? And how would others answer? He knew that emperors received these posthumous titles—Renzong, Shenzong, Yingzong—only after their deaths.

The worst part was, Li Sanjian only knew the name Huizong, not his personal name.

What in the world was that bastard called Zhao what? Li Sanjian racked his brains but could not recall.

“What crime caused Minister Li’s downfall?” Ran Yunbiao asked.

“I don’t know the details,” Ye Mengde shook his head. “I’ve only heard it was treason, but that is mere rumor—it was likely due to factional strife at court.”

“A struggle of political factions?” Ran Yunbiao asked.

“No,” Ye Mengde denied. “The current Grand Councilor is Zhang Dun, who is of the Yuanfeng faction, and Minister Li is also from Yuanfeng. So how could it be a factional struggle?”

“Then it must be a power struggle,” Li Sanjian interjected.

The more Li Sanjian listened, the more interested he became. The factional struggles at court were becoming ever more intense—this much he knew. Su Shi himself had fallen victim to factional strife: demoted again and again, finally exiled to the remote Qiongtai Danzhou.

At root, party strife was all about power: to keep power in their own hands, men would stop at nothing, destroying their political enemies one by one, vowing not to rest until the other was dead.

Of course, the pretext was always high-sounding. Su Shi, for example, was demoted repeatedly after his enemies seized upon a “subversive” poem he wrote.

“Indeed,” Ye Mengde nodded in approval. “That is my guess as well.”

Ye Mengde, Li Sanjian, and the others were not far wrong: it was for this very reason that Li Qingchen was dismissed and expelled from the center of government.

Zhao Xu had placed great trust in Zhang Dun, Zeng Bu, and Li Qingchen to revive the new policies. Zhang Dun now held the post of Grand Councilor alone, which left Li Qingchen, the originator of the Shaosheng reforms, feeling indignant.

At the same time, Li Qingchen was deeply dissatisfied with some of Zhang Dun’s actions—Zhang Dun had exiled all the old officials from the Yuanyou era, sending more than thirty, including Wen Yanbo, Lü Gongzhu, Su Shi, and Su Zhe, into banishment in the far south.

Li Qingchen thought Zhang Dun’s actions too extreme and had remonstrated with Zhao Xu, making himself Zhang Dun’s implacable rival.

The result of the power struggle was that Li Qingchen lost, and was driven from court.

Li Qingchen’s excellent reputation thus aroused widespread discontent among the people.