Chapter 28: The Person I Owe the Most

“As expected, he’s a clever little rascal—even at a time like this, he knows how to secure the greatest advantage for himself. Tell the Magistrate of Chang’an: he is not to mistreat Cai Cong, but neither is anyone permitted to speak with him. I want to see how long he can endure this,” Li Shimin said with a cheerful laugh. To win over the jailers in such a short time was no feat an ordinary person could accomplish.

When these words reached the Magistrate of Chang’an, they left him in a quandary. Clearly, Cai Cong still occupied a special place in the emperor’s heart. At most, this was merely a way to temper him, not a true desire to punish. If he were to treat Cai Cong with every comfort, he feared the emperor would be displeased that the intended lesson was not delivered. Yet if he neglected him, he worried that Cai Cong would later hold it against him. He was caught between a rock and a hard place.

“What troubles you so, Lord Weng?” The speaker was Xun Xian. The previous magistrate had been dismissed, and by rights, Xun Xian ought to have left with him, yet for some reason, he had remained.

“Ah, it’s you, Xun Xian! Naturally, it’s Cai Cong, the dismissed official, who gives me such a headache—who else could cause me such distress?” The magistrate’s face was creased with worry. Such a troublesome character belonged in the Dali Temple, not here in the county office—his presence was a curse.

“Ha! No need for concern, Lord Weng. Cai Cong is gifted and broad-minded; he would never hold such matters against you. Simply follow the imperial will. Remember, the emperor’s command is as immovable as a mountain. If His Majesty learns you acted with duplicity for fear of offending others, your standing in his eyes will surely suffer.”

“A single conversation with you is worth a decade of study! Very well, I’ll issue my orders—no one is to trouble Cai Cong, but no one is to speak with him either.” The magistrate was suddenly enlightened; he needed only to cling to the strongest backer, and need not concern himself with other matters.

“Yes, sir.”

The prison was damp and foul; the inmates were confined to cramped cells, eating, drinking, and relieving themselves all in the same space, the stench so pungent it assaulted the senses. Compared to most, Cai Cong’s cell was decent. The magistrate had instructed that he be treated well, so the jailers had cleaned it, replaced the bedboards, lit a candle, and left a small window for light.

Cai Gang had brought bedding and some money, begging the jailers to look after Cai Cong. But the money was returned—orders from above forbade both mistreatment and special favors, and no one dared break the rules.

“Cai Cong, what are we to do? They won’t even dare take the money!” Cai Gang whispered as he arranged the bedding. The change in fortune had been too abrupt—after all, Cai Cong had only held office for a few days before being dismissed and thrown in jail.

“It’s all right, Uncle Gang. Go back and tell the villagers to return to the countryside—the work of raising chickens and pigs mustn’t stop, and they should keep selling the beggar’s chicken. Most importantly, take care of my mother. I’ll be back soon,” Cai Cong replied, tying a cloth around his nose to block the unbearable stench—a foul blend of waste and decay that was almost impossible to tolerate.

“Do you really think you’ll be back so soon? You struck the man of a noble lord, and now the emperor himself has dismissed you,” Cai Gang asked, skeptical. In his mind, the sequence of events was clear: first the fight, then the emperor’s swift action. That lord must wield great favor.

“Being stripped of my position is already severe punishment. Would they kill me for this? I’m still a child—if they killed me, people would say the emperor was petty. They won’t do that,” Cai Cong said, striving to reassure Cai Gang, hoping he would in turn reassure his mother.

In truth, he himself was deeply uneasy. As a soul from the future, he had his own ideas and methods, and as a notorious international thief, he would not allow his debut in this era to end in failure. But as a Tang dynasty man, he could not be sure whether forging an imperial edict and stirring up such a storm would lead the emperor to spare him, even for the sake of thirty thousand commoners. Perhaps the decent treatment he now received was only in recognition of some merit, and at any moment he might be given a white silk cord or a cup of poisoned wine to end his life.

He had no regrets; what was done was done. Only the thought of that foolish woman pained him—if he died, how devastated his mother would be. The thought brought a sting to his nose; though his mother was ignorant and timid, her love for him was utterly sincere.

“Uncle Gang, if the emperor decides to keep me locked up for a long time, please take care of my mother—I thank you with all my heart,” Cai Cong said, kneeling solemnly before him.

Among Han Chinese, kneeling was a grave gesture, especially before the Song dynasty; this was an act of deep remorse toward his mother. If he never returned, she might not survive the grief.

“No need for such formality. Your mother is my cousin—of course I’ll look after her. Don’t worry; as long as I live, I’ll keep her safe. That’s my promise,” Cai Gang said earnestly, helping Cai Cong to his feet. In ancient times, a promise was worth more than gold; Cai Gang would risk everything to uphold it.

“I’ll go now. Here’s some food—eat if you’re hungry. I’ll leave you some money; if you need anything, ask the guards to send a message to the village,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I understand. If anything happens in the village that you can’t handle, come to me. I can’t leave, but I can still offer advice.”

“I know.”

With that, Cai Gang left—moving the villagers back to the countryside would take time, and he could not afford to delay.

In the days that followed, Cai Cong’s books were taken away. He was provided food and water, but any thought of comfort was out of the question. The other prisoners in the adjacent cells were moved away, leaving him in eerie isolation.

No one was allowed to speak with Cai Cong. Whatever he requested, the jailers complied silently, never uttering a word—even a grunt. His surroundings were as silent as a ghostly realm.

Half a month slipped by in this manner, and Cai Cong was nearly driven mad. If not for the occasional shouts of jailers at other inmates, it would have been no different from solitary confinement.

“Someone! Bring me paper and brush—I want to write a memorial to the emperor!” Cai Cong finally could bear it no longer. Either release me, or execute me—what is the point of this endless confinement?

The jailers promptly brought him writing materials. Cai Cong poured out five or six pages, condemning himself from the depths of his heart—acknowledging his reckless audacity, his disregard for imperial law, and expressing bitter regret for his offenses. The words were moving, and after carefully reviewing for errors, he folded the letter and asked for it to be delivered.

The Magistrate of Chang’an dared not read its contents and hurried to present the memorial to the emperor in person.

Li Shimin was at court with several ministers when he heard that the magistrate had brought a memorial from Cai Cong. With a smile, he said, “So, the boy is finally scared. I wager his memorial will be full of pleas for mercy.”

“Hahaha, I won’t wager with Your Majesty! I lost Wang Youjun’s calligraphy last time and still regret it!” Chancellor Changsun Wuji laughed, while the others shook their heads, refusing to bet—none of them were fooled about what Cai Cong would write.

“You all! Summon him in,” Li Shimin said, still smiling.

“Your servant greets Your Majesty.”

“Rise. Where is that rascal Cai Cong’s letter? Shameless brat—already dismissed, yet he still dares to write a memorial,” Li Shimin remarked, in excellent spirits. Four days earlier, Wei Zheng had finally surrendered and was now off persuading the old retainers of Li Jiancheng in Hebei.

Though this was still the ninth year of Wude, the next would be the beginning of the Zhenguan era. But within the realm, the Liang kingdom and remnants of Sui were not yet subdued, the great clans of Shandong outwardly bowed but secretly defied, colluding with the Turks, and threats pressed from all sides. Now, with Wei Zheng persuading the Shandong gentry, many burdens had been lifted from the emperor’s shoulders.

Returning to the matter at hand, Li Shimin took up Cai Cong’s letter and read it with a smile. Through the words, he could almost see the boy gritting his teeth as he wrote, feigning remorse—playing tricks in hopes of slipping through unscathed.

“Haha! Keep him in for another half-month. I was planning to visit him these days and grant him a barony, but it seems he still bears a grudge against me. Let him wait half a month longer! But be sure to look after him—there must be no mishap,” Li Shimin said with a genial laugh. However wayward, the boy had served the country; a little humbling was enough, but nothing truly dire must befall him.

“Rest assured, Your Majesty. He is housed in a single cell, with all necessities provided—only, no one is permitted to speak with him,” the magistrate replied, inwardly alarmed. For a youth so young, with no notable merit or family connections, to be granted a noble title—what background did this Cai Cong possess? Was he perhaps the emperor’s illegitimate son? Otherwise, why show such favor?

But that could not be—if he were of imperial blood, striking Zhang Liang’s servant would not have landed him in prison, nor would striking Zhang Liang himself. Perhaps the two had quarreled, and Cai Cong refused to acknowledge his father? These thoughts swirled in his mind, but he dared not delay; after taking his leave, he withdrew at once.