Chapter 4: Since Ancient Times, Wealth Stirs the Heart

Cai Cong was overjoyed—he finally ate white rice again, cooked by his own hand. The meals his sister Cai made were bland and tasteless, and he simply could not stomach them.

The whole family of Cai Gang was equally elated, almost speechless with happiness. A simple trip to Chang’an had rewarded them with two stones of gleaming white rice—a windfall so great it felt as if they were walking on clouds. Sometimes, when things come too easily, they seem unreal; Cai Gang woke three times that night to make sure it wasn’t just a dream.

The next morning, people kept wandering near Cai Cong’s fence. When the savory aroma of minced meat and millet porridge wafted through the air, more than a few stopped to inhale deeply.

Tao Yuanming once said he would not bow for five pecks of rice, but among common folk, such words held no sway. When Cai Cong opened his door, he found himself facing a crowd of villagers, all wearing hopeful, ingratiating smiles, tinged with nervousness and a hint of caution. They hoped for some benefit from Cai Cong but dreaded a cold refusal—their emotions as conflicted as a child longing for candy.

“Good morning, elders,” Cai Cong greeted them gently, his tone polite and warm. He never looked down on the villagers; after all, nothing was more essential than a full belly. There was no shame in their wish to earn a chance at grain.

“Good morning, Cai!”
“Have you eaten yet? This is a fine day, isn’t it?”
“Brother Dog, what are you cooking? It smells delicious!”
“Rascal, call him Brother Cai. If I hear you call him Dog again, I’ll thrash you!”

The humility of their words was painfully clear. Yesterday, calling him “Dog” was nothing, but today it was unthinkable—the one called Cai Cong now ate proper rice every meal.

“I know why you’ve come today,” Cai Cong said with a smile. “Go up the mountain, catch some chicks to raise. Chickens lay eggs, eggs hatch into chickens—it’s an endless cycle.” The thought of the terrifying locust plague in the second year of the Zhenguan era flashed through his mind—a thousand miles of scorched earth, children swapped for food, entire prefectures left barren. He couldn’t save all those wretched souls, but he wanted to help these villagers, for they were decent people.

At the mention of raising chickens, many villagers’ faces fell. Chickens took at least two months to lay eggs; and if everyone in the village raised chickens, who would buy all those eggs? What would they feed the chickens?

“Brother Cai, won’t the chickens just fly away? And if we trade chickens for rice, it wouldn’t be much, would it?”

“A grown chicken could sell for a hundred cash. If you fear they’ll fly off, clip their wings—but you’ll need to raise many for it to matter.” Cai Cong’s voice was distant, and his gaze seemed lost. No one, knowing disaster was coming, could act as if they didn’t.

His hope was that with enough chickens, they could eat more locusts when the time came, saving whatever grain they could.

“A hundred cash for one chicken? Heaven help us! How is that possible?” someone exclaimed. “A cooked chicken at the tavern is only thirty cash—who would pay a hundred for a live one?”

“I can vouch for it!” Cai Gang strode over energetically, eager to brag about yesterday’s bustling scene. “Brother Cai’s chickens really did sell for a hundred cash each—otherwise, where would he get the money for rice and cloth?”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go home and have the wife and kids catch some chicks!” cried a sharp-witted man as he dashed away; better to catch chickens than stand around listening to Cai Gang boast.

With that, the other villagers scattered, worried they’d be left with fewer chickens if they were slow. The whole village burst to life—shouts at wives, children’s cheers, barking dogs—a sudden rush of vitality.

“Brother Cai, shall we go catch and sell chickens again today?” Once the crowd had dispersed, Cai Gang approached. Though yesterday’s windfall of rice filled him with joy, guilt weighed heavily on him, and he wanted to help somehow.

“I planned to buy some books in town today. But it’s inconvenient for a child to go alone—I’ll trouble you to accompany me.” Cai Cong felt a pang of guilt, but it was August, not the busy farming season, so it would not delay Cai Gang’s work much.

“Buying books? You really mean to study? Did you deliver the tuition to Master Wei? Did he accept you?” Cai Gang had long thought Cai Cong’s conduct unusual for a child, so the desire to buy books came as no surprise. He only worried Master Wei would not accept him.

Cai Cong smiled. “I have no intention of apprenticing myself; I’ll read on my own. Uncle, please fetch the ox cart—we should head out.”

Cai Gang asked no further; this was no ordinary child. He knew well he could not keep up with Cai Cong’s thoughts or plans.

The ox cart moved slowly—the old beast stopped often to catch its breath. Cai Gang walked beside the cart, having long since given up his seat, and his heart was heavy. “Dahei, are you tired, old friend? Hold on—a little further to Chang’an, and I’ll buy you some beans; they’re tastier than hay.” Cai Gang’s eyes grew moist. Dahei had been with the family for over a decade, part of their household, and now, as he neared his end, how could one not feel sorrow?

“It’s dying. What will you do?” Cai Cong asked calmly from the cart.

“I’ll report it to the authorities, of course. But let’s not talk about it now,” Cai Gang replied, losing interest in conversation as he urged the old ox forward.

For the poor, nothing is more precious than rank—and books were so expensive. Of the two strings of cash left from yesterday, just barely enough remained to buy a single volume of the Analects. If not for the shopkeeper’s fondness for studious youth, and a five-hundred cash discount, they might have gone home empty-handed.

Cai Cong sat on the cart, book in hand, reading aloud. Cai Gang, leading the ox, looked at him with newfound reverence. Though he’d always felt a strange awe toward Cai Cong, it had seemed born of superstition; but now, hearing the child read page after page with a clarity surpassing many scholars, how could he not be in awe?

They left at sunrise and returned under the blazing sun. The village, usually quiet at this hour, was alive with noise and distant curses.

“That’s the village chief’s voice—it sounds like it’s coming from your house,” Cai Gang noted, his face turning grim.

For all the talk of law in ancient times, it was more governance by men than by rules. The village chief, a man of some local standing, served as the link between the authorities and the people, responsible for taxes and corvée labor—a position, in power, second only to the clan head.

But there were good chiefs and bad ones, and the chief of Cai Family Village was the latter. While not the worst sort, he certainly threw his weight around, and no wonder Cai Gang’s face darkened.

Cai Cong’s expression changed as well. The voices were close now, and he heard every word.

“Hurry!” Cai Cong seized the whip and struck Dahei sharply. The old ox, stung, bolted forward. Cai Gang, startled, sprinted after.

The ox charged through the crowd, scattering onlookers and drawing a chorus of curses. An old man in silk robes, supported by two servants, just managed to dodge the cart, terror erasing all the shrewdness from his eyes.

Cai Cong pulled the reins; the ox pawed the ground nervously but calmed. “Mother, what’s happened? Why are you crying?” Cai Cong hurried to his mother, who was weeping by the door.

“Master Zhang, I beg you—my Cong is only eight years old! How could he serve corvée labor? Please, have mercy!”

Cai Jie’er had tried to remain strong, but seeing her son return, all her fear surged forth, leaving her barely able to stand.

“Hmph! This is the law of the court—not for you to refuse. Longxi is aflame with war; the court calls for grain and labor. By law, one from every five households must serve. The other four already served during the Wude era; now it’s your family’s turn.”

The old man, still shaken, spoke coldly and with malice. He had come to inquire about the rumored delicious chicken recipe and discovered it belonged to this widowed family—a tempting prospect. At first, he merely wanted the recipe, but after being publicly embarrassed by the ox cart, he wanted revenge on Cai Cong.

“Volume Eight of the Tang Code: widows, widowers, only sons, and those under sixteen are exempt from corvée. Chief Zhang, my mother lives alone, and I am eight years old. The Tang Code exempts me from service. On what law do you base your demand? Are you invoking the laws of the Daye era?” Cai Cong began calmly, as if reciting, but his voice rose in anger at the mention of the Daye era, causing many in the crowd to pale.

The Daye era was a sensitive topic in the Tang dynasty. Emperor Yang of Sui had a high reputation in history; if not for his impatience, he might have rivaled Qin Shi Huang. But in early Tang, no commoner remembered him fondly—those who endured the chaos and war saw him as a monster.

Chief Zhang’s face turned ashen. His authority came from the Tang court; if he claimed to act under the old Sui laws, the crowd might kill him, or he’d be dragged to the county office in Chang’an.

He wasn’t sure if Cai Cong really knew the law, but seeing the Analects in the child’s hand, he hesitated. Surely, a scholar would not misquote the law—and as for himself, he was nothing but a rough country chief, barely literate.

“This is a new law—you people wouldn’t know. What, do you mean to defy the court?” Zhang barked. Seeing the crowd’s unease, he sneered inwardly—these ignorant peasants were so easily cowed.

He stepped forward, looking down at Cai Jie’er. “There is a way for your son to avoid service. You bore a child out of wedlock—a disgrace. The clan head was merciful not to drown you. If you marry, your new husband will serve in your son’s stead.”

In early Tang, the population had dropped from over eight million households in the Sui to just over three million. The court thus required men to marry by twenty, women by sixteen, and encouraged widowers and widows to remarry, hoping to increase the population. Local officials’ performance was judged in part by population growth.

“You mean to find my mother a husband?” Cai Cong’s gaze was icy. Such petty tricks were laughable to someone who, in his past life, had been an international con artist.

“Yes, indeed. I have a cousin, thirty-five and in his prime, recently widowed, who wouldn’t mind your mother. A perfect match,” Zhang replied with a smirk, his servants jeering that Cai Jie’er had found a fine husband.

“As the ancients say, when the painting is complete, the dagger emerges. Old dog, your nose is keen—you saw our rice yesterday and the prospect of profit, and you want to plant your man here to seize our gains.”

The words, spoken in a child’s voice, were tinged with petulance, but also a fiery anger.

Zhang, whose name was Zhang Xiao, had heard stories of child prodigies, but always thought them absurd. Now, confronted by an eight-year-old not only skilled in business but sharp enough to pierce his scheme with a single sentence, he was truly afraid.

“Be gone! Tomorrow we’ll meet in the county office. I’d like to see whether your Tang Code matches the real Tang Code.” With that, Cai Cong helped his mother inside, refusing to spare Zhang another glance.

“Master, he’s going to accuse us—should we…” One of Zhang Xiao’s servants made a murderous gesture.

“Such people can’t be cowed, and killing them won’t get us the recipe. Go to my brother and tell him to speak to the magistrate; as long as we get the chicken recipes, he’ll have his reward,” Zhang whispered. He’d done such things before—after all, this was just a child. How much trouble could he cause?