Chapter Three: The Poetry Gathering

The night passed without incident.

Early the next morning, Li Pingyang, still deep in slumber, was jolted awake by a commotion outside his door.

Could it be that his father was once again fighting with the dogs for food? No, that didn’t seem likely.

He pushed open the wooden window and looked out. Lined up on the street before his house were two rows of tall, black horses. Atop each horse sat a guard, each guard’s face hidden behind a black mask and a hefty saber hanging at his waist.

At the head of the group was a man named Li Hu, the commanding officer. His face was square and resolute, with a prominent knife scar across his nose—stern and unsmiling.

“Are all these people here to pick me up?”

Li Pingyang hurriedly dressed in the clothes that had been delivered to him overnight from the palace, washed his face, and, after a perfunctory attempt at fixing his hair, stepped outside.

No sooner had he set foot out the door than Li Hu seized him by the collar as if he were a chick, slinging him onto the back of a horse.

“Where are we going?” Li Pingyang asked.

Li Hu grinned, “I’m taking you somewhere good!”

He then waved his men away, instructing them to return to Lotus Manor and inform their master that he had some matters to attend to.

The scene shifted. Li Pingyang and Li Hu arrived at the entrance of a bathhouse, above which hung a grand sign reading: “The Number One Scrub Under Heaven.”

Li Hu clapped Li Pingyang on the shoulder and said, “What’s your relationship with my master? To be personally invited to Lotus Manor—you’re the first! But never mind about that. From today onward, I’m your big brother, you’re my little brother. Here in Songdu, I’ll have your back!”

Li Hu was a shrewd man and had already discerned that Li Pingyang was no ordinary fellow. Hoping to secure his own future under his master, he decided to curry favor with Li Pingyang.

With his arm draped over Li Pingyang’s shoulder, Li Hu pushed open the bathhouse doors, and the two entered side by side.

“Boss, bring out your top master. Give my brother a proper relaxation!” Li Hu’s smile was unsettling, but the promise of relaxation sparked a flicker of anticipation in Li Pingyang’s heart.

Moments later, Li Pingyang was lying on a wooden bed as an elderly man entered, towel in hand.

“Young man, close your eyes and enjoy. Leave the rest to me!”

Li Hu, meanwhile, lounged in a pool, flanked by beautiful women—one feeding him grapes, another dabbing the sweat from his brow. Had Li Pingyang seen this, he might well have been tempted to strangle him.

Half an hour later, Li Pingyang’s back was flaming red, as if his very soul had been scrubbed out of him by the old man. His mind was dazed.

Li Hu stretched contentedly as he emerged from the last room at the end of the corridor. The old bathhouse master greeted him cheerfully, pocketed two silver pieces as a tip, and invited Li Pingyang to come again.

Li Pingyang, his body so sore he could barely dress, fled the bathhouse in terror at the old man’s continued hospitality.

They left the bathhouse—one pleased, the other miserable. The two of them mounted a single black horse, and with a squeeze of Li Hu’s legs, they galloped straight toward Lotus Manor.

Before long, they arrived to find the manor already filled with guests. As Li Hu introduced them, Li Pingyang learned that most present were renowned for their knowledge of poetry and had some fame throughout Song.

No sooner had Li Pingyang found a seat than an elder approached, asking for wine.

He filled the elder’s cup, and the man nodded with a smile. “Young man, this is my first time meeting you. You seem unfamiliar.”

Li Pingyang searched his memory but found no recollection of the elder, so he asked, “Sir, who might you be?”

“You don’t know him? Are you really from Lanzhou? This is Master Li—he’s taken first place in the Poetry Grand Gathering for three years running! You truly don’t recognize him?”

As Li Pingyang spoke, another young man stepped forward, clasped his fists, and introduced the elder.

Feigning recollection, Li Pingyang stroked his chin, then slapped the table as if the memory had returned to him, hastily pouring another cup of wine.

Seeing Li Pingyang’s politeness, the old man beamed and downed the cup, returning to his table already a little tipsy.

Suddenly, a melody arose in the hall. The central curtain was drawn back, revealing several women of flawless beauty who began to dance in the main hall.

To the accompaniment of enchanting song and the dancers’ alluring movements, Li Pingyang downed three cups of wine. The quality of the drink was so fine that, though he considered himself a seasoned drinker, he soon felt dizzy.

Emboldened by the wine, Li Pingyang staggered onto the table, planting one foot upon it, raising his cup high, and preparing to compose a poem.

The servants, seeing this, quickly readied brush and ink, eager to record his spontaneous verse.

Most of those gathered were distinguished figures or connoisseurs of poetry. They were all curious—what could this young man possibly produce?

“Bright moon, when did you appear? Lifting my cup, I ask the clear sky!”

Li Pingyang raised his cup to the stars outside, drained it, and smashed the cup to the floor.

A cluster of elders, hearing the opening lines, stroked their beards and savored the words, repeating the first line softly to themselves.

“Up in the heavenly palaces, I wonder what year it is tonight? I long to ride the wind and return, yet fear the crystal towers and jade halls, for the heights are too cold to bear…”

At this point, Li Pingyang leapt down from the table, landed lightly, and snatched a wine jar from the hands of an elder lost in poetic reverie.

He seized the jar, drank straight from it, and continued his recitation.

“Dancing with my clear shadow, how could it compare to the world of men? People have sorrow and joy, partings and reunions, the moon waxes and wanes—this has been hard to perfect since ancient times.”

Halfway through the jar, Li Pingyang’s eyes were already glazed with drunkenness. The hall was filled with awestruck gazes. Even the three-time champion, Elder Li, was left feeling inadequate.

He couldn’t help but sigh, “All these years writing poetry, and I’m outdone by a boy’s drunken ramblings!” In his pique, he overturned his plate of snacks and declared himself done with the contest.

With his withdrawal, others quickly followed suit, leaving only a few stubborn ones who wished to hear Li Pingyang’s closing lines.

After a long pause, seeing the anticipation in every face, Li Pingyang finally recited the last line of Su Shi’s “Prelude to the Water Melody” in a bold, resonant voice.

“May we live long and share the beauty of the moon, even if we are a thousand miles apart!”

With these words, he smashed the wine jar on the ground, executing the perfect finishing touch. The servant recording the poem had never written with such excitement.

The poem was taken to the screen behind which the Third Prince awaited.

In truth, the prince had been silently mouthing along from the very first line, and as the last line rang out, he snapped his folding fan shut and slapped his palm, exclaiming, “A fine poem!”

Little did they know, the true author of this verse was a youth named Su Shi, living in Songdu—a boy who had not yet begun to write poetry and whose mind was filled only with dreams of pursuing girls and indulging in pleasure.