At the gates and inner courtyard of the Minister’s residence, white mourning cloths hung everywhere. They were for the vigil and mourning of the supposedly deceased young master, Zong Huo.
Minister Zong Chuke had remained in the mourning hall for a full month. An old man losing his son—white hair sending off black hair—earned him the sympathy of all Chang’an.
The hall was dim. Zong Chuke stood before the memorial tablet, slowly turning his prayer beads.
“My lord.”
He opened his eyes at the sound. A servant slipped cautiously from behind the curtain and whispered: “The monk to perform rites for the young master has been found. How should it be arranged?”
Zong Chuke’s gaze lingered on the tablet before him. After a long silence, he said: “Have the monk stay in the residence tonight. Tomorrow marks thirty days since Huo’er’s passing. Let him perform the rites in Huo’er’s quarters, so that my son may ascend swiftly to bliss…”
It was the portrait of a grieving father. The servant dared not linger in the oppressive hall. “Yes, master. I will see to it.”
Once again, Zong Chuke was alone, facing his son’s tablet in the suffocating gloom, as though he could reach out and touch the underworld itself.
A maid entered with food. “My lord, it is time to eat.”
Zong Chuke glanced at the dishes and said coldly: “Shut the door. No one is to enter.”
The maid, long accustomed to his temper over the past month, nodded and withdrew, closing the door.
Only when silence returned did Zong Chuke bend down and lift the food. Because he was in mourning, he had ordered only vegetarian dishes and plain water—no meat or wine. He walked to the altar, reached out, and twisted the candle stand to the left. At once, a low rumble sounded, and a hidden door opened in the wall.
Zong Chuke stared at it for a moment, then carried the food inside. The passage was a long stone stairway, descending into darkness. He followed it until a faint light appeared at the end. He pushed open a half-closed door.
Inside, a figure leapt up in shock. “Father?”
Expressionless, Zong Chuke entered. By the candlelight, he saw a pale young man standing by the bed.
Zong Huo dropped to his knees, voice trembling: “Father!”
Zong Chuke set the food on the table. “Eat.”
Zong Huo rushed forward, but when he saw only thin porridge and vegetables, his face grew even paler. He gagged violently. As he retched, Zong Chuke’s cold eyes never left him.
When Zong Huo finally looked up, he saw his father’s gaze and grew more desperate. “Father, if I keep eating this, I’ll die!”
A month underground without meat or wine would drive anyone mad.
“You forget,” Zong Chuke said icily, “you are already a dead man.”
Everyone in Chang’an knew Emperor Zhongzong had decreed Zong Huo’s execution.
Zong Huo knelt again, sobbing: “Father, I know I was wrong. I’ll never dare again. Please save me!”
He had begged the same way in the palace prison a month ago.
Zong Chuke looked at him. “How many times have you said those words?”
For twenty years, every time Zong Huo caused trouble, he wept and pleaded, expecting his father to clean up the mess—even murder.
But Zong Chuke was only Minister of War, not the emperor. Even Emperor Zhongzong’s own daughter, Princess Yongtai, had once been executed by the Empress for her crimes. If an imperial princess could not escape punishment, how could Zong Huo?
Clinging to his father’s legs, Zong Huo wept bitterly. Having narrowly escaped death, he could not bear the thought of living forever in this underground tomb.
At last, Zong Chuke’s patience snapped. He kicked his son to the ground and thundered: “Do you know how much effort I spent bribing the palace to save your life? And after only a month, you whimper like this? Would you rather be a headless ghost in the underworld?”
Zong Huo trembled all over. “Father, I know I was wrong. Send me out of Chang’an. I swear I will live quietly, never cause trouble again.”
What he wanted most was to leave Chang’an, to escape this place. As long as he no longer had to eat gruel and greens, he would beg like a pauper if need be.
How could Zong Chuke not understand his son’s thoughts?
“Leave Chang’an? You speak lightly. You are already a dead man. Do you truly think you can come and go as you please, as if you were still alive?”
Zong Huo knelt motionless, as though his soul had already departed. “Father, either send me away, or I will die here. I cannot endure another day of this life.”
Zong Chuke’s face flushed purple with rage. “You unfilial wretch—do you dare threaten me?”
But Zong Huo’s upturned face showed a trace of relief, almost joy. “Father, I dare not be unfilial. But surely you do not wish our Zong family to end with me?”
Zong Huo was Zong Chuke’s only son. His life or death carried half the fate of the Zong household. When Emperor Zhongzong decreed his execution, it was already a blow meant to sever Zong Chuke’s lifeblood.
Zong Chuke trembled with fury. Yet Zong Huo knew nothing would change. He had always known—no matter how great his crimes, his father would exhaust every means to protect him.
“I will find a way to send you out of Chang’an. Until then, you must stay here quietly,” Zong Chuke said coldly.
Zong Huo bowed his head to the ground. “Thank you, Father…”
“Because of the Hu merchants, all four gates of Chang’an are under martial law. Leaving the city now is nearly impossible,” said Xing Zuo, registrar of the Ministry of Judicial Review, to Pei Tan.
The Hu merchants were traders from the Western Regions and Persia. With Zhongzong’s enthronement, many had flocked to Chang’an. The city’s commanders strictly investigated their identities, determined to prevent infiltrators from taking advantage of the chaos.
Early that morning, Pei Tan had ordered the Ministry to investigate gate traffic. The findings were clear: for the past month, anyone wishing to leave Chang’an required a pass signed by an official of second rank or higher.
Pei Tan’s eyes darkened. “So Zong Huo’s escape from Chang’an will not be easy.”
At least until the day of execution, the city remained under lockdown. A cautious man like Zong Chuke would hardly risk his son’s life at such a time.
After the registrar departed, Pei Xian entered.
“If Zong Huo is still in Chang’an,” Pei Tan said slowly, “the only place he could be hiding is the Minister’s residence.”
No one else would dare shelter him. Only his father would risk everything.
“Then why not lead men to search the residence?” Pei Xian asked. “If Zong Huo is there, he cannot escape.”
Pei Tan shook his head. “Zong Chuke is still a first-rank minister. Without an imperial edict, the Ministry has no authority to search. Even with an edict, remember—the emperor has given only a secret order.”
A secret decree meant covert investigation. Any open display would defy Emperor Zhongzong’s intent.
“Then must we let Zong Huo roam free?” Pei Xian pressed.
Pei Tan closed the case file in his hands and said after a long pause:
“Of course not. Since His Majesty has ordered this case investigated, it will be brought to light. As long as Zong Huo remains in Chang’an, he cannot hide forever. We need only wait patiently.”
Pei Xian bowed. “All will be done as you command.”
The file in Pei Tan’s hands was the record of the Jing family’s exile five years ago, preserved in the Ministry’s archives. He had ordered it retrieved that morning, reviewing the entire process from trial to sentencing.
At the time, the case had been nominally handled by the Ministry of Judicial Review. But in truth, the Empress herself had pronounced judgment. The Ministry had merely gone through the motions before sealing the file.
Reading it, Pei Tan realized the Jing family had never been given a chance to plead their case. Even if they had, the political climate of the time would have crushed it.
“What are you thinking, my lord?” Pei Xian asked.
Pei Tan’s eyes glimmered like the night. “I am thinking of a ten-year-old girl, living in the palace under the shame of her family’s exile. What kind of resilience must she have had?”
Pei Xian was astonished. “You mean the Jing daughter? She entered the palace five years ago. Even now she is only fifteen.”
Even today, Jing Wan’er was barely of age. Five years ago, it was unimaginable.
Pei Tan’s eyes narrowed. “Even among men, few at ten years old possess such composure.”
By contrast, Zong Huo, the Minister’s pampered son, had been notorious in Chang’an long before his crime—drinking, gambling, whoring, reckless in all things, shielded only by his father’s ties to Empress Wei.
If a young girl could be so steadfast and upright, it proved her father, Jing Zheren, had been a man of iron, raising her with strength. Thus, the Jing case was shrouded in far more mystery than truth.
In the Minister’s residence, a Taoist priest chanted with his whisk in hand. Beside him, Zong Huo’s old nurse wept ceaselessly. The entire household was devoid of life.
“A commoner died on Chang’an Street. How can he be compared to our young master? Yet His Majesty decreed that our son must pay with his life. Did he not consider the generations of service our family has given?”