Section Fourteen: Journey to Luoyang (Part One)

The sound of bells echoed as the caravan set out. The Sogdians were indeed wealthy, their caravan drawn by strong, well-fed horses—fit enough to serve as cavalry mounts for the second-tier units of the Tang army. Each horse pulled a wagon, one after another, over a hundred wagons forming an impressive procession.

Even Xuanqing and Feng Xiaobao were granted their own wagon (without cargo), sparing them from the hardship of a long journey on foot. In truth, the caravan leader, Kang Caien, held Xuanqing in high esteem; had Xuanqing not objected, Kang Caien might have even assigned attendants to them! These attendants were voluptuous women clad in nothing but breast wraps and veils—two of them, sitting in Kang Caien’s wagon, a detail he boasted about when recounting how Xuanqing refused them, much to Feng Xiaobao’s regret.

The route from Chang’an to Luoyang spanned over eight hundred li—a distance neither far nor near. Feng Xiaobao observed the state of the roads: near the city, they were smooth and wide, but farther out, pitted and uneven, with water pooling in the hollows. The wagons rocked side to side and bounced up and down; once, Feng Xiaobao nearly hit his head on the roof.

“This is the imperial road. The authorities repair it every year, but somehow it never gets better,” Xuanqing sighed.

Feng Xiaobao grinned knowingly—officials in any dynasty repaired roads much the same way; if they built roads as solid as iron, there’d be no funds left to squander.

On either side of the road, the scenery was lush mountains and clear waters. Decades of peace since the Sui and early Tang had erased the scars of past wars. Yet even in the flourishing era of the Tang, the countryside beyond the city remained backward: few fields, crude houses, sparse population, and, crucially, lagging technology—a land ripe for future progress.

Many stretches were bare and charred—ugly traces left by mountain fires. With no firefighting equipment, such disasters were commonplace.

Seeing Feng Xiaobao deep in thought, his gaze far from that of a mere youth, Xuanqing couldn’t help but ask, “What are you thinking about, Xiaobao?”

“I’m pondering issues of population and grain,” Feng Xiaobao replied without hesitation.

“I’d like to hear more.” Had he been a true youngster, Xuanqing would’ve dismissed it as idle talk. But with Feng Xiaobao’s reputation for auspicious omens and hints of being from the future, Xuanqing listened intently.

“The rise and fall of dynasties always ties back to land. After great upheaval comes great order, then turmoil again, then order—a cycle. After chaos, population drops, leaving more land and fewer conflicts. Then, as population grows, officials, nobles, and landlords seize more and more land—often untaxed! The court can’t collect taxes from them, so it squeezes the peasants harder, deepening conflicts until, at last, the peasants rebel.

“Whether the rebellion succeeds or not, population falls, tensions ease, and the realm enjoys a period of peace—until the cycle repeats.”

“Is there a solution?” Xuanqing asked.

“I have several strategies,” Feng Xiaobao replied, the question too simple for him, armed as he was with a trove of future knowledge.

“Please, elaborate!” Xuanqing urged, eager to hear the teachings of this young sage.

“First, develop agriculture. For example, raise the yield per mu to three thousand jin!” Feng Xiaobao boasted, opening his mouth wide like a frog. (In the Tang, a jin was about 700 grams; three thousand jin is roughly two thousand modern jin, or one ton. Ancient mu also differed in area from modern mu.)

“Three thousand jin!” Xuanqing eyed Feng Xiaobao with deep skepticism, sure he was exaggerating.

Agricultural technology in ancient times was primitive—Han dynasty yields were about forty jin per mu, Tang average was one hundred thirteen jin per mu. Three thousand?!

Feng Xiaobao didn’t explain how to achieve such yields, but offered a second solution: “Alongside agriculture, develop industry and commerce—exchange goods and foster trade.”

“Industry and commerce?” Xuanqing interpreted, “You mean handicrafts and trade?”

“Yes,” Feng Xiaobao affirmed, but again did not go into detail. He moved on to his third strategy: “Wage war, seize more land from abroad, and resettle our Han people.”

Xuanqing’s doubts only deepened. He had studied various sources and countered, “To our east lies the sea; the north is bitter cold, and wars with northern tribes seldom end well. The west is desert, the south dense jungle plagued by disease—ten venture forth, but only one returns. Our Han have reached their limit.”

Seeing Xuanqing’s skepticism, Feng Xiaobao hinted, “What if we could build ‘iron horses’ that travel a thousand li a day? These iron horses run on tracks, racing like the wind, covering immense distances—what could possibly stop us then?”

He threw out the concept of railways, expecting to impress the ancient man with his knowledge of the future. But Xuanqing stared at him, slack-jawed, pointing in astonishment.

“What’s the matter?” Feng Xiaobao asked in curiosity.

“My master…” Xuanqing exhaled deeply. “In his leisure, my master once cast divinations for horses, birds, and fish. He foresaw iron horses, iron birds, and iron fish—each surpassing their originals, all able to carry people, moving at astonishing speeds. The iron bird, he said, could cover ten thousand li in a day! But why they could go so fast, he couldn’t divine.”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Now it was Feng Xiaobao’s turn to be shocked.

“Li Chunfeng is truly formidable! He foresaw railways, cars, airplanes, and ships!” Feng Xiaobao thought admiringly.

Xuanqing’s doubts about Feng Xiaobao only grew—he seemed to know about iron horses, iron birds, and iron fish! Li Chunfeng was a sage who could divine such things, a skill of the immortals; was Feng Xiaobao truly a sage from the future?

Xuanqing sank into deep thought.

…

Having finished his conversation with Xuanqing, Feng Xiaobao was soon distracted by the group of riders galloping back and forth—a band hired by the caravan as guards. They weren’t affiliated with any escort agency; they were bladesmen, wandering knights, or outlaws of the martial world.

Their leader was Guo Luquan—a square-faced, imposing man with a booming voice, clearly cut out to lead. He rode a great Ferghana horse; when it galloped, its tail streamed straight behind, making a striking sight.

He carried a blade at his side, a mace hung from his saddle. The blade remained sheathed, but the mace, stained a deep purple-black, bore marks not of its own making, but of countless killings.

Guo Luquan’s companion was a one-eyed man, a scar crossing his ruined eye. Despite his handicap, his gaze was sharp—looking at you felt like being pricked by needles.

He radiated a tangible aura of bloodshed. When he rode past, Xuanqing, who had been resting with eyes closed, opened them, and Feng Xiaobao felt a chill.

The ruffians Feng Xiaobao had previously encountered paled in comparison; even the three riders who chased him were less intimidating than this one-eyed man.

There were other bladesmen, but none matched the presence of these leaders.

The third leader caught Feng Xiaobao’s eye, for he was a man in his thirties, not for his appearance, but for the great bow slung across his back.

A bow and arrows! Feng Xiaobao was keen to learn. He’d been shot at by a blunt arrow before—though unhurt, it left a deep impression and a desire to master archery. If opportunity permitted, perhaps he could seek instruction!

He later learned the one-eyed man was called Xu the One-Eyed—his real name unknown, everyone called him that. The archer was Tang Zhiyu. All three hailed from Chang’an, veterans of the Silk Road, escorting caravans across borders. This time, they were returning home to visit family. Kang Caien, ever shrewd, paid handsomely to hire them, so they hadn’t even rested a few days before being pressed into service.

The tedious journey passed without incident. At midday, everyone ate dry provisions; only at night did they make camp and light the bonfire.

Feng Xiaobao observed how the camp was set up: first, they selected the site and drove stakes in a circle, then used ropes to join the stakes. The wagons were herded inside, with their backs facing outward; the horses were unhitched and led away for water and feed. Tents were pitched inside the circle; the stakes had a gap for the camp gate, guarded by sentries. Their movements were swift and efficient—Feng Xiaobao watched as they erected a small bamboo watchtower three meters high, two men scanning the surroundings, complemented by patrolling bladesmen. In moments, a proper camp rose up.

The tents were arranged with care. Kang Caien, the chief patron, occupied the largest, most luxurious tent at the center, flanked by the three bladesmen and Xuanqing. Outside them were the caravan crew and drivers, with the outermost ring for the guards.

…

Wherever Sogdians camped, the night was lively. The fires blazed, music played, and the aroma of sumptuous food made mouths water.

Kang Caien was a generous host, inviting Xuanqing, Feng Xiaobao, and the three bladesmen to dine with him.

Feng Xiaobao was delighted—the Sogdians favored wheat and mutton. Hui-lin’s “Glossary of Buddhist Terms” described their food: pilaf, flatbread, hu cakes, and naan.

Pilaf was oil-cooked rice, much like the famous Xinjiang lamb pilaf—with rice, lamb, raisins, and onions.

Kang Caien’s pilaf was excellent: the oil rich and fragrant, the rice top-grade from the south, the meat fresh (he transported live sheep by wagon, slaughtered them on the spot), and the raisins unmistakably from the Western Regions—sweet and flavorful thanks to ample sunlight.

The resulting pilaf was delicious and abundant, allowing Feng Xiaobao and the bladesmen to eat heartily, their mouths slick with oil and their spirits high.

The flatbread, akin to Xinjiang naan, was made by mixing flour with a little salted water and oil, kneading it, letting it rise slightly, and then baking—easy to prepare, portable, and long-lasting, perfect for travel.

Xuanqing didn’t eat the pilaf, but enjoyed the flatbread with fragrant tea.

Notably, Kang Caien, knowing Xuanqing would join, specially ordered flatbread made with unleavened dough and oil (Sogdians preferred sheep fat), a thoughtful gesture.

The flatbread was topped with sesame, reminiscent of future Beijing-style sesame bread, and tasted excellent.

There was also a basket of fruit and wine—a truly sumptuous meal!

The host’s hospitality knew no bounds; the more Feng Xiaobao ate, the happier Kang Caien became, praising him for his appetite and appreciation.

“In our Sogdian tradition, those who eat well are sure to work well. Eat more, and you can do more!” Kang Caien declared.

Feng Xiaobao mused privately, “Honestly, Sogdian cuisine really suits long-distance travel. In the future, it’ll have a place in military expeditions.”

…

The benefits of dining together were many. Not only did Feng Xiaobao quickly forge a closer bond with Kang Caien, he also struck up conversations with the bladesmen.

Xu the One-Eyed was taciturn, Guo Luquan ignored him due to his age, but Tang Zhiyu, unlike the others, didn’t dismiss him for being young—he was patient and good-natured.

“You want to learn archery, eh…” Tang Zhiyu smiled at Feng Xiaobao’s eager gaze, recalling his own youth.

“There’s much to learn,” Tang Zhiyu explained. “Don’t shoot yet, practice the movements first—hold the bow, raise it, aim, do it whenever you can.

“For example, there’s a rule: never dry fire. Doing so damages the bow. If you draw the bow, don’t release it; instead, let the string down gently.

“Mind your posture. I used to stand in position all day.

“But some things can’t be sustained—if you hold the bow drawn too long, you must shoot quickly. Accuracy drops as your muscles tense; the longer you aim, the less precise you become.

“Don’t rush. Start with a small bow and gradually increase the strength. Don’t be afraid of embarrassment; it’s fine for the young to use small bows. Later, using a small bow will draw laughter, so learn early!”

…

Tang Zhiyu imparted much practical knowledge—his true secrets, of course, he kept to himself.

Still, it was a valuable archery lesson for Feng Xiaobao, who had known nothing before.

Excusing himself to relieve himself (Kang Caien had gone to check on the camp, Xuanqing had left earlier), Guo Luquan grunted, “Why bother teaching him so much?”

Tang Zhiyu shifted the topic, “I don’t know what to make of him either… Have you ever seen Kang Caien do a losing deal?”

“No,” Guo Luquan admitted.

“There you have it,” Tang Zhiyu said. “If Kang Caien treats him so well, I can’t afford to be rude either.”