Chapter Eighteen: Strolling Through the Southern Market

Xuanqing informed Feng Xiaobao that he would be out on business and told him to make himself at home, leaving him a key for convenience before heading out with the old manservant. Feng Xiaobao wandered aimlessly through the streets and found himself in Xiushan Ward, a commoners’ quarter filled with Tang-style buildings and bustling with men and women of the Tang people. Voices drifted to his ears: “Father, I want that one…”

A family walked past, husband and wife with their young son, the child skipping and chattering excitedly while his parents responded with loving smiles. Feng Xiaobao’s gaze followed them until they disappeared into an alley.

His eyes grew unfocused as he stared after them, and suddenly tears streamed down his face.

He was homesick.

He missed his home in another time and space, but the memory was fading. He missed his family in this world, too, having poured his emotions into his father of this life, Feng Dabao—though, in truth, he had been deceiving himself, clinging to the notion that he still had a family. Yet fate is cruel, and in a blink…

Feng Xiaobao was a resilient man, but after witnessing the recent bandit attack, with travelers lying dead by the roadside and human life cheap as dirt, he could not help but feel a pang in his heart.

The bonds of kinship.

Where in this vast city was there anyone left he could call kin? The splendor of the Eastern Capital—what did it mean to him?

After his tears subsided, he wiped his face and faced reality. He approached a passerby to ask directions and made his way toward Luoyang’s southern market.

Why go to the southern market? Because a man must live. What did he have? What could he do?

Through his interactions with Xuanqing, he had come to understand the man’s character—willing to help, but not the sort to parade him about, boasting, “Here is a sage blessed with the purple Qi from the East! Here is a man from the future!” That would be the death of Feng Xiaobao.

Xuanqing would not prop him up with force, but at most would lend a hand when the time was right. So Feng Xiaobao had to rely on himself, starting with earning his own keep.

Make cement? Forge steel? Build roads? Nonsense—who would recognize his worth, who would invest in him? More importantly, could he even safeguard his achievements? Suppose he let his secrets slip (not that Li Chunfeng or Xuanqing would betray him—Li Chunfeng’s refusal to meet him spoke volumes), but never mistake ancient people for fools; while their technology may lag behind, their cunning, resourcefulness, and power far surpassed his.

Therefore, unless the opportunity was right, it was best to keep a low profile.

Feng Xiaobao thus planned to return to his old trade: selling medicine. Once he had established a foundation, he could introduce the “Six-Ingredient Pill” and make his fortune!

Luoyang’s Southern Market!

In the Tang Dynasty, Luoyang was a commercial hub, boasting the southern, northern, and western markets. The southern market, once Sui’s Fengdu Market, spanned two wards and contained “one hundred and twenty trades, over three thousand shops, more than four hundred storefronts lining its walls, and goods piled high as mountains.” The western market, formerly Datong Market, was surrounded by four li and hosted “one hundred and forty-one guesthouses and sixty-six trades,” surpassing even previous dynasties in prosperity.

Thus, when Feng Xiaobao arrived at the southern market, he found crowds as far as the eye could see and mountains of goods. Accents from every region mingled—local dialects, foreign tongues—a cacophony of voices and a spirited atmosphere.

He was infected by the excitement, eagerly melting into the throng.

From every corner of the world came exotic treasures; from every province, native specialties—so dazzling they made one’s head spin.

Feng Xiaobao’s funds were limited, so he did not even consider the expensive wares, but he could still sample the local delicacies.

The Tang staple was various kinds of flatbread—steamed, fried, foreign, in soup—steaming hot or crisp and fragrant, enough to make one’s mouth water. Meat was mainly mutton, served as soup, pies, or roasted, famous for its flavor, and every mutton stall was crowded with customers. Beef was nowhere to be seen: in this era, cattle were precious farm animals, indispensable to agriculture, and eating beef was a crime unless the animal died by accident; slaughtering one would land you in court! Beef was certainly eaten, but only in secret by regulars.

Pork was rare, shyly sold from small stalls tucked in corners, and not many people ate it. In the Tang, pigs were often fed all sorts of refuse, many villages kept them near the latrines—so what did the pigs eat? That’s why pork was called “filthy swine” by Tang people, and Feng Xiaobao had already made a fool of himself over it.

Chicken, duck, and goose? Not considered real meat in the Tang, not mainstream. Fish was plentiful, and game—deer, rabbit, wild boar, fowl—was common and popular.

Sashimi was widely enjoyed; the Tang people made it from freshwater fish, and perch was a favorite, but Feng Xiaobao, with his modern sensibilities, kept his distance—too many parasites, and they weren’t eating ocean salmon!

As for vegetables? The familiar ones—tomatoes, potatoes, bell peppers, sweet potatoes, onions, chili, corn—were nowhere to be found. Potatoes, for example, still waited in the Andes for Feng Xiaobao’s future fleet to discover them. Okra was available, a rare vegetable even in later generations, still found in some southern provinces and said to have medicinal properties.

Even Chinese cabbage was rare, dismissed for its homely appearance.

In short, vegetables were not abundant, but luckily Feng Xiaobao was a meat-eater and didn’t care for them.

To be honest, Tang cuisine was rather monotonous in its methods: boiling, steaming, roasting—the basic trio. Stir-frying was a mystery to Tang people—partly due to a lack of iron and, therefore, woks. So, Feng Xiaobao, the iron wok and stir-fry await your arrival!

For lunch, he had roasted wild fowl—a mix of sparrow, pheasant, wild duck, goose—cooked haphazardly but delicious, for wild birds of that era truly were a delicacy!

Food is the god of the people; Feng Xiaobao ate his fill, utterly content.

He then went to inspect the medicine street—a thoroughfare lined with herbal shops, redolent with the pungent aroma of medicinal herbs potent enough to make one sneeze. Shop signs jostled for attention, and inside, people were busy selecting, weighing, and slicing herbs.

Feng Xiaobao entered each shop, searching for what he needed. The shopkeepers greeted him warmly, never taking offense even if he bought nothing—a testament to their good manners.

To his great delight, every ingredient needed for his “Strength Pill” was readily available, and in abundance—he could start production at any time.

He also found dog skin for making dog skin plasters; while dogs may be man’s best friend, in this world, the truest friend was the “Kaiyuan Tongbao” coin. With money, dog skins were never in short supply.

All the necessary utensils for compounding medicine were available, too, in a well-established market—there was nothing one could imagine that could not be supplied.

The Southern Market of Luoyang truly lived up to its reputation!

Feng Xiaobao had an immensely fruitful day: not only could he source all his pharmaceutical supplies, but he also discovered a prime location for selling medicine and performing.

In the southwest of the Southern Market was an open, public performance area, much like Beijing’s Tianqiao, welcoming all and integrating culture, entertainment, and commerce. Here, culture and business flourished side by side.

All you needed to do was draw a white circle on the ground with chalk to mark your stage, and you could begin your performance.

There were archers and martial acrobats, flute players and pipa musicians, magicians, pole climbers, and monkey tamers—a dazzling array of entertainments. The best acts drew crowds three or four rows deep, with children perched on their fathers’ shoulders just to see.

Feng Xiaobao was pleasantly surprised by the quality of management here—constables patrolled the grounds and order was excellent, making it the best-run place he had ever seen.

After exploring the Southern Market, Feng Xiaobao returned to the Daoist temple at sunset, his earlier gloom completely dispelled.

He brought back four foreign-style flatbreads for Xuanqing and the old manservant’s dinner, only to find they had already eaten and, in turn, had saved two flatbreads for him!

They all produced their flatbreads and shared a laugh.

Then Xuanqing handed Feng Xiaobao a bamboo tag. On one side was the seal script for “Xiushan,” on the other, the numbers sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen.

Feng Xiaobao was puzzled. Xuanqing explained, “I went to see the ward chief today and had you registered. You’re officially a resident of Xiushan Ward now!”

So that was it!

Xuanqing had done him an enormous favor—registering him as a legal resident, giving him a residential permit, and sparing him from being an undocumented outsider. Without registration, he could have been forcibly detained and might have had trouble even getting a drink of water.

This was a tremendous kindness, and Feng Xiaobao stood to offer his deep thanks.

Xuanqing waved it off, saying, “No need for thanks. We are brothers—it’s only right.”

Old Cangtou brewed tea, and Feng Xiaobao and Xuanqing drank together.

Xuanqing asked about Feng Xiaobao’s day, and upon learning he had visited the Southern Market, pondered a moment before asking, “Xiaobao, what are your plans for the future?”

“I’ll start with making and selling medicine,” he replied.

“Good. The rear courtyard of our Daoist temple is empty, and there are spare rooms you can use for your work.”

“I couldn’t possibly!” Feng Xiaobao exclaimed.

He had been here over a year and knew full well the cost of real estate. Although prices were still relatively low, property in Luoyang was as exorbitant as in the modern world—unaffordable!

Housing in the great cities was as hard to come by as ever, and Feng Xiaobao hurried to decline, but Xuanqing put on a stern face and feigned annoyance, “What, Xiaobao, is my place not good enough for you?”

“Well, in that case, I’ll gratefully accept!” Feng Xiaobao bowed to Xuanqing, “Thank you, thank you!”

“Count how many times you’ve said ‘thank you’ today—my ears are getting calloused!”

“In times like these, all I can offer is a word of thanks!” Feng Xiaobao toasted him.

“Please!” Xuanqing replied.