Chapter Twelve: Encounter with a Drunkard at the Tavern

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Pei Min bid farewell to his mother and rode southward on his beloved steed, the Little Chestnut. This journey to the capital was to participate in the civil and martial examinations. The civil exam was Pei Min’s strength and needed no further mention. The martial exam, however, posed some challenges. According to the materials he had at hand, the martial exam was divided into horsemanship, archery on foot, and skill and courage. Pei Min was confident in both archery and skill and courage, especially in the latter. His swordsmanship, honed in the ways of the jianghu, was best suited for single combat, while his techniques for battlefield combat excelled in group skirmishes. When the two styles met, the former often held the advantage.

As for archery, he was reasonably confident. The six arts of the Confucian tradition—rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics—included archery as one of their pillars. As a disciple of Confucian learning, Pei Min had studied archery and recalled his skills to be quite proficient. History even recorded that General Pei was skilled in archery; while stationed in Beiping, he once slew thirty-one tigers in a single day—a feat of remarkable boldness. Though his current archery fell short of the legendary master, meeting the standards of the martial exam would be effortless.

The only real weakness was horsemanship. Before acquiring the Little Chestnut, Pei Min had never ridden a horse; riding was his Achilles’ heel. Thus, as he journeyed south, with time enough to spare, he was in no hurry to reach the capital. He left the official roads for secluded paths, choosing difficult and deserted trails to practice riding. With fewer travelers on these paths, there was no risk of harming others.

It was during this time Pei Min truly experienced the strength of the Ujumqin horse. No matter how treacherous the path—mountain trails, shallow riverbanks, rocky roads, or muddy tracks—the Little Chestnut trod as easily as if it were flat ground. Ordinarily, a horse needed hay or even soybeans to maintain its strength, but the Little Chestnut could sustain itself on wild grass and leaves, displaying remarkable adaptability.

Pei Min had to marvel—no wonder the Mongol cavalry were so terrifyingly mobile. The Ujumqin horse was undoubtedly the best warhorse for rapid raids in the world.

With the help of such a fine steed and his own dexterity, Pei Min practiced diligently, and his riding skills improved day by day.

One day, his stomach growling with hunger, Pei Min arrived at Jie County. As soon as he entered, he caught a strong scent of wine drifting through the air, and his feet unconsciously followed it.

According to his original plan, he was to head south, cross the Yellow River, and reach Luoyang first, then continue east to Chang’an, thus visiting both eastern and western capitals of the Great Tang in a single journey.

But plans often diverged from reality. Unknowingly, he had wandered off course, ending up in Anyi of Hedong. Though he was reluctant to admit it, the fact was clear: he had taken a wrong turn while following the side roads and veered away from Luoyang, heading towards Guanzhong. He decided to accept the error and proceed directly to Fengling Ferry to cross the Yellow River to Chang’an. As for Luoyang, water routes from Chang’an were plentiful; following the Yellow River, he could reach there soon enough, and there would be time to visit later.

Thus, he arrived at Jie County, intending to spend the night and cross the river at dawn into Guanzhong.

Following the aroma, Pei Min found a rustic tavern. The tavern had no sign, only two large characters for “Du Kang” hung high above.

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The scent of wine emanated from the tavern. Pei Min handed the Little Chestnut to the young attendant outside, instructing him to take good care and provide the best hay and soybeans. The horse was weary from travel, and each time they reached a town, the Little Chestnut enjoyed the treatment of a noble lord.

Inside, the tavern was nearly full. The alert attendant quickly led Pei Min to an empty seat, wiped the mat and table, and asked what he would like.

Pei Min inquired, “What good wine do you have?” The weather had cooled, and after a day’s journey, his body felt chilled. A hot cup of wine now would be a heavenly treat. Even though Pei Min was not fond of drink, he could hardly resist such temptation.

Without hesitation, the attendant replied, “Is this your first visit, sir? Since our tavern opened over fifty years ago, we have served only Du Kang. Never any other kind.”

“Very well!” Pei Min replied, surprised, smiling. “Then bring me a catty of Du Kang…” He ordered a few dishes to accompany the wine, and the attendant hurried off to prepare them.

In ancient times, people seldom drank raw wine, for the brewing techniques could not guarantee it was free of bacteria; those with weak stomachs would surely suffer. In the Three Kingdoms period, it was customary to boil wine, giving rise to the famous ‘debate over heroes while boiling wine’. In the Tang dynasty, boiling wine was less popular, for the process altered the taste. Instead, they preferred to warm it gently over a low flame to about sixty or seventy degrees, which sufficed to kill bacteria without spoiling the flavor; this was what they called ‘burnt wine’.

Pei Min was accustomed to this style, warming the wine slowly so that its fragrance wafted from the steaming smoke—just the aroma was enough to whet the appetite.

The attendant brought over a brazier and placed the Du Kang wine on the rack to warm.

Seeing that it would be some time before he could drink, Pei Min glanced around, surveying the tavern: it was bustling with life, filled with all manner of people discussing the latest news from every corner—ordinary travelers, nothing unusual. Only one person in the upper right corner caught Pei Min’s eye: a drunkard. It was normal for taverns to have drunkards, but this one was peculiar.

His hair was disheveled like a madman, his front open to reveal a chest of loose fat, and he sat exposed despite the chill. It was already November, winter in Hedong, and even Pei Min, practiced in martial arts, felt the cold. Yet this man alone displayed such ‘heroic’ disregard.

“Isn’t he afraid of freezing?” Pei Min muttered quietly.

The attendant, placing a plate of cold plum-ginger on the table, overheard and replied, “Are you talking about that drunkard?”

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Pei Min nodded, curious. “Do you know him?”

The attendant, with a hint of disdain, curled his lip. “No, but that guest isn’t quite right in the head. Last night, he was here drinking. He wanted nothing but wine, drinking alone, and when drunk, he’d collapse on the floor to sleep, then wake up and drink again. Our advice meant nothing to him; even after closing, he refused to leave. He carried on all night—seemed not to care if he drank himself dead. If the boss weren’t worried about him freezing and causing trouble, he’d have thrown him out.”

Pei Min laughed sympathetically. “Dealing with such a drunkard must be hard.”

“Indeed!” The attendant, with a touch of schadenfreude, said, “But his money won’t last past today. Let’s see what he does for drink then.”

Pei Min saw the wine had reached the right temperature, ladled it into a bowl and swallowed it in one gulp. Instantly, warmth flooded his body, and he reveled in the sensation.

Suddenly, a loud shout rang out, followed by wild laughter—mad and frenzied.

“Ha ha, the feeling is coming! It’s here!”

Pei Min looked toward the sound; it was the drunkard. He was flailing wildly, as if possessed, overturning his book basket until books, brushes, scrolls, and inkstones scattered across the floor.

He crawled about, searching frantically, spreading a piece of cloth flat on the ground, grinding ink in a haphazard manner, all the while shouting, “Where is the brush? Where’s my brush?”

Unable to find it, in his desperation he grabbed his own hair, dipped it in the inkstone, and began to write on the hemp cloth with his hair…