Chapter 9: The Millennium Dragon-Tiger List

Hearing his companion’s question, Lu Beigu had no answer.

The hasty transition, followed by acing the policy exam, had left him suddenly slack—and now he felt lost about the future.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know which path to take; it was that his abilities were too great, and the paths too many.

Literary giants, chancellors, Confucian sages—others could become them; could Lu Beigu not?

In truth, he wanted to be a great literary master, but that didn’t prevent him from taking the imperial exams to enter office; after all, the great literary masters whispered about among Song people—Fan Zhongyan, Ouyang Xiu, Wang Anshi, Sima Guang—weren’t all equally accomplished in both literature and politics?

Since Fan Zhongyan first advocated "grieve before the world grieves, rejoice after the world rejoices," the ancient prose movement, with its pen-as-sword critique of scholarly and literary trends, had gradually become mainstream under Ouyang Xiu’s leadership.

The greatest achievement of this ancient prose movement would be next year’s famed imperial examination: the Millennium Dragon-Tiger List.

Look at the stellar roster of this exam—calling it “immortals lined like hemp” would be no exaggeration.

Three of the famed “Five Masters of Northern Song” Confucianism arrived: Zhang Zai, Cheng Hao, Cheng Yi.

Literary masters clustered thickly: five of the “Eight Great Prose Masters of Tang and Song” appeared—Zeng Gong, Su Shi, and Su Zhe passed; Su Xun failed; and Ouyang Xiu himself served as chief examiner.

As for renowned ministers and chancellors, there were even more: Lyu Huiqing, second in command of Wang Anshi’s reforms; Zhang Dun, who later became chancellor; Wang Shao, who completed the “Hehuang Frontier Expansion,” and others.

“Should I take the imperial exam path? Maybe I can still make it to next year’s Dragon-Tiger List?”

It was spring in Jiayou Year One; under the most favorable circumstances, he could enter the prefectural school in summer, take the prefectural exam in autumn, and by next year enter the capital for the Ministry of Rites examination and even the palace examination.

For Lu Beigu, the imperial exam path didn’t hinder his becoming a literary master—it was, in fact, the true route to social mobility; under favorable conditions, wasn’t it better to earn a stable official post through one’s own ability?

After all, the Song imperial examination system was remarkably fair: since Emperor Taizu founded the dynasty until today’s Jiayou era, more than a handful of chancellors had risen from the lowest peasant class; countless ordinary scholars had gone from “morning peasant, evening imperial court.”

In the preceding Tang dynasty? Taking the imperial exams? Forget it.

Li Bai wasn’t even eligible; Du Fu took it twice, failed both times, and gave up.

It had nothing to do with talent—no matter how great your talent, it didn’t matter, because the exam papers weren’t sealed!

You weren’t from one of the Five Surnames and Seven Clans and still wanted to pass the imperial exams and become a jinshi? Dream on.

So since Song now offered the chance to leap from fish to dragon through one’s own true ability, cherish it.

Moreover, the Song never executed scholar-officials; once in court, the worst outcome would merely be repeated demotions—treat it as travel if your health holds out.

Overall, the benefits of taking the imperial exam path far outweighed the drawbacks.

Whether Lu Beigu could actually pass the jinshi exam under Song’s low acceptance rate was not within his consideration.

What? Could it be harder than topping the provincial arts exam in a province with over a hundred million people? Haven’t I done that before?

Shaking his head, Lu Beigu cast this distant future plan from his mind.

For him, the most urgent task was to prepare for meeting “that very important person” with Li Pan after the Cold Food Festival.

Of course, there were other matters: improving his scores in subjects beyond policy essays to pass the county examination in two months.

And resolving the troubles at home.

“Lu brother, if you’re free tomorrow, you might join us for the literary gathering,” said Lu Guangyu.

“Literary gathering?”

“Yes, this gathering was organized by Zhou Squire, the wine merchant who won the monopoly on Anle Creek’s wine production.”

“He’s one of the most prominent figures in Gulin; two years ago he built a new villa outside town, complete with a large library. Now that it’s completed and he’s returned home for ancestral rites, he’s hosting the gathering there.”

Lu Beigu understood: Song valued literature, so wealthy merchants all sought to become “scholar-merchants.”

Hosting a literary gathering cost little, yet allowed one to cultivate ties with local scholars, earn a good reputation at home, and nurture family descendants—clearly advantageous.

“If we go, we’ll make literary friends, read rare commentaries and ancient texts; after the gathering, there’ll surely be a banquet with fine food and wine—and if we can’t finish it all, we can bring leftovers home for our families.”

Faced with Lu Guangyu’s invitation, Lu Beigu, inclined to avoid trouble, instinctively wanted to refuse.

But he was a man who repaid every kindness.

The two classmates who shouted for help when he fell in, and the old fisherman who silently pulled him out—they were debts he must repay.

So he couldn’t refuse his benefactor’s invitation; besides, his family’s circumstances were truly difficult—this harmless, beneficial event was worth attending.

“I don’t know the way—please come to my home tomorrow, and we’ll go together.”

“Agreed,” Lu Guangyu nodded.

The small boat ascended Anle Creek, two boatmen taking turns rowing.

By dusk the next day, they neared Gulin Town.

Here, the middle reaches of Anle Creek, the water narrowed, the cliffs on either side grew steeper.

Close enough now, vines hanging from the rock faces brushed the boat’s canopy, whispering softly; occasional mountain springs seeped from crevices, forming silver-waterfalls, droplets splashing cool and refreshing on the face.

After rounding a bend, the view suddenly opened: the creek made a wide turn, forming a broad river bend—Gulin Town lay there.

The two parted here; Lu Guangyu’s Erlang Beach lay farther upstream.

The boat docked; Lu Beigu reluctantly paid sixty copper coins for the fare.

No choice: upstream boats cost this much, and the boatmen insisted they accepted only copper coins, not iron coins.

Downstream from Gulin to Hejiang County cost only twenty copper coins and took less than half a day.

The dock buzzed with voices.

Porters carried heavy bundles back and forth; several girls with topknots carried bamboo baskets, selling newly picked bracken and bamboo shoots.

“Little miss, how much for a jin of bamboo shoots?”

“Twenty copper coins—must be copper, not iron,” the girl replied timidly.

Lu Beigu mentally calculated: Song jin, converted to modern grams, was roughly 640 grams—so Song jin was heavier than the modern jin.

If he remembered right, modern supermarket spring bamboo shoots, 230–250 grams, cost about 15–18 yuan.

But since street vendors sold them with water and inedible parts, the edible portion was likely just over 500 grams.

So, purely by bamboo shoots, the exchange rate between Song copper coins and modern yuan was roughly 1:1.5.

Calculated by rice prices, the result was similar.

So the boat ride costing ninety yuan was entirely reasonable.

Shaking his head, Lu Beigu walked toward home.

Finally, he would meet his family of this era.

——————

① Maipu was a tax-farming system popular in Song and Yuan periods; in early Song, the government calculated tax quotas for wine, vinegar, ponds, markets, ferries, etc., and invited merchants to bid for the right to collect taxes, awarding the contract to the highest bidder.

② Bieye referred to a villa or garden built outside one’s main residence, in scenic areas, for leisure and retreat.

(End of chapter)