Chapter Twenty-Two: The Down-and-Out Doctor

Mao Heng was about the same age as Zhang Cang and Li Si. There were countless people across the land who held deep-seated grudges against Qin, far more than just Mao Heng alone.

When the young lord inquired, Mao Heng explained, “My service to you, my lord, is to uphold the lineage of our school of thought and has nothing to do with old feuds. I heard you favor the works of Han Fei, so I came to pay my respects.”

Fusu smiled and said, “I read many texts, covering the Hundred Schools of Thought, and indeed, I do appreciate Han Fei’s writings.”

Mao Heng bowed and said, “I am a disciple of Xunzi. If you have any questions about his works, I am at your service.”

By now, Fusu had met three disciples of Xunzi: Prime Minister Li Si, Censor Zhang Cang, and now Mao Heng standing before him.

Originally, today’s visit was simply to inspect the residence bestowed upon him by his father, the emperor.

This estate was a legacy left by Lü Buwei. To be precise, it was just a building within the city of Xianyang, once the residence of Lü Buwei himself.

Whether by design or coincidence, the house directly opposite belonged to his teacher.

Back then, Li Si was a guest of Lü Buwei, and now, as Prime Minister of Qin, Li Si had established his home opposite Lü Buwei’s former residence.

After finishing breakfast, Fusu toured the estate, considering it as part of his private property—he couldn’t simply neglect it.

As the gate opened, Mao Heng was the first to arrive.

Fusu did not wish to linger, fearing that more visitors like Mao Heng might come to pay homage.

In terms of status, Mao Heng was indeed a disciple of Xunzi, and also one of the scholars from Qilu brought to Xianyang by Prime Minister Li Si, who had recruited esteemed talents from across the regions, particularly from the Qilu scholars.

Mao Heng was likely part of the same group as Shusun Tong and others who had entered Qin together.

“If you have questions about the classics, I can also ask my other teacher Zhang Cang; he always provides very detailed explanations,” Mao Heng said with understanding. Seeing the young lord’s scrutinizing gaze, he added, “I am not here because of so-called old grudges, and besides, I have always been distant from my uncle.”

People naturally seek unity where possible, expanding friendships and minimizing enemies.

Fusu declared aloud, “You shall go to Shangyan Mountain, where General Zhang Han will take you in. Begin by teaching there.”

Grateful for the lord’s acceptance, Mao Heng bowed again. Having lived in poverty for many years, his sleeves were worn and even his clothes showed signs of threadbare wear.

Feeling embarrassed by his own shabby appearance, Mao Heng gave a sheepish smile.

Tian An handed him a wooden token and instructed, “Since the lord has taken you in, take this token with you to Shangyan Mountain.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

After Mao Heng left, Fusu moved deeper into the estate. There was a spacious courtyard here, with a few cushions stacked to one side.

Fusu imagined this was once the gathering place for Lü Buwei’s three thousand retainers, who perhaps composed the Lüshi Chunqiu—a monumental work—right here.

He also noticed wooden plaques hanging on the walls, their ink faded and barely legible, likely bearing the names of those retainers.

Looking up, Fusu saw one room’s roof leaking rain.

Tian An said, “My lord, craftsmen have been arranged to repair it.”

Walking past the courtyard, they reached Lü Buwei’s library. Fusu opened the old wooden door to find rows upon rows of shelves, each compartment holding varying numbers of bamboo slips.

This place had long been sealed and dust-covered, and with every step Fusu took, he left footprints in the dust.

Some bamboo slips still bore wooden tags, on which Fusu was surprised to find the names of his teachers Li Si and Zhang Cang.

Surveying the collection, he was deeply moved—this was the complete corpus of Lüshi Chunqiu, written by the three thousand retainers over three years, totaling thousands of bamboo slips.

Though Lü Buwei had passed, the Lüshi Chunqiu compiled by his retainers remained.

It was undeniably a priceless treasure. Fusu murmured softly, “My teachers were truly diligent and thoughtful.”

Tian An stood outside, an elder eunuch who demanded strict cleanliness—one reason why Gaoquan Palace was always so meticulously maintained.

It would not take long, Fusu believed, before this old residence would be restored to its former glory under Tian An’s care.

Fusu left the library and instructed, “Clean up this place thoroughly, but do not disturb the bamboo slips on the shelves.”

As he exited the estate, he glanced back at the main gate. This had once been the Prime Minister’s mansion; now, its counterpart across the street had taken that name, while this place remained unused and unnamed.

After some thought, Fusu decided not to name the residence. Escorted by a guard detail, he returned to the palace.

In February, the climate of Guanzhong was damp and rainy. Before the arrival of the warm spring, the region was persistently wet, with continuous rain and snowstorms.

Such prolonged overcast and inclement weather would likely end by mid-March.

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At dawn, Gaoquan Palace was already bustling.

Fusu was pulling noodles. Last year, Shangyan Mountain had yielded a good wheat harvest, leaving enough grain for the servants and himself.

The water in the earthenware pot had come to a boil. Fusu dropped in the noodles, then steamed some buns.

He ladled out a clear, glossy mutton broth, plucked a few freshly sprouted scallions from a nearby potted plant, chopped them finely with a small knife, and rendered some lamb fat.

Three stoves burned simultaneously before him. Remarkably, Fusu managed all three with practiced ease—adjusting heat, switching pots, adding water—all conducted with an almost unbelievable finesse.

Soon, he had prepared four bowls of noodles tossed in lamb fat, sprinkled with minced mutton, accompanied by a bowl of clear mutton broth and more than a dozen lamb buns.

This year, Xianyang had an abundance of sheep. Meng Tian had defeated several Xiongnu tribes in the north and sent their herds south to Xianyang, resulting in more mutton than anyone could consume.

There was even frozen mutton in the palace, and no one quite knew how to eat it.

Fusu said, “Today, eat plenty of mutton. We must find a way to finish it all.”

Upon hearing this, the palace attendants all bowed and said in unison, “Thank you, my lord.”

Fusu instructed Tian An to prepare food boxes to deliver three portions of the noodles, broth, and buns to the emperor, Prime Minister Li Si, and Censor Zhang Cang.

Unlike the lord’s meticulous meals, the palace staff simply roasted the mutton and divided it up, eating simply and plainly.

If everyone ate with such care as the lord did, they felt they would surely exhaust themselves.

Before dawn, Fusu had already risen and begun preparing this elaborate meal, and he found joy in it.

The palace servants, however, had many tasks each day. Occasionally receiving the lord’s gift of cakes or noodles was a rare happiness.

Accustomed to austere fare, they unanimously agreed that the lord’s meals were the finest in the world.

Tian An watched the three attendants carrying the food boxes depart, then returned inside, reporting, “My lord, General Zhang Han has sent news.”

Fusu replied, “Just tell me.”

Tian An opened the bamboo slip and smiled as anticipated, then whispered, “Upon arriving at Shangyan Mountain, Mao Heng complained of extreme poverty.”

Fusu sipped the mutton broth and said softly, “He who cannot endure hardship—what use is he to me?”

Tian An nodded knowingly. The lord sought those who could bear hardship, like General Zhang Han.

After a pause, Tian An continued, “Mao Heng ate first—three cakes, a bowl of pickled radish, a basin of mutton—then slept. General Zhang Han reported that though the man appeared lean, his appetite was astonishing.”

Fusu recalled meeting Mao Heng yesterday, noting his simple attire.

Among the Qilu scholars, he seemed one of the more destitute.

But in terms of appetite, perhaps Xunzi’s disciples all possessed special talents and innate gifts.

Fusu admitted he did not know Mao Heng well, nor Mao Sui or Lord Chunshen. Perhaps after their defeat by Qin, Mao Sui’s clan had fallen on hard times.

If not for knowing they were former nobility of the Six Kingdoms, he might have thought them humble commoners.

Tian An continued, reading the dispatch from Shangyan Mountain: “After eating, Mao Heng fell asleep but in the dead of night muttered curses, scolding Prime Minister Li Si harshly.”

Fusu slowly turned his head.

Seeing this, Tian An hurriedly bowed and lowered the bamboo slip so the lord could clearly read that General Zhang Han had indeed reported this.

Fusu felt a mix of surprise and doubt but, having seen the report himself, gazed at the overcast sky and said, “There are too many people cursing Prime Minister Li Si in this world. I suppose my teacher would not mind one more.”

Tian An whispered, “Early this morning, General Zhang Han put Mao Heng to work teaching the children. Mao Heng initially refused but later the Prime Minister sent a letter to Shangyan Mountain.”

“Oh? There was a complication?”

Tian An nodded and explained, “The Prime Minister’s letter warned that if Mao Heng did not serve my lord, General Zhang Han was authorized to punish him severely.”

Fusu drained his bowl of mutton broth and set it aside.

“General Zhang Han raised his whip, but before striking, Mao Heng begged for mercy. Then he angrily blamed Xianyang, calling Prime Minister Li Si cunning and treacherous.”

“Upon inquiry, the man is well versed in the Book of Songs and Xunzi’s teachings.”

Finished reading, Tian An closed the bamboo slip and said softly, “That is all, my lord.”

Fusu inquired, “Did Mao Heng have any deep grudge against my teacher?”

Tian An replied, “This old servant does not know. There are far too many who bear grudges against our Prime Minister…”

“Indeed, far too many,” Fusu agreed. “Is it related to Han Fei?”

“Old servant does not know. Shall I send someone to inquire?”

Fusu waved him off softly, “No need.”

Before the hall, master and servant spoke in whispers. The lord sat against a pillar, sometimes frowning, sometimes enlightened.

Tian An bowed, responding to each of the lord’s words.

The palace staff were curious but unaware of the conversation’s content.

Fusu, with a spectator’s mindset, surmised that Mao Heng and Li Si likely had a grudge, while Zhang Cang was probably a neutral party, avoiding the entanglement.

In this era, many matters were shrouded in mystery, tangled and unresolved.

The cold wind blew, chilling one to the bone.

Soon, a eunuch hurried in, saluted the lord, and said, “The Minister of Works, by imperial decree, requests instruction on how to prepare mutton broth.”

Tian An said, “No trouble for my lord. I will attend to it.”

After breakfast, Fusu went to the Censor’s Office to continue reviewing documents.

Only Cheng Miao was present. With the weather warmer, he resumed his calligraphy studies.

During breaks, Fusu examined his handwriting. Cheng Miao was truly a master; despite the complexity of strokes, each character was remarkably precise.

“Is this not Small Seal Script?” Fusu asked.

Cheng Miao replied, “My lord, this is the script of Zhao.”

Fusu held the documents he intended to read and glanced at Cheng Miao’s desk. “And what script is this?”

“That, my lord, is the script of Chu, as well as those of Yan, Zhao, and Wei.”

Fusu studied each character, puzzled. “You can write all these scripts?”

“I enjoy studying scripts,” Cheng Miao said proudly. “The scripts of the Six Kingdoms seem complex but often share similar forms. Chu’s script is slender and elegant but complicated to write. Wei’s script appears simpler but not as beautiful as Chu’s.”

Cheng Miao continued, “This is the Small Seal Script favored by His Majesty. It was formerly Qin Seal Script, derived from the Zhou dynasty’s writing. The scripts of the Six Kingdoms all evolved from it.”

Fusu gazed at the characters, moved, and said, “It truly is profound.”

Cheng Miao stroked his beard with satisfaction and smiled.

Fusu drew back his gaze to continue reading his documents. In truth, much of what Cheng Miao said had barely registered.

To avoid seeming dismissive, Fusu merely sighed.

The sigh was genuine, but to reach such calligraphic mastery by mere words alone was unlikely.

Without understanding the art, no judgment could be made. Fusu felt focusing on reading was the proper path.

In the afternoon, the sun briefly appeared but by evening it hid behind clouds again.

At this hour, night fell swiftly, and the wind grew fierce.

February was nearly over, and people hoped March would bring warmth.

A military report arrived at the Xianyang Palace.

Tian An ascended the palace steps and entered, “My lord, a military report has arrived.”

Fusu, still admiring Cheng Miao’s calligraphy, asked, “What news?”

“General Wang Jian has reached Luoyang.”

The old general was still over a hundred kilometers from Hangu Pass. Even with an army on the move, it would take at least ten to fifteen days to reach the pass.

“The general has not yet reached Hangu Pass. Several vanguard troops have returned first, bringing many people through the pass.”

Fusu continued to study Cheng Miao’s calligraphy. These were neither Qin Seal Script nor the scripts of the Six Kingdoms, but a simpler form—clerical script.

This was the prototype of clerical script, newly born.

Fusu thought that as long as he remained in Xianyang Palace and kept his eyes open, he would often witness history being made.

Among the many scripts passed down through the ages, the archaic clerical script would still be admired two thousand years hence.