Chapter Five: Tainted Flesh

As it turned out, Zhen Qian had still underestimated the shamelessness and cunning of the Xing family. In ancient times, there was no true sense of contractual obligation; a promise made in words was worth a thousand pieces of gold, and breaking one would surely bring scorn, affecting not only one’s reputation but also implicating the entire family.

“Both petty men and women are hard to deal with!” Zhen Qian couldn’t help but laugh and cry as he gazed upon the monthly provisions brought by Steward Wang the next day—a whole cartload of fresh meat and vegetables, some mountain produce and dried goods, along with firewood, rice, oil, salt, sauces, and tea, as well as over thirty strings of copper coins. The quantities were correct, yet the quality left one speechless.

“These are the living standards for the thirty-odd people in our courtyard,” explained Steward Wang, noticing Zhen Qian’s confusion. “Young Master, there’s nothing wrong with these. The Zhen family rules state that servants may not exceed five hundred cash per month, bonded retainers eight hundred. As the Zhen family’s eldest legitimate son, your monthly allowance is capped at twenty strings. Calculating it out, the monthly expenses for this courtyard are just over fifty strings. The cart of provisions sent by Steward Xing is worth over ten strings, so the total isn’t far off.”

Wang Qun, the steward’s full name, had followed Zhen Qian’s birth mother since childhood and was utterly loyal to him, so Zhen Qian naturally believed his words. The tactic of substituting quantity for quality was truly venomous; on the surface, not a single coin was missing from the monthly provisions, but the bulk was made up of perishables. Unfortunately for them, their calculation did not work on Zhen Qian.

He took the inventory from Wang Qun, glanced at it, then closed his eyes in thought for a moment. “Steward Wang, what do you think we should do about this?”

Wang Qun frowned, “At least half of this cart of provisions will go to waste. Thirty strings of copper will be barely enough to get by for a month. Why not take the food to the market and sell it? Even though we’ll take a loss, it’s better than wasting it all.”

“No need for such trouble,” Zhen Qian waved his hand. “Your plan is sound, but if I’m not mistaken, Steward Xing must have anticipated this and likely has a way to prevent us from selling these off easily.”

Wang Qun nodded. What he could think of, so could Steward Xing. Besides, selling fresh produce is time-consuming and laborious—if it isn’t sold the same day, the price plummets, and they’d lose both goods and money.

“What then? Should we return the cart and ask for the copper equivalent? If not, we could tighten our belts and get by for a while.”

Steward Xing was just waiting to see them fail; if they admitted defeat now, who knew what further schemes he might employ.

But Zhen Qian was unfazed. This was the difference that a millennium’s perspective made. In the Tang dynasty, copper cash was the main currency—a family of four or five could live a month on just a string or so, and that was a middle-class standard. With thrift, one person’s monthly expenses might not exceed a hundred wen, though such a life was not what Zhen Qian desired.

In his own courtyard, including servants and retainers, there were thirty-six people—so even with an average of a string per person, it was already quite good.

Of course, this understanding wasn’t entirely accurate. Besides food and drink, there were also expenses for clothing, shelter, and transportation, all counted as part of the monthly allowance. In this light, thirty strings a month wasn’t much, perhaps even insufficient.

Xiao Zhu, unable to contain herself, burst out, “Young Master, Steward Xing is going too far. Shouldn’t we appeal to the Master for justice?”

Zhen Qian’s father was an official elsewhere and rarely returned, so the household was managed by the Xing family, though their reach did not extend beyond the estate. Above the Zhen family was still a clan leader, whose opinion even Zhen Qian’s father would heed in major matters.

“It’s not time to seek the clan leader’s help yet. If we run to him over every little thing, people will look down on us.”

It wasn’t that Zhen Qian was unwilling; though the steward’s actions weren’t aboveboard, they were at least presentable on the surface. Even with the clan leader’s intervention, the pressure wouldn’t be enough to truly force Steward Xing’s hand.

“Young Master, we still have fifty or sixty strings of surplus. That should cover our expenses for now,” Xiao Mei whispered.

“That’s for emergencies. If we use it now, it won’t last more than a few months—we’ll need another solution.”

Zhen Qian already had an idea. Seeing the others were out of ideas, he spoke up, “Things aren’t as bad as we think. Sometimes, a person’s potential is forced out by circumstances—opportunity and crisis go hand in hand. If we give in now, Steward Xing will press us even harder in the future.”

Seeing Zhen Qian so confident, Wang Qun felt a surge of hope. Ever since his fall from the horse and subsequent amnesia, Zhen Qian’s demeanor had changed. He used to be indifferent to affairs beyond his study window, leaving daily matters untouched—hardly ever concerning himself with household management. While this seemed carefree, it also revealed his immaturity in running a household.

“If our late mistress’s spirit is watching, she would see her son matured at last. This misfortune has been a blessing in disguise. May she bless him to bring glory to our family—my duty would be fulfilled,” Wang Qun thought.

Zhen Qian, of course, had no idea what Wang Qun was thinking, nor that the steward had plenty of ways to help him through, yet withheld them to let Zhen Qian grow.

Wang Peng, another elder, chuckled, “A scholar may stay home and still know all under heaven. Since Young Master is confident, we old men are at ease.”

Xiao Zhu, her large eyes blinking, truly couldn’t imagine how their young master—accustomed to having everything done for him—could come up with any solution. She didn’t mean to belittle him; she simply had never seen him excel in such matters.

“Xiao Zhu, fetch me brush, ink, paper, and inkstone!”

She set out the scholar’s tools, added water to the inkstone, and rolled up her sleeves to grind ink. Zhen Qian dipped the brush, dabbed at the paper, and a large blot appeared. He flushed, cursing inwardly—calligraphy was harder than he thought. “I’m exposed!”

“Young Master, your hand is still healing. Let your maid do the writing,” Xiao Mei said considerately, taking the brush from his hand. “You dictate, I’ll write.”

Zhen Qian wanted to kiss her on the spot—her timely excuse meant he could always avoid embarrassment over his handwriting.

“Thirty jin of coarse salt, five jin of Sichuan pepper, chili…”

“What is chili?” Xiao Mei looked up in confusion.

Zhen Qian slapped his forehead—he’d let it slip. There was no chili in the Tang dynasty; it remained with the natives of the Americas. In the Tang, the only spicy condiment was dogwood, which was nothing like chili but at least somewhat spicy.

“Five jin of dogwood… As for the mutton, take it to market tomorrow and see if any can be sold. If so, exchange it all for pork—choose the leanest cuts with the least fat, and buy a few whole pork hind legs. Wait—why did you stop writing?”

Xiao Mei’s brush hovered midair as she and the others stared at him in shock, their expressions changing, even audible gulps sounding in their throats—they were clearly startled.

“Young Master, do you really mean to buy pork? What do you plan to do with it?” Xiao Zhu asked nervously, worried that Zhen Qian’s amnesia was causing further oddities. Since his accident, he’d acted in ways no one understood, but this was more alarming.

“Of course, to cook and eat!”

“To eat?” Their expressions turned odd. Pork was edible, but for a great household like the Zhen family’s, pork never entered the kitchen. “Young Master, pork is filthy, base meat—are you sure you want it?”

Zhen Qian was taken aback. Filthy, base meat? “Why is pork considered filthy and base?”

Seeing his confusion, they explained, “The Zhen family only eats beef and mutton. Pigs live in filth, their smell is offensive, and the rot shames scholars—only the lower classes eat it. If you eat pork, others will look down on you.”

As Xiao Mei explained, Zhen Qian understood. Before the Song dynasty, pork was not the main meat source. Because pigs lived in filth, scholars shunned it, and its low price made it food for commoners. Lacking good cooking techniques, its flavor was also less appealing, so over time it fell out of favor.

He scratched his head. In the Tang, only beef and mutton counted as true meat; even chicken, duck, and fish weren’t considered such. It was surprising, but understandable.

“All the more reason to buy more pork!”

Hearing this, everyone was baffled. Mutton cost over thirty wen per jin, while pork was only five, and few people wanted it. The disparity in price compared to later eras was staggering.

Xiao Mei had long been conditioned to reject pork and looked on it with disdain, but after much persuasion, she agreed to buy a little out of curiosity—she wanted to see if Zhen Qian could really make pork as delicious as he claimed.

Some ideas cannot be changed with a few words. Facts speak louder than words. Zhen Qian laughed. “I know you don’t believe me, but some things can’t be explained now. You’ll understand in time.”