Chapter Forty-Six: Policy for the Times

Ten years of diligent study in obscurity, and with a single triumph, fame spreads across the land. If one succeeds in the imperial examinations, it is as though riding on the spring breeze, the horse’s hooves swift, seeing all the blossoms of Chang’an in a day, like a carp transforming into a splendid golden dragon.

At present, in Song, the tribute examinations have abolished all but the Jinshi examination. Those scholars who attain the title of Jinshi and step into officialdom are highly esteemed; so long as they avoid egregious missteps, their careers will proceed smoothly, and even by following the established route, they are destined for high office. To become a prime minister, vice-chancellor, or to stand as one above all but the emperor, admired by all, at the pinnacle of officialdom—such positions are virtually unattainable without the Jinshi distinction.

The Jinshi examination is the path trod by generals, ministers, and the illustrious alike. Certain posts, such as Grand Academician, are reserved exclusively for those of Jinshi background, and in high office, lacking such a title is unthinkable.

This extraordinary allure drives aspiring scholars from every corner to pursue the Jinshi title with relentless determination, employing every means possible. For many of humble origin, it is the sole path to change their fate. Even those who have already entered officialdom through other channels, holding respectable positions, still yearn for the Jinshi distinction, longing for it in their dreams.

High office and noble rank, a beautiful wife and concubines, a legacy of honor for generations—these are nearly universal aspirations among scholars. Of course, some participate in the examinations for loftier ideals, but most of them are not truly sincere.

If one fails the imperial examinations, however, it is another matter entirely. Then it becomes a lifetime of empty toil and obscurity, with no one to know or care, hair turning gray, blending into the common crowd.

Most scholars are unaccustomed to physical labor; if they fail the examinations, especially repeatedly, they lose their means of livelihood. This is especially true for those from impoverished backgrounds, who may find themselves destitute, wandering far from home, ignored by all.

Such stark contrasts fill the minds of many examinees with anxiety and apprehension.

By the fourth day of the Guizhou qualifying examination, many candidates, burdened by cares and the oppressive, humid, or rainy weather, had collapsed in the examination hall; by the fourth session, seventy or eighty had fainted and lost consciousness.

The exam officials were overwhelmed, constantly carrying out the fainted scholars and seeking physicians for aid.

Most of those who collapsed had to give up their hopes in this round of examinations.

Li Sanjian, long seasoned in such trials, was mentally resilient and undisturbed by these events. He took a few bites of the glutinous rice cakes lovingly made by his mother, Fu Erniang, drank some fresh water, and continued answering the questions.

After several days of continuous examinations, with all eating and sleeping done within the hall, Li Sanjian was of course exhausted. Yet, eating the fragrant, sweet rice cakes his mother had made, thinking of her hopes for him, he felt his fatigue dissipate.

A loving mother’s thread in the wanderer’s clothes.

Though Fu Erniang never spoke of her wish for Li Sanjian to succeed in the examination, he understood her expectations: that he would achieve top honors, and thus bring comfort to the spirit of his late father, Li Qing.

Fu Erniang had come to Qinxian, Qinzhou to care for his daily needs, not only out of worry, but also because she placed great hopes in him.

Yet, speaking of attaining top honors was still premature; the road ahead would only grow more arduous, the competition fiercer still.

Li Sanjian gripped his brush firmly, forcing his thoughts back to the examination paper.

Today was the last day of the qualifying examination, the final session, with three current affairs essays as the subject. To his surprise, one of the topics matched Li Sanjian’s predictions.

This question concerned the Maritime Trade Office in Qiongzhou—almost exactly as Li Sanjian had guessed, relating to Guangnan West Circuit and issues of trade and commerce.

The Maritime Trade Office was an agency established by the court to oversee and tax foreign goods and sea trade, connecting with distant lands and goods. In the Kaiyuan era of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, Guangzhou had already set up such an office, typically headed by eunuchs—this was the predecessor to the Maritime Trade Office.

In the fourth year of the Song Kaibao era, an office was established in Guangzhou, under which were various bureaus and warehouses. As overseas trade flourished, similar offices were set up in Hangzhou, Mingzhou, Quanzhou, and Mizhou.

In the third year of Song Yuanfeng, the court promulgated the Regulations for the Guangzhou Maritime Trade Office, appointing the Guangnan West Circuit’s transport commissioner, Chen Qian, to investigate the suitability of reestablishing the office in Qiongzhou. In the fifth year of Yuanfeng, Wu Qian, the transport officer of Guangxi, also memorialized the court, arguing for the necessity of a Maritime Trade Office in Qiongtai. Yet, the proposal was ultimately rejected by the court.

To most people of the time, this would have seemed a minor affair, known to few.

Hu Wenhai, the judge of Guizhou—and now chief examiner for this qualifying examination—had participated in that very court debate. At the time, he had supported establishing the office in Qiongzhou. Now, unexpectedly, he set this episode as the essay topic, asking the candidates for their views, which proved challenging for many.

But for Li Sanjian, it could not have been easier. First, he had already anticipated a question in this vein; second, he well understood the necessity and importance of opening coastal ports; third, he was himself a native of Qiongtai.

“It is imperative to establish a Maritime Trade Office in Qiongzhou; not only there, but in all Qiongtai’s ports as well…”

After much deliberation, Li Sanjian began to write his opinion.

He then set forth his arguments: Qiongtai lies in the tropics, producing many goods vital for the Maritime Trade Office’s trade and monopoly, such as rare incense, betel nut, emerald plumes, yellow wax, sappanwood, pearls, and more—especially rare incense, including agarwood, Penglai incense, raw incense, and cloves.

“In general, Hainan incense is pure and delicate, like lotus, plum, pear, honeycomb, while imported incense tends to be pungent and acrid—the less pungent, the shorter the fragrance, with a woody note and a burnt aftersmoke. This proves that imported incense is far inferior to Hainan’s…”

Having regained his memories, Li Sanjian knew well the products of Qiongtai. Not only that, he knew Qiongtai had vast wastelands and its people struggled to grow enough grain; thus, they bartered pearls and rare incense with merchants from afar, including foreign and Central Asian traders, for wine, rice, silk, and porcelain.

Thus, trade in Qiongtai was brisk. Why should the court abandon such a source of revenue?

He further argued that establishing the office in Qiongtai would both promote local trade and increase or adjust tax revenues for the court—why not seize this opportunity?

Li Sanjian’s motives were not entirely selfless. More merchants would mean prices would no longer be monopolized by a few; his family’s pearls, sold directly to the court, might fetch far better prices than those offered by unscrupulous traders, increasing his family's income.

His second major point: Qiongtai’s strategic location and many fine harbors—Shenying, Shilan, Fengjia, and Bo’ao, among others—made it a crossroads for merchant shipping, a natural hub for maritime trade and thus a logical site for a Maritime Trade Office.

“Most people only know the rivalries on land, not the marvels of the four seas; they know the might of cavalry, but not the power of naval forces. Why should sea not control land?”

Not only did Li Sanjian support establishing the Maritime Trade Office in Qiongtai, he recommended opening Song’s coastal ports and building a powerful navy, thereby bringing the court great wealth and the means to challenge northern rivals at sea.

The Celestial Empire’s coastline stretches for tens of thousands of miles; without a mighty navy, it would be impossible to defend.

He also emphasized the importance of the sea: Whoever controls the sea controls the world; whoever controls the world controls wealth; whoever commands the sea commands maritime trade; whoever commands maritime trade controls the world’s wealth and thus, the world itself.

Li Sanjian did not know the names of the nations beyond the sea and referred to them simply as “the various foreign lands.”

He wrote of the importance of expanding trade with these overseas states, not only to amass great wealth but also to acquire technologies the Song lacked, even critical military innovations.

As he finished answering the question, the time to submit papers was nearly upon him; several officials had already come to collect the scripts, preparing to seal the names and transcribe the answers.

The process of sealing names—also called “mi feng”—meant covering any information on the exam paper that might identify the candidate, to prevent favoritism or corruption. Yet even then, some attempted to use special marks for illicit advantage, so the Song examinations added a further step: copying out the papers in another hand for grading, so the examiners would have no clue whose work they judged.

Of course, if there was collusion in both original and copied scripts, that was another manner of corruption.

For someone like Li Sanjian, who had “three no's”—no connections, no wealth, no notable handwriting—this system was a blessing, for his ordinary script would at least temporarily conceal his identity.

…

“Hanren, your talent is truly remarkable—I am in awe,” said Zeng Gongming, bowing with utmost respect as he and Li Sanjian left the examination hall, sweat streaming from his face.

The examiner’s topic had indeed matched Li Sanjian’s predictions, and Zeng Gongming was thoroughly impressed.

The two had discussed the questions for two days and nights, and both felt they had answered them well.

Though Zeng Gongming’s responses were not as clear or thorough as Li Sanjian’s.

“Donglin, what are you saying?” Li Sanjian replied with a weary smile. “It was just a stroke of luck.”

“Haha, Hanren, you jest,” Zeng Gongming laughed. “Your luck is worth ten years of study for others!”

“You… you rascal, that’s not the way to flatter someone,” Li Sanjian said with a laugh, giving Zeng a playful punch.

“Heh heh,” Zeng replied, “Hanren, I’ve arranged a banquet—tonight, neither of us leaves sober!”

“I’m too exhausted. Another day,” Li Sanjian declined.

All he wanted now was a good, long sleep.

“Come on, let me tell you—there’s another surprise waiting for you,” Zeng said, his tone suddenly mysterious.