Chapter 81: The Provincial Examination (Part One)

Kaifeng Prefecture, Eastern Capital of Song, Second Day of the Second Month

On the second day of the second month, known as “Dragon Raising Its Head,” the people steam cakes left from the New Year sacrifices and fumigate their beds and hearths, believing that on this day, the dragon rises and drives away a hundred pests. This day, also called the Spring Dragon Festival, marks the return of spring to the earth, the flourishing of all things, and is celebrated as the Outing Festival.

For the Song people, the second of the second month was a significant holiday. On this day, the citizens of Kaifeng thronged the streets to admire lanterns, lively and ceaseless, songs and wine filling the alleys. Dragons were invoked and sacrifices offered to the heavens, with prayers for favorable winds and rains and smooth fortunes throughout the year.

Yet, on this particular day in Kaifeng, the dragon did not raise its head; instead, Emperor Zhao Xu tilted his head and raised his hand, setting the date for this year’s provincial examination to the second day of the second month.

Though this day was meant to herald the blossoming of spring, no hint of renewal was visible before the Examination Hall of Kaifeng. Bitter winds still raged, and goose-feather snowflakes cascaded from the sky, blanketing the ground in white. Snowflakes clung to the branches scratching the ashen sky, freezing the earth and rendering the air itself solid with cold.

Nevertheless, no chill could dampen the ardor of the scholars who came for the provincial examination. Over two thousand candidates from across the empire gathered before the Examination Hall, awaiting its opening.

“So many people!” Li Sanjian gazed at the sea of scholars in their Confucian caps, marveling inwardly.

In fact, the number of candidates this year was not especially large. The number of successful candidates in each imperial examination varied—sometimes more than ten thousand, sometimes as few as a thousand—depending largely on the court’s policies.

Since the founding of the Song, the court had upheld the principle of “revering the civil over the military.” In the early years, to win over the literati, the central government abolished the Ministry of Personnel’s examination and greatly increased the number of successful candidates each year, as well as eased the requirements for entering the examinations. This led to a massive surge in participants. The more candidates, the more appointments were made, and the number of those who advanced to the final palace examination also soared. In the peak years, over a thousand were granted the degree in a single sitting. Afterwards, the palace examination merely ranked candidates without dismissing any, and those who passed were directly appointed to office without further testing, causing a severe glut of officials.

The government, recognizing this problem of redundancy, responded by reducing the quotas, decreasing the number of candidates admitted at each stage, and lengthening the examination cycle.

Before Emperor Yingzong, the timing of the examinations was irregular, subject to the emperor’s whims. Yingzong fixed the cycle at once every three years, a tradition that persisted thereafter.

With these reforms, the number of candidates admitted to the provincial and palace examinations dropped sharply, usually ranging from a thousand to several thousand. The number of scholars who passed the metropolitan examination was fixed at between two and three hundred each time, with other disciplines not allowed to surpass the civil examination in quotas. Essentially, only one in ten candidates at the provincial level would become a presented scholar.

Yet, as the population grew, the number of examinees never fell. Each session drew tens of thousands, sometimes over a hundred thousand. For families of humble means, this was the only chance to rise in the world—no wonder scholars flocked to it.

Thus, the most difficult hurdle in the Song examination system was not the provincial or palace examination, but the qualifying local test. Often, only one in dozens, hundreds, or even thousands would advance. Different regions had different quotas; in Guangnan West, for example, the ratio was one out of thirty.

It was truly a case of thousands of horses crossing a single-plank bridge. Those who succeeded found paradise; those left behind faced a lifetime of poverty.

Li Sanjian had already crossed the hardest threshold, though he did not realize it himself.

It was not yet time to enter the hall. The two thousand candidates either sat on the ground, gazing at the morning light and lost in thought, or gathered in quiet groups, speculating about the examination topics and voicing their opinions.

Li Sanjian quietly arranged the food box in his hands, head bowed.

Inside the box was a serving of the Li family’s famous three-colored rice, lovingly prepared by his mother, Lady Fu.

Three-colored rice is a delicacy made by the Li people of Qiongtai for their traditional festival on the third day of the third month, symbolizing peace, fortune, and happiness in the coming year. It is made by mixing mountain-grown rice with red, black, and yellow wild ginger juice, then wrapping it in banana leaves to steam or boil, resulting in a sweet and fragrant dish.

But since Li Sanjian would be inside the Examination Hall all day, by the time he ate, the rice would be cold.

He smiled wryly at the thought. If he wanted a hot meal, it was possible—there were meals sold to candidates inside the hall, but at a steep price. Li Sanjian, who counted every coin, could not bear to waste his family’s meager resources. More importantly, once inside the hall, he would be focused entirely on the exam, with no time or appetite to enjoy fine food.

The provincial examination, like the qualifying test, lasted four days, with one session each day. Candidates entered in the morning and left by evening—no overnight stays.

The content, however, differed. The policy questions in the provincial exam numbered five, two more than on the qualifying test. Besides these, there were classics and essays—ten questions each on the main and supplementary texts. Candidates could freely choose which of the Five Classics to answer on, and supplement with the Analects and Mencius.

The most critical section remained the policy questions, which were the key to success.

“Brother Hanren,” called Zeng Gongming, fanning himself nonchalantly with a folding fan of unknown origin, “do you think you can guess the topics this time?”

At this stage, Zeng Gongming seemed less anxious, perhaps because he had already secured a quota and had something to fall back on.

Li Sanjian glanced at him, moving a bit away. On such a cold day, was he not freezing? When he first arrived in Kaifeng, he had been shivering miserably.

Zeng Gongming feigned relaxation, but a bead of sweat at his temple betrayed him.

“I’m no immortal,” Li Sanjian retorted. “How could I know the topics?”

The scope of the provincial exam was much broader than the local test, which made guessing easier. The provincial exam was, after all, a national test—no one, not even an immortal, could predict the topics.

Who knew what the officials would ask this time? Li Sanjian thought.

And if, by some chance, he did guess correctly, he might well be disqualified, or even investigated by the authorities for suspected cheating.

Just then, the sound of drums and bells echoed. The gates of the Examination Hall swung open, and fifty imperial soldiers emerged in formation.

They wore red silk armor over white tunics, red hats with cherry blossoms, black boots, and vivid red scarves around their necks, covered with white half-capes.

The fifty soldiers lined up to either side, hands on their swords.

The crowd of candidates fell silent, standing respectfully and not daring to speak aloud.

Truly magnificent, thought Li Sanjian. It was his first time seeing the Song imperial guards. Unlike the local militias he had known, these soldiers were tall, upright, and uniformly well-featured—not all handsome, perhaps, but all dignified and impressive.

His guess was correct: these were indeed imperial guards, from the Palace Guard division, selected with the utmost rigor for both skill and appearance.

Officials announced the opening of the Ministry of Rites examination. Then, twenty clerks stepped forward, reading names from long lists according to place of origin. Those called entered the hall.

So this was the capital, the capital’s Examination Hall, thought Li Sanjian as he entered, awestruck by its grandeur.

It was unlike the temporary Examination Hall at the Guizhou Confucius Temple, which, though well-situated, was not designed for such a purpose.

Kaifeng's Ministry of Rites Examination Hall stood outside the Vermilion Bird Gate. Vast in scale, it could accommodate thousands.

It was neighbored by warehouses, stables, and fields, and surrounded by three grand gates. The central gate was particularly imposing, inspiring awe. The side gates were for the candidates.

Orderly and disciplined, more than two thousand candidates filed inside.

The outer precincts, from the main gate to the central gate, were lined with administrative offices: registration, sealing, transcription, submission, reading, and gatekeeping. The western side housed halls and changing rooms; the eastern, more halls and the announcement board.

The examination area was centered on the Main Hall of the Silk-Water Pavilion, which divided the inner and outer precincts. The main hall, of a unique design, was flanked by corridors functioning as examination rooms, divided by pillars into cubicles, each furnished with a scholar’s desk.

Li Sanjian entered, wide-eyed with curiosity, like a country bumpkin in a grand garden, marveling at everything he saw.