Chapter Nine: The Civil Service Department’s Selection Examination!

More than twelve hundred candidates had assembled. After eliminating the impostors, cheaters, and those whose looks were deemed too poor, over nine hundred remained. Under the guidance of minor officials, they entered the Ministry of Personnel.

Inside, the examination hall was already set up: all were small cubicles, each ten feet high, eight feet wide, and six feet deep, arranged in the four zones of Heaven, Earth, Mystery, and Yellow, with each cubicle numbered at the door.

Looking further into each cubicle: there was a desk and bench, brush, ink, paper, inkstone, as well as refreshments and tea—everything a candidate might need.

Li Zhao was lucky, assigned to “Heaven No. 95”—a rather auspicious number. As for Li Chong and Li Fei, one was in “Heaven No. 205,” the other in “Earth No. 444”—numbers that suited them just fine.

Next, the examiners entered.

At the proctor’s table in front, seated in the center, was a middle-aged man with dignified features and an air of authority. He wore a deep purple court robe, a golden nine-ringed belt, and official boots. He was the chief examiner: the Left Chancellor—and concurrently Minister of Personnel—Li Shizhi!

Li Shizhi came from an illustrious family; his father, Li Xiang, was the eldest legitimate son of the deposed Crown Prince Li Chengqian during Emperor Taizong’s reign. In other words, had Li Chengqian not lost his position as Crown Prince, Li Shizhi himself might now be sitting upon the Dragon Throne!

Although he lost his chance at meteoric power, Li Shizhi nonetheless made a name for himself through talent. He entered officialdom by way of the imperial examination, then served successively as Prefect of Shanzhou, Prefect of Henan, Chief Censor, and so on, rising all the way to the position of Left Chancellor—second only to the Emperor, above millions.

Furthermore, for the present Emperor to appoint Li Shizhi as Chancellor proved the Emperor’s audacity, magnanimity, and his control over the court. Had it been another sovereign, things would have been… well, quite different!

Beside Li Shizhi sat twelve red-robed officials, all chosen for their scholarly learning. Once the examination ended, they would review the scripts first, selecting the best to submit to the chief examiner for final decision.

Meanwhile, six Censorate officers, accompanied by constables, patrolled the hall to prevent whispering, passing of answers, or any other forms of cheating.

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“The Emperor has decreed the selection of worthy talent to serve the nation. I hope you will strive with all your might and not disappoint His Majesty’s grace... Let the examination begin.”

At a quarter past the hour of Chen, Li Shizhi announced the start and opened a sealed wooden box, extracting an examination paper. At once, a group of minor officials took it and began to copy the contents rapidly.

Why not simply print the exam papers? Why go to the trouble of hand-copying? The answer lies in the technology of the times: though printing had appeared in the Tang dynasty, it was woodblock printing—characters carved in relief on smooth wooden boards, inked, then pressed with paper to transfer the text.

The problem was, carving woodblocks required high-quality materials and skill, and a single mistake ruined the entire block. Thus, a set of blocks was extremely costly, often requiring thousands or tens of thousands of coins and much labor.

Therefore, only books in great demand, like the Four Books and Five Classics, were printed with woodblocks. Lesser-needed texts, like examination papers, had to be copied by hand.

To return to our story: once copied, the examination papers were distributed, and the candidates set to work.

The first question: “Recitation from the Classics.” The examiner selected a phrase at random from the Four Books and Five Classics, and the candidate had to write the entire passage from memory. The phrase given was: “When Virtue rises, then the mandate is conferred.”

This came from the “Book of Documents”: “Thus, consulting the ancient Emperor Shun, also known as Chonghua, who harmonized with the Emperor, possessing profound wisdom and civilization, gentle and respectful, sincere and steadfast. When Virtue rises, then the mandate is conferred. Carefully observe the five norms, and the five norms will be followed…”

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Li Zhao possessed an eidetic memory and had studied for years with Aunt Qing. Such a minor challenge was nothing to him—he picked up his brush and swiftly wrote out the passage.

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The second question: “Interpretation from the Classics.” This consisted of several questions drawn from the canonical texts, to be answered precisely from the original, without explanation.

This too was no trouble for Li Zhao, who soon wrote the standard answers.

The third question: Poetry.

With “the moon” as the theme, compose a five-character quatrain. This was more difficult. The first two questions were a matter of memory, but poetry required not only elegant rhyme and balanced lines, but also a certain talent.

In all honesty, Li Zhao was not gifted in poetry—at least not in literature. In the past, he had to find others to write his papers for him, let alone attempt a poem. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. He couldn’t compose, but he could… borrow. The theme was the moon; there were plenty of such poems in “Three Hundred Tang Poems.” “Quiet Night Thoughts,” for example: “Before my bed, the bright moonlight—like frost on the ground…”

But no, this was the fourteenth year of the Kaiyuan era; Li Bai had already written that poem at a Yangzhou inn, and it was widely circulated. If he copied it, he’d be laughed out of the room.

Better to pick a poet who wasn’t yet born… Li He, forgive me!

“In the desert, sand is like snow,
The moon over Yan Mountains, a hooked bow.
When will the golden bridle come?
Galloping through the clear autumn glow!”

Fourth question: Policy essay. Write an argument on a current political issue, offering advice to the court.

The topic: “The public and private sectors, high and low, suffer from a shortage of currency; trade is stagnant, and the people are distressed. How can this be resolved?”

In other words, the whole empire is suffering from a severe shortage of coins, making commerce difficult and leaving the people in misery. What can be done?

How could the mighty Tang Empire lack coins? Yet so it was—there was not just a minor shortage, but an acute one. Since the beginning of the Kaiyuan era, with national strength and flourishing commerce, the demand for currency was enormous. The state could not keep up, resulting in a currency famine.

There was simply not enough money in circulation, making daily life and trade difficult. Even officials’ salaries were paid mostly in goods, not cash; for commoners, barter was the norm, and life was troublesome indeed.

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Why did the country lack coins? The answer was complex.

China had always been poor in gold and silver, so it adopted a copper-based currency system, minting and circulating copper coins. But copper ore was also scarce, and difficult to mine, severely limiting the production of coins.

For example, in the present Tang era, about 320,000 strings of copper coins were minted annually—equivalent to 32,700,000,000 coins. Even if all made it into circulation, with no loss, each person would have only six or seven coins per year. This was clearly insufficient, given a population of 80 million.

As if that weren’t enough, people had a strong habit of hoarding. The wealthy built immense treasuries, piling up copper coins mountain-high. Even small households saved coins for emergencies.

This further reduced the number of coins in circulation.

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Additionally, some unscrupulous merchants melted down vast quantities of coins for copper. For example, a thousand “Kaiyuan Tongbao” coins could be melted for four pounds of pure copper, which, recast into utensils, could fetch a price tenfold or more—a tremendous profit.

There were other drains, too: burial with the dead, wear and tear, and outflow to neighboring states—Goguryeo, Japan, Tibet, Nanzhao—all of which used Tang currency.

All these factors led to a severe shortage, and even to full-blown currency famines.

Such a problem, set as an exam question, was sure to make most candidates sweat. But for Li Zhao, it was nothing. The historical forums of later ages were full of discussions on currency shortages—Li Zhao had read hundreds, if not a thousand, such threads. He could simply borrow a few points from the experts and propose several solutions.

He wrote out a dozen suggestions, filling thousands of words with ease.

Afterward, he carefully reviewed his answers. No problems.

He checked again—still nothing amiss.

A third time—still nothing.

This was strange. Li Zhao’s soldier’s intuition told him something was wrong, but where? If not the exam paper, then it must be something else.

He replayed the day’s events in his mind, like a film—and finally found the problem. It wasn’t with himself, but with Li Chong and Li Fei.

Those two gluttons spent their days eating, drinking, and loafing, as dense as pigs; nearly twenty years old, yet unable to recite even the basic “Hundred Surnames” or “Thousand Character Classic.” Their participation in the exam was pure padding—they had no chance.

Yet, when they entered, both were beaming, as if certain of success. Where did such confidence come from?

And their outfits today were odd as well.

It was midsummer, with no rain for over a month, and the weather was stifling. Everyone else wore light, breathable clothes to keep cool.

But Li Chong and Li Fei wore thick black robes, wrapped tight from head to toe, unafraid of heat rash. Fat men feared heat—there must be a special reason for their heavy clothing.

Moreover, the way they walked: lifting their legs high, treading lightly, each step cautious, as if carrying raw eggs, afraid to break them.

Taking the exam… unlearned… yet brimming with confidence—could it be?

Li Zhao’s keen memory and observation quickly pieced everything together and arrived at an answer: cheating.

The two must be carrying hidden crib notes, concealed by their heavy black clothes.

Only with such notes could those two hope to pass, and only thus could they look so sure of themselves.

“Well, you two set a trap for me, hoping to ruin my reputation. I’ll return the favor, and let you taste what it’s like to be caught cheating and paraded in shame!”