Volume Three: The Storm at the Xuanwu Gate Chapter Sixty: The Young Man from the Eastern Quarter of Chang’an (Part One)

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The winter of the eighth year of Emperor Wu’s reign in the Tang Dynasty seemed especially cold. The wind cut to the bone, and water froze as it fell. The lofty walls of Chang’an were adorned with icicles, draped in silver and white. Snow blanketed the city, sparkling under the sunlight, as if a layer of crystalline armor was set upon the blue-gray stones.

Chang’an had always been a place of paramount importance. It was the first city in history to be called the “capital,” its origins tracing back to King Wen of Zhou, who established his court there. In the seventh year of Emperor Gaozu of Han, the capital moved from Liyang to this place, which, being in Chang’an township, took its name from the hope for “lasting peace and stability.”

As the capital for the Zhou, Qin, Han, Sui, and Tang dynasties, the city was known as Haojing in the Western Zhou period, Xianyang in the Qin, Chang’an in the Han, Daxing in the Sui, and reverted to Chang’an during the Tang following the Han tradition. It was the eastern terminus of the Silk Road and the starting point of the Grand Canal in the Sui and Tang eras. At the height of the Tang, its population neared two million, making it the world’s most prosperous city more than a thousand years ago.

Now, at dawn, the people inside and outside Chang’an bustled to begin their day. Crowds thronged the city gates, people coming and going. Those who lived outside the walls hurried in with donkey carts and shoulder poles laden with local produce or mountain goods dug up before dawn, eager to enter as soon as the gates opened, hoping to sell their wares for a little more money.

Zhou Laoliu, the city gate official, sat sheltered from the wind inside the arched gate, legs crossed, savoring a steaming bowl of mutton soup while gnawing on a coarse flatbread.

The bread was stuffed with meat, greasy and rich, and a mouthful of hot mutton soup warmed him from head to toe. On such a frigid day, nothing could be more satisfying. Zhou Laoliu felt that this was what life ought to be—flavorful and fulfilling.

He was the gatekeeper at Chang’an’s East Gate, a role held by his family for three generations. He’d inherited the post from his father, Zhou Laofu, and had kept it for over a decade.

Years of watching the gate had given him sharp, discerning eyes. He knew whom he could offend and whom he could never cross. He spoke to everyone in the way that best suited them, currying favor as needed, and had earned the appreciation of his superiors.

In recent years, the great Sui Dynasty had fallen amid chaos, giving way to the present Tang. The banners atop the city walls had changed, old noble families had vanished, and new faces appeared. But what did that matter to a humble gatekeeper? Even if the emperor himself took the throne, someone would still have to watch the gates.

Life was simple but safe. Hadn’t he seen those swaggering officers who guarded the gates for the Sui lose their heads—or even their lives—without warning? Their wealth and beautiful wives had ended up in the hands of others.

Zhou Laoliu was content. He commanded a team of ten, the work was easy, his monthly wages—supplemented by the customary tips and bribes—were enough to support his whole family, with a little left over for the occasional pleasure.

Though called a “gate official,” the title was hardly deserved; he was little more than a head soldier. Two actual captains were responsible for security—one for entry, one for exit—and the opening and closing of the gates were managed by the gate stewards.

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But now, nearly a decade after the founding of the Tang, the realm was at peace. The newly appointed captain had just taken a concubine and was preoccupied day and night with the serious business of producing an heir. He certainly wouldn’t bother to get up before noon on such a cold day.

With the “tiger” away, the “monkey” ruled. The burdens of opening the gate fell to Zhou Laoliu, who gladly relieved the captain of his worries. Though it meant more work, he was content with the modest “gifts” from merchants and traders coming and going.

Zhou Laoliu finished his bread in a few bites and was savoring his soup when a commotion arose outside the gate—shouts, startled cries, and the braying of animals.

He frowned. Was it those spoiled brats fighting over some petty quarrel again? But the noise didn’t sound right. Usually, when those dandies caused trouble, the whole city would know. Could it be bandits? He nearly laughed at the thought. This was the heart of Guanzhong, at the emperor’s feet—what fool would try their luck here? The sixteen garrisons were no mere decoration. Since Tang’s founding, peace had reigned, and the east gate hadn’t seen trouble in years.

Thinking it probably nothing, Zhou Laoliu finished his soup, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, blew his nose, and, for good measure, wiped it on the mottled wall. Then, waddling with his hands behind his back, he swaggered out of the gate.

“Hey! What’s going on here? Don’t you know where you are?” Zhou Laoliu called out as he stepped into the open, shivering as the wind hit him. The crowds had fallen back, leaving a wide empty space before the gate, with frightened animals occasionally braying in distress. Puzzled, he turned to a few trembling gate soldiers.

These were seasoned men, not ones to be easily startled. One wiped his brow and replied in a hoarse, shaky voice, “Chief Zhou, look—that kid over there brought a monster!”

Even he was surprised how rough and strange his voice sounded.

Zhou Laoliu looked and was startled as well.

A dozen yards outside the gate stood a young boy.

He looked thirteen or fourteen, with striking brows and bright, star-like eyes, red lips and white teeth, his gaze sharp and fierce—the very picture of a noble youth.

Though young, he was as tall as a grown man, slim and broad-shouldered. His clothes were plain, but Zhou Laoliu, with years of experience, could tell at a glance that such a figure was not born of peasant stock.

Moreover, he noticed the flawless jade hanging at the boy’s waist—a piece worth more silver than Zhou Laoliu had ever seen in his life. His gaze softened. Perhaps this was a noble’s son out for an adventure in common clothes.

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The boy caught Zhou Laoliu’s eye and flashed a bright, dazzling smile, revealing neat white teeth—so infectious it was impossible not to feel a certain fondness.

Then Zhou Laoliu saw the source of the commotion. The youth wasn’t just leading a fine horse—beside him loomed a monstrous black beast.

Its head was as large as a basin, its body over ten feet long, with a tail like a steel whip lashing back and forth. Its muscles bulged under glossy black fur, striped with deep purple, and on its forehead, three horizontal lines crossed by a vertical mark formed the character for “king.”

When the creature caught Zhou Laoliu staring, it tilted its head, narrowing its eyes as if sizing him up. Zhou Laoliu felt a chill run down his spine, his calves cramping with fear. The beast’s half-closed eyes gleamed with threat, its gaze roaming around Zhou Laoliu’s neck.

He had met many nobles who kept fierce animals—hawks, lynxes, tigers, leopards, even foreign lions. Such creatures guarded homes and showed off their owners’ status.

But never had he seen anything like this black beast. It looked like a tiger, but tigers were never black, and this one was twice the size of any he’d ever heard of.

As Zhou Laoliu stood frozen, the beast grew impatient, circling the boy, lowering its head, baring four knife-like fangs, and rumbling deep in its throat, ready to pounce.

Zhou Laoliu and the other guards were terrified, legs shaking, barely keeping from wetting themselves. With a beast like that, a man could be swallowed whole.

Just then, the youth barked, “Xiao Hei! Behave! Didn’t I tell you how to act before we left? If you don’t listen, I’ll give you a beating!”

At his words, the beast’s demeanor changed instantly. It crouched on the ground like a chastened dog, meek and still, no longer daring to move.