Chapter Fifteen: Anecdotes from the Morning Court

Gao Thirty-Five and Du Zimei escorted Li Bai to his lodgings, both lingering as if reluctant to part, still incredulous at their chance encounter with the Emperor Xuanzong at Qujiang Pool.

“Brother Gao, today’s experience feels like a dream—truly hard to believe. Twice before I failed the civil examinations, and now I finally bear an official title. And you—twenty years ago, seeking fame, you hoped to find favor through Princess Yuzhen. Yet no one recognized your great talent. Now, you are a general.”

Gao Thirty-Five could hardly believe it himself. Most astonishing was the emperor’s spirit—though aged, he was vigorous, and had appeared at Qujiang Pool that very night, meeting them by sheer coincidence. If His Majesty hadn’t stopped him at that moment, he would likely already be on the road home.

“Alas! What a pity for Brother Li—drunk as a lord and missing such a golden opportunity.”

“It’s all right. Didn’t His Majesty say he would summon Scholar Li another day?”

“One can only hope.”

Early the next morning, Li Bai, still bleary-eyed with drink, was roused by Du Zimei pouring cold water over him. Today, he was to report to the Ministry of Works for his post, and Gao Thirty-Five was to depart with General Wang, wishing to bid farewell.

After hearing them recount the events of the previous night, Li Bai burst into hearty laughter, sincerely happy for both Gao Thirty-Five and Du Zimei.

“Brother Li, you must seize this chance as well. When the emperor summons you, I hope you’ll restrain your sharp tongue a little,” Gao Thirty-Five advised, knowing Li Bai’s unrestrained nature. Though Li had not been blamed for offending the emperor the night before, Gao still felt the need to remind him: the last time Li Bai was exiled from the court, it was his wildness that incurred the consort’s wrath.

“Hahaha! If I restrained myself, I wouldn’t be Li Bai. Besides, I have my own way of handling higher-ups. Don’t worry about me, Brother Gao. Congratulations! After so many years, your wish is fulfilled, and your family’s spear technique can finally shine. Congratulations to you as well, Zimei.”

“Thank you, Brother Li,” the two replied in unison.

“Haha! Come, let’s go! I’ll see you off—we’ll break willow branches at Ba Bridge, and hope that when next we meet, we’ll all be clad in purple robes.”

Though Gao Thirty-Five remained uneasy about Li Bai’s boldness, Du Zimei cheerfully followed Li Bai as he strode ahead.

Within the palace, Gao Buyi too rose early. Today marked the first grand court audience of the new year and his own first time facing the legendary ministers and generals of the court, and he felt a stir of excitement.

“Hui’er, stay close to me. If I say anything amiss, remind me immediately.” He had instructed Shangguan Peihui thus countless times, yet could not help but repeat himself.

“I understand, Your Majesty. The sedan chair is ready; please prepare to depart.”

Gao Buyi nodded and walked to the palace doors, where he saw the so-called sedan was merely a soft palanquin borne by several sturdy palace women. He glanced at it, nodded, but chose not to ride—hands clasped behind his back, he walked toward Hanyuan Hall. “No need to trouble the ladies for these few steps,” he thought.

“Why does Your Majesty not ride the sedan?” Shangguan Peihui asked in a low voice as she followed.

“These old limbs need to move a little, and it’s not far to Hanyuan Hall. They can follow, and if I’m tired, I’ll sit.” He refrained from saying he didn’t wish to tire the women, fearing it might make their palace life awkward, so he found a casual excuse.

In the palace, everything required a reason that sounded plausible, lest others be left at a loss. Why make things harder for people? Sometimes a small white lie could solve a problem.

Upon reaching Hanyuan Hall, Gao Buyi was surprised to find the grand hall empty, unlike the bustling scenes depicted in television dramas.

“Hui’er, it’s almost time—where are the officials? Has the Crown Prince not arrived?” He was displeased; it seemed lax for the officials to be late to such an occasion.

“Your Majesty, the Crown Prince and all officials are assembled outside Hanyuan Hall, at the Sunlight and Moonlight Gates, awaiting your command to enter. Now you may summon them.”

He realized his mistake and couldn’t help but blush.

Turning to a nearby eunuch, he ordered, “Let them enter the hall.”

In truth, attending court in ancient times was no easy matter. As Zhang Ji wrote in “Morning Audience: To Gentleman Yan of the White Residence,” “The drum sounds before the rooster crows; weary horses tread frozen mud in the street. Dim candlelight sometimes strikes stone pillars; snow so deep one cannot make out the sandbanks.” This described the winter mornings when Tang officials hurried to court.

At dawn, just after the morning drum (around five o’clock), before the chickens had even crowed, officials would leave their homes in haste. They had to reach the Jianfu and Wangxian Gates outside Daming Palace before the fifth watch, waiting for the palace gates to open. Inside, broad avenues led north from these gates: the inner streets of Jianfu and Wangxian Gates.

At the north end of these inner streets lay the east-west Dragon Head Canal, with a grand avenue running along its southern bank. Crossing this avenue, the imperial bridges (also called “Dismounting Bridge” or “Golden Water Bridge”) spanned the canal. The east and west bridges aligned to the south with the inner streets, and to the north, they led to stone-paved walkways ascending to the east and west courts before Hanyuan Hall.

Only by traversing these walkways could officials reach the east and west courts before Hanyuan Hall, where they could finally shelter from the wind and cold; until then, they had waited in the open. Here, too, they assembled by rank.

Then, passing through the Dragon Tail Paths on the east and west sides of Hanyuan Hall, they arrived at the Tongqian and Guanzhang Gates beneath the eastern and western corridors, where they once more straightened their ranks. Civil and military officials then entered the Tongqian and Guanzhang Gates from the east and west, proceeding north to the Sunlight and Moonlight Gates on either side of Xuanzheng Gate, where they waited in silence for the emperor to appear around seven o’clock.

According to the Tang court records, originally, ceremonial regalia would be set in place on the hall before the emperor’s arrival. The emperor would enter from the west side door for the audience and leave by the east side door after the session, only then would the regalia be removed and the officials dismissed.

Later, a minister objected that the emperor’s departure at the end of court exposed him to the full view of the officials, diminishing his dignity. Thus, from Emperor Xuanzong’s reign onward, two large feather fans were held before the emperor as a screen when he entered; once he was seated, the fans were removed. At the end of the session, they reappeared, and only after the emperor had left could the fans be put away and the officials dismissed.

This is the true purpose of the two feather fans often seen in period dramas, carried laboriously by palace maids—not for show, but to serve as a ceremonial screen. Television, of course, embellishes for dramatic effect.

Earlier, Gao Buyi had entered through the west side door, and thus did not see the assembled civil and military officials waiting outside. During this time, all must remain silent, overseen by the palace censors. Private conversation would, at best, earn a rebuke and, at worst, be deemed an offense against the emperor—a grave matter indeed.

Even the arrangement within the hall was strictly regulated: only officials of the fourth rank and above—ministers and high-ranking generals—were permitted to kneel and sit in the hall. The Tang dynasty had rigorous requirements for kneeling posture, but, in audience, ministers and sovereign needed only to turn or twist their bodies to confer—a mark of openness and tolerance. Officials below the fourth rank had to stand throughout the session.