The third month of the first year of Kaiyuan. Chang'an.
The wounded soldiers were brought in during the afternoon.
They were said to be transported from the northern territories to the capital, but the journey took too long, and several of them developed fevers, so they were urgently sent to the Imperial Medical Bureau. I originally did not intend to see them personally. For this level of injury and illness, handing them over to subordinates was enough. Having been on the throne for less than a year, the dental clinics had expanded from Chang'an to Luoyang, and from Luoyang to Yangzhou. There were dozens of documents to review every day.
Until the little medical officer ran to find me.
"Empress, something is not right."
I looked up at him. He had been at the Imperial Medical Bureau for three years, was quick and capable, and never made a fuss.
"What is not right?"
He hesitated for a moment, speaking slowly: "Their injuries... are too similar."
Too similar. I put down the booklet in my hand and stood up.
The Side Courtyard
The smell in the side courtyard was strong. Blood, medicine, and a faint sweet stench of decay. The spring sunlight shone from the corridor, making the faces of the wounded soldiers look deathly pale. There were seven of them in total. None were old, around twenty years of age, their skin roughened by the wind, no calluses on their hands—wait, there were calluses, but on the web of the thumb, not the palm. That came from gripping a blade, not a hoe. They were soldiers, not farmers.
I walked to the first wounded soldier and squatted down.
A knife wound, from shoulder to ribs, treated very cleanly. The edges of the wound were neat, and the suturing technique was consistent. I leaned in to look—the stitch spacing was about half an inch, with a knot every three stitches, the knot pressed to one side of the wound, not in the center. When I studied debridement and suturing in Vancouver, the professor said: the spacing of stitches varies from doctor to doctor. Some like them dense, some sparse. The position of the knot, some like it on the left, some on the right. This is a habit; it cannot be changed.
The row of stitches before me had almost identical spacing, and the knots were all on the right side of the wound. They were sutured by the same person.
I looked at the second one. The same stitch spacing, the same knot position.
The third. The fourth. The fifth.
I stood up, looking at these seven men. They came from different military garrisons, were injured at different times, and were treated in different medical offices. But their wounds looked like they were sutured by the same person.
I lowered my head to re-examine the first soldier's wound. This time I didn't look at the sutures, but at the medicine. The ointment was pale yellow, applied very thinly and evenly. I picked a little and rubbed it between my fingertips. Bletilla, Notoginseng, Burnet—common herbs for stopping bleeding and promoting tissue growth. But there was something extra. I leaned in and smelled it; there was a very faint sweetness. Honey. Bletilla mixed with honey has stronger adhesion, dries slower, and protects the wound for longer. This is a very refined usage. Not a technique a military doctor would use. Military doctors emphasize speed; Bletilla powder is sprinkled directly, wrapped with cloth, and on to the next. There is no time to mix honey.
Someone was treating them slowly. One by one. Using the best medicine, the finest technique, the most uniform stitches.
I stood up and changed my angle to look at the wound. The smell of medicine was faint, unlike the commonly used military herbs—military Bletilla and Notoginseng have a strong smell, potent effect, but leave deep stains. The medicine on these wounds was clean, light, and uniform, as if someone had carefully applied it, then carefully wiped it. Not that they didn't want to leave traces. They didn't want others to see the traces.
I gently pressed the edge of the wound; the soldier flinched violently.
"Pain?"
He nodded.
"How long has the wound been there?"
"Half a month."
Half a month. A half-month-old wound shouldn't be this painful. Unless—when suturing, the needle passed through healthy tissue but wasn't aligned well. Or, it was sutured too tightly, and blood couldn't flow through. Suturing too well is, conversely, not good. Like a person wearing shoes that are too tight, unable to walk far.
I had someone bring water. The soldier took the bowl, his hands trembling. He drank a sip, water leaking from the corner of his mouth, spilling all over him. When he opened his mouth to pant, I saw his teeth.
Gums red and swollen, locally ulcerated, edges blackened. Lower jaw, between the first and second molars, the gums had receded, exposing the tooth root, which had a layer of dark brown deposit. I gently pressed it with a cotton strip, and pus seeped out. The periodontal pocket was at least six millimeters. The alveolar bone had already been absorbed. This tooth could not be saved.
In Vancouver, periodontal disease has a grading system. The BPE scoring system, grades 0 to 4. Grade 0 is healthy, Grade 1 is gum bleeding, Grade 2 is tartar, Grade 3 is shallow periodontal pockets, Grade 4 is deep periodontal pockets, gum recession, and loose teeth. The person before me was at least Grade 3.
But that wasn't the point. The point was—he was Grade 3. I stood up and walked to the second wounded soldier.
"Open your mouth."
He opened his mouth. Gums red and swollen, locally ulcerated, edges blackened. Lower jaw, between the first and second molars, gums receded, exposing the tooth root. The exact same position as the first, the exact same degree. The third. The same redness, the same ulceration, the same blackening. The fourth. The fifth. The sixth. The seventh.
I stood there, not moving again. Seven men, same side of the mouth, same position, same degree. In Vancouver, this is called "excessive sample consistency." If it were a naturally occurring disease, it couldn't be this consistent. Someone was controlling their diet. Not for a day or two, but for months, even years. Not making them eat the same thing, but making them eat thesame bad thing. Bad enough that their teeth rotted into the same shape.
The little medical officer nearby whispered, "Empress, is it水土不服 (not acclimatized)?"
I shook my head. "No. Not being acclimatized wouldn't make seven men rot in exactly the same way."
"Then it is—"
"Long-term malnutrition. Lack of fresh vegetables, lack of meat, lack of grain. Long-term consumption of moldy old grain, stinking dried meat, inferior alcohol. These things, eaten for a long time, will break the body. Vitamins will be deficient. Gums will rot. Teeth will loosen. But in Fanyang, a military governor's soldiers shouldn't be like this." I paused, "Unless—someone is deliberately making them like this."
The little medical officer's face changed. "Why?"
"Because that way, they will obey." I looked at him, "A healthy soldier will think of home, will want to escape, will want to farm his own land. A soldier whose teeth are rotten, whose body is broken, who has no strength to run, no place to go—he will only listen to one person. The one who gives him food."
I slowly straightened up. "Record the teeth of all these men. Draw diagrams. Which position, what symptoms, how severe. Don't miss a single detail."
In the Shadows
The people dispersed. The side courtyard grew quiet. I stood in place, not leaving. The wind blew from the corridor, carrying the sweet scent of locust flowers and the bitterness of medicine. Spring in Chang'an was still so beautiful. But I felt cold.
On these men, four things were wrong. The wounds were too uniform, sutured too well, so well it didn't look like a military technique. The medicine was too clean, clean enough that they didn't want people to see traces. The dental disease was too consistent, so consistent it couldn't be natural. And—they didn't speak. Seven men, from the start of the examination to the end, not one of them spoke voluntarily. Answered only when asked, didn't speak if not asked. Like they were trained. Like they were told. Like they were already used to it, not answering any extra questions.
These four things together could only mean one thing: someone was managing them. And—managing them very meticulously. Not to a degree an ordinary commander could achieve.
I suddenly remembered that day in the Imperial Medical Bureau. That man who smiled so casually. He said: "Coarse grains, meat, lots of alcohol." He said his soldiers ate these things. I didn't expose him at the time. Now thinking about it—what he said was for his soldiers to hear. For the court to hear. For himself to hear. His soldiers weren't eating coarse grains; they were eating moldy old grain. Not meat, but stinking dried meat. Not alcohol, but inferior alcohol. Eaten for years, until their teeth rotted into the same shape.
If these soldiers were his, then what he held in his hands wasn't just soldiers. It was their lives. It was the rotting gums, the blackened roots, the controlled, identical illnesses in their mouths. It was their habit of not speaking.
Returning to the Palace
By the time I returned to the bedchamber, it was already dark. He sat on the couch, holding a memorial. Seeing me enter, he put down the memorial and stood up.
"Qingyan, what's wrong? Your face is so pale."
"I went to the Imperial Medical Bureau to see some wounded soldiers."
"Wounded soldiers?"
"From Fanyang."
He was silent for a moment. "An Lushan's soldiers?"
"Mm."
"Is there a problem?"
I looked at him. Twenty-six years old, on the throne for less than a year. He had already learned many things, but there was one thing he hadn't learned yet—how to face an enemy without evidence.
"Their wounds are sutured too well. Stitch spacing is the same, knot position is the same, the medicine used had honey added. This isn't a military technique. Someone was treating them slowly. One by one. Not wanting people to see traces."
He frowned. "Maybe it's a coincidence?"
"And their teeth. Seven men, same side, same position, same degree. Gums ulcerated, roots blackened, alveolar bone absorbed. This isn't a coincidence. This is caused by long-term consumption of moldy old grain, stinking dried meat, inferior alcohol. Eaten for years, teeth will rot like this. Rot into the same shape."
He leaned on the couch, not speaking. Moonlight from the window fell on his face. His brows were furrowed, exactly like when he had a toothache in the past.
"And?"
"And—they don't speak. Seven men, from the start of the examination to the end, not one of them spoke voluntarily. Answered only when asked, didn't speak if not asked. Like they were trained. Like they were told. Like they were already used to it, not answering any extra questions."
He stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open. The night wind from Chang'an blew from Zhuque Avenue, carrying the sweet scent of locust flowers.
"Qingyan."
"Mm?"
"I saw An Lushan in court again today."
"What did he say?"
"He said a lot. How he trains soldiers, how he fights wars, how he makes soldiers obey. He said he makes soldiers eat the same food, wear the same clothes, sleep on the same bedding. He said that way they will be like one person. Will only listen to one person's words." He paused, "I listened to his words and thought of those teeth you mentioned. The same ulceration, the same blackening, the same illness. This isn't obedience. This is being controlled."
Outside the window, the moon over Chang'an rose. Shining on Zhuque Avenue, shining on the entrance of the Chongren Ward dental clinic, shining on the West Market's Hu wine shop. Shining on the person who came from Fanyang. He probably wasn't asleep yet. He was probably calculating. Calculating whether the wounded soldiers were discovered, calculating whether their teeth were recorded, calculating how much longer he could hide it.
"Longji."
"Mm?"
"What do you plan to do?"
"Wait." He looked at me, "Wait for him to raise these soldiers into things that only listen to his words, that only live by him. Wait for him to feel the time has come. Wait for him to make a move."
"Aren't you afraid waiting will cause problems?"
"Not afraid." He took my hand, "I am still young. I can wait. And—" He paused, "I have you here. You recorded his teeth. You recorded his soldiers' symptoms. You recorded his techniques. When he makes a move, these will be evidence."
Outside the window, the moon over Chang'an was full and bright. Shining on this prosperous age he had just taken over. Shining on this enemy without evidence. But the evidence was being recorded page by page.
(End of Chapter 26)