Chapter 039: The Legendary Tale

In the version where Lü Zhu appears, among the Four Beauties of ancient times, Wang Zhaojun and Zhao Feiyan are renowned, known by many. Ban Jieyu and Lü Zhu, however, are less famous, and among the four, Lü Zhu’s fame is the weakest. Ban Jieyu’s brother was Ban Gu, the celebrated author of the Book of Han. Ban Jieyu herself was an exceptional woman of talent—she continued writing where Ban Gu left off, though she too died before finishing the work. Later, her pupil Ma Xu completed it. Thus, the Book of Han we read today is the collective work of Ban Gu, Ban Jieyu, and Ma Xu.

As for Lü Zhu, I know she is counted among the Four Beauties, but little else. I only recall her husband was Shi Chong, and that she leapt to her death to preserve her chastity. The details, however, elude me.

“Sir, what would you like to hear?” Lü Zhu asked me with a gentle smile. “The era I lived in is utterly different from today—like heaven and earth apart.” There was a trace of melancholy in her smile. Indeed, the times she lived in cannot compare to the present, especially regarding the status of women, which has transformed completely. Nowadays, fearing one's wife has almost become a cherished tradition.

“Did you truly live in Golden Valley Garden?” I asked. According to history, Lü Zhu leapt to her death there, and I wanted to know if she truly died in that place. The Golden Valley Garden lies in the northwest of today’s Luoyang City. Although the grandeur of that estate has long vanished, to hear the tale directly from someone who lived it is thrilling.

“Indeed, I died in Lü Zhu Tower at Golden Valley Garden,” Lü Zhu replied, nodding.

So the historical records were not mistaken after all.

“Why did you leap from the tower? Was it for love?” I asked. I knew I shouldn’t be so direct, but curiosity overcame me. Lü Zhu’s death is often seen as a story of unwavering love.

“For love? No, I had no choice but to die,” Lü Zhu shook her head.

“No choice? Could you tell me about it?” I pressed.

She sighed softly.

“If you’d rather not say, I understand,” I hurriedly added.

“It’s nothing I mind sharing. It’s been over a thousand years—I’ve long let go,” she replied with a faint smile.

Indeed, a millennium erases all grievances and sorrows.

“Did you love him?” I asked.

“Love?” Lü Zhu was momentarily stunned, then shook her head. “In that era, women like me were but drifting duckweed, powerless to choose. Love hardly existed. For him… mostly hatred, I suppose.”

She spoke calmly, without any visible resentment.

Hatred—that felt right.

I never attended school as a child. My tutor taught me not only the classics but many historical texts as well, giving me a shallow understanding of Shi Chong.

Shi Chong—what can I say? In modern terms, he was a nouveau riche. No, not quite; he was a tycoon, the kind who would rank at the top of Forbes today. But he was also a scoundrel of the lowest character: despicable, arrogant, greedy, and utterly devoid of humanity.

While serving as Governor of Jingzhou, he robbed traveling merchants, amassing immense wealth and thus becoming obscenely rich. Once wealthy, his extravagance knew no bounds.

I once read stories about him in Anecdotes of the World.

Shi Chong’s bathroom was luxuriously built, stocked with perfumes and soaps for guests to wash their hands and faces. More than ten maids, dressed in splendid clothing, stood in line to attend guests. After using the bathroom, guests were asked to remove their old clothes and change into new ones, never to wear the originals again, making most too embarrassed to use the facilities.

The official Liu Shi, though poor in his youth, was known for his humility and diligence, and remained frugal even after attaining high office. When visiting Shi Chong’s home, he saw the lavish restroom and said, “I must have entered your private chamber by mistake.” Shi Chong replied, “That’s the bathroom!” Liu Shi laughed, “I can’t enjoy such luxury,” and found another place.

Competing in wealth and ostentation has existed since antiquity.

Shi Chong compared his extravagance with Wang Kai, the Emperor’s uncle. Wang Kai washed his pots with sugar water after meals; Shi Chong used candles as firewood. Wang Kai created a forty-li curtain of purple silk; Shi Chong made a fifty-li curtain of brocade. Wang Kai coated his walls with red stone paste; Shi Chong with peppercorns.

The Emperor secretly aided Wang Kai, gifting him a coral tree two feet high, with lush branches rarely matched. Wang Kai showed it to Shi Chong, who immediately smashed it with an iron scepter. Wang Kai was distressed, thinking Shi Chong jealous. Shi Chong said, “No need to be angry, I’ll compensate you.” He summoned his staff to bring out all his coral trees, some three or four feet tall, radiant and unmatched, with many more like Wang Kai’s. Wang Kai was left crestfallen.

There were countless stories like this.

Shi Chong was also infamous for executing beautiful women as punishment for not drinking. Whenever he hosted banquets, he had beauties pour wine for guests. If anyone refused, Shi Chong ordered their execution. The most notable incident was when Wang Dao and Wang Dun attended a banquet. Wang Dao, unable to drink, forced himself for fear Shi Chong would kill someone. Wang Dun, though able to drink, stubbornly refused, resulting in Shi Chong executing three beauties, yet Wang Dun remained unmoved.

Where is humanity in such actions? To kill for so trivial a reason—is this not treating people as objects?

From another perspective, women’s status in that era was abysmally low. Lü Zhu was merely one among Shi Chong’s many concubines—at best, a favored one.

I continued conversing with Lü Zhu and learned much more after a time.

Lü Zhu was, in fact, the final cause of Shi Chong’s downfall.

She was extraordinarily beautiful, skilled in flute and dance. Whenever Shi Chong held banquets, Lü Zhu performed, captivating all guests with her beauty. Her fame spread far and wide.

After Shi Chong lost power, an official named Sun Xiu seized the opportunity and demanded Lü Zhu from him. Shi Chong replied, “You may have any of my concubines, but Lü Zhu is my favorite—I cannot give her to you.” Enraged, Sun Xiu slandered Shi Chong before Sima Lun, the powerful Prince Zhao, urging him to execute Shi Chong. Sima Lun believed Sun Xiu and sent troops to arrest Shi Chong.

Shi Chong told Lü Zhu, “It is because I refused to give you to Sun Xiu that disaster has struck.”

In truth, Lü Zhu had been purchased for ten measures of pearls—she was Shi Chong’s property, belonging to him alone. She was also his pride, for her beauty was unmatched. At every banquet, Shi Chong showcased Lü Zhu’s singing and dancing, guests were enthralled, drooling over her. This was precisely the vanity of the nouveau riche.

Thus, Shi Chong could never truly love Lü Zhu, nor could she love him; perhaps there was a trace of affection, but not love.

Lü Zhu had no freedom with Shi Chong, facing a selfish, arrogant, greedy, and ruthless man, for whom killing was easy. Any hint of disobedience could mean death.

Shi Chong’s selfishness and greed drove him to extremes: “If I can’t have it, no one can.” Though he never explicitly demanded Lü Zhu’s death, the implication was clear.

Before Lü Zhu’s leap, Shi Chong said, “It is because of you, Lü Zhu, that I have offended the wicked. If not for you, I might have lived well. What will you do now?”

This was a threat. Lü Zhu had no choice but to jump; even if she didn’t, she likely wouldn’t survive.

After finishing my conversation with her, I silently sighed.

Lü Zhu’s leap was not for love, nor for romance.

It was for freedom—a desperate act born of hopelessness in her society, and in men.

“Ah…” Zhang Caiwei and Qi Guiyun, who had remained silent, sighed as well.

“Daybreak!”

Soon after, the sky brightened. Despite staying up all night, I felt no fatigue. After bidding Lü Zhu and the others farewell, I took up my compass and left the house.

I needed to quickly determine the cause—find out what trapped them here, unable to depart.