Chapter Fifteen: The Mysterious Tomato

Xiao Hua watched as Yang Yaozong, munching on a tomato, made his way toward the main hall. She followed behind him, whispering, “Young Master, perhaps you should finish eating, wash your face and hands, and change your clothes before meeting the guest.”

Yang Yaozong glanced down at his wrinkled indigo tunic, noticing the patches dampened by plant sap and dew. He frowned and thought, “No need. Hasn’t he waited for me all morning? Perhaps there’s something important. Besides, I haven’t the time to amuse a child. This only shows how busy I am.” He spoke through a mouthful of tomato, his words muffled.

“Then… shall I put away the tomatoes you’re holding?” Xiao Hua grew anxious at Yang Yaozong’s indifference to his appearance.

“No need, no need. He’s in luck—he’ll get to taste them. Picked just this morning, he’s fortunate.” He glanced at the large, rosy tomato in Xiao Hua’s hand and said, “You put yours away. I saved the best for you. Wash it and eat it later—it’s delicious.”

Xiao Hua felt a gentle warmth bloom in her heart at his thoughtfulness. Her cheeks flushed as she replied, “Then I’ll go put this away and join you in the main hall.”

“Go on,” Yang Yaozong nodded.

Only as he reached the main hall did Yang Yaozong finish the last bite of his tomato. He found himself faced with a young boy, who gazed at him curiously, and behind the boy stood a burly man. Yang’s hands were sticky with tomato juice, but finding nothing suitable to wipe them on, he simply rubbed them against his tunic—a garment he wore when tending his plants—and thought little of it. Smiling, he walked up to the boy, set the tomatoes on the low table beside him, and, clasping his hands in a friendly gesture, said, “Thank you both for waiting. You’re truly in luck! These tomatoes were just picked this morning—the only ones of their kind in all of Great Zhou. Once you try them, you’ll want more.”

The boy had been watching Yang Yaozong eat ravenously as he entered, even wiping his hands on his own clothes. This was nothing like the learned and refined man he had seen before; he could hardly believe his eyes. He stared wide-eyed at Yang Yaozong, uncertain.

The burly man, having investigated Yang Yaozong before accompanying his young master to the Nangong estate, knew him to be a scholar who had married into the family. Now, seeing Yang Yaozong up close, he was surprised to find that, aside from his handsome looks and fair complexion, Yang bore none of the air of a scholar. He was open and unpretentious, which the man found much to his liking. Indeed, Yang Yaozong was more interesting than the curious fruits on the table. When Yang greeted them, the man quickly returned the gesture. However, when Yang addressed both him and the boy as “brothers,” he was startled and replied, “I wouldn’t dare.” Seeing that his young master took no offense, he relaxed, thinking, “Is this man truly a scholar?” He couldn’t help but study Yang Yaozong with fresh curiosity.

Despite his interest in the bright red, round objects on the table—surely the same thing Yang Yaozong had been eating so heartily—the boy refrained from touching them. He fixed his gaze on Yang Yaozong, as if seeking confirmation of his doubts. “Yang Yaozong?” he asked.

Yang Yaozong simply smiled and nodded.

The boy straightened up, adopting an air of authority. “Why did you lie to me and say your name was Yang Guo that day?” he demanded.

Yang Yaozong thought to himself, “You wouldn’t understand if I told you.” He sat down casually on the opposite side of the table and replied, “I gave you a false name, but you never told me yours. Yet you still managed to find me—that must be fate, don’t you think?” Suddenly recalling the ethereal lady he’d seen with the boy before, he lowered his voice mysteriously, “You must have sent someone to follow me—your magical, elusive aunt, isn’t that right?”

The boy was secretly pleased at first—no matter where Yang Yaozong ran, he could find him. But when Yang mentioned his aunt, remembering her gentle smiles only for him and her incomparable martial arts, the boy was both surprised and a little sympathetic. He whispered, “Don’t speak nonsense!” He was startled that Yang Yaozong had guessed the truth: his aunt had indeed investigated who Yang Yaozong was. He felt both pity for Yang’s audacity—calling his aunt ‘magical and elusive’—and a certain schadenfreude, thinking, “You’ll get your comeuppance for this one day.”

Yang Yaozong, noting the boy’s secrecy and expression, quickly scanned the hall, making sure only the two guests were present. He then looked seriously at the boy, coughed deliberately, and said loudly, “Your aunt is extraordinary—peerless in beauty and martial skill. To be noticed by her is a great honor.” He then raised his eyebrows at the boy, signaling, “She isn’t on the roof, is she?” The memory of his first encounter with the “celestial maiden” flashed through his mind.

As Yang Yaozong scrutinized the hall, the boy and the burly man did the same. The man, though ignorant of whom Yang referred to, sensed something amiss. The boy, however, understood perfectly. When Yang praised his aunt and signaled with his eyes, he glanced upward, then pursed his lips and nodded, as if to say, “She might very well be up there.” The burly man, confused by their actions, also looked up but saw nothing unusual.

The boy, evidently unwilling to discuss his aunt further, redirected the conversation. “Yang Yaozong, what are these?” he asked, pointing to the tomatoes on the table.

Though the tomatoes were tempting, Yang Yaozong’s curiosity about the “celestial maiden” was stronger—he kept sneaking glances at the roof, though he saw nothing. “Oh, that’s a tomato,” he replied. “It’s a vegetable—you can eat it raw. It’s sweet and sour, very tasty. Try some, both of you. A friend and I grew them, and only harvested a small basket. I saved a few for myself, but the rest will be kept as seeds for next year.”

The boy’s eyes glowed with interest as he eyed the tomatoes, recalling how voraciously Yang Yaozong had eaten. Yet he remained hesitant.

Sensing the boy’s shyness, Yang Yaozong laughed, picked up a tomato, wiped it on his tunic, and took a juicy bite, the sound of him sucking the fruit filling the room. He held out the bitten tomato for the boy to see. “See? The flesh inside is bright red and juicy—the yellow seeds are what you plant.” Then he tossed a large tomato to the burly man. “Brother, you try one too.”

The burly man caught it, saw the boy nod, and smiled at Yang Yaozong. “Then I won’t stand on ceremony.” He too wiped it on his clothes and bit in, albeit with a larger mouthful—the juice squirted out, and he hurriedly bent over to slurp it up, looking sheepish. After swallowing, his eyes widened in delight. “This is truly delicious!” he exclaimed, finishing in a few quick bites.

The boy, encouraged by the burly man and Yang Yaozong’s eager gaze, selected the finest tomato from the table, took out a white handkerchief to polish it, and, blushing, bit into it as Yang had done. His eyes sparkled as he nodded. “This tomato is truly delicious! Yang Yaozong, I was right about you—you really can grow something so tasty!” He resumed eating with gusto.

Yang Yaozong rolled his eyes inwardly. “Whose son is this, I wonder? He speaks and acts so politely—he must be from a prominent family. But is growing tomatoes really enough to earn his approval? I’m more curious why he’s so interested in me.” He asked, “Young sir, you seem very happy to have found me and waited so long, but I still don’t know who you are. Why did you seek me out?”

The boy, caught off guard by the question, paused mid-bite. “I nearly forgot my purpose here—thanks to all your distractions!” He swallowed the sweet and sour juice, composed himself, and said, “I am Jing Sheng, the emperor’s grandson and crown prince. I mentioned you to His Majesty, and he wishes to see you. I came to inform you that someone will escort you to the palace tomorrow for an audience.”

Yang Yaozong was stunned when the boy revealed his identity. He had suspected the boy was of noble birth, but not this noble—the sole heir to the throne. And now the emperor himself wanted to see him? Though Yang had met many important officials in his previous life, that had been in the line of duty. This was different—he had met the boy only once, and had never seen the emperor. The boy must have investigated him before speaking to the emperor. But what exactly had he said to prompt such a summons? Yang’s mind whirled. The first, and most likely, reason that came to mind was that the original owner of his body was the son of a disgraced official—was this retribution from the emperor himself? A cold sweat broke out on his back at the thought. But then he reasoned, “That can’t be. I’m now married into the Nangong family, with no prospects or ambitions. Besides, Nangong Zhan and Nangong Qingyi still guard the borders—the emperor has no reason to punish me.” He calmed himself, poured a cup of tea, and took a sip to soothe his parched throat before asking as calmly as he could, “May I ask, Your Highness, what did you say to His Majesty that prompted him to summon me?”

The burly man was amazed that Yang Yaozong, upon learning he sat beside the crown prince, didn’t immediately kneel and pay homage, nor did he seem excited to be summoned by the emperor. Instead, he remained calm, poured himself tea, and questioned the prince as if it were nothing. He had found Yang Yaozong’s manner open and approachable, nothing like a pedantic scholar, and liked him all the more for it—but now, he grew anxious on his behalf. Yet, seeing the prince unfazed by Yang’s behavior, he relaxed again.

Jing Sheng had expected Yang Yaozong to be awed or at least startled by his name and news, but Yang remained serene. Accustomed to deference, the prince found Yang’s attitude refreshing and even admirable. He replied, “I recited the poem you composed to my imperial grandfather—the emperor.”

Yang Yaozong frowned in confusion. “Poem?”

Jing Sheng nodded. “The one you recited at the tea house during the Red Temple Festival.” He began to recite in a singsong voice:

“Mists shroud the cold waters, the moonlight bathes the sand;
At night, moored by Qinhuai, near the taverns afar.
The singing girls know nothing of the nation’s fall,
Across the river, ‘The Flowers of the Harem’ still wafts through the air.”

Watching the boy’s dramatic recitation, Yang Yaozong thought, “Heavens! Are people in this era all blessed with such sharp ears and memories? I recall muttering that poem under my breath! And then, thinking of the nimble ‘celestial maiden,’ perhaps people here are truly different from those in my previous life. I’ll have to be more careful from now on.” For the first time, a real sense of alarm crept over him.

Jing Sheng noticed Yang Yaozong’s startled expression, but didn’t realize it was the poem, not the imperial summons, that had unsettled him. Smiling, he reassured him, “Don’t worry. The emperor is kind and amiable. Just answer his questions honestly and you’ll be fine—no need to be nervous.”

Yang Yaozong nodded, clasped his hands, and bowed to the crown prince. “Thank you for your guidance, Your Highness.” Inwardly, he grumbled, “Of course your grandfather is kind to you! But as the saying goes, to serve the ruler is to walk with a tiger. I only wish for a peaceful, carefree life—why did I have to meet you? What ill fate!” He could only weep inside.

Jing Sheng, seeing Yang Yaozong bow again, took it as a sign of friendship and was pleased. “When you meet the emperor tomorrow, don’t greet him as you do me today. I’m happy you treat me as a friend, but with the emperor, such informality would be a grave offense.”

Yang Yaozong was suddenly reminded that, in this era, one must kneel and kowtow before superiors. He felt grateful that today’s guest was the young prince, who didn’t mind his lapses in etiquette and even kindly reminded him how to behave at court. The more he looked at the crown prince, the more likable he found him, and he was relieved that he hadn’t yet fully slipped into the customs of this world.

Compared to the joy of harvesting fruit that morning, the events that unfolded now left him far more shaken than delighted.