Chapter 1166: The New Luoyang, A Hermit of Mangshan

The Western Capital Luoyang, after more than a year of work, had essentially entered its final stage of renovation. The State Finance Commission had successively allocated 4.35 million strings of cash for the project's expenses — equivalent to one-tenth of the Great Han's current annual tax revenue. Besides officially assigned artisans, a total of 150,000 civilian laborers had been conscripted over the course of the work.

For what was merely a "repair," the court's investment of money and grain exceeded even the great renovation of Kaifeng. Of course, part of this was due to rising prices, but more importantly, when Kaifeng was renovated, the court had ruthlessly bled the wealthy merchants of the Eastern Capital.

As it turned out, under high standards and strict quality requirements, the cost of renovating a structure was not much cheaper than rebuilding it from scratch — in fact, it could be even higher, since demolition was also involved.

The renovated city of Luoyang was in truth much the same as before — traces of the past could be seen everywhere, and the original layout had not changed greatly. In terms of grandeur and magnificence, the Sui-Tang Luoyang was truly the pinnacle of Sui-Tang architecture, a brilliant pearl in the history of construction. After this round of repair and improvement, posterity might well have to call it the "Sui-Tang-Han Luoyang."

The government's investment in Luoyang's construction focused mainly on the palace city, the imperial city, the outer city, and various public facilities. Government offices, military barracks, workshops, granaries, roads, greenery, and underground drainage systems were all systematically improved.

Many of the old city walls and gates were demolished and rebuilt, but Uncle Imperial Murong's main energy was devoted to the reconstruction of Luoyang's palaces. What had been a regret in Kaifeng was realized in Luoyang. Murong Yanchao's core philosophy in overseeing construction was that everything must be majestic and magnificent, the layout grand, displaying the beauty of architecture, and worthy of the great Han Empire of today.

One advantage of renovation work was that much of the original building material could be reused, saving considerable expense on timber and stone.

However, several palaces were built entirely anew, with everything brand new. Among the new palaces, the main hall of the palace city was the most extravagant and ornate.

Years earlier, Emperor Liu had remarked that he felt the Chongyuan Hall in Kaifeng was too small and too low, and his uncle, increasingly obsessed with architecture, shared the same view. Thus, he poured twelve parts of enthusiasm into the construction of the main hall.

The final Luoyang main hall measured four hundred chi in length, three hundred chi in width, and one hundred ninety-two chi in height. Its grandeur and splendor might still fall short of the Bright Hall of the Wu Zhou era, but in the present age, there was no other hall like it in the world. Moreover, it carried none of that religious coloring — it existed solely to embody the majesty of imperial authority, used only for court audiences and grand ceremonies. Compared to it, the Hall of Supreme Harmony in the Forbidden City could only be described as a dwarf in the presence of a giant.

Emperor Liu named the completed Luoyang main hall the Qianyuan Hall. Having spent so much money and so much manpower and resources to create this marvel, Emperor Liu, who had always advocated simplicity and frugality, had unknowingly become the very thing he once despised.

Although he had repeatedly urged Murong Yanchao to control costs, economize on money and grain, and cherish the people's labor, once it actually came to execution, perfection was hard to achieve.

There were two supplementary appropriations alone, totaling 900,000 strings, and with a portion of the two-tax revenue from Luoyang and the capital circuit diverted as well, the cumulative expenditure reached that enormous sum. During the course of the project, casualties exceeded a thousand, with over two hundred deaths from various accidents, and there were many cases of laborers being overworked.

Under such circumstances, the censors and remonstrance officials at court naturally would not remain silent. Memorials impeaching and criticizing the Luoyang project were beyond counting.

When the matter reached Emperor Liu, he was silent for the first time. Though he issued an edict by his own hand reprimanding Murong Yanchao, harshly condemning the waste of money and grain and the exploitation of laborers in the project, the bulk of it was still demands for rectification — punishing those officials who sought quick success — while also ordering double compensation for the laborers who had been killed or injured.

Taking it this far was already nearly the limit. For a project so dependent on manual labor, how could it be possible to avoid all injuries and deaths? Emperor Liu was not so naive. He could only prevent foreseeable problems and strengthen supervision — nothing more.

While the government was undertaking major works on Luoyang, the officials and common people in the city also followed suit, repairing their own homes to harmonize with the government's prescribed layout. As with the earlier construction of Kaifeng, private residences were left to be built by their owners, with only unified requirements on architectural layout.

Uncle Imperial Murong seemed to be a man with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. The result was that, as in Kaifeng, Luoyang's architectural layout as a whole presented a strict hierarchy — official and commoner, noble and lowly, clearly stratified.

As the new Luoyang gradually took shape, Emperor Liu announced in the second month of spring in the sixth year of Kaibao (968) that he would travel west to Luoyang for an inspection. He also appointed Murong Yanchao as acting Governor of Luoyang.

At the foot of Mount Mang, where mountains and waters met, nestled among green trees, stood a bamboo hut. Outside the courtyard, a waterwheel turned with the wind, creaking as it spun, and flowers and trees were planted before the house. Above the door hung a plaque inscribed with two characters: "Zhao Hut."

The surrounding environment was secluded and elegant, with a distinctive charm — as if a reclusive master lived here. Only, this reclusive master's place of seclusion was a bit too close to the mundane world of Luoyang.

From within the bamboo hut came the sound of reading — a young, childish voice. A tall figure, holding a book in hand, paced about inside, watching over seven or eight small children seated there.

Broad-faced, with a long beard and a gray robe, he was steady and imposing — none other than the former Southern-Western Inspector, Zhao Pu. Since returning to Luoyang last winter for his mother's funeral and completing the mourning rites, Zhao Pu had built this thatched hut at the foot of Mount Mang to observe filial mourning. Perhaps out of loneliness, he had also summoned his three young children and the village children of suitable age from nearby farms to experience the work of teaching.

Zhao Pu's scholarship was not deep — but that depended on whom one compared him with. What he cultivated was statecraft and practical governance. In scholarship, there were plenty in the Great Han who surpassed him, but when it came to officialdom and getting things done, few could do better than Zhao Pu.

Moreover, in his early years, because of his insufficient learning, he had often been criticized while at Emperor Liu's side. In light of this, in his later years of office, Zhao Pu read widely and broadly — he simply did not seek deep understanding.

In later ages, the saying "half a Lunyu governs the world" made Zhao Pu's reputation, and many people assumed he had only read the Analects — which was utter nonsense.

Previously, when Emperor Liu was listening to Xue Juzheng lecture on the history of the Eastern Jin and the discussion turned to Shi Le, founding emperor of the Later Zhao, and his strategist Zhang Bin, he had compared Zhao Pu to Zhang Bin — which was itself a form of praise.

Now, having lived in this hut for several months, Zhao Pu had cultivated his character for this long. Though he appeared increasingly serene, inwardly he was like a cat scratching — unbearably itchy.

Zhao Pu was not a man who could sit still for long. If he were truly made to observe mourning for a year or more, he absolutely could not bear it. Thus, during this period, his body was in the mountains while his heart was in the court — he fretted over the affairs of the government, hoping that one day an imperial envoy would arrive bearing an appointment decree...