Chapter 1897: The Voices Below

For the imperial clansmen, meritorious nobles, and bureaucrats of the Great Han's central government, the Lantern Festival holiday of the twenty-sixth year of Kaibao was anything but peaceful. Before the joy and exhaustion of the Lantern Festival imperial banquet had even faded, their attention was seized by the matter of enfeoffing the princedoms.

The edict enfeoffing seven princedoms at once had not yet been formally issued, but with just a few details of the rumors circulating, after a brief period of fermentation, it stirred waves of reaction throughout the court and public sphere of the Western Capital.

Without consulting any outside ministers, the decision was settled solely through a private father-son talk on the night of the Lantern Festival, displaying as always Emperor Liu's high-handed arrogance in his old age, stripping the chancellors and all officials below them of any say in the matter.

Yet the matter of enfeoffing princedoms was not merely an internal affair of the imperial house—this was a great matter of conferring titles and honors, bearing on the grand strategy of the state and the stability of the altars of state. Even if, as Emperor Liu said, it was dividing up family property for his dragon sons and dragon grandsons, it still required utilizing state resources to accomplish. Under such circumstances, the empire's rulers themselves ought to have the right to speak.

And Emperor Liu's willful attitude in the matter of enfeoffment, his autocratic and arbitrary approach, clearly could hardly win people's hearts. After all, even if the princedoms were established, most of the subsequent implementation work would still have to be done by civil and military officials both inside and outside the court—relying solely on those dragon sons and dragon grandsons would make it very difficult to accomplish anything.

Of course, the ministers were not entirely opposed to Emperor Liu's enfeoffment proposal. They cared about only two points: where the enfeoffments would be located, and how they would be carried out. The first point was not much of a problem—aside from Andong, which left some room for discussion, the other regions listed on the maps provoked little controversy.

The key lay in the second point. Take Duke Liu Shu of Chu as an example: the enfeoffment regulations for Linyi (New Chu) had been tossed back and forth for the better part of a year before being settled. Every aspect, every rule and regulation, had cost the Hall of State Affairs tremendous effort to sort out. And according to Emperor Liu's requirements, the court would in the future invest sufficient personnel, money, and material resources to ensure the formal establishment of New Chu. The expenditure involved was all national strength—to put it bluntly, Emperor Liu was spending the state's wealth to indulge his personal feelings.

Setting aside everything else, just the personnel arrangements had given the Ministry of Personnel, led by Lü Duan, a considerable headache before a batch of suitable officials could be transferred to fill the posts. The New Chu matter was not yet finished when Emperor Liu dropped another bombshell—enfeoffing seven princedoms at once, every single one of them remote barbarian islands overseas.

Compared to the Linyi region, the situation of the newly enfeoffed states was clearly far more complex, and meeting Emperor Liu's requirements far more difficult. As for Linyi, no matter how you looked at it, it was "mature territory" that the court had actually occupied, suppressed, influenced, and controlled for over twenty years, with a crude but minimally functional military and administrative system. Even if it was difficult to manage, at least there was such a foundation to seek improvement and supplementation.

But what did the other places have? Some merchant and farming immigrants, scattered strongholds, sporadic towns and market villages—aside from Liangping Island (Singapore), there was not a single city of even rudimentary scale.

If these were to be treated as the conditions for enfeoffment, that was simply unrealistic. And given Emperor Liu's temperament, since he was establishing enfeoffed states, he would never settle for mere nominal existence, building a few empty princedoms with pleasant-sounding names. This meant that establishing enfeoffed states with actual governance would require the court to invest substantial resources in the future. Even a most basic, most crude system of governance and administration was not something that could be accomplished with mere talk. Just thinking about the distance of several thousand li made some conservative-minded ministers feel anxious and fearful.

Setting aside everything else, the tribal state organizations that had already formed on the islands of the South Seas were the first obstacle to be overcome. The Great Han's authority in the South Seas was growing daily, but first they were snatching food from others' bowls, and now they wanted to smash others' pots, seize their houses and lands for their own use. Even if those natives were ever so ignorant and backward, they would not easily yield.

As for hoping those barbarian peoples beyond the borders would yearn for imperial civilization and prostrate themselves before court edicts—the ministers currently in power in the Great Han court were not so pedantic. Once things went awry, mobilizing troops was inevitable. There was already one Anxi with troops fighting several thousand li away, and it had dragged on for years, with the war growing ever larger and the enemies ever more numerous.

The attrition on land had already bled the court dry. Adding a maritime "dual-pronged approach" on top of that—no matter how thick the Great Han's blood, it wouldn't be enough to keep flowing...

And once the princedoms were established, could the court interfere? Clearly impossible. Emperor Liu was, after all, not truly exiling his descendants—he still expected them to accomplish great things.

The Great Han court had never lacked men of foresight and conscience. In view of the many problems and hidden dangers in Emperor Liu's enfeoffment policy, loyal ministers and worthy scholars found it hard to sit idly by. Memorials of remonstrance flew like snowflakes toward the Hall of State Affairs, and all kinds of suggestions poured onto Emperor Liu's imperial desk. The perfectly good Lantern Festival holiday ended up busier than usual, with a cacophony of voices and utter chaos.

Of course, in their long dealings with Emperor Liu, the ministers who had been repeatedly whipped into shape had gained experience, and this time they had learned their lesson as well. Direct remonstration and outright opposition to His Majesty's decisions—aside from a few hard-headed fellows like Wang Yucheng—no one dared to do that anymore, especially in recent years.

Direct opposition was out of the question, but beating around the bush and making oblique insinuations—that had produced a dazzling array of methods. Emperor Liu had, after all, not closed the channels of remonstrance. And amid this tide of admonition, quite a few brilliantly written masterpieces had emerged. Some of the views expressed were not mere lofty talk from the pure-stream faction but genuinely contained a certain degree of insight.

When such a surge of public sentiment once again appeared at court, even Emperor Liu had to pay closer attention.

The spring chill had not yet faded. Inside Chuigong Hall, Emperor Liu, still in his thickened attire, stood before the map in his usual hunched posture, brows tightly knitted, expression somber.

Grand Academician Song Zhun attended at his side, head bowed, hands folded, cautious and careful, not daring to disturb Emperor Liu. Song Zhun was already fifty years old, but he remained as elegant and distinguished as he had been a dozen years ago, with an impressive bearing and a countenance that readily inspired goodwill.

Song Zhun was a zhuangyuan by examination. Thanks to his rich experience as a grassroots official, he had been given a substantive post immediately after passing the highest examination. He had once been one of the four attendant staff officers at Liu Yang's side. Later, when he was sent out to the provinces and promoted, he rose from prefectural posts, and before being summoned to the capital, he had already reached the rank of Deputy Administration Commissioner of the Jingxi Circuit.

Last winter he had been selected for transfer to the capital, and after Emperor Liu remembered him, he was directly summoned to serve at his side as Grand Academician, acting as Emperor Liu's secretary. Many people envied Song Zhun's fortune. The position of Grand Academician was clearly only a transitional stage—his future prospects were obviously bright, with a meteoric rise within reach. A man in his early fifties serving as a ministry or circuit chief—that was remarkable enough in the current Great Han political arena!

Not far away, on that grand bronze imperial desk, memorials were piled up like a small mountain. Some Emperor Liu had read, but most he had not, and he had no interest in reading them either. At any rate, they were nothing but critiques of current affairs and offers of advice—some even superficially respectful while secretly cursing the mulberry to scold the locust tree, using the past to satirize the present. That stench—Emperor Liu could smell it clearly...