Chapter 2062: Taizong Chronicles 4: The Final Farewell

Liu Yang had anticipated facing some troubles at the start of his succession, yet some troubles still arose beyond his expectations. He could never have imagined that even the burial date of the late emperor would require a struggle with certain ministers.

A group of people cited the old rite of "the Son of Heaven is encoffined after seven days and buried after seven months," even using the burial date of Gaozu Liu Gao as an example — after all, that had been delayed for nearly a year — to suggest that Liu Yang bury the late emperor the following year.

Such advice naturally ran contrary to Liu Yang's wishes. In his view, a hundred days was sufficient. The important reason behind the seven-month burial was the construction of the tomb, but the late emperor's high mausoleum had long since been completed. Why rigidly adhere to old regulations, wasting time for nothing and leaving the imperial coffin to gather dust in Chuigong Hall?

This was a clash of two philosophies, a struggle between two positions. Liu Yang's own thinking was simple: to complete the funeral rites as quickly as possible on the basis of thoroughness and perfection, thereby restoring the empire to normal order and returning peace to officials and commoners alike.

That was the public side; on the private side, he naturally wanted to end the transition period between old and new as quickly as possible, move up the enthronement date, and grasp the full power of the emperor as soon as possible.

As for the ministers advocating the "seven-month burial," their intentions were not complicated either — merely the opposite of Liu Yang's. They wanted to stretch out this transition period as long as possible, preventing the new sovereign from quickly and completely grasping the empire's power, thereby giving themselves more opportunities to wield authority during this time.

This was almost an instinct — a challenge from ministerial power against imperial power. In the past, when the late emperor was alive, there were occasionally those who dared to cause trouble. Now that the shadow overhead had dispersed, they naturally wanted to strut about and probe the depths of this new emperor.

Among those submitting memorials were quite a few pedantic scholars and great Confucians from the Three Institutes and the Hanlin Academy. Their jumping out was hardly surprising — Liu Yang could even understand it to a certain degree. After all, the late emperor had never listened to them, and while he was Crown Prince, Liu Yang had expressed a certain affinity and approval for Confucian thought and doctrine. It was not strange that they would bring out some things to try to convince this new sovereign.

But through this affair, Liu Yang's goodwill toward those classical thoughts and doctrines took a severe hit. Those ideas certainly contained ways to govern the state, pacify the realm, and control ministers and subjects, and one could discern from them the reasons for a dynasty's rise and fall.

But equally, they could be used to constrain, restrict, and even suppress the emperor and imperial power. Their set of rites was appropriate for binding ministers and subjects, but for constraining the emperor himself — Liu Yang was not like the late emperor; he had a certain degree of self-restraint, but he equally disliked such coercive methods.

Those who were pedantic, stubborn, and clinging to outdated remnants were not the frightening ones. What was frightening were those with ulterior motives who borrowed the ritual system to probe at imperial power — these were the ones Liu Yang had to guard against.

The first to astonish Liu Yang was none other than Vice Director of the Secretariat Xin Zhongfu. This Kaibao-era veteran minister and close friend of Zhao Pu was practically the ringleader, explicitly endorsing the "seven-month burial." His words were earnest yet fierce, even giving Liu Yang the feeling that if it weren't seven months, he, as the heir, would be unfilial.

When he had previously held power, sovereign and minister had worked together harmoniously, complementing each other well. Liu Yang had even praised him for being shrewd, capable, and diligent in state affairs.

Now that this matter had arisen, Liu Yang could not help but sigh deeply — in times of great upheaval, all hearts change. Once the late emperor was gone, those people and matters he had suppressed all raised their heads again. At present it was merely a burial date issue that had dragged out so much strife; who knew how many disputes and struggles would come at him in the future.

Facing this situation, Liu Yang's attitude was, as always, consistent and resolute. From these ministers' attitudes toward this matter, Liu Yang could not feel any respect for him as emperor. This had to be suppressed.

But this time, he did not act with sole imperial decisiveness as he had with matters like the honorific title and temple name, forcibly quashing dissent. He could see that future disturbances would not be few. If he had to personally wade in and exert himself every time, then being emperor would be exhausting and busy indeed.

The key point was that Liu Yang was not without foundations. What he had accumulated over more than thirty years as Crown Prince, the experience honed during that time — that too was unfathomably deep.

He only needed to show a hint of a signal, and a large wave of people would rise up to debate those "restoring the rites" types. Ministers such as Li Fang, Han Hui, Kou Zhun, Xu Shilian, Wang Dan, and Lu Zongdao — when these people united, their combat effectiveness went without saying. Especially Li Fang — discussing Confucianism, expounding on rites and doctrine — setting aside professional competence, his personal prestige alone could overwhelm a crowd.

And so, after an overwhelming victory, Emperor Liu Yang very humbly accepted the advice, and the late emperor was buried on the thirtieth day of the winter month in the thirtieth year of Kaibao.

A dispute over a burial date had stirred the entire court into an uproar, prompting Liu Yang to engage in deep reflection. He reflected on himself, and also on the empire's seemingly perfect regulations. Setting everything else aside, the imperial funeral system alone could hardly be called perfect. In the final analysis, it came down to lack of experience — even counting the late emperor, since the founding of the dynasty, there had only been two such occasions.

Facts proved that no matter how much was written in the regulations, when it came to implementation, there were still many inappropriate places. After all, every era and every emperor faced different situations.

Therefore, the regulations should ensure the safety and stability of the state and society during the succession of imperial power and the transition between old and new. One absolutely could not cling to outdated remnants — stability above all. This was the conclusion Liu Yang drew from this matter.

Liu Yang had long harbored intentions to reform the Great Han Empire, but he could never have imagined it would start with the funeral system.

……

In Luoyang in the autumn of the thirtieth year of Kaibao, aside from the city draped in white mourning and the prolonged prohibition on entertainment and alcohol, the most common sight was probably the continuous stream of nobles, officials, generals, representatives of various peoples, and foreign envoys from all corners of the empire.

Regardless of identity or origin, their purpose was one: to pay respects to the late emperor. Even those retired and honored Qianyou-era veterans and Kaibao-era meritorious officials — as long as they could still move — all gathered in the capital. Luoyang had truly not been this lively in many years. Such was the stir caused by the late emperor's passing.

Mourning was certainly the main reason for this gathering of luminaries, but there were clearly no shortage of those harboring other intentions. The succession of imperial power and the transition between old and new were truly ripe for opportunism, for anyone who still harbored political ambitions. With many mouths comes much noise, and so the late emperor's funeral became a political performance show for some — and one could not even reproach them. Who would dare blame "loyal and upright" men for expressing their mourning and remembrance of the late emperor? What ulterior motive would that suggest?

Amid the overall atmosphere of grief, there were also some discordant notes — not limited to the empire's upper-class nobles with their endless scandals, but also including the common people of the lower and middle strata. During the national mourning period, one could not drink alcohol, could not visit brothels, could not hold any gathering activities, crimes committed during this period were punished one degree more severely, one could not marry, and one could not even hold a grand funeral if someone in the family died, lest it clash with the imperial hearse.

Such prohibitions were proper for three to five days, and tolerable for ten days to half a month. But once they exceeded a month, gossip, resentment, and complaints began to surface. Even if people feared the spies of the Palace City Office and the informants of the government offices and dared not speak aloud, cursing a few times in their hearts was unavoidable. And who would they curse? Other than the imperial court, the government, and the meat-eating nobles, who else was there?

Naturally, there were — including the imperial house itself, including the late emperor who had been lying in the mourning hall for two months. The change in people's hearts was as if the scene when the imperial coffin first returned to the capital — when hundreds of thousands of scholars and commoners mourned and wailed, their cries shaking the heavens — had been nothing but falsehood.

It had to be said: the people of the Great Han were the most industrious, the most simple, and the most tolerant of all the peoples under heaven — but equally, they were also the most heartless and the most forgetful.

Of course, the new emperor Liu Yang had not been deaf to the harsh and even pathological prohibitions during the national mourning period, nor was he without opinions on them. It was just that he could not rashly raise the matter at present, and more critically, he truly had no time or energy to attend to such trivial details.

Just like at this moment — upon hearing the news that the Prince of Zhao, Liu Fang, was returning to the capital, Liu Yang immediately became attentive. After inquiring about his itinerary and dates, he specially dispatched Zhao Mingde, Duke of Lu, to go west and receive him. Zhao Mingde was the son of the late Zhao Kuangzan, Duke of Lu, and the elder brother of the Prince of Zhao's wife.

Toward Liu Fang, Liu Yang did not actually harbor such strong wariness. At this point, he had already succeeded to the throne, and the sovereign-subject distinction was thoroughly established — he was not afraid that Liu Fang would threaten his imperial position. But to be perfectly honest, among the late emperor's sons, setting aside the always well-behaved second legitimate son, Yan Gong Liu Zhao, the Prince of Zhao, Liu Fang, was indeed the one who posed the greatest threat to Liu Yang's throne.

Being unafraid was one attitude and bearing, but smoothly and peacefully getting through this critical phase was also what Liu Yang hoped for. Even those dukes, nobles, civil officials, and scholars could stir up so much trouble and strife — how much more so the Prince of Zhao, with his considerable prestige and brilliant military record? Even if Liu Yang believed that Liu Fang would not do anything unwise, he still had to guard against it. No one knew what kind of shock the late emperor's death had dealt Liu Fang.

Of course, what truly made Liu Yang uneasy was the edict issued before the late emperor's death. No matter how one interpreted it, it carried an air of the unusual. Since the three kingdoms of Anxi had been enfeoffed, and Liu Fang was among them, why had he been separately summoned back to the capital? What was the purpose?

What the late emperor's intention had been in doing this — perhaps only heaven knew. But it had left a trace of awkwardness between the new sovereign and his brother.

As for the Prince of Zhao, Liu Fang — from Jinling to Suyab was a distance of nearly ten thousand li. It was only at the end of the sixth month that the Anxi Protectorate General received the urgent transmission of the enfeoffment edict, along with the order summoning him back to court.

In the late emperor's enfeoffment plan, the Prince of Wei, Liu Min, unquestionably enjoyed the richest fruits. With Suyab, Dzhambul, and Taraz as the core, including the Issyk-Kul basin, Bishkek, Otrar, Tashkent, and Khujand — the cream of the Anxi Protectorate General's territory — all were allocated to the Kingdom of Anxi.

As for the Duke of Liang, Liu Ye's Kingdom of Kangju, he was enfeoffed with the three cities of Fergana, Uzgen, and Khujand in the southwestern region of the former Kara-Khanid state. Although the valley where these three cities sat was also an east-west thoroughfare, its territory was not extensive, and its population had been nearly wiped out by the original war of annihilation and the sustained, brutal counterinsurgency operations. It was now in a state of desolation and backwardness, requiring an extremely long recovery period. In light of this, the late emperor had generously drawn from the Gaochang Circuit, also allocating the Shule region to its southeast to the Kingdom of Kangju.

Shule had once been the capital of the Kara-Khanids. In the early years, when they were bullied by the Samanid Dynasty, it was precisely from this place that they had developed and turned things around. The religious war against Khotan had also used this place as a base, and over the past years it had recovered quite well. With this kind of enfeoffment from the late emperor, Old Thirteenth had clearly come out far ahead.

In comparison, Liu Fang's Kingdom of Beiting seemed stingy. The late emperor had enfeoffed him with the northeastern region of the former Kara-Khanid state, where the territory was filled with nomadic barbarian tribes and had only one city — Yang City (the Yijiwugu City taken by Yang Yanzhao's thousand-li lightning raid). Although the Ili River flowed through it and to the north lay Lake Balkhash, it was ultimately still an economically and culturally backward, uncivilized barbarian land.

Such an allocation clearly did not match the Prince of Zhao, Liu Fang's, status within the Great Han Empire. This seemed to explain in part why the late emperor had summoned him back to court. And Liu Fang was evidently willing — after confirming the division of territory with his brothers Liu Min and Liu Ye, he led his retinue eastward.

Originally, his pace was unhurried, as he surveyed the geography, customs, military affairs, and politics of Anxi and Gaochang along the way, even finding leisure to enjoy the scenery. But before he had even left the jurisdiction of the Gaochang Circuit, all his composure and leisure vanished — the news of the late emperor's death had finally spread to the far northwest.

Liu Fang's feelings for his father were as deep as could be. More importantly, unlike his three elder brothers who each harbored their own schemes, Liu Fang had always maintained a childlike sincerity, having worshipped the late emperor for decades. One could imagine what a devastating state he was in upon suddenly hearing the tragic news — it was almost a despair of faith collapsing.

Spurring his horse and cracking his whip, he flew eastward. Even with the utmost haste and extreme compression of rest time, by the time Liu Fang returned to Luoyang, it was already September. The Prince of Zhao's former bearing, dignity, and heroic magnanimity were gone. Upon reaching the imperial city, he did not go to pay respects to Liu Yang, but went straight to Chuigong Hall, where the mourning hall was located.

When Emperor Liu Yang arrived at Chuigong Hall, he saw everyone standing in silence, grief in their eyes — for Liu Fang's wailing was so desolate that it made listeners sorrowful and hearers weep.

Before the imperial coffin, the Prince of Zhao, Liu Fang — face covered in dust, skin dark and sallow, stubble in disarray — was lying prostrate on the spirit platform, wailing bitterly. His heartrending state defied description in words.

Seeing this, Liu Yang could not help but be moved. He knew Liu Fang's temperament — others might put on a show, but Liu Fang had always been open and upright. Stepping past the bowing crowd, Liu Yang walked to Liu Fang's side, reached out a hand, paused in midair for a moment, then gently patted his back, saying in a trembling voice: "Fourth Brother, Father is gone. He would not want to see you like this. Grieve in moderation — do not cry yourself sick."

At Liu Yang's words, Liu Fang cried even harder, even kneeling and kowtowing forcefully, making the floor of the hall thud with each impact.

Seeing this, Liu Yang became anxious. He knelt down as well, forcibly grabbing hold of him, and then the two brothers embraced. Liu Fang's crying did not stop, and Liu Yang too shed tears. Soon, the entire Chuigong Hall was filled with weeping.

After all, when His Majesty the Emperor and His Highness the Prince of Zhao were both crying, how could everyone else just stand there watching? But compared to the others' play-acting, for the Prince of Zhao, Liu Fang, his grief truly defied expression.

It was not until evening that Emperor Liu Yang returned to Chuigong Hall. When alone, the corners of his mouth rarely curved into a slight smile. Had he not been genuinely relieved, he would never have made such an untimely expression.

The reason was simply that the Prince of Zhao, Liu Fang, after his mourning wails, had solemnly performed the great sovereign-subject ritual toward Liu Yang, addressing him as "Your Majesty." Whether Liu Fang's display was genuine or not, at least in the short term, before his formal enthronement, there should be no trouble stirred up. This gave Liu Yang's recently strained nerves a slight measure of relief.

On the thirtieth day of the tenth month in the thirtieth year of Kaibao, the imperial coffin of Emperor Shizu was carried out for burial, interred in the high mausoleum deep in Mang Mountain — signifying that the Great Han Empire had bid a final farewell to its true founder.

From this point onward, the Great Han would formally usher in a brand-new era.