Chapter 2092: Taizong Chronicles 34: This Jiaqing Day, Touring the Southwest

In the third year of Yongxi (995), on the seventh day of the third month of spring, the patrol soldiers within Luoyang city and the various shift laborers of the Luoyang Prefecture all mobilized together to maintain public order.

Such commotion was not due to some sudden major incident causing the city to be placed under martial law; on the contrary, at this time Luoyang city was filled with peace and harmony, stability and prosperity. From markets to neighborhoods, streets to alleys, everything was enveloped in a festive atmosphere.

The emergency rescue personnel specially established in response to the "Eastern Capital Explosion" incident were all deployed into the streets and markets to conduct public security and fire prevention patrols, leading the clerks of each office to inspect every neighborhood under their jurisdiction, going door to door to remind and educate residents about fire safety.

This day was the Jiaqing Festival, one of the five major festivals, so it was perfectly normal for the government to have some special preparatory measures.

Counting the time, a full forty-plus years had passed since the birth of the "Jiaqing Festival." Over such a long period, with the continuous reinforcement and promotion by the authorities, it was enough to truly enter every household and become integrated into the festive life of the Great Han people. After all, there were too many common folk of the Great Han who, due to natural disasters, man-made calamities, epidemics, and other unforeseen factors, would not need forty years to complete their entire lives.

And as the Jiaqing Festival passed through these forty-plus years, tremendous changes had occurred in both its festive connotation and its celebratory forms.

The establishment of the Jiaqing Festival was, it must be said, somewhat accidental. A portion of officials, following the precedents of previous dynasties, submitted memorials requesting to celebrate the Emperor's birthday. At that time, Emperor Shizu, who had only recently consolidated the Great Han regime, needed to further establish his own authority, so he accepted advice with open arms and designated his birthday as the Jiaqing Festival.

Initially, it was confined to within the palace and the imperial court. Gradually, as Emperor Shizu's authority grew more solid and his achievements towered above all, with the active promotion of the Pacification Commission, official celebratory activities began to spread outward to the common people. After all, with a sage sovereign on the throne, all subjects under heaven should and would want to share in the Emperor's auspiciousness and good fortune.

Every festival has its own characteristics and its distinctive markers, and the Jiaqing Festival was no exception. After so many years of evolution, compared to simply celebrating the Emperor's birthday, the Jiaqing Festival had become more like a blessing-praying festival.

Every year on this day, any household of the Great Han's gentry and commoners with the means would bathe and cleanse themselves, change into new clothes, burn incense and pray. Various localities also held many worship activities on this day, with the gentry and commoners actively participating. The forms of blessing-praying were diverse—flying paper kites, releasing river lanterns, performing ritual dances, and so on—very rich indeed.

As for the objects of the Great Han people's blessing-prayers, they were equally numerous, and the court had no mandatory regulations in this regard. Therefore, whether it was ancestral spirits, Heaven and Earth, immortals, Buddhas, or great deities, as long as they were not licentious shrines or evil gods explicitly prohibited by the court, all were permitted to be worshipped.

After Emperor Shizu's passing, it almost became an unwritten rule that he became a deity that officials and commoners alike must worship. It was rather poignant—when Emperor Shizu was alive, the reverence of officials and commoners may not have been all that sincere, yet after his death, people prayed and worshipped him from the bottom of their hearts, hoping to receive his protection.

Perhaps in the simple understanding of the common folk, only by shedding the limitations of flesh and body could Emperor Shizu's soul become immortal, truly benefit all things, and protect and bless every sincere subject.

Of course, those who sought the Buddha and pursued the Dao still formed the majority. In such a social atmosphere, the Jiaqing Festival also became an important celebration for both Buddhism and Daoism. Every year on this day, Buddhist temples and Daoist observatories inside and outside the capital would throw open their gates wide, hold grand dharma assemblies, preach the Dao, and awaken souls to save the world.

Especially the Unobstructed Assembly at the White Horse Temple and the Heaven and Earth Dharma Assembly at the Purple Gold Observatory—these often gathered tens of thousands of people, with believers converging in droves. During this process, the incense money of each temple would inevitably multiply several-fold, even tenfold, compared to usual.

This year was even more unusual. The White Horse Temple had invited the wandering Chan master Guangji to preach. Master Guangji's origins could no longer be verified; all that was known was that he had studied Buddhism for twenty years, then traveled the world visiting Buddhist and Daoist sites, painstakingly seeking the Great Dao for over forty years without ever stopping his steps, having gone as far as Khotan and Anxi.

Of course, due to his profound Buddhist knowledge and solid "professional qualifications," obtaining the "practice certificate" granted by the court was a matter of course—and it was even the highest-grade gold booklet stamped with dragon patterns issued by the Imperial Observatory.

In contrast, Daoist Master Ziyang of the Elixir Cauldron Sect also appeared at the Purple Gold Observatory. This Master Ziyang was naturally also an extraordinary person. It was said that he had cultivated the Dao on Mount Hua for thirty years, longing to meet Patriarch Chen Tuan but failing to do so. However, his thirty years of immense perseverance ultimately moved the Patriarch. One day, as purple qi came from the east, the Patriarch transmitted the Dao to him in a dream, bestowing upon him the true chapters of the Great Dao.

And then things snowballed. Although the Daoist sects were numerous and fragmented, like a plate of loose sand, because of his several connections with Emperor Shizu, Patriarch Chen Tuan's status in the hearts of Daoists throughout the realm remained extremely lofty.

Therefore, Master Ziyang, who was rumored to have received the Patriarch's true transmission, naturally rose in prominence along with the tide. However, one point that must be mentioned is that this Master Ziyang only began to emerge from Mount Hua after Emperor Shizu's passing—the reasons for which were quite thought-provoking.

But regardless, the infusion of Buddhist and Daoist culture also enriched the connotation of the Jiaqing Festival, giving it a foundation to be passed down for even longer.

With such a Jiaqing Festival, with official and civilian gatherings of all sizes clustering together, how could the Patrol Inspection Bureau and the Luoyang Prefecture not be tense? Public security and order were one concern, but fire prevention was the top priority.

Whenever there were sacrificial activities, open flames were bound to run rampant, which made it easy for fires to break out. This was a lesson summed up from years of lives and property losses by the officials and people of Luoyang.

But no matter how much they guarded against it, no matter how much they publicized it, what was destined to happen would happen anyway. The government could not possibly look after the million-plus population inside and outside Luoyang.

Thus, the Lüxin Ward in the southeastern part of the city suddenly broke out in a major fire. Fortunately, the patrol soldiers reacted quickly enough, rushed to the scene, and organized firefighting and rescue efforts, preventing an even greater disaster. Even so, three to five households were affected, and seven or eight people, young and old, suffered burns.

And in the streets and markets, the small fires and minor incidents that were quickly extinguished were too numerous to count. The busiest people inside and outside the city, bearing the greatest pressure, were probably the patrol inspectors and the prefectural soldiers and laborers rushing back and forth on their rounds.

The Great Han Empire, shrouded in the haze of everyday life, certainly did not have every place as prosperous and bustling as the two capitals. But whether in cities, towns, or villages, under the same festive customs and the same acts of prayer and sacrifice, an implicit resonance was achieved.

This was also a kind of cultural identification that moistened things silently—identification with the empire. The rule of the Great Han court, through such habitual normalcy, seeped into people's hearts and reached every corner of the vast territory, though the depth of that reach varied.

While the common folk were full of enthusiasm, the central court also had its activities. Although Emperor Liu Yang had cut out the extravagant and ostentatious celebrations, the high-altar sacrifices to Heaven, the ancestral temple sacrifices, and the memorial rites at the Hall of Meritorious Officials were all still carried out without omission, led personally by the Emperor.

Sacrifice was truly one of the foremost matters of importance for a nation, and the great Jiaqing sacrifice had already become the most important political sacrificial activity of the year for the Great Han.

Perhaps thousands of years later, the Great Han Empire would have long since declined and fallen, all its great achievements and prosperous dynasty reduced to nothing. But the Jiaqing Festival, the Blessing-Prayer Festival, would still continue. Even if in the long passage of time people would forget or even overlook the origins of the festival, as long as the smoke of daily life rose and the sounds of blessing-prayers rang out, for Emperor Shizu, it would still be a consolation from thousands of years later.

The Central Kingdom had a well-known characteristic: give it a few decades of basic public order and stability, and it would return to you a glorious and prosperous golden age.

This had already been demonstrated in Emperor Shizu's era. The tremendous progress in productive forces brought about a notable rise in economic and material-cultural levels. If not for the overly intense expansion and some misdeeds in Emperor Shizu's later years, the so-called Kaibao Golden Age might have appeared more genuine.

But even so, the foundation left by Emperor Shizu only needed a bit of polishing and refurbishing to radiate vigorous vitality. Building on the past and opening the way for the future, creating a truly prosperous and affluent golden age—this was also Emperor Liu Yang's historical mission.

In every dynasty, so-called good governance and golden ages were achieved under an autocratic feudal monarchy. Behind all prosperity, the ruthless exploitation of the common people by the ruling class was unavoidable. The quality of a golden age could be measured first by how well productive forces had recovered and developed, and second by where the bottom line of the exploiting class lay.

As a fellow feudal empire, even though the Great Han had broken the territorial limits of all previous dynasties and greatly elevated its technology and productive forces, there was no essential change compared to previous eras. This was an inherent characteristic from the very founding of the nation—the genetic sequence was arranged that way.

But setting aside things too far in the future, for the present, as Emperor Liu Yang used forceful measures to restrain the ruling class, purify officialdom, crack down on lawlessness, and give the common people more and more tolerant room to survive, that capacity for production and management rooted deep in the bones of the Great Han people once again erupted.

The results of some things required time to be tested, while other changes showed immediate effects. In a little over a year, with the disposition of over a thousand officials from the central government to the localities, and the forced relocation of several thousand powerful clans and landlords, Emperor Liu Yang had held up the sky, shouldered the rivers and mountains, and given the multitudes of the Great Han a bit more room to breathe.

When Liu Yang's various actions were laid bare, there was nothing complicated about them: peace in external affairs, recuperation in internal matters, honoring the law and disciplining officials, restraining oneself and reassuring the people.

Perhaps even Emperor Shizu had never truly discerned a certain quality of Liu Yang's—namely, extreme self-restraint. If the Crown Prince period required hiding one's light and biding one's time with utmost caution, then this was already the third year since his ascension, and from Liu Yang one still could not see much personal desire, no personal indulgence whatsoever. The extravagant winds that had once prevailed among the upper echelons of the palace during Emperor Shizu's later years had been almost completely swept away by Liu Yang.

Although Liu Yang always said he was emulating the simple and frugal style of Emperor Shizu's early years, there was a world of difference between the two.

It might sound somewhat disrespectful to say, but Emperor Shizu's frugality and efficiency during the Qianyou years were constrained by the nation's strength—in plain words, he was poor. Just look at him in the late Kaibao period.

And in Liu Yang's era? Even setting aside the national treasury, the wealth of the Imperial Household Department was piled up like a mountain, all available for his enjoyment. So, a person who could control himself and restrain his inner desires was highly likely to accomplish great things. And as an emperor, to be able to do so and persist over the long term—such a person was in fact quite terrifying.

The powerful and the bureaucrats of the Great Han would also gradually discover that although Emperor Shizu's temper was unpredictable and he killed people at the slightest provocation, as long as one didn't cross the bottom line, or even as long as one wasn't unlucky enough to fall into his hands, then life went on as usual—wine was still drunk, dances were still danced, and beauties were still enjoyed.

But Emperor Yongxi, though lenient, calm, and refined, and cautious about executions, his maintenance of the court system and his restraint of everyone made those accustomed to privilege and those who overstepped their authority feel uncomfortable from the inside out. Especially—if one committed a crime, he would think of exiling them overseas. That was simply too much.

Of course, compared to the Kaibao era, the political atmosphere of the Yongxi era was still much more relaxed. If not allowing the powerful to break the law and oppress the people could be considered "harsh governance," then perhaps that was the harshest aspect of Liu Yang.

"It's not as free as under Emperor Shizu!" This might be the sentiment of some people. Of course, people tend to consider things from the perspective of their own interests; while fixating on one point, they often overlook other things.

Those who held such views probably overlooked one point: the powerful, bureaucrats, and landlords that Emperor Yongxi had dealt with—if Emperor Shizu had encountered them, he would likewise have applied severe laws and harsh punishments, even going so far as to implicate entire clans and wipe them out. It was just that one had to "encounter" them first. In the third year of Yongxi, autumn, seventh month, when the tail end of high summer gave way to the autumn tiger and the weather was still quite hot, the imperial carriage set forth, beginning the first formal imperial tour of Liu Yang's reign as emperor.

Although mountains of memorials nearly drowned Liu Yang, and the results of rectification efforts in various regions were quite significant, with good news arriving at the Luoyang imperial city like falling snowflakes, Liu Yang still wanted to go out and see for himself.

Of course, it was only because the court was stable and the nation increasingly at peace that Liu Yang dared to entertain such thoughts; otherwise, he still would not dare to leave the capital without authorization.

Once the tour plan was set, Liu Yang considered as thoroughly as possible the potential impacts of the tour, trying not to cause trouble for the localities.

For tour expenses, the national treasury would only bear the normal official salaries, soldier wages, and military supply provisions. All other expenditures would be paid from the Imperial Household Department. To this end, Liu Yang directly approved one million strings of cash. Of course, in his plan, this money was not entirely for field headquarters expenses, but also considered bestowing grace and favors upon some poor commoners, as well as rewards for upright local officials and virtuous and righteous persons.

Liu Yang also insisted on keeping the entourage minimal. The soldiers numbered only three thousand Inner Palace troops, commanded by Li Jihe to guard the imperial carriage. Because of Li Jihe's "loyal and brave" performance in reporting the news back then, after Liu Yang ascended the throne, he was amply rewarded, rising from among the sixteen Inner Palace battalions to be directly promoted to Chief Commander of the Inner Palace Army—a military post of the third rank.

The favor bestowed upon the Li brothers could thus be seen. But precisely because of this, his position as Chief Commander of the Inner Palace Army was destined not to last long.

As for the ministers accompanying the imperial carriage, there were mainly four: Grand Secretariat Academician Wang Dan; the chief minister, Censor-in-Chief Han Hui; Prince Zhao, Liu Fang; and the eldest imperial son, Duke of Ruyang, Liu Wenhuan, who had only recently married.

Regarding Liu Wenhuan's marriage, it had once caused a sensation in the capital—not because the wedding was particularly lavish or grand, nor only because of his status as the eldest imperial son, but also because of the woman he married—Chang Ying, who was very famous in the capital.

Chang Ying's background was naturally not that of an ordinary person. To truly trace it, one would have to go back to her great-grandfather Chang Si, who was a founding minister and meritorious statesman from Emperor Gaozu's rise to power—an old noble whom even Guo Wei had to address as "Uncle Chang." Although he was later dealt with by Emperor Shizu for greed, cruelty, and violating laws and regulations.

But his seniority was still there, and he had always maintained close relations with the Guo family. After old Chang Si died, although the family gradually declined, while Guo Wei was alive, mindful of the old bond of friendship, he extended considerable care. Those with talent were still supported and promoted—for instance, Chang Si's son Chang Ju had once served as Prefect of Fenzhou.

As for Chang Ying, whom Liu Wenhuan married, she was the legitimate daughter of Chang Kun, the current head of the Chang clan. Chang Kun's official position was very low—merely a Vice Bureau Director in the Ministry of Works—but Chang Ying herself was quite extraordinary, her fame far exceeding that of her father and even her great-grandfather.

First was her appearance. This woman was extremely beautiful; men who saw her would mostly lose their hearts and souls. It was said that once, when Chang Ying was passing through the Western Market, her veil slipped off, revealing her true face, causing four carriages on the street to collide in a chain reaction.

At the same time, Chang Ying was also quite gifted—zither, chess, calligraphy, painting, poetry, and song—she excelled in all of them. At seventeen, she disguised herself as a man and made a stunning debut at the Peony Poetry Gathering, nearly outshining even the top scholar Sun He.

Such a beauty—talented and lovely, famed throughout the capital, and the daughter of a meritorious official—naturally drew the eager attentions of powerful young men in the capital who vied to court her. Suitors practically wore down the threshold of the Chang residence, but her father Chang Kun refused them all.

It was not until Noble Consort Zhao learned of her during a casual conversation with titled ladies that she took an interest. After summoning her for observation and conversation, she grew fond of her and conceived the idea of taking her as a daughter-in-law. Since the esteemed Noble Consort Zhao was selecting a bride for the Great Han's eldest prince, Chang Kun naturally had no reason to refuse. After the proper formalities, Chang Ying became Liu Wenhuan's lawful wife.

As for this marriage—setting aside how many noble sons of the capital and talented scholars saw their dreams shattered, and not to mention the endless gossip and praise in the streets—at the very least, Zhao Kuangyi had his objections. He had tried to dissuade Consort Zhao from accepting Chang Ying. In his view, the Chang father and daughter had impure motives, seeming to cultivate a reputation and wait for the highest bidder—not a suitable match.

However, Noble Consort Zhao would not listen. She even felt that Zhao Kuangyi, as an uncle, was overstepping his bounds by meddling in Liu Wenhuan's marriage. Moreover, what she valued was precisely Chang Ying's immense fame—taking such a daughter-in-law would spread Liu Wenhuan's name and bring him glory.

On the other hand, using the Chang clan as a link could strengthen ties with the Guo clan, and in critical moments, it might prove unexpectedly effective.

As for the little scheme Noble Consort Zhao harbored, when Zhao Kuangyi learned of it, he nearly cursed her for her foolishness and shortsightedness.

The Emperor is a pragmatic man. Going out to fish for fame and cultivate empty reputation now—wouldn't that displease His Majesty?

Furthermore, since she had already thought of winning over the Guo clan, why not directly seek a daughter of the Guo family instead of going through the Chang clan as a detour? A declining family, with a friendship from three generations and decades ago—how much of that remains today? Guo Tong's granddaughter may not have Chang Ying's talent and beauty, but is she not still worthy of Liu Wenhuan?

Unfortunately, Noble Consort Zhao was stubborn in her views. Zhao Kuangyi could do nothing but curse "womanly thinking" in his heart—unless the Emperor vetoed the marriage.

Unfortunately, Liu Yang never expressed much on the matter openly. On the contrary, after Liu Wenhuan's wedding, Chang Ying's father Chang Kun was directly promoted from a marginal Vice Bureau Director of the Ministry of Works to Censor of Hebei Circuit.

The imperial carriage traveled westward, passing through Chang'an and descending into Hanzhong. Liu Yang's inspection was extremely thorough—with the capital fixed at Luoyang, the Guanzhong region could not be ignored.

Especially the Guanzhong Plain—though no longer the fertile expanse of a thousand li it once was, its annual agricultural output remained considerable. Without the court, that great bloodsucking beast, lying upon its back, it was more than self-sufficient—and this was even after setting aside taxes paid to the government and provisions for the frontiers.

The Hanzhong Plain was much the same—its abundant yields were truly gratifying. But upon entering Jiannan, the scene was not so good. Though more than a year had passed since the Shu rebellion, the aftereffects of war remained severe. The devastation and ruin would be hard to erase without a decade of hard work.

Both the climate and the people of Shu were still in a slow period of recovery. However, patches of rice had appeared on the Chengdu Plain—a golden season—and this was the first complete farming cycle the people of Shu had experienced in the past five or six years. It had not been easy.

Still, this was a good omen, meaning that Jiannan Circuit had returned to normal order and was on the right path of development. With these fields, these people, and this rice, the glory of the Land of Abundance would one day return.

One additional note: the rice now cultivated in Shu was predominantly Champa rice. In this regard, the court had made considerable efforts over the decades to promote it, and rice production in the Great Han's south had risen year after year. Now rice, like wheat, had become a staple on the tables of the Great Han's people.

Upon arriving in Chengdu, Liu Yang set aside rewarding Li Hang, Xu Shilian, Liu Tinghan, and other civil and military officials for their contributions to Shu's recovery. First he paid respects at the Temple of Marquis Wu, then the Temple of Lord Pan, and then at the altar outside Chengdu, he offered sacrifices to the dead of the Shu rebellion—whether government troops or rebels alike.

At the same time, Liu Yang had Vice Commissioner of Military Virtue Lin Te gather representatives from all walks of life across Shu, inviting them to drink and dine, listening to their voices, so as to gauge public sentiment and assess the governance of local officials.

Of course, what was even more important was that Liu Yang very generously apologized to the people of Shu, saying that the Shu rebellion was due to the court's lax oversight and the government's poor administration, which had ignored the suffering of the Shu people. He also swore to the people that any lawless nobles, officials, landlords, or merchants who dared to bully and oppress the common folk would surely be punished.

It must be said that Liu Yang's lowering of his posture and this series of people-friendly gestures produced remarkable results. At the very least, as word continued to spread, the lingering resentment the Shu people held toward the court and the Emperor was completely dissolved.

They came to understand that the Emperor and the court were far away in the capital at Luoyang, so some negligence in overseeing Shu was only natural. The conclusion: the worst of all were indeed those lawless nobles, corrupt officials, and local tyrants of Jiannan.

Liu Yang stayed in Chengdu and its surroundings for over a month—clearly, this was the main destination of his inspection tour. The officials and people of Shu, who had suffered severe calamity, needed comfort from the highest ruler, and nothing was more effective than his personal attention to affairs.

Besides inspecting officials, what was more important was extensively visiting the people to learn their conditions, with particular attention to salt, tea, and silk—these being Shu's pillar industries. He even went south to personally observe the production process of well salt, warmly receiving the salt workers, moving those who were treated like beasts of burden to tears of gratitude.

Originally, Liu Yang had wanted to go further south, to visit Qianzhong and Yunnan, but his ministers persuaded him otherwise. Though Qianzhong and Yunnan had long submitted, they were still remote borderlands. The Emperor's personal visit raised concerns of safety—with high mountains and dense forests, accidents could not be ruled out. Add to that the effects of climate and disease, and precautions were necessary.

Liu Yang was not one to reject advice. He sighed and set aside the idea, but sent envoys with edicts summoning the powerful chieftains of Qian, Dian, and parts of the Tibetan regions to Chengdu. He hosted a banquet for them, exchanging "friendship," while once again assuring them that the court would respect and protect their existing interests—and of course, they too must offer their "loyalty" to the court.

After this "Chengdu Conference," those chieftains and headmen were deeply moved. From the third year of Yongxi onward, the Great Han's southwest saw no major unrest for over thirty years. Even minor disturbances were quickly suppressed by government troops and the chieftains themselves—some never even reaching the capital.