Chapter 2093: Taizong Chronicles 35: Success Is Also Compromise

In the sixth month of summer in the fourth year of Yongxi, in the main hall of the Ministry of Justice, an extraordinary trial had reached its critical concluding moment. Though confined within the halls of the Ministry of Justice, this trial tugged at the heartstrings of nearly all the imperial clansmen, meritorious nobles, and bureaucrats throughout the capital and its environs, as well as within and beyond the palace.

The identities of those on trial were unusual—they were the Chief Administrator Liu Zhou, the Military Advisor Zhu Tinghe, and the Registrar Zhang Changjian of Duke Wu Liu Hui's household. At the same time, Duke Wu Liu Hui himself was required to sit in the adjoining hall and observe the proceedings.

The presiding judge was Minister of Justice Li Weiqing, joined by Wang Yucheng, who had been transferred from Longxi to serve as Chief Judge of the Court of Judicial Review in the capital. The assessors were of even more exalted status: Prince Yan and Chief of the Imperial Clan Court Liu Zhao, as well as Chancellor and Chief Inspector Han Hui.

Prince Xu Liu Chengyun, in the twelfth month of the third year of Yongxi, had completed his unremarkable yet supremely honored life. Emperor Liu Yang issued an edict suspending court for five days to mourn this departed elder of the imperial clan.

The details of Prince Xu's funeral arrangements need not be elaborated—Liu Yang would certainly not treat him harshly, and everything would proceed according to ritual protocol, though the material treatment was somewhat reduced compared to the era of Emperor Shizu.

The vacated position of Chief of the Imperial Clan Court gave Emperor Liu Yang a headache for some time. As the imperial family members gradually multiplied, each branch of the clan's princes and dukes were spreading their own branches and leaves, making the Imperial Clan Court—the office directly managing clan members—increasingly prominent.

Regarding the successor, Liu Yang's headache was not about whom to choose, but rather that his thoughts were not easy to voice at the moment. In terms of seniority and generation, Prince Zhao Liu Fang was the most suitable candidate. However, Liu Yang clearly did not want Prince Zhao to take charge of the Imperial Clan Court.

Even Duke Wu Liu Hui, who came next in line, was ruled out by Liu Yang, who in his heart truly disliked Liu Hui's vanity and ostentation.

Thus, when the Emperor had already made up his mind, regardless of the process or how presentable the result appeared, the Great Han's third Chief of the Imperial Clan Court was born—none other than Prince Yan Liu Zhao.

At this moment, with the three principal retainers of Duke Wu implicated, Duke Wu himself observing, and Prince Yan serving as assessor, the scene was so solemn that the gravity of the matter could well be imagined.

Tracing back to the root, it was still the problem of "tax reform." As the court strengthened official discipline and intensified its crackdown on lawless nobles, corrupt officials, and local tyrants across the realm, the so-called tax reform maladies that had cropped up around the first year of Yongxi were corrected. Not to say they were swept away entirely, but at least the atmosphere had been turned around, and the previous chaos had been greatly reduced.

In a state of bumps and repetitions, over these past few years, from government offices to the common folk, from the powerful to the landlords, conduct across all the circuits and prefectures had become considerably more restrained. After all, although the Son of Heaven was cautious with punishment and sparing with executions, he was exceedingly fond of exile—and one exile often meant thousands of li, sometimes even across the seas. How could anyone bear that?

In recent years, with the wave of maritime trade, legends and tales of sudden wealth from sea commerce had emerged in endless succession. But in the end, these were only a minority. Even in the Jiang-Zhe-Min-Yue regions where maritime trade was especially fashionable, only a small number participated.

As for the vast inland circuits of the Great Han's rivers and hinterlands, those with genuine strength and willingness to attempt maritime trade were only the upper nobility or wealthy merchants with formidable resources.

The majority of the Great Han's scholars and common people still centered their livelihoods on the land. Nothing was more practical than the yellow earth beneath their feet and the food crops that grew from it—things visible and tangible.

Though when they had the opportunity, they could not resist spending money to buy a couple of "sea goods" to catch a whiff of foreign flair, and even occasionally daydreamed and fantasized about sudden riches, actually taking that step was still too difficult. The land-oriented mindset rooted in the bones of Chinese commoners for millennia was too hard to overturn.

And now, merely because they had squeezed those mud-legged peasants too hard, they faced confiscation of large sums of money, were forced to sell off all their land and property, and relocate their entire families to distant fiefs. Such punishment was truly too heavy—a weight almost all landlords and powerful families found unbearable.

Seeking advantage and avoiding harm is human instinct, but when the court's "harsh laws and severe punishments" truly came down, most people chose to restrain and conceal themselves, entering a period of dormancy.

Therefore, after these years of transition, the Great Han's tax system reform could be said to have gradually landed. At least in terms of land rights confirmation, land transactions, land grading, tax regulations, and tax collection, a system had been formed and promoted across the vast majority of circuits and prefectures, formally replacing the old Two-Tax System.

An extremely important marker was that at the beginning of the fourth year of Yongxi, during the nationwide annual accounting, the court formally confirmed the registered acreage of fields across all circuits, prefectures, and commanderies. This represented an agreement reached between the central and local governments on tax reform and land scale—though, of course, it was a compromise agreement.

But for the Great Han's politics and economy, it was of great significance. It meant that after a full decade of reform promotion, a breakthrough development had finally been achieved, with decisive results. From then on, the court could levy taxes based on these land registers.

It also meant that the chaos in taxation and public security brought by reform, and the negative impacts on the economy and people's livelihoods, would gradually dissipate. This was an important political and economic foundation for the Great Han to move toward a flourishing age of Yongxi.

Indeed, it could even be said that the Great Han's tax reform, centered on the "unified land tax," had achieved an initial success.

This was what many ministers expressed in their memorials to Liu Yang, using it to praise his outstanding governance achievements—not failing the late emperor's aspirations, continuing the Kaibao flourishing age. It seemed that from the fourth year of Yongxi onward, everyone could once again peacefully enjoy the prosperous era, and therefore, the Emperor need not stir things up the way Emperor Shizu had.

However, behind these praises, Liu Yang was not entirely unaware of what the powerful and noble truly harbored in their hearts.

At the very least, had the Great Han's tax reform truly succeeded? On this point, a question mark still hung in Liu Yang's mind.

Take the central government's collection of local fiscal revenue, for example. At least in form, it was still a matter of deducting the locally retained taxes before remitting upward. Only, compared to the Two-Tax Law's "spending according to income," the court now had a clearer and more definite basis: land. And under conditions where land conditions did not change, it could maintain a stable revenue.

Thus, for the Finance Commission, this naturally saved a great deal of trouble. After all, when making fiscal budgets, the uncontrollable factors were simply too great, and the court's management of the empire could not possibly be that meticulous. Everything revolving around the land registers seemed to achieve an effect of "guaranteed harvest whether in drought or flood."

However, the court's annual expenditures were not fixed. As long as this uncertainty remained, one could never rest easy. The Finance Commission still had to adjust according to the times—a once-and-for-all solution did not exist.

Under the new tax system, the court collected fixed taxes from the various circuits based on acreage figures, and the local circuit offices then collected levies from their subordinate prefectures, counties, and townships. The hierarchy was clear, but there was one extremely obvious problem: were the current land rights confirmations and register figures truly accurate?

Needless to say, this was essentially a compromise reached between central and local authorities after countless entanglements and collisions once tax reform had progressed to a certain stage.

In other words, whether it was the circuit offices or the subordinate prefectures, counties, and townships, it seemed they only needed to remit a fixed tax amount. But what about beyond the fixed tax based on the land registers?

Furthermore, once land rights were confirmed and registered, did they remain unchanged forever? After land transactions caused changes in each household's acreage, creating tax gaps—how was this to be controlled? Could the central government really supervise with such fine detail?

Paddy fields becoming dry fields, dry fields becoming paddy fields; rich fields losing fertility after excessive use and becoming mid-to-low grade fields; fields planted with different crops—should there be differences in taxation? And if so, would that affect the output of basic food crops?

In short, around land, countless questions and even contradictions could arise, and none of these were things the central court could truly grasp.

These problems could ultimately only be left to local governments. And once left to them, given the deep-rooted nature of feudal bureaucrats, old problems and new contradictions surging forth together was a high-probability outcome.

Therefore, those ministers who had always opposed tax reform and wished to restore the old system were not entirely without reason in their opposition, nor was it entirely based on private interest.

After all, in the old days, levying taxes per capita—each person, each household paying according to regulation—wasn't that simpler and more convenient than the complex land tax?

At bottom, the core of the Great Han's tax reform lay in changing the basis of taxation from per capita to land—this was a breakthrough change.

This was a reform and innovation Emperor Shizu had undertaken to achieve a "relative fairness." However, after so many years of groping in the dark, the new generation of rulers and ministers who were the actual executors had gradually discovered that this path was simply too difficult to walk.

Under the new tax system, higher demands were placed on the court's supervisory capabilities and on officials' governance abilities. And to be honest, the vast majority of officials did not possess the capacity to handle the complex livelihood, political, and economic problems caused by complex taxation.

Faced with this reality, Liu Yang ultimately chose compromise—a choice made under duress. It was precisely because he had touched upon some more fundamental problems that Liu Yang decided to apply the brakes in time. As a proper autocratic imperial state, some problems—especially those concerning land—could only be improved, not reformed, because reform meant death, meant chaos.

It was precisely for this reason that Liu Yang, as Emperor Shizu's first successor, gained yet another layer of profound understanding of the old emperor's pioneering strategies.

Especially after experiencing the "Chuanshu Rebellion," he finally gained a glimmer of sudden enlightenment regarding the so-called "flood discharge reservoirs."

It was obvious that the Great Han Empire under the new tax system also faced entirely new challenges and contradictions. In such an environment, the ruling class either had to complete a self-evolution, further strengthening control over the empire and the common people, or it could only exhaust itself in the endless process of covering up problems and suppressing contradictions until the empire's end—and throughout this process, what accompanied it could still only be improvement.

As for the current Yongxi reign, what could be done, and what was being devoted to doing, was still reconciling class contradictions—this was also the essence of the "New Policies" Liu Yang was implementing. As for tax reform, to be fair, at this point, whether limited by the reach of court authority, the capacity of officials, or the tolerance of vested interests, it had reached an extreme equilibrium. To press on relentlessly would be bad for everyone.

Therefore, over the past few months, the wind had gradually shifted. Those in the midst of it could clearly feel this change, transmitted from top to bottom, layer by layer. Thus, from the center to the localities, the Great Han Empire had restored its surface-level calm.

But could it truly remain calm?

After the compromise, Liu Yang and the Great Han court had not retreated half a step. On the contrary, as the "reconciliation route" went further and further and grew firmer and firmer, the slogan of rule of law was shouted every month and every day. In the spring examination of the fourth year of Yongxi, the number of successful candidates in the law examination reached an unprecedented 78. The crackdown on lawless nobles, corrupt officials, and local tyrants remained as resolute as ever.

This was what Liu Yang truly regarded as his "governing policy"—a method of maintaining the system and consolidating rule under a system of rule by men. In every dynasty throughout history, any ruler who could achieve what Liu Yang had achieved was not far from the so-called flourishing age.

Therefore, in the fourth year after Liu Yang ascended the throne, the Great Han Empire as a whole began to exhibit a state of clear governance, strong military, cultural prosperity, economic vitality, and eased social contradictions. The empire began marching toward its next peak under his rule.

But the problems that should exist still existed, even if the court suppressed them rather forcefully—and from time to time, a "surprise" would still come along.

For example, the nobles and landlords who had adopted a restrained posture—were they truly well-behaved? In fact, in places beyond the court's supervision, everything continued as before. Every regulation and every system of the court had room for evasion, and they were skilled at exploiting loopholes.

Even in an age of rule of law, countless loopholes could be exploited. How much more so in an age of rule by men, where too many people could openly overstep or even trample upon the so-called legal system.

It was just that the court led by Liu Yang was now making every effort to crack down on such behavior, so they had accordingly changed their ways—from the previous blatant conduct to operating in the shadows.

If caught, the outcome was certainly bad, but as long as one wasn't caught, wasn't that enough? Money and power could bring sufficient security.

This was another marathon-style wrestling match between the court and the exploiting class—in essence, still a self-regulation within the ruling class itself. Only, the outcome might not be so optimistic, and the final victor would most likely not be the court.

Just one question: as Emperor, how long could Liu Yang continue to rule the Great Han Empire?

Moreover, some people had no intention of waiting that long. This very summer, they presented Emperor Liu Yang with a difficult problem.

Someone submitted a report letter to each of the Three Judicial Offices, and the bronze petition box before the imperial city was not spared either. The contents alleged that Duke Wu Liu Hui's household had concealed land, forcibly seized civilian fields, enslaved commoners through usury, and committed acts of abducting women, bullying the weak, and murder. These rumors also spread rapidly through the streets and markets.

For a time, from the court to the streets of Luoyang, criticism was endless, and everyone's gaze turned toward Chuigong Hall.

With public opinion piled up to such a degree, Liu Yang had no choice but to issue an edict for a thorough investigation—any other act of shielding would not fit his public image, nor would it accord with his philosophy of governance.

And the affairs of Duke Wu Liu Hui's household were not difficult to investigate. Over twenty thousand qing of land could hardly fly away, and there were even more people registering their land under the duke's mansion's name, claiming publicly that it was Duke Wu's land in order to evade taxes. Yet the actual amount of land held exceeded the tax-exempt quota granted by the court by more than tenfold!

In such a situation, had it been an ordinary noble or landowner, they would have been severely punished long ago. As for enslaving tenant farmers and hired laborers, and lending money at usurious rates—these acts of treating human life like grass were merely "standard practice."

After the investigation, the small fry needed no further mention; those truly brought before the Ministry of Justice for interrogation became the three men tried in the main hall of the Ministry of Justice.

As for the specific crimes and punishments, they had long been clear and had already been reported for the Emperor's approval—today was merely going through the motions.

As the three men's crimes were read out in full, accompanied by the thunderous crack of the gavel that startled the soul, Minister of Justice Li Weiqing, speaking with a Huai accent, solemnly and righteously pronounced the final verdict, which was immediately ratified on the spot by Wang Yucheng, Chief Judge of the Court of Judicial Review.

After the verdict was read, of the three convicted officials, only two remained standing. Registrar Zhang Changjian was sentenced to exile in the South Seas—at least his head was saved. As for the two who had collapsed limp on the ground—execution!

Everything had been arranged, almost a one-stop service. The two were escorted to the heavenly prison to await execution, while Registrar Zhang Changjian, sentenced to exile, was immediately taken out, fitted with cangue and shackles, carrying the bundle his family had prepared on his back, and under the escort of two bailiffs, embarked on his overseas "dream-chasing" journey.

As for Duke Wu Liu Hui, who had listened to the verdict from beginning to end, he walked out of the Ministry of Justice in disappointment, accompanied by Prince Yan Liu Zhao. The summer sunlight fell upon his face—a handsome face that looked especially weathered—illuminating all his boundless sorrow.

In terms of appearance alone, Liu Hui was now the type of handsome middle-aged man, with the nobility of the imperial house and brilliant literary aura interwoven upon him, plus a layer of story-laden melancholy—he could absolutely make countless young maidens fall for him.

Unfortunately, the one following behind him was a grown man. Silently watching Liu Hui's dejected and dispirited back, Prince Yan Liu Zhao couldn't help but reveal a trace of reluctance on his face. Yet seeing him about to leave, he still couldn't help but call out: "Seventh Brother, please stay a moment!"

Liu Hui's body paused at the sound. He slowly turned around, looked at Liu Zhao, and said in a mocking tone: "You've already watched the chicken's fate; can't this monkey of mine return to his mansion now?"

"No!" Hearing this, Liu Zhao gave a definite answer. Meeting Liu Hui's gaze, he took a deep breath and said slowly: "Please, Seventh Brother, come with me to the Court of the Imperial Clan! By His Majesty's decree—one year of house confinement!"

Hearing such a response, Liu Hui's expression shifted, the change so colorful. After a long while, sizing up Liu Zhao, who looked deeply troubled, he extended both hands and said indifferently: "Do I need to wear shackles?"

"Seventh Brother speaks too gravely!" Liu Zhao hurriedly said.

Liu Hui was forty years old, but in this single exit and re-entry, he seemed to have aged ten years. Liu Zhao truly could not bear it, and said: "One year passes quickly. I've also made arrangements—I will not let Seventh Brother be treated shabbily!"

Liu Hui did not respond. Seeing this, Liu Zhao spoke again: "Seventh Brother, His Majesty had no choice. Public opinion is fearsome—please do not bear him any resentment."

Liu Hui still said nothing. It was not until they boarded Liu Zhao's princely carriage, the two brothers riding together on the way to the Court of the Imperial Clan, that Liu Hui, his head resting against the carriage wall, finally spoke softly:

"Didn't His Majesty grant me a fief on Borneo Island? My eldest son is also twenty now. Pass a message for me—I humbly beg His Majesty to grant him a favor, to let him go overseas and take up his fief."

Within the palace city, in Chuigong Hall, Emperor Liu Yang was glaring murderously at Commissioner of the Palace City Wang Yue, who stood respectfully before him, and said coldly: "Find out for me!"

Clearly, this matter had made Liu Yang extraordinarily angry—not because of the final disposition of Liu Hui, nor out of consideration for brotherly affection, but because of this kind of behavior of stirring up waves and fanning flames from the shadows!

His intentions deserve death! His actions deserve punishment! At this moment, Liu Yang was like a true dragon whose reverse scale had been touched—not dispensing clouds and rain, but only descending thunder.