Chapter 2111: Taizong Chronicles 53: Twilight Years

In the eighth month of the thirteenth year of Yongxi, before the Mid-Autumn Festival, the imperial carriage arrived at Jinling, docking and disembarking at Yanziji. Even with the imperial edict issued beforehand, the Jiangnan Circuit administration only mobilized to a certain extent within the official and military bureaucratic system for the reception, adhering to a "principle of not disturbing the people."

However, if it had truly stopped there, the scene would have been somewhat unsightly. In the end, the reception that materialized was anything but cold—on the contrary, the officials and commoners of Jiangning were brimming with enthusiasm.

Starting from Yanziji, tens of thousands of scholars and commoners gathered to welcome the carriage, following along as escorts, their cheers echoing unbroken along the road. By the time they reached Jinling, the entire city was astir; hundreds of thousands of scholars and commoners packed the streets, blocking the way, spectators crowding like walls.

To this, even if only symbolically, Emperor Liu Yang had to inquire into the situation—whether the Jiangnan Circuit had actually taken the imperial edict seriously, or whether they thought they could win his favor through such means of flattery.

Sensing the Emperor's displeasure, Wang Xuanzhen explained that the government had not organized the people to welcome the carriage, and had even specially issued public notices to reassure the populace. As for this fervent reception scene, it was truly because the scholars and commoners of Jiangning had long not heard the sacred voice, and had yearned for years to behold the imperial countenance, and so had come of their own accord to await his arrival.

As for Wang Xuanzhen's explanation, Liu Yang believed only half of it. With such a grand display, if the government had not coordinated and planned behind the scenes, relying solely on the initiative of the people, how could the present order possibly be maintained? No one in the Jiangnan Circuit could bear the consequences of a breakdown in order.

As for the enthusiasm and initiative of the Jiangning scholars and commoners, Liu Yang grudgingly accepted a measure of it. After all, in the forty-plus years since the realm was unified, counting Liu Yang's current southern tour, there had been only three occasions in total when an emperor had visited Jiangnan.

If the emperor remained long in the capital, sitting firm over the realm, that would be one thing—but whether it was Shizu or the current sovereign, both were men who delighted in inspecting official governance and observing the people's condition. And from the frequency of imperial inspections, one could also gauge the current standing of the southeastern region at court, which was utterly disproportionate to the southeast's ever-growing productive capacity and economic strength.

Such a state of affairs clearly left the southeastern-born nobles, officials, scholars, and commoners deeply resentful, and as time passed, this resentment and even dissatisfaction accumulated more and more.

If it had been the first twenty years, that would have been one thing—Jiangnan was, after all, a land that had surrendered and submitted, and as an object of conquest and recovery, being politically weaker was understandable. But if it continued like this, with the Yongxi reign already past thirteen years and still the same, that became hard to accept.

Jiangnan was, after all, unlike other places. It was one of the Great Han's most economically and productively developed regions, the origin of the grain transport system, a thoroughfare of rivers and seas, where merchants gathered and carts and ships converged. Add to that the rise of maritime trade over the past thirty years, and with layer upon layer of buffs stacked on, no matter how one looked at it, the court owed Jiangnan—indeed, the entire southeast—an explanation.

If the economy continued to extract benefits while politics maintained exclusion and suppression, that could never win people's hearts, nor would it be conducive to the southeast's deep integration into the Great Han's system.

Put plainly, it was still a matter of power and interests, and these ultimately had to be manifested through political voice. In fact, from the mid-Kaibao period onward, the upper classes of the southeast, including those descended from the former separatist powers' nobility, had all been breaking through the court's political restrictions and blockades in their official careers, achieving some successes—after all, the court was not unaware of the southeast's importance, and its attitude had been one of gradual relaxation.

In recent years, no small number had risen to the empire's highest regional posts—Zhang Ji and Pan You, for example, though neither of those two had particularly good endings. Others like Xu Xuan, despite a rocky path, were recognized by both north and south as leaders of the scholarly world and literary giants of their generation; before his death he was still a Grand Academician of the Inner Cabinet, able to participate in state affairs and speak for the southeast.

Take, for another example, Zheng Qi, the current Administration Commissioner of Hedong—a Jinling magistrate from some forty years ago, who had step by step risen to become the chief official of the Great Han Empire's founding land. Of course, Zheng Qi was already past seventy, and had submitted several memorials requesting retirement.

And compared to these representative figures, what was truly worth noting was that southeastern-born officials appearing on the Great Han political stage had grown more and more numerous in recent years. At every imperial examination, the proportion of southern scholars admitted had risen to a normal level—all reflections of the court's shifting political attitude toward the southeastern prefectures.

Only, for the southeastern officials and commoners, it still seemed insufficient. After all, those firmly holding the reins of court power remained the northern-born nobles as the mainstay, and in recent years, countless northern nobles had come south to snatch a share of the spoils.

Against such a political backdrop, when the Yongxi Emperor made his first imperial visit to the southeast, how could the officials and commoners of Jiangning, as the first stop, not eagerly welcome him, displaying the southeast's flourishing splendor and making the Emperor feel at home?

Even setting aside political factors, there was after all a faint connection between Liu Yang and Jinling. At the same time, purely from the perspective of national livelihood in the Yongxi era, the southeastern scholars' and commoners' loyalty and sense of identification with the court were steadily rising—precisely because in the Yongxi reign, people's lives could be lived somewhat more easily, with at least clear improvement over the Kaibao era.

And the development of the entire southeast, with the Jiangnan Circuit at its core, could well be called the most dazzling crystallization and achievement of the Yongxi era's great social production and economic prosperity. Toward Jiangnan, Liu Yang had in fact always been worried and concerned—this could be seen from the depth of his official governance rectification and the intensity of his encouragement of agriculture and commerce.

Over the past decade-plus, although Liu Yang had not personally visited, the court's special envoys and the Emperor's secret emissaries had by no means come few—including having Prince Linzi, Liu Wenji, stationed long-term in Jiangnan, for precisely such considerations. This southern tour, like the southwestern tour of years past, had as its main purposes, besides inspecting the southeast's political, economic, and livelihood conditions, pacifying governance and comforting the people.

Therefore, even though he had reservations about the welcoming display the Jiangnan Circuit administration had put together, Liu Yang did not lose his temper—but he still issued a warning to Wang Xuanzhen: Jiangning was one thing, but if at other cities they staged the same spectacle of hundreds of thousands of scholars and commoners welcoming him for dozens of li, then he could not be blamed for being impolite.

Liu Yang's behavior might seem somewhat cold and unfeeling. However, this was the best way to reduce the degree of disturbance to the people. He believed some scholars and commoners genuinely welcomed him, but having the people keep their welcome and joy in their hearts, minimizing the impact on their daily livelihoods—that was what truly constituted loving the people.

In the Kaibao era, small traveling palaces and detached villas had existed throughout the realm, but by the Yongxi reign, after another round of abolitions by Liu Yang, by now the entire Great Han, apart from the two capitals, had only seven traveling palaces left: in the north, Taiyuan, Chang'an, and Youzhou; in the south, Chengdu, Jiangling, Panyu, and Jinling—and the scale of each palace, along with its maintenance staff and costs, had been further compressed.

Of course, there was also the Taikang Palace—but this imperial summer retreat, built at enormous expenditure of manpower and wealth in the late Kaibao period, had not been visited even once since Liu Yang ascended the throne.

Jinling Palace—after more than forty years, Liu Yang once again set foot here. This time, he stepped into this palace once filled with romance and elegance as its master. For the increasingly aging Liu Yang, this was also a rare novel experience, stirring up much sighing and reflection.

The accompanying consorts, palace women, and imperial guards gradually took up residence, and the ministers were slowly settled under the Jiangnan Circuit's meticulous arrangements. With so many attendants accompanying the carriage this time, it was clear they would be staying at Jinling Palace for a while. In Liu Yang's plan, the upcoming inspections of the southeastern region would not require grand ceremonial processions—Jinling would serve as a temporary base for the southern tour.

On Mid-Autumn Festival day, the citizens of Jinling gave Liu Yang a taste of the charm of southern festivals—universal celebration, sovereign and subjects alike rejoicing. At Jinling Palace, Liu Yang held an imperial banquet, personally feasting Jiangnan's meritorious ministers, officials, and generals, as well as learned scholars, moral elders, notable worthies, filial sons and virtuous descendants, good citizens and righteous merchants selected from among the myriad scholars and commoners—and delivered a moving speech.

Compared to the Shizu Emperor, who had come twice, the Yongxi Emperor appeared considerably more approachable in the eyes of Jiangnan's officials and scholars, and his conduct seemed more sincere. After more than a decade as emperor, Liu Yang had long accumulated sufficient power and prestige—from the court outward, there was none who did not hold him in awe.

To be fair, in the eyes of the class that held the primary voice and interpretive power within the Great Han Empire's entire operating system, the Yongxi Emperor, aside from being somewhat harsh and overzealous in his application of law, was in morality, words, deeds, and thought highly consistent with their understanding of a "sage and enlightened sovereign." Therefore, Liu Yang's reputation among the Great Han Empire's ruling class was very good, which to a large extent benefited his rule. Of course, this was also related to Liu Yang's grasp of proportion and cautious compromise in many matters.

The Yongxi era was an era of "reform"—more precisely, it should be called an era of "improvement," a "correction and betterment" of Shizu's governance and institutions. The father set the system, the son reformed it—that was the simplest interpretation of the process from Kaibao to Yongxi.

Only, in this process, Liu Yang had parts he maintained, parts he compromised on, and parts he insisted on himself. And an emperor who walked the "path of reconciliation" was hard for the ruling and exploiting classes to detest—after all, above the bottom line, he left room for compromise and space for negotiation. And having successfully brought the empire into the Yongxi golden age merely proved that he indeed possessed no small measure of governing talent and situational control.

The fifty-six-year-old Yongxi Emperor was not only the supreme ruler of the Great Han Empire and the living god of the realm's subjects, but also an old man—an old man far more "kind-eyed and benevolent-faced" than the former Shizu Emperor.

When he feasted and conversed intimately, and cordially expressed that he regarded everyone as "his own people," these class notables of the Jiangnan Circuit were naturally filled with emotion—some even with tears in their eyes.

Judging from the effect of the scene, this political show of the Mid-Autumn night banquet at Jinling Palace was performed quite adeptly by the Yongxi Emperor.

After staying seven days in Jinling, the imperial carriage set out again on its eastern tour, traveling by land, with the entourage directly reduced to three thousand people.

Wang Xuanzhen, as the chief official of the Jiangnan Circuit, naturally numbered among those accompanying the carriage, and even received the opportunity to "board the imperial carriage" for conversation—for a minister who had risen from a spy background and had always worn the label of "hound of the regime," this was truly the greatest honor and favor.

The imperial carriage traveled east along the "Jiangsu" highway. Inside, Liu Yang leaned against a soft pillow, gazing at Wang Xuanzhen, who maintained a cautious posture, consulting him on the personnel matters of the Jiangnan Circuit: "You've been in your post at the Jiangnan Circuit long enough; it's time for a change. Do you have any thoughts on a successor?"

Hearing the question, Wang Xuanzhen's face showed no surprise—he had clearly long been prepared for his departure from office. Instead of answering, he asked in return: "May I ask if Your Majesty has a favored candidate?"

Liu Yang directly named one person: "What about Chen Shenghua, the Deputy Commissioner of the Jiangnan Circuit?"

Hearing this name, Wang Xuanzhen gave a cold snort inwardly. Chen Shenghua was an official who had come out of Chuanshu, with forty years of official career in the Great Han. He was shrewd and capable, daring to oppose nobles and powerful tyrants, arguing on principle and enforcing the law impartially—a true "famous minister of Yongxi."

Even in the first year of Yongxi, Chen Shenghua had only been Prefectural Administrator of Runzhou; in a little over a decade, he had become the Deputy Administration Commissioner of the Jiangnan Circuit, with several ranks in between—one could see how favorable his fortunes had been. Of course, it was also luck that came late. After all, by this year, Chen Shenghua was already sixty-six years old.

Moreover, he had never gotten along with Wang Xuanzhen. Yet, meeting the Emperor's gaze, Wang Xuanzhen considered for a moment, then said: "Chen Shanze has the talent to save the world; governing the Jiangnan Circuit would be more than sufficient for him!"

Now it was Liu Yang's turn to be surprised, and he could not help saying: "I have heard that your relationship with Chen Shenghua has always been poor."

Wang Xuanzhen replied calmly: "Chen Shanze may despise your servant's private conduct, but as long as he does not neglect public affairs, your servant has no need to quibble with him. In governance, this man is especially skilled in financial management and water conservancy matters, highly suited to the political conditions of the Jiangnan Circuit.

Only, Chen Shanze is already advanced in years; his energy will ultimately prove insufficient, and he may not be able to serve for long."

Wang Xuanzhen's assessment was fairly fair, and Liu Yang, hearing it, could not help but sigh and say: "An old steed in the stable still aspires to run a thousand li; a hero in his twilight years, his bold spirit never ceases! The Great Han court has never lacked pillar ministers past sixty—age is not a big problem, so long as they can still exercise their talents and govern and comfort the people!"

"Your Majesty is wise!" Since the Emperor had spoken thus, Wang Xuanzhen naturally could only echo in agreement.

Keeping his attention fixed on Wang Xuanzhen's reaction, a slight smile suddenly appeared at the corner of Liu Yang's mouth, and he asked again: "Aren't you concerned about where you'll go after leaving the Jiangnan Circuit?"

To this, Wang Xuanzhen responded with great composure: "If Your Majesty commands, your servant dares not decline. Even if you sent this old servant back to the countryside to farm, it would only be a matter of acquiring a set of farm tools!"

"Heh heh." Liu Yang chuckled, a hint of hoarseness threading through his aged laughter, and said: "Sending you back to farm—that would be a great waste of talent!"

"Your Majesty flatters me! Your servant dare not accept!" Wang Xuanzhen immediately expressed.

A hand that already looked somewhat gaunt waved lightly, and Liu Yang said: "I'll tell you directly—Han Hui has petitioned for retirement, and I have already approved it. If he leaves court, I intend for you to take over the duties of the Censorate!"

In the Yongxi dynasty, the Censor-in-Chief was a heavy responsibility, and for Wang Xuanzhen, it was even more of a long-cherished hope—because once the edict was issued, it would mean that he, Wang Xuanzhen, had become a chancellor. If this had been thirteen years ago, he would never have dared to imagine it.

"Your Majesty's favor and trust are so great! Your servant... your servant..." Wang Xuanzhen knelt in the carriage, his agitation momentarily beyond words.

Seeing this, Liu Yang said with a somewhat wistful air: "The post of Censor-in-Chief is a heavy responsibility. You too are a man nearing sixty; if it were delayed a few more years, I fear you might not be able to bear it either."