Chapter 22

“Wealth the nation, strengthen the military.” Zhang Juzheng sat upright; filling vacancies among the capital garrison officers was a matter of great importance, touching upon the command of the capital garrison.

The Ming and Altan Khan have fought for over a decade in Xuan and Da, yet still have not won; the current predicament of the Ming can largely be blamed on this failure—how did the Jin Party gradually grow powerful, dominating court and realm alike?

It was precisely because we did not win that the Jin Party consolidated its position step by step.

If only we could emulate Emperor Chengzu the Civil Emperor, driving deep into the north and scattering the northern barbarians for thousands of miles.

Would the court today still be in such a state? Would the Jin Party still dare act so boldly?

Zhang Juzheng continued: “The ancients said, ‘Though the realm is at peace, forgetting war invites danger.’ The capital garrison has enjoyed prolonged peace; its military readiness has decayed, and officers are restrained by civil officials. Henceforth, those generals and commanders who are loyal and courageous must be granted authority, so they may fully deploy their talents.”

“All officials of fourth rank or higher in the capital, as well as censors and memorialists; and provincial viceroys, regional commanders, and governors outside the capital—each shall recommend capable officers for appointment. If the recommended person achieves merit or commits misdeeds, the recommender shall share in the reward or punishment.”

Zhang Juzheng opened by quoting a line from Du Yu’s military treatise, The Simafa : “Though the realm is temporarily at peace, forgetting war inevitably brings danger.”

The Ming’s military readiness has decayed; its generals, subordinate officers, and soldiers are all constrained by civil officials, unable to act freely. Those generals who are loyal and capable must be granted appropriate authority, so Ming commanders may fully deploy their talents.

For appointments within the capital garrison, all provincial viceroys, regional commanders, governors, and officials of fourth rank or higher may recommend capable officers; rewards and punishments shall be shared: merit brings joint reward, misdeeds bring joint punishment.

How exactly shall authority be delegated?

Qi Jiguang ambushed Dong Huzi, captured his nephew, and sent him in chains to the capital; the situation arose suddenly, and Liang Menglong, the Viceroy of Ji and Liao, only learned of it afterward—but Liang did not impeach Qi Jiguang for acting without authorization; instead, he submitted a congratulatory memorial, praising Qi’s valor.

That is delegation of authority.

When the enemy has come to our very doorstep, must the Viceroy and Regional Commander first negotiate how to divide the glory and how to share the blame? What war is this? Unclear responsibilities and conflicting orders are the greatest of taboos.

Then who leads the army? In wartime, the commander leads.

That is delegation of authority.

Wang Chonggu wanted to bring his own dogs into the capital garrison to eat imperial rations; Zhang Juzheng’s solution was that civil and military officials throughout the realm may all recommend capable officers.

Zhang Juzheng spoke with utmost propriety and acted with equal propriety; he elaborated again on the selection method, proposing to train every recommended officer and subordinate commander in the capital garrison.

How exactly shall they be trained? According to what regulations?

Qi Jiguang wrote two military manuals; train them according to those two manuals. If the Zhe Army can endure it, can the selected officers not endure it?

Even a ten-year-old sovereign of the Ming can grit his teeth and endure, claiming he is born noble—can he be nobler than His Majesty?

True gold fears no fire; fierce forging, blazing heat—what remains are the elite.

Feng Bao immediately clapped his hands in praise: “This method is excellent! Since we aim to revive military prestige, since we aim to strengthen the military—use this method!”

“Wang Shaobao, you complained the capital garrison is corrupt, you said you recommend talent without avoiding kinship—dare you throw the men on your list into training as well?”

“What dare I not?” Wang Chonggu crossed his arms. “I only fear someone will favor friends, falsify records, and after all this training, only a crowd of sycophants remains!”

Zhang Juzheng frowned, his expression turning colder; he leaned back slightly, his hand extending farther on the table, his tone calm: “Wang Shaobao, you overthink. This matter is watched by countless eyes—Ministry of War, Five Military Directorates, the eunuch commander. Under the bright sun and open sky, with all eyes upon us, falsification would be the act of a petty man, trembling in fear. Besides, are you not watching?”

As soon as Zhang Juzheng spoke, the Wenhua Hall fell silent, save for the sound of the young emperor turning pages and the spring breeze stirring the silk curtains; the murmured discussions had instantly ceased.

Everyone grew tense; Zhang Juzheng usually spoke gently, and all sensed the subtle shift in his tone.

“I hope so,” Wang Chonggu, sensing Zhang Juzheng’s change in tone, quickly said: “Yuanfu, I do not question your integrity—I only fear this eunuch commander may meddle.”

Yang Bo read people accurately: Wang Chonggu was quick to anger, provoked by Feng Bao’s few words into a rage—this was a lapse in speech, saying what he should not have. The proposal that civil and military officials throughout the realm may recommend officers, and that all be trained, selecting the best from the best—this was Zhang Juzheng’s idea.

Wang Chonggu questioned falsification, but first pointed his finger at Zhang Juzheng.

Zhang Juzheng then smiled and said: “No matter. I shall oversee this. If the eunuch commander causes trouble, I shall report it to His Majesty and ensure proper punishment.”

Wang Chonggu finally exhaled; better to offend anyone than to permanently alienate Zhang Juzheng—a single impolite remark, once clarified, Zhang Juzheng would not hold a grudge.

Face is given mutually; Zhang Juzheng was displeased, but Wang Chonggu had spoken humbly before so many—this rift was not yet sealed.

“Petty man,” Feng Bao muttered, calling Wang Chonggu a petty man trembling in fear; just now, Yang Bo had spoken to Zhang Juzheng and called him “eunuch,” so Feng Bao would retort.

Wang Chonggu immediately replied: “Eunuch.”

“Petty man.”

“Wang Shaobao,” Yang Bo, seeing the quarrel reignite, reminded Wang Chonggu again: do not stoop to the level of a eunuch.

“Hmph.”

“Hmph!”

With Yang Bo intervening, the quarrel ended in two cold snorts; Feng Bao would not suffer even a single slight.

Wang Chonggu accepted the proposal: everyone to the drill ground—let the donkeys and horses be led out to prove themselves.

His list of names had been stalled for months by Minister of War Tan Lun; the censor of the Like impeached him, and Tan Lun immediately resigned, making it clear he would rather quit than approve it.

If they continued to argue, Zhang Juzheng would grow impatient and transfer the Zhe Army’s elite directly into the capital garrison—Wang Chonggu, as Commander of the Capital Garrison, would become nothing but an empty shell.

Zhang Juzheng’s proposal was in fact Tan Lun’s idea.

Why had Tan Lun delayed approving the list? Wang Chonggu’s list was filled with his personal favors; whether Wang Chonggu wished it or not, he had to recommend them.

All sat in the Wenhua Hall as one of the twenty-seven senior ministers—yet to draft a recommendation for capable officers, one must still consider personal ties, kneeling before the title of “illustrious lord”—what kind of illustrious lord is that?

The matter was thus settled.

The court deliberation was noisy, but under Zhang Juzheng’s leadership, most outcomes were favorable, and decisions were made swiftly. The long-stalled Kaocheng Law, after Yang Bo expressed his approval, was temporarily implemented in the capital rather than immediately nationwide.

A decree decided on a whim is not the act of a mature illustrious lord; one must summarize lessons during implementation before extending it nationwide—that is the proper way.

Zhu Yijun received the new textbook, The Illustrated Guide to Imperial Precedents, compiled entirely by Zhang Juzheng, containing stories of past emperors; though only one hundred seventeen chapters, each carried profound meaning.

“We humbly take our leave.” The court deliberation ended amid clamor; those assigned to attend the emperor’s studies entered.

Feng Bao spoke solemnly: “Your Majesty, I learned you wished to personally engage in farming and sericulture, and knowing the difficulties, I grew anxious and informed Yuanfu, asking him to help devise a solution—after all, this is an affair of the outer court, and I dare not speak further.”

“Hmm, you spoke well today. Keep it up,” Zhu Yijun closed The Four Books Directly Explained, looked at Feng Bao, and nodded approvingly.

Who did Feng Bao hear it from? From a palace maid arranged by Zhang Hong in Qianqing Palace. How did Feng Bao pass the message outside? He sent his adopted son Xu Jue.

Zhang Hong had already reported to the court that morning.

Both inside and outside had their purposes; they cooperated to bring this about.

“Your Majesty flatters me, flatters me—I only dare scold them because of Your Majesty’s imperial authority,” Feng Bao beamed, hastening to reply; one word of praise from the emperor stabilized his position in the palace.

The emperor will grow up eventually.

Zhu Yijun did not punish Feng Bao for leaking information outside; what to leak and what not to leak—Feng Bao, as the chief eunuch, should understand the boundaries.

If there were no communication between palace and court, misunderstandings would arise; if communication were too open, the emperor would be in grave danger.

How to effectively, reasonably, deliberately, and at the right moment, leak certain secrets mixed with false intelligence—this is a skill refined by our ancestors.

Leaking information is itself a tactic.

What Zhu Yijun most admired in Feng Bao was his mastery of The Art of Provoking—Zhang Hong’s temperament could never learn it.

Feng Bao sighed deeply, hands clasped, smiling broadly; the emperor had praised him and not punished him for leaking information—this proved his position was more secure.

“Yuanfu is a man of great talent,” Zhu Yijun read his book and listened to court affairs; Zhang Juzheng handled matters with ease.

“Thank Your Majesty’s praise,” Zhang Juzheng accepted the compliment with pride; his talent and virtue deserved such words.

The lecture on moral instruction resumed—still the Analects, still the sages—but Zhang Juzheng felt the young emperor’s understanding was strange; the sages’ texts had been annotated by the emperor into unrecognizable forms.

Did Confucius truly mean that?

Teaching the young emperor made Zhang Juzheng feel as if he were sitting in philosophical discourse—but every annotation the emperor made arose from question and answer, as if Zhang Juzheng himself had spoken it, and it had always been so.

Zhang Juzheng spoke: “Zigong said: ‘To be poor without flattery, rich without arrogance—how is that?’ The Master replied: ‘It is acceptable. But not as good as being poor yet joyful in the Dao, rich yet devoted to ritual.’”

“Flattery: abject submission. Arrogance: haughty self-indulgence. Acceptable: yes, but not ultimate.”

“Zigong asked the Master: ‘What of being poor without flattery, rich without arrogance?’ The Master replied: ‘It is acceptable. But not as good as being poor yet joyful in the Dao, rich yet devoted to ritual.’”

Zhu Yijun looked at Zhang Juzheng and asked: “Yuanfu, what is your interpretation?”

Zhang Juzheng replied: “Ordinary men, when poor, have no abject submission; when rich, have no haughty self-indulgence—this is already exceedingly rare.”

“But if one, though poor and destitute, still finds joy in pursuing the Way of the sages; though rich and noble, still pursues ritual—that surpasses the ordinary. The Master’s reply to Zigong was to encourage him to strive for a higher state.”

“Thus: poor and humble, not flatter; rich and noble, not arrogant; in poverty, seek the Dao; in wealth, cherish ritual.”

“Indeed,” Zhu Yijun nodded firmly and asked: “Yuanfu, I have a question.”

“If a man is in dire poverty, with no food to fill his belly, no clothes to cover his body, and stones on the road cut his soles—then someone says: ‘Kneel and bow, and you shall have food, clothes, and shoes to shield you from the stones.’ Yuanfu, teach me—how can this man not kneel?”

Zhang Juzheng frowned, images flashing before his eyes: “He cannot. That is why one must seek the Dao in poverty.”

Zhu Yijun asked, puzzled: “But if he must kneel, flattery and abjection are inevitable—he cannot achieve ‘poor and not flatter,’ nor pursue the Way of the sages.”

“Indeed,” Zhang Juzheng replied.

Zhu Yijun continued: “If a man is rich and noble, strikes a lowly servant with a fist, pays three cash per blow, fifty cash for ten blows, one tael for killing—and even that is unnecessary, for someone always covers up his crimes—he commits evil without knowing it is evil. Yuanfu, teach me—how can this man not be haughty?”

Zhang Juzheng fell silent for a long while, then bowed his head: “He cannot. That is why one must cherish ritual in wealth.”

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “But if he is haughty and self-indulgent, he cannot achieve ‘rich and not arrogant,’ let alone ‘rich and devoted to ritual.’”

“Indeed,” Zhang Juzheng replied.

This exchange between sovereign and minister plunged the Wenhua Hall into silence; at this point in the sages’ texts, inexplicable phenomena had emerged—the emperor asked, and Zhang Juzheng, a man of great talent, seemed unable to explain it with the sages’ teachings.

What was Zhu Yijun asking?

The little good man struck a servant with a fist, tossed down three cash—and the servant would be grateful.

Since then, the little good man learned: to strike, only three cash are needed; ten blows, add a little more; to kill, no fear—someone always covers it up. In the little good man’s eyes, evil was not evil—was that man still a man?

No.

To the little good man, people had become objects.

If people are mere objects, what use is there in speaking of haughtiness, of being rich and devoted to ritual?

Zhu Yijun sighed deeply: “If poverty and hardship remain unchanged, one will inevitably become flatteringly abject; if wealth and nobility remain unchecked, one will inevitably become haughtily arrogant. Over time, the customs decay, ritual and music collapse.”

“Thus:…” Zhu Yijun picked up his pencil and wrote a few characters.