Chapter 23

Zhu Yijun looked at the characters on the table—his summary of the Analects—and said solemnly: “To say that poverty and lowliness do not move one is to invite flattery; wealth and honor without restraint breed arrogance; rites will collapse, music will decay.”

Zhang Juzheng had been pondering how to refute the Emperor, and before doing so, he needed answers to two questions.

He could not fathom how one could refuse to kneel when food was scarce and clothes inadequate, when gravel cut the feet.

He could not comprehend how the rich, after reducing people to objects, could not even obey laws and order, let alone pursue virtue—since law was merely the baseline of morality.

Without answers to these two questions, he could not refute the Emperor’s challenge; could he merely reply dryly, “The poor aspire to the Dao, the rich love propriety”?

Was that not fooling children?

After much deliberation, four characters suddenly flashed before his eyes: Kill the rich and aid the poor!

Confucianism was a doctrine emphasizing hierarchy and order; the moment these four characters appeared, Zhang Juzheng broke into a cold sweat and swiftly shattered them in his mind, telling himself: The sages must be right!

Soon, another question surfaced in Zhang Juzheng’s mind: Are the sages always right?

Zhang Juzheng, who had studied for forty-eight years, felt a faint crack form in his once unshakable ideological imprint.

Once a seed is sown, it takes root, sprouts, and bears fruit.

“Your Majesty, shall we turn to the Illustrated Exemplars of the Emperors?” Zhang Juzheng proposed, changing the subject with sincere earnestness. He had compiled these stories himself and was confident he could resolve the Emperor’s doubts, rather than let him continue down this heretical path!

To safeguard the Three Bonds and Five Constants in the Emperor’s heart—Zhang Juzheng would not shirk this duty!

“Very well.” Zhu Yijun picked up the Illustrated Exemplars and flipped through it. “Let us discuss how Emperor Renzong of Song valued grain over pearls and jade.”

Zhang Juzheng felt a pang of regret—he would have preferred discussing the Analects, for the Analects dealt only with principles.

Once this tale of valuing grain over pearls was told, the Emperor would inevitably bring up farming and sericulture—practical matters.

Zhang Juzheng spoke solemnly: “During the reign of Emperor Renzong of the Northern Song, the palace favored pearls, deeming large and round ones most beautiful. Many palace agents purchased them, causing prices in the capital, Bianliang, to soar. Consort Zhang wore pearl ornaments, but Renzong covered his face and refused to look, saying: ‘Pearls and jade glittering all over the head—this is an ill omen. Why such disregard for taboos?’ Upon hearing this, Consort Zhang immediately removed her ornaments, and Renzong was pleased.”

“The Emperor disliked pearls and jade; the palace ceased purchasing them, and their prices plummeted immediately.”

Emperor Renzong earned his posthumous name “Renzong” not merely because he shunned luxury, but because he never used his imperial status to burden palace servants. He was an unambiguously good man who wished to act, yet had no son—every endeavor was thwarted, and nothing he did could be fully accomplished.

“Then how did Emperor Renzong value grain?” Zhu Yijun sat upright, asking about another anecdote of Renzong.

Zhang Juzheng bowed and said: “During his reign, Emperor Renzong paid close attention to agriculture and sericulture. Upon discovering a vacant plot in the imperial garden, he ordered wheat planted there and built a small pavilion named Baoqi Hall. When a single stalk produced twin ears—called ‘qi’—each harvest season, Renzong personally visited Baoqi Hall, cut the first sheaf of wheat himself, and dehulled it.”

Zhu Yijun smiled and asked: “Then, Master Yuanfu, does Emperor Renzong deserve the title ‘Renzong’?”

Zhang Juzheng replied: “Emperor Renzong said: ‘Pearls and jade are treasures, but they cannot be eaten when hungry, nor worn when cold. Yet a single small item costs several strings of cash, squandering the people’s sustenance merely for fleeting amusement—this is unacceptable.’”

“Emperor Renzong, in his supreme imperial dignity, personally engaged in farming, understanding the toil of agriculture. He often said to others: ‘Among scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants, farmers suffer the most. They till in spring, weed in summer, labor under stars and moon, yet end up with barely enough for a single meal—due to state grain taxes, gentry land rents, and local officials’ private exactions.’”

“Emperor Renzong was humble, frugal, benevolent, and forgiving—outstanding among recent rulers. He certainly deserved the title ‘Renzong.’”

Zhu Yijun then said: “I have heard that Luo Gongchen, the Deputy Commissioner of Coastal Defense, presented a rare plant called the sweet potato, yielding over a thousand catties per mu. Though young, I have never forgotten my late father’s instructions: to value grain over pearls and jade, reduce expenditures in the Qianqing Palace, build a Baoqi Hall on Jingshan, personally oversee farming and sericulture, and thereby ensure the root is firm and the state secure, reviving the Great Ming.”

“What do you think, Master Yuanfu?”

Wansuishan and Jingshan were imperial gardens, royal parks. In early Ming, they were primarily used to stockpile coal, to prevent the remnants of the Yuan from besieging the capital and cutting off firewood—hence they were also called Meishan.

Within Jingshan stood Shouhuang Hall, where one could ascend, admire flowers, feast, and practice archery; there was also Guande Hall, the Ming emperors’ training ground, specifically for testing imperial heirs’ archery skills.

Zhang Juzheng had intended to protect Feng Bao’s position as the chief eunuch in the palace and was inclined to agree. Now, with the Emperor invoking two stories from the Illustrated Exemplars, he spoke respectfully: “I deem this good. I have heard: ‘One night of hunger ignites endless slaughter.’ The ancient sage-kings all regarded encouraging agriculture as their foremost duty. Yet flowery eulogies multiplied while farming languished. Your Majesty is wise.”

Zhang Juzheng had agreed. The ancestral edicts of the Ming dynasty, which recorded the founding emperor’s own farming, were a reserve weapon—should anyone oppose, he could invoke ancestral law to silence them.

Zhang Juzheng had once explained to the young Emperor the meaning of “One night of hunger ignites endless slaughter.”

When the people cannot even afford one meal, they gather in rebellion; endless slaughter begins from that point. Thus, the ancient sage-kings always placed encouragement of agriculture and sericulture as their primary task—yet as flowery praises multiplied, farming gradually fell into neglect.

Zhu Yijun asked curiously: “I heard my mother say that Master Meng once fiercely criticized the Confucian disciples who advocated ruler and people tilling the land together. Why, Master Yuanfu, do you not warn against it?”

Zhang Juzheng replied firmly: “Mencius rejected the idea of ruler and people tilling together because he feared the ruler, if seduced by agrarian doctrine, would become obsessed with farming and neglect governance.”

“Mencius said: ‘The myriad artisans of the realm cannot both till and work.’ Meaning: all artisans have their own duties—they cannot abandon their work to till the soil.”

“The nobleman has the duty to govern; the commoner has the duty to sustain life. Some labor with mind, others with body—this is the universal principle of the realm.”

“Mencius rejected agrarian doctrine, rejected ruler and people tilling together—not because he rejected the ruler personally engaging in farming, nor because he rejected valuing agriculture, nor because he rejected benevolence and forbearance.”

“Thus.” Zhu Yijun understood Zhang Juzheng’s reasoning. Zhang Juzheng was not the type to treat the sages’ texts as absolute rules to be mechanically followed in every matter. He had his own perspective and understanding of the texts, and of the world’s underlying logic.

To the young Emperor planting potatoes and sweet potatoes, Zhang Juzheng saw no harm. Ming emperors all had their private hobbies—farming was surely better than fighting crickets or practicing alchemy.

The founding Emperor himself had tilled the soil. Who dares go before him and say: “Your Majesty, you did wrong!”

Zhang Juzheng’s point was: since the young Emperor did not yet rule, it was better to occupy his mind with farming and sericulture, to see the people’s suffering, so that when he did assume power, he would not be easily deceived.

“Then I rely on you, Master Yuanfu, to quell the court’s objections. Feng Da, can you clear several mu of land on Wansuishan today for the Baoqi Hall?” Zhu Yijun turned to Feng Bao.

Feng Bao’s heart, which had been lodged in his throat, finally sank back into his chest. He immediately knelt and said earnestly: “Your Majesty, rest assured—it will be done by tomorrow.”

Beneath Jingshan lay the Hundred Fruit Garden. Feng Bao had sent men to inspect it—the soil was fertile. The fruit trees could be transplanted elsewhere. Jingshan was vast enough to accommodate several mu of farmland for the Ming Emperor to cultivate and proclaim his benevolent rule.

Zhu Yijun and Zhang Juzheng continued discussing the stories in the Illustrated Exemplars. This scroll contained full-color illustrations for every tale, exquisitely crafted.

When the lecture ended, the book-bearers, readers, and lecturers began to withdraw. Once they had fully left, Zhu Yijun did not rise to bow and conclude the session. Instead, he pulled out a memorial—Tan Lun’s resignation petition.

“Master Yuanfu, let us not approve Tan Minister’s resignation memorial for now.” Zhu Yijun spoke of court affairs: Tan Lun had blocked Wang Chonggu’s list of recommended officers, refusing to approve even his resignation. Zhu Yijun’s stance was: Tan Lun must not be allowed to resign.

Why?

Because he did not want to wake up one day with his head missing.

Zhang Juzheng hesitated a moment, then said: “Appointments and transfers of capital officials are matters of imperial authority. I should not speak out of turn. Your Majesty is young; I overstep. To call Tan Lun a mere time-server is absurd.”

The appointment of capital officials was the core of imperial power. Even during the reigns of Crown Prince Zhu Biao under Hongwu, Crown Prince Zhu Gaochi under Yongle, or Prince Zhu Zhanshan under Xuande, such appointments required the Emperor’s vermilion approval.

Zhang Juzheng should not have spoken of Tan Lun’s duties before the Emperor. But since the Emperor asked his opinion, as tutor and the last remaining grand counselor, Zhang Juzheng voiced his stance.

Even if the Emperor had not asked, Zhang Juzheng would have clearly stated the Cabinet’s opposition to Tan Lun’s resignation in the draft edict, leaving the decision to Empress Dowager Li.

But in the draft, Zhang Juzheng would not merely say Tan Lun was not idle—he would clearly lay out the stakes and the political exchanges behind Wang Chonggu’s list of recommended officers. He dared not omit details, fearing Empress Dowager Li might miss the critical points.

Zhang Juzheng did not wish to detail the dirty dealings of the adult world to a ten-year-old Zhu Yijun.

Yet no matter how he looked at it, Zhang Juzheng felt the young Emperor seemed to understand exactly what was going on.

Zhu Yijun truly understood: it was simple. Tan Lun had defected from the Jin Party; the Jin Party was now purging him. Zhang Juzheng wanted to protect Tan Lun.

From the Jin Party’s standpoint, Tan Lun had broken faith—his personal virtue was indeed flawed. He had not been assassinated with eighteen stab wounds in the back only because he was in the capital.

But Zhu Yijun stood on the side of imperial authority, on the side of the Great Ming: every officer in the capital garrisons, from top to bottom, was a member of the Jin Party. If he did nothing, he might as well give up the throne tomorrow and let the Jin Party kick his head around.

The Jin Party—a solid political alliance? It would collapse without a single blow.

Tan Lun had been recommended by Yang Bo, yet on the critical matter of recommending officers for the capital garrisons, he refused to align with the Jin Party.

“Thank you, Master Yuanfu.” Zhu Yijun rose slightly and bowed, ending today’s lecture.

“Your servant takes leave.” Zhang Juzheng quickly bowed in return. According to protocol, he should have knelt, but the Emperor had waived the formalities during audience. He slowly retreated to the entrance of Wenhua Hall, then turned and left, heading toward Wenyuan Pavilion across the way. Yet Zhang Juzheng felt something was amiss.

The young Emperor seemed to see through political exchanges with startling clarity.

After lunch, Zhu Yijun resumed his martial training. The same stubborn young Emperor remained. Zhu Xixiao, who taught him, noticed that the Ming Emperor trained seriously—not with fleeting enthusiasm that soon faded.

Because the Emperor was earnest, Zhu Xixiao’s own attitude became exceptionally serious.

According to Ming ancestral law, imperial heirs were required to hit all three targets with arrows upon reaching adulthood—at age fifteen. Due to various complications, this requirement was abolished during the first year of Zhengtong, after Emperor Yingzong Zhu Qiyu ascended the throne.

At that time, Grand Empress Dowager Zhang and Empress Sun did not wish the nine-year-old Zhu Qiyu to suffer too much.

Now Empress Dowager Li also did not wish the young Emperor to suffer greatly. But the young Emperor had his own resolve—and seemed to have persuaded her.

Zhu Xixiao was deeply grateful to the Emperor. In the Wang Zhanglong case, had the Emperor not appeared at the Northern Capital Security Command, the office would have struggled to remain unscathed. But with the Emperor present, personally overseeing the trial, the Northern Capital Security Command was spared much trouble.

Had the Emperor not come, Zhu Xixiao would have offended either the Jin Party or Feng Bao no matter how he judged.

For Zhu Xixiao, both were figures he could not afford to anger. The Embroidered Uniform Guard was no longer the powerful force it had been under Lu Bing in the Jiajing era.

With the Emperor at the Northern Capital Security Command, imperial authority stood supreme, the truth shining bright. The case unfolded under public scrutiny—Zhu Xixiao was no longer forced to take sides.

“Commandant, among those recommended to the capital garrisons, all who train with me are eunuchs. Are there no hereditary military nobles or sword-bearers to train with me?” Zhu Yijun slowly lowered his stance, calmed his breath, then spoke.

Hereditary military nobles and sword-bearers were the official ranks held by Ming hereditary military families before inheriting their titles of battalion commander, company commander, viscount, marquis, or duke.

Zhu Xixiao’s expression changed. “Yes.”

Why had Lu Bing’s Embroidered Uniform Guard wielded such power, even overshadowing the Director of the Eastern Depot?

Because Lu Bing’s mother was the wet nurse of the Jiajing Emperor; Lu Bing grew up entering and leaving the palace with her, raised alongside the Jiajing Emperor.

In the eighteenth year of Jiajing, when the Jiajing Emperor traveled south to Weihui and the imperial lodging caught fire, Lu Bing rushed into the flames and carried the Emperor out.

In the twenty-first year of Jiajing, during the Renyin Palace Plot, palace maids attempted to strangle the Jiajing Emperor—Lu Bing was the first to rush in and save him.

Zhu Xixiao certainly wished to recommend hereditary military nobles and sword-bearers to train with the Emperor.

But would the Empress Dowager and Feng Bao agree?