Chapter 41: Chapter Forty-One: Warriors Half-Die Before the Battlefield, Beauties Still Sing and Dance Beneath the Tent

The censorial officials gathered before the imperial palace; the head of the remonstrating ministers was returning to court, which eased the censors’ fears of harming those who dared speak truth, but Zhang Juzheng worried the emperor might harbor resentment toward them, so he planned to offer advice.

“Master Yuanfu, please rise and speak.” Zhu Yijun sounded slightly displeased—he had already given his instructions, there was no major issue, so standing while speaking was sufficient; such empty formalities were unnecessary.

As long as Zhang Juzheng did not turn his Zhang faction into a clan-based network of kinship and regional ties, as long as he still regarded the revival of the Great Ming as his foremost duty and ambition, then when addressing the emperor, Zhang Juzheng could stand tall and speak uprightly.

“Ah?” Zhang Juzheng, halfway kneeling, had no choice but to rise—this matter of remonstrance.

Zhang Juzheng bowed and said: “Your Majesty, the Taizu Emperor established the censorial officials and the Censor-in-Chief to specifically impeach corrupt officials, clarify wrongful cases, supervise all circuits, and serve as the Son of Heaven’s ears, eyes, and moral compass.”

“Impeach any high minister who is treacherous and wicked; any petty man who forms factions and wields power to disrupt governance; any official who is base, greedy, and corrupts official discipline; any scholar whose doctrines are heretical, who submits memorials to overturn established laws, and seeks advancement through such means.”

Zhu Yijun immediately understood what Zhang Juzheng intended to say, and smiled: “Master Yuanfu, the matter at Chengtian Gate is settled; no further words are needed. The ‘Compendium of Constitutional Precedents’ states: if a censor commits a crime, his punishment is increased by three grades; if he has embezzled, the penalty is even heavier.”

“These censors erred only because they were stirred up by petty men. See, I sent Daban and Grand Censor Ge to clarify the truth; once they learned the facts and heard of Hai Gangfeng’s return, most became greatly encouraged and dispersed.”

“Some censorial officials still possess loyal and submissive hearts—for instance, the more than thirty who left at first did so because they understood the truth and chose to depart. The Han dynasty always had loyal ministers; this is no great matter.”

Censorial officials can rebuke even the emperor—that is their duty; they are meant to impeach, even to curse the Grand Secretary. But if they err, their punishment is increased by three grades: what would have been exile becomes beheading; if they have embezzled, the penalty is even worse.

As for the gathering at Chengtian Gate, it was the work of petty men.

Someone exploited a temporal gap—petty men love nothing more than such administrative delays.

After yesterday’s court deliberation, the punishment for the three clan factions targeting censorial officials was decided, but the official documents required a full day to complete the bureaucratic process. That single day became the window for petty men to stir unrest.

The censors heard only that the censorial officials had been punished, without knowing what truly happened. A little provocation, combined with Zhang Juzheng’s poor reputation, and they naturally rushed to Chengtian Gate.

“Petty men stirring unrest…” Zhang Juzheng fell silent for a moment, then bowed: “Your Majesty is wise.”

Usually, petty men stirring unrest is labeled as righteous indignation—but how do we distinguish between the two?

If noise and rumors are spread continuously before any official document is issued, that is the work of petty men;

If, after the official document is issued, one still protests the decision as violating propriety and moral law, that is righteous indignation.

Zhang Juzheng originally intended to speak up for the censorial officials, asking the emperor to distinguish between petty men stirring unrest and righteous indignation, so the emperor would not misunderstand—these newly appointed jinshi were not yet so slick or worldly.

But seeing how clearly the emperor spoke, Zhang Juzheng realized he had worried needlessly.

For matters of governance and the intricate ways of the bureaucracy, the young emperor was extremely adept—though perhaps Feng Bao whispered these things into his ear daily.

“Feng Daban handled this matter excellently. Daban is a eunuch; if he had spoken, they might have thought His Majesty feared them. But Feng Daban provoked Ge Shouli to speak—perfectly timed, excellent.” Zhu Yijun said to Feng Bao, not sparing praise for a job well done.

Feng Bao pondered these words carefully: the same words, spoken by different people, had entirely different effects. If a eunuch spoke, it sounded like the emperor or the inner court was afraid; but if Ge Shouli spoke, it was the court’s official decision—an exercise of power and institutional authority, a collective imperial decree.

“Thank Your Majesty for the praise!” Feng Bao beamed. His subtle intentions had escaped Ge Shouli, but the emperor saw them clearly.

“Master Yuanfu, may we begin the lecture?” Zhu Yijun asked with a smile.

Reading was the foremost matter; without reading, how could he shatter the unbreakable ideological steel stamp in Zhang Juzheng’s mind?

Every question Zhu Yijun asked was a memetic contamination, a cognitive hazard—but as the emperor’s tutor, Zhang Juzheng had no choice but to grit his teeth and lecture. He gritted his teeth through the Analects, then pulled out the ‘Illustrated Mirror for Governance’ and began recounting its stories.

Today’s lesson was again about Tang Taizong Li Shimin.

Zhang Juzheng stood straight and spoke calmly: “Prince Qin defeated Song Jinggang, routed his general Xun Xiang at Lüzhou, pursued the fleeing enemy, marched two hundred li in a single day, fought dozens of battles, and shattered Song Jinggang’s army again.”

“When the army halted at Gaobi Ridge, Commander Liu Hongji said: ‘Your Highness has already pursued the enemy far after victory; your merit is sufficient. To advance further risks danger. The soldiers are hungry and exhausted. It would be best to remain at Gaobi Ridge, await supply trains, then attack Song Jinggang without haste.’”

“Prince Qin replied: ‘Song Jinggang has no options left but to flee; his troops are disunited, their morale broken. Victory is hard to achieve, but defeat is easy. If we wait at Gaobi Ridge, Song Jinggang will regroup—we cannot afford delay. How can we, loyal servants of the state, spare our own lives?’”

“Prince Qin pressed forward, pursued Song Jinggang to Quechu Valley, broke eight of his formations in succession. By then, the prince had not eaten for two days, had not removed his armor for three. The army had only one sheep left—but Prince Qin still shared it equally with his soldiers.”

“Song Jinggang still had twenty thousand men. Prince Qin sent Commander Li Shiji to fight, but he failed. Prince Qin then led three thousand troops, launched a surprise attack from behind, utterly defeated Song Jinggang. Song Jinggang fled with over a hundred horsemen; Prince Qin chased him to Zhangnan Fortress but failed to catch him.”

Upon hearing this, Zhu Yijun frowned: “Two hundred li in a single day? Is that not exaggerated?”

Zhang Juzheng replied with certainty: “The Tang army could do it. Our Great Ming army can too. Lightly equipped, marching swiftly, two hundred li in a day is achievable for elite troops.”

“On the twelfth day of the ninth month of the twenty-third year of Jiajing, after the great victory at Niutian, the southern troops under Marshal Qi’s command marched from Xinghua to Lindun, covering one hundred and forty li in a single day, marching silently at night, arriving at Lindun at dawn the next day.”

“The next day, they crushed the Japanese pirates stronghold at Lindun, beheaded over two thousand, captured more than thirty thousand.”

When speaking of the southern troops and Qi’s army, Zhang Juzheng straightened his posture.

“Then, besides the southern troops, does our Great Ming army have any other force capable of marching two hundred li?” Zhu Yijun, having heard of Qi’s army’s terrifying strength, asked.

One hundred and forty li in a day—were these men even human? Zhu Yijun voiced his military ignorance: were they flying through the air or gliding along the ground?

“None.” Zhang Juzheng, hearing the ten-year-old emperor’s question, replied with a touch of discouragement.

The emperor truly knew how to press a sore spot.

If we still had such a formidable army, could the northern barbarians have been rampant in Xuanfu and Datong for twelve years?

Zhu Yijun nodded: “In the Quechu Valley battle, Prince Qin defeated Song Jinggang in all eight engagements. The Tang army was newly victorious, brimming with morale; Song Jinggang’s forces were newly defeated, demoralized—it is understandable.”

“Your Majesty, Quechu Valley is extremely treacherous—only a sparrow can pass through. The elevation drops dozens of zhang; only four or five men can walk side by side. One man can hold the pass against ten thousand.”

Just as Qi Jiguang crushed Lindun—the Japanese pirates entrenched there were not weak. Lindun was crisscrossed with ditches, its terrain extremely complex, with only two passable routes: the main road, Huangshi Dadao , and the western path, Xihong Trail.

Even after falling into the traitor’s trap, Qi Jiguang still captured Lindun in a single day, beheaded two thousand, captured over thirty thousand.

Prince Li Shimin’s eight consecutive victories in Quechu Valley, his capture of the pass, cannot be dismissed as mere circumstance. Song Jinggang was weak only because he met Prince Qin; the Japanese pirates were weak only because they met Qi Jiguang.

Fierce battles on narrow mountain paths atop precipitous cliffs, soldiers hungry and exhausted, eight victories in succession—how much hardship lies behind such a simple phrase?

The dull, lifeless history suddenly came alive.

“What happened to Song Jinggang later?” Zhu Yijun knew Prince Qin eventually became emperor.

Zhang Juzheng taught from the ‘Illustrated Mirror for Governance’ hoping the emperor would take the emperors of China’s dynasties as models, becoming a virtuous and enlightened ruler—the Great Ming truly needed a strong sovereign to lead its revival.

Zhang Juzheng knew he himself could not do it; he was merely a minister. All reforms led by ministers had failed without the emperor’s full support.

The emperor asked: where did Song Jinggang go?

Zhang Juzheng answered: “Song Jinggang fled with a hundred horsemen into the Turkic lands, was captured by the Turks, and beheaded at the waist.”

Zhu Yijun asked further: “What was Crown Prince Li Jiancheng doing at this time?”

Zhang Juzheng bowed: “Crown Prince Li Jiancheng indulged in phoenix dances and mandarin duck songs to satisfy his desires; his jade carriages and carved chariots guided his pleasures. His consort, Lady Zheng, pleaded earnestly, urging him to reduce extravagance while in power; whenever he grew arrogant and wasteful, Lady Zheng would admonish him to practice frugality.”

“Phoenix dances and mandarin duck songs satisfied the crown prince’s luxurious desires; jade carriages and carved chariots guided his pleasures. Consort Zheng pleaded with him, asking him to lower his expenditures while in honor; whenever he indulged in extravagance, Consort Zheng would admonish him to be frugal.”

“Later, when Prince Qin became emperor, flatterers naturally arose, fawning on him and slandering Crown Prince Li Jiancheng to please Emperor Taizong.” Zhu Yijun, hearing this, asked with slight doubt.

Zhang Juzheng bowed: “I dare not deceive Your Majesty. What I just cited was not from the Old or New Book of Tang or the ‘Comprehensive Mirror,’ but from the epitaph of Consort Zheng, wife of Crown Prince Li Jiancheng. Consort Zheng died twenty-seven years after Emperor Taizong’s passing; the past was long buried.”

“The Old and New Books of Tang and the ‘Comprehensive Mirror’ record not a single word of Crown Prince Li Jiancheng’s extravagance.”

Historians must spare the honored; thus, descriptions of Li Jiancheng’s luxury were all concealed in official histories. Only Consort Zheng’s epitaph recorded these details—and answered one question.

Why did Li Jiancheng lose the people’s hearts in the Xuanwu Gate Incident?

Consort Zheng died in the third year of Shangyuan—twenty-seven years after Li Shimin’s death. Zhen Guan lasted twenty-three years; when Consort Zheng passed away, fifty years had passed since the Xuanwu Gate Incident.

Fifty years is a long time—long enough for people to speak of the Xuanwu Gate Incident as mere gossip, a historical footnote.

In fifty years, all things had changed; the epitaph’s inscriptions, therefore, were more truthful.

“Thus.” Zhu Yijun realized Zhang Juzheng’s historical teaching emphasized rigor: when speaking of Quechu Valley, he said “Prince Qin”; when speaking of Consort Zheng’s epitaph, he said “Emperor Taizong Wen”; every citation had a source, every word carried responsibility.

Zhang Juzheng was indeed a scholar. He did not teach these things to argue who was right or wrong in the Xuanwu Gate Incident, but hoped the young emperor would truly grasp certain truths.

Li Shimin killed his own elder brother and younger brother in the Xuanwu Gate Incident, then forced Li Yuan to abdicate and became emperor.

Our Great Ming’s Taizong Wen Emperor Zhu Di also rebelled and usurped the throne. When Emperor Taizu Zhu Yuanzhang and Crown Prince Zhu Biao were alive, would Zhu Di have dared such an act as the Xuanwu Gate Incident?

He would not have dared.

Both Tang Taizong Li Shimin and Ming Chengzu Zhu Di possessed military genius. Men with such talent truly acted without restraint on the battlefield.

After hearing the entire story, Zhu Yijun pondered and said: “Prince Qin shared his last sheep with his soldiers; the crown prince indulged in phoenix dances and jade carriages. The hearts of men turn toward or away from such contrasts.”

“Warriors half-dead before the battlefield, while beauties still sing and dance beneath the general’s tent.”

“Your Majesty is wise.” Zhang Juzheng was deeply pleased—the young emperor understood his meaning. This was best. He did not expect the emperor to be as brilliant and martial as Li Shimin, but he fervently hoped His Majesty would not sink into luxury and frivolity.

The Great Ming could not endure another incompetent ruler’s ruin.