Chapter 28: A Lament for the Caged Bird, Who Knows Not the Height of the Heavens

Early the next morning, outside Qianqing Palace.

Zhu Youjian sat upright atop a fine steed, jet-black from head to tail with snow-white markings on all four hooves.

He wore a golden-yellow python robe, covered by an exquisitely crafted set of bright mirror armor.

The armor bore intricate, ornate patterns, with delicate coiled-dragon roundels embroidered on both the chest and the back.

From either side of his iron helmet rose a pure-white plume feather, swaying gently in the breeze.

A vivid scarlet tassel hung from beneath the helmet, setting off his red lips and white teeth all the more.

Finding that description hard to picture?

It was basically the same as the flashy god-tier gear in a pay-to-win online game — absurdly ostentatious.

Zhu Youjian was, in truth, feeling rather uneasy inside.

If he were walking down the road like this, he would practically be a glittering, gold-plated moving target.

But when the imperial house traveled on official business, there were ceremonial protocols and standards to uphold.

What was more, today was an inspection of the outer camps, entirely different from yesterday's review of the household retainers at the inner parade ground.

Such a visually overwhelming presentation also served precisely to elevate the Emperor's majesty.

The eunuch corps had already moved out ahead and begun the routine street-clearing.

First came a squad of eunuchs bearing cleansing whips, advancing slowly along the imperial way.

Every few paces, they would crack their cleansing whips, producing sharp, clear "Snap! Snap!" sounds.

The moment this whip-crack rang out, it was the signal that the Emperor was about to set forth.

Next, a dozen or so eunuchs carried large wooden buckets and sprinkled clear water over the imperial way.

This was "pure water sweeping the streets," signifying that wherever the sacred procession passed, even the dust must be made clean.

Behind them came the eunuch corps bearing long staves, forming two files and beginning to clear the area.

"The sacred procession approaches — clear the streets, everyone back to your places!"

This was the routine call. Upon hearing it, the street vendors would skillfully pack up their stalls.

Most people were long accustomed to this procedure and moved briskly, able to shift their goods behind door planks or push them into the nearby alleys in the blink of an eye.

Yet there were always some who were half a beat too slow.

An old man selling candied hawthorn sticks was still unhurriedly packing up when a squad leader of the eunuch corps strode over, snatched the straw target from his hands, and flung it against the wall. "Old fool, get lost — now!"

The old man stumbled in fright and scrambled into the alley on all fours.

Not far away, a peddler, because his carrying pole was too heavy, turned around a moment too late.

A eunuch corpsman, losing patience, kicked the peddler's load directly. With a crash, needles, thread, rouge, and powder scattered all over the ground.

The peddler fell to his knees begging for mercy, but the corpsman had already stepped around him and continued forward.

Soon, the honor guard of the Brocade Guard Imperial Bodyguard began to march out.

The jade palanquin, guiding canopy, fly whisk, spittoon, folding chair, battle-axes, star banners, imperial staves, and guiding staves — the full regalia was arrayed, with the jade carriage and the gold carriage bringing up the rear.

Flanking both sides were the Han Generals in their golden-winged helmets, long sabers hanging at their waists, their expressions solemn.

The common people prostrated themselves on the ground.

Zhu Youjian, mounted on horseback and surrounded by several hundred guards, slowly rode out through Bei'an Gate.

His gaze was calm as it swept over the kneeling crowds lining both sides of the road.

He saw the candied hawthorn sticks scattered across the ground — red hawthorn berries wrapped in sugar coating, glaringly stark in the morning light.

He also saw, not far away, beside the overturned peddler's load, the mess of needles, thread, rouge, and powder strewn everywhere.

These details, like a pebble cast into a placid lake, sent ripples spreading through Zhu Youjian's heart.

So this was feudal imperial power. So this was the Great Ming he was here to save.

Any feudal dynasty — whether Han, Tang, Ming, or Qing — set aside the martial glories and civil achievements, the vast territories stretching ten thousand li, and look deeper: the underlying hue is always a bleak gray.

The common people, more often than not, are merely a footnote to those heroes and villains, those dukes and ministers, as they gesture grandly over the realm.

But he did not voice any rebuke, nor did his expression change in the slightest.

Because he understood: this was a custom formed over centuries, a part of the order that sustained the workings of this colossal empire.

Today he could reprimand a eunuch corpsman for the sake of one peddler, but tomorrow, and the day after, there would still be countless peddlers, in countless places beyond his sight, being oppressed by countless eunuch corpsmen, government runners, and arrogant household servants.

The mercy of one individual cannot alter the deep-rooted maladies of an entire system.

He gazed into the distance, his eyes sweeping across the scene, but his heart was filled with disappointment.

The streets of the capital were just like the realm of Great Ming: on the surface they still appeared flourishing, but underneath, decay festered everywhere.

The last time he had entered the palace for the mourning rites, it was already dusk, and he had been seated inside a sedan chair, jolting along the whole way — he had virtually no impression of the Ming capital from that trip.

Now, looking out as far as the eye could see, there were occasional clusters of buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, extravagantly opulent, but far more numerous were nothing more than low, shabby little dwellings.

And the condition of the road surface was appallingly bad.

Although it had been covered with a layer of loess, the original ruts and bumps were still clearly visible.

Of the entire broad avenue, only the central portion reserved for the imperial passage had been raised about half a meter and covered with fresh earth, making it look somewhat cleaner.

The sides of the road, however, were untreated mire — black and foul, giving off an indescribably complex stench.

Suddenly, Zhu Youjian's brow furrowed.

He caught a faint, elusive odor of excrement.

The smell was not strong, yet it seemed to permeate everything, threading its way into his nostrils in wisps.

He instinctively looked around but could not find the source; it felt as though it was diffused throughout the very air of the entire city.

Just then, an autumn gust swept down the long street.

"Whoosh—"

A skyful of yellow dust was whipped up, bearing down on everything in its path.

Zhu Youjian had no time to dodge and was instantly blasted with dust and grit, barely able to keep his eyes open.

He wiped his face awkwardly with his sleeve, the absurdity of it all flooding his mind.

On this very day, Cathay could still mock the barbarism of European cities awash in excrement and piss.

But in just one or two hundred years, it would be the Westerners' turn to stand on the high ground of civilization and mock Cathay.

No wonder the terrible plague that struck in the final years of Chongzhen would destroy this heart of the empire so swiftly.

An environment like this was nothing less than a breeding ground for pestilence, surpassing even the filthiest, most chaotic rural market of later ages.

He looked around again. The shops lining both sides of the road had their doors and windows tightly shut, and the kneeling commoners did not utter a word.

He was like the arch-villain in a play — wherever he passed, a dead silence fell.

He knew perfectly well that this was not the real Beijing.

The real Beijing had, at this moment, been hidden away.

All the clamor, the splendor, the filth, the ugliness, the poverty, the corruption… everything real had been firmly concealed before his arrival.

The capital's streets were like this, and the coming inspection at the parade ground would be no different.

All he was permitted to see was a whitewashed peace, and beneath his feet this golden avenue temporarily paved with yellow earth.

The Emperor of the Great Ming was, in a sense, utterly and completely blind and deaf.

Vast as the Forbidden City was, it was also the sturdiest of cages, cutting him off entirely from the real world.

And now, he was on his way to seize the first measure of power that could let him break free of this cage.

A power that truly belonged to him — one that would let him see the truth, hear the truth, and change the truth!

This illustration is a Qing-dynasty photograph; it would not differ greatly from the Ming.

The angle looks down from the Anding Gate tower; the area of the protagonist's procession is roughly at the upper right of the image.