Chapter 337: Spring Wind Green Again, Bright Moon Shines Once More

After summer arrived, the wind over the river grew distinctly cool.

Zhang Juzheng stood at the ship’s rail, letting the north-south wind brush his cheeks, occasionally gazing toward the direction of Beijingcheng.

They were now nearing Beijingcheng and would dock within the day.

This meant Zhang Juzheng would soon return to the Grand Secretariat and resume bearing the governance of the Two Capitals and Thirteen Provinces.

At this moment, the Grand Secretary could not help letting his thoughts wander, anticipating how he might extend his influence.

The myriad affairs within and beyond the court were deeply absorbing.

Just then, a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“My lord, the physician repeatedly warned that after taking the medicine, you must not stand for long—you must lie down and rest quietly. Please return to your cabin.”

Zhang Juzheng turned his head.

There stood his son, Zhang Jingxiu, holding a bowl of medicine, his face full of concern.

He had even followed him all the way to the deck, in full view of everyone!

Zhang Juzheng, rarely flustered, flushed slightly and grumbled, “After the procedure, the hemorrhoid dried up and fell off by the sixteenth day, gradually healing. A month has passed—I’m as vigorous as ever.”

“You troublesome son, always overreacting. Outsiders will think I’m on my deathbed, barely clinging to life with medicine.”

Old Zhang had long passed the physician’s prescribed period and had no intention of taking more medicine—this was typical of elderly men’s aversion to illness.

Zhang Jingxiu, watching his stubborn father, inwardly groaned.

What was so hard about parting the buttocks and applying the ointment?

He not only scowled, but also scolded him every time.

Helpless, he brought up the Emperor once more: “My lord, it’s not that I’m overreacting—it’s the Emperor’s command I cannot defy. If I defy His Majesty again, I fear I’ll truly be exiled three thousand li.”

Father and son stared at each other.

Though Zhang Jingxiu spoke as if joking, this was exactly the sort of thing the Emperor might do—he’d already done it before.

Grand Secretary Zhang’s hemorrhoids were a chronic ailment.

As early as Longqing Fourth Year, ten years ago, he frequently requested leave for treatment—“My affliction is truly hemorrhoids; I never properly treated it, and now it’s dragged on.”

For years, he sought doctors and remedies, yet found no cure.

During this homecoming for mourning, perhaps due to poor diet or prolonged sitting, the hemorrhoids flared again.

At this time, a villager claimed to possess a technique called “Third-Rank One-Spear,” capable of curing hemorrhoids, tested repeatedly.

Thus, after the mourning period ended, Zhang Juzheng personally tested the remedy, hoping for full recovery.

The treatment proceeded smoothly.

It involved burning toxic substances like arsenic and toad venom into a rod-like form, then inserting it into the affected area; after seven days, it turned black, the wound edges cracked, and by the fifteenth day, it fell off.

He had already reached the stage of muscle regeneration and blood nourishment.

It should have been a joyful matter—but when the Emperor learned of it, he wrote a letter berating him furiously!

He called it “vile quackery,” warning that such methods often ruptured meridians and caused unceasing bleeding, killing people.

He asked: “How dare a man of noble birth, a pillar of the state, so recklessly endanger himself with fierce, toxic medicines?”

He didn’t just scold—he had the physician arrested and thrown into prison!

Had Zhang Juzheng not repeatedly petitioned for mercy, the kind-hearted physician would surely have been executed.

Though the physician was eventually released, the Emperor added further imperial edicts: ordering Zhang Juzheng to abstain from alcohol and women, forbidding further use of potent medicines, and commanding Zhang Jingxiu to diligently attend to him, changing the hemorrhoid washes and so on.

Clearly, the Emperor was genuinely furious.

If he stubbornly refused the medicine and angered the Emperor again…

Zhang Juzheng glanced at the accompanying Embroidered Uniform Guard and pondered how the Emperor would react if he learned of his refusal.

After much hesitation, Zhang Juzheng finally turned and walked toward his cabin.

He muttered under his breath: “His Majesty loves to play teacher, meddling in everything.”

Zhang Jingxiu, relieved his father had relented, hurried forward with the medicine.

Glancing at the surrounding Embroidered Uniform Guards, he added: “His Majesty’s concern stems from worry—it proves the deep bond between sovereign and minister, teacher and student.”

Zhang Juzheng, hearing this, felt pleasantly soothed.

As he walked lightly, he also reflected further on his student’s burdens: “Concern breeds agitation… Lately, the state has faced many pressing matters. His Majesty must have suppressed much of his temper.”

The Emperor was not particularly benevolent, but he rarely lost his temper, and never vented it on innocent physicians.

His outburst this time, beyond concern over the medicine, likely stemmed from recent emotional strain.

As for the reason…

Zhang Juzheng recalled what he had seen and heard on his journey to Beijing, and sighed.

Father and son walked side by side to the cabin door.

Zhang Jingxiu stepped ahead of his father and gently pushed open the door.

As he placed the medicine on the table, he spoke as usual: “Regarding state affairs, I thought you’d want to witness the complete pacification of Shandong’s unrest and the renewed land survey before continuing north.”

Shandong had become a mess.

Not only had progress slowed, but the land survey had also gained a terrible reputation among the people.

Your mere reprimand and subsequent withdrawal hardly fits Master Zhang’s character.

After his son spread out the bedding, Zhang Juzheng lay down with practiced ease.

“His Majesty told me to rest, yet immediately summoned me to Beijing before July—his calm wording betrayed urgency. How could I afford to linger in Shandong? Everyone has their own duties. Let others clean up Shandong.”

Travel was certainly a major reason.

But there were also matters too sensitive to voice.

A newly reinstated Grand Secretary, still en route, directly intervening in local military and civil authority—what was he trying to do?

Don’t speak of governing the Nine Regions within your jurisdiction—it’s all under the Emperor’s gaze, with colleagues watching and Embroidered Uniform Guards nearby; even the greatest power is but a rootless floating weed.

A Grand Secretary directing provincial affairs?

Even the most trusted Grand Secretary would never dare that.

But these truths cannot be spoken plainly—when this son passes the imperial examination and enters officialdom, he’ll understand.

Zhang Jingxiu clearly hadn’t considered this.

He pulled the curtain shut, fetched a soft pillow, and still voiced dissent: “I fear others lack your ability and will only make the situation worse—eventually, it’ll fall back to you to fix.”

“Especially someone like He Xinyin.”

“Yesterday I heard that several gentry families around Qufu were plundered. When I asked, they all claimed He Xinyin ordered it—utter lawlessness!”

“And Governor Yin… he has talent, but in my view, his moral character is suspect.”

Zhang Jingxiu’s tone was full of disdain—he firmly believed only his father could handle such affairs properly.

After all, their family lineage was illustrious: his father a famed minister of the age, his elder brother an unofficial top scholar—his lofty standards were only natural.

Zhang Juzheng unfastened his belt, took the pillow, and placed it beneath himself.

After his son finished speaking, he corrected him: “I’ve heard of the Qufu incident—it was purely the work of wandering bandits. He Xinyin would never incite the people to plunder.”

“His method is nothing but organizing societies—establishing charitable estates, opening public schools—all to gather followers and resist gentry and court authority.”

“Such a rigid Confucian would never overturn the table—he’s probably swallowed bitter medicine.”

They had met once in their youth and held mutual contempt.

When Zhang Juzheng expounded on reform, He Xinyin called him a “people’s thief and power-mad traitor,” warning that autocratic rule would perish with him.

When He Xinyin spoke grandly of the Dao, Zhang Juzheng retorted: “Organizing societies in counties and villages is easy—but how do you know your ‘society’ will uphold justice generation after generation?”

Though they parted on bad terms, they understood each other somewhat.

Zhang Jingxiu didn’t fully grasp He Xinyin—he only half-understood.

Zhang Juzheng offered no further explanation, continuing: “As for Yin Shidan… his faults are undeniable, but I cannot easily move against him. I must wait for His Majesty to settle accounts later.”

With Yin Shidan’s ability, Shandong’s situation should not have deteriorated this far. That it did means he failed to act properly.

The truth may not be so simple—but in officialdom, assumption is truth.

Yet Yin Shidan was personally summoned by the Emperor and had rendered great service in restructuring the salt monopoly and issuing salt vouchers.

Zhang Juzheng could not openly confront him—he could only hint and warn.

Whether to ultimately punish him depends entirely on the Emperor’s word.

“As for the Kong family—after a thousand years, they cannot be resolved in a few days. I have no time to wait. Let Shen Li handle it.”

“Shen Li is far steadier than Sun Piyang.”

Zhang Juzheng, warmed by his own thoughts, even commented on the Kong family.

The Kongs must be reined in, their lands audited—this cannot be done quickly. Only Shen Li can manage it.

Among all the Provincial Governors, Shen Li was already among the best.

Especially compared to the negative example of Sun Piyang—Old Zhang had developed strong grievances against the Governor during his passage through Nanzhili.

Zhang Jingxiu pulled down his undergarments, picked up the medicine, and tested its temperature.

Hearing Sun Piyang’s name, he couldn’t help laughing: “Governor Sun… I doubt any court official is more frivolous.”

Not even Shen Li, nor even the notoriously unruly Yin Zhengmao, was as careless as Sun Piyang.

The only one comparable might be the official who got stuck by a dog during morning audience.

Zhang Juzheng sighed, amused and exasperated by Sun Piyang.

“On this journey, I’ve been thinking how to remove Sun Piyang—he’s utterly unfit to govern a province.”

“But he was appointed by the Emperor himself—if I propose his dismissal, it will seem discordant.”

“Frivolity” was too vague a charge.

On the surface, frivolity hardly merited dismissal; yet upon closer inspection, it was utterly intolerable.

Count up all of Sun Piyang’s actions since taking office.

First, he clashed with Li Chunfang and directly submitted a memorial accusing him, insulting a three-dynasty veteran and the current emperor’s father-in-law.

Then he delayed the land survey, setting only vague figures for land increases, and handed over the entire implementation to local gentry and landlords.

Whatever they reported, that’s what was accepted.

Only Ye Mengxiong in his jurisdiction conducted a serious survey, albeit slowly; Sun Piyang then submitted a memorial demanding Ye Mengxiong’s dismissal.

For this, he was reprimanded by the Emperor, yet he shamelessly kept making life difficult for his own subordinates.

All this was bad enough.

When Zhang Juzheng passed through Nanzhili, he heard rumors that the Fengyang Provincial Governor and the Yingtian Provincial Governor were at odds.

The reason? Sun Piyang treated the land survey as a political achievement; not content with pushing hard himself, he also tried to “assist” his neighbor Wang Jiaping!

Wang Jiaping refused to pay him any attention.

So Sun Piyang secretly went to visit him.

He argued that the land survey was a major achievement, Nanzhili was a vast domain, and if done well, both would benefit; with the Grand Secretariat vacant, they should each claim one such accomplishment—Wang Jiaping one, and he himself another!

Zhang Juzheng, upon hearing this, was utterly stunned.

Could a high-ranking official really be this frivolous!?

As he pondered these chaotic matters, Zhang Juzheng felt a sudden chill between his thighs.

“Hss!”

Zhang Juzheng sucked in a sharp breath.

“My lord, please endure a moment.”

The area treated with arsenic naturally does not heal easily; after applying the medicine, the pain intensified.

While Zhang Jingxiu was applying the ointment, he also spoke to distract his father: “Actually, it would be most appropriate for Wang Jiaping to personally submit a memorial accusing him.”

The moment he spoke, he felt his father’s gaze—disappointed, as if seeing a worthless son.

He immediately realized: he had indeed been bullying the honest man.

Zhang Jingxiu thought again and quickly corrected himself: “Or perhaps, my lord could use the annual evaluation to reward or punish each provincial governor and surveillance commissioner accordingly; then the court would not suspect you are targeting anyone deliberately.”

That sounded more reasonable.

Zhang Juzheng withdrew his gaze, satisfied: “I thought the same.”

He sat up, clarifying his thoughts: “Besides Sun Piyang, which other provincial governors and surveillance commissioners deserve equal punishment?”

Zhang Jingxiu nodded obediently but could not answer immediately.

Zhang Juzheng, receiving no reply, answered himself: “Henan Provincial Governor Deng Yizan—his conduct lacks official dignity; fine him three months’ salary.”

Zhang Jingxiu frowned: “Isn’t Governor Deng already stepping down to avoid suspicion?”

Zhang Juzheng, lying on his pillow, glanced at his son.

The latter suddenly understood: “Ah—I see. My lord intends to use this minor punishment to protect Governor Deng.”

Zhang Juzheng gave a soft nasal hum—acknowledgment.

The chaos of the land survey was not confined to Shandong alone.

Henan had also produced a great many problems.

Governor Deng Yizan failed to discipline his family; they exploited the land survey to open a wide door for bribery—landlords who paid were left alone, while those who refused were persecuted until their families were ruined.

When the scandal broke, public outrage erupted. Wealthy families blocked Deng’s son as he dined in a tavern, demanding explanations.

During the quarrel, Deng Yizan’s son tried to flee the tavern and accidentally broke his leg.

To avoid suspicion, Deng Yizan himself resigned and shut himself away, temporarily handing over the land survey to the Surveillance Censor.

Zhang Juzheng did not truly believe Deng Yizan was entirely innocent.

But politically, he had no choice—Deng Yizan was also an imperial appointee; using him while dismissing Sun Piyang provided a slight balance.

Zhang Juzheng continued scanning for the next candidate for punishment.

“Also, Zhejiang Provincial Governor Wang Daoqin—Huzhou’s affairs remain unclear and unresolved; let him retire to Nanjing and sing his ‘Gao Tang Dream.’”

As he listed them, his anger grew.

The land survey had become a war—fires blazing everywhere.

Zhejiang was no longer peaceful.

When surveyors reached the lands of the Dong and Fan families in Huzhou Prefecture, both prominent families cooperated fully.

When disputes arose with tenant farmers claiming land encroachment, they immediately returned the land.

When the court discovered fields recorded as small plots but taxed as large ones, they voluntarily corrected the records.

They did not expel hidden servants or slaves, but registered them faithfully.

Even, they individually tracked down the original sellers of their land deeds and offered to repurchase the land at half its original sale price.

These were acts worthy of being framed and displayed.

But then—unexpectedly—

Rumors suddenly spread that anyone who went to the Dong family and caused trouble could walk away with money.

So every day, hundreds or even thousands of commoners flocked to the Dong family, demanding repayment.

Some had no connection whatsoever to the land.

One claimed the Dong family had seized hundreds of acres of prime land; another said the Fan family’s young master had leered at him, insulted him, and owed him half his fortune.

Thus, a chaotic popular uprising erupted out of nowhere.

Compounding the chaos, both families held official status, which only intensified the unrest—people now shouted that the government could not be trusted and began scaling walls and smashing doors.

The head of the Dong family, Dong Fen, had been a Hanlin Academy candidate in the twentieth year of Jiajing and rose to Minister of Rites.

But all that was during Jiajing’s reign—seemingly insignificant.

The problem was: Dong Fen was the teacher of Shen Shixing and Wang Xijue.

The Fan family’s ties were even more direct.

This Fan family was no ordinary one—it was the family of Fan Yingqi, the Jiajing-era top imperial scholar and current Minister of Revenue and Director of the Granary System.

In other words, the Huzhou unrest subtly pointed directly at high-ranking officials of the current court.

Provincial Governor Wang Daoqin was powerless to handle it, endlessly submitting memorials to the central court asking what to do.

As a result, what should have been settled long ago remained unresolved to this day!

Zhang Jingxiu, listening to his father recount these matters, shook his head repeatedly.

Since leaving Huguang, they had scarcely encountered any region where the land survey proceeded orderly—everywhere, chaos erupted.

Shandong, Henan, Zhejiang, Nanzhili—all the same.

“Alas, I can’t even tell whether the policy is inherently difficult, or whether wicked men are secretly sabotaging it.”

His first thought was that someone had orchestrated it.

But considering how many regions acted in unison, it seemed unlikely.

Zhang Juzheng snorted: “Naturally, both are true—the people’s discontent comes first, then wicked men stoke the flames. Shandong and Henan are one thing, but Huzhou’s case is suspicious in every way.”

Zhang Jingxiu had finished applying the medicine.

He helped his father pull on his clothes, picked up the medicine bowl, and stood.

“To serve the realm wholeheartedly, yet face endless schemes and intrigues—alas, governing for the state is truly not easy.”

Zhang Jingxiu respectfully turned his back.

He was not merely sharing his father’s anger—he feared the burden of state affairs would harm his father’s recovery; already on the journey back to Beijing, his father looked gloomy, and once back in the Grand Secretariat, he would surely neglect sleep and meals.

Zhang Juzheng remained oblivious.

He quickly dressed, speaking nonstop: “These matters are minor—they’re confined to single prefectures or counties and won’t spark major chaos. What I fear is that some men, having lost their conscience, will resort to any means.”

Zhang Jingxiu paused, then realized: “Father means—”

Zhang Juzheng rose from bed, drew back the curtain, letting light flood the room: “These popular uprisings alone are not enough to make His Majesty urgently summon me back to Beijing.”

Popular unrest? Even the best courts cannot avoid it. Unless rebels unite across prefectures and provinces, it’s not a major matter.

Only something far more serious would prompt the Emperor to urgently summon me back while I’m ill.

At this point, both father and son lost their appetite for conversation.

Fortunately, during the time it took to change the dressing, the boat had traveled far—the Tongzhou River Ferry was now visible in the distance.

The father and son simply changed out of their civilian clothes in the cabin and began dressing in official attire.

Half an hour later, the boat neared shore.

At the Tongzhou River Ferry.

On shore, a group of disciples and former subordinates had already gathered; even the station officials had been pushed out of the line, with no room to stand.

All waited, heads craned.

The boat docked; gangplanks and carpets were laid.

Zhang Juzheng, in full official regalia, stepped slowly down from the deck with measured strides.

“Jiangling Gong!”

“Yuanfu!”

The Grand Secretary, who had held power for a decade, was immensely powerful; officials rushed forward to bow and flatter.

But the one leading the group was someone Zhang Juzheng had not expected.

There stood Lu Diaoyang, long unseen, dressed in a brocade satin robe, head held high, standing at the front of the line.

Zhang Juzheng, seeing him, immediately lifted his robe hem and hurried forward: “Heqing, you’re unwell—why have you come to meet me?”

As he approached, before Lu Diaoyang could bow, Zhang Juzheng swiftly supported him.

The two had served together for years, sharing similar ideals and interests, so their bond was naturally extraordinary.

When serving in the same court, they still observed propriety and avoided suspicion; now that Lu Diaoyang had long since withdrawn from court affairs, they dispensed even with formal courtesies in public.

Lu Diaoyang gripped Zhang Juzheng’s hand in return, looking deeply delighted: “Shuda, you’ve endured the hardships of travel.”

Zhang Juzheng still worried about Lu Diaoyang’s health and was about to express his concern.

But Lu Diaoyang spoke again: “Tikan is dead.”

Zhang Juzheng froze. Ma Ziqiang was dead?

He had left Beijing almost simultaneously with Ma Ziqiang—one returning to Huguang, the other to Shaanxi.

They had exchanged letters during the New Year’s Day celebrations; now, they were already separated by life and death.

Lu Diaoyang nodded and explained: “When I first heard the news, and then looked at my own frail state, I felt as if the rabbit’s death made the fox grieve—I repeatedly begged His Majesty to let me return home.”

“After much pleading, His Majesty finally granted my request. I had planned to depart immediately, but then heard you were being recalled to Beijing, so I waited until today.”

He was explaining why he had come to meet Zhang Juzheng.

Implicitly, after this meeting, he would not return to the capital but head straight for Guangxi.

The joy of reuniting with an old friend choked Zhang Juzheng’s chest, leaving him feeling suffocated.

He sighed, squeezed Lu Diaoyang’s hand tightly, then reached out with his other hand and pressed it against Lu Diaoyang’s arm.

Words trembled on his tongue, but all he could finally utter was a sigh: “The mountains are high, the roads long—we may never meet again.”

“Mountains high, roads long” was merely a polite phrase; in official life, as long as one was recalled to service, no distance was too great to meet again.

The real reason was that Lu Diaoyang was nearing the end of his life—once home, he would count the days until burial.

Zhang Juzheng did not know that historically, Lu Diaoyang’s lifespan ended in the eighth year of Wanli.

But upon seeing this longtime comrade and friend, he had already perceived it.

“Emaciated” was the word that instantly flashed into his mind.

Not just in the hands they clasped.

Even his face, visible to the eye, had sunk deeply, and his entire being radiated the aura of a dying man.

Meanwhile,

Lu Diaoyang gazed at this old friend, whom he had known and walked beside since the Jiajing era.

Hearing those words—“we may never meet again”—his emotions surged uncontrollably.

For a moment, they held each other’s hands, silent, choked with tears.

Outsiders had no right to interrupt, so the lively welcome descended into an unusual quiet.

After a long while, Zhang Juzheng took a deep breath and changed the subject: “Has Tikan’s posthumous title been decided?”

Ma Ziqiang was purely a colleague in official duties—not a deeply close friend—so discussing him carried little emotional burden.

As they began chatting casually, the group moved toward the post station.

Lu Diaoyang shook his head: “Not yet. The Grand Secretariat, the ministries, and the censorial officials all agree Tikan should be enshrined in Weixin Pavilion—but they still disagree on the posthumous title.”

Weixin Pavilion was nearly the Ming dynasty’s Lingyan Pavilion.

If the New Policies succeeded, it would be a place of eternal glory—no honor could surpass it.

Even when the Emperor once hinted at enshrining Zhu Xizhong, the ministers had blocked it.

True, Zhu Xizhong had committed crimes against the imperial family in Huguang—“slaughtered a prince”—but more importantly, such an honor must belong to civil officials alone.

Meritorious nobles? Let them fill their pockets first.

Thus, the first civil minister enshrined in Weixin Pavilion would receive extraordinary distinction.

That’s why the posthumous title must not be inadequate—otherwise future generations would say Weixin Pavilion lacked true merit.

But the title must not be too exalted either.

Ma Ziqiang had already been posthumously promoted to Grand Preceptor—a special honor the Emperor granted to pave the way for others; now, to enshrine him first in Weixin Pavilion would make him steal too much of the spotlight!

Under these circumstances, the Ministry of Rites could never draft a title that satisfied everyone without losing a great deal of hair.

Zhang Juzheng had long understood these tangled intrigues—after all, they concerned the very lives of court officials.

Walking beside Lu Diaoyang, he asked casually: “What does His Majesty think?”

Lu Diaoyang shook his head: “He says it should be decided by collective deliberation—but since then, His Majesty has not held morning court for a full month.”

Zhang Juzheng was stunned, then frowned deeply.

“Has His Majesty’s workload become this heavy?”

Why would the Emperor suddenly stop holding court? There must be a reason.

Probably he was simply overworked—major matters were handled in small meetings, and morning court was merely ceremonial—Zhang Juzheng still trusted His Majesty.

After a moment’s thought, Lu Diaoyang gave a vague reply: “Of course, the workload is heavy—the chaos of land surveys, the tax reforms already being prepared, revisions to the Great Ming Code, the reorganization of the Five Military Commissions, relations with Madam San and the Korean tributaries…”

“And Lady Wu will give birth in August—being her first child, His Majesty must find time to show concern. These days, he has risen before dawn and eaten only after dark, with not a moment’s rest.”

“But it’s not only the sheer volume of affairs.”

“Lately, His Majesty has become obsessed with governance—even after completing official duties, he seeks out more tasks to handle. I hear the imperial court’s major matters are already scheduled through year’s end.”

Zhang Juzheng listened, growing increasingly uneasy.

He sighed: “His Majesty works too hard.”

Lu Diaoyang, who had spoken with some emotion, now looked relaxed: “I can no longer assist His Majesty—but thank heaven you’ve returned to Beijing, Shuda. At least now someone can share his burden.”

Zhang Juzheng was accustomed to being praised—had it been anyone else, he would have waved them off with humble denials.

But his relationship with Lu Diaoyang was different.

Zhang Juzheng clasped his hands behind his back and nodded solemnly: “Anqing, rest easy. With me back in the Grand Secretariat, the court will recover.”

The speaker spoke with confidence; the listener felt reassured.

The two exchanged a smile.

Then, simultaneously, they glanced toward Beijing.

“We leave it to Shuda.”

“Leave it to me.”

They waved farewell and went their separate ways.

(End of Chapter)