Chapter 11

Chapter 11

[Prince Consort, the Princess Has Been Beaten to Death – 10]

Recounting the population and compiling household registers after the war. Dividing the land and restoring agriculture. Maintaining canals and rivers. Repairing the Great Wall. Levying taxes and conscripting soldiers…

A new dynasty had only just been founded, and the matters demanding attention were as numerous as the hairs on an ox. Most of the men Luan Zhenghuan employed were old followers who had helped him conquer the realm. They excelled at warfare, but when it came to governing a country, they were hopelessly out of their depth.

Emperor Gaozu had already lived through the same situation once. Now that the whole thing was playing again from the beginning, he could not help feeling a little nostalgic.

Luan Zhenghuan did have talented men under his command. Their broad approach was sound; what they lacked was experience. The string of disastrous consequences had come about only because Luan Zhenghuan allowed wine, women, and power to corrupt him after he took the throne.

Fortunately, there was still time to put matters right.

Emperor Gaozu did not rush to make grand pronouncements. Instead, he ordered notices recruiting worthy talent to be posted throughout the imperial capital of Chang’an and every prefecture and commandery in the country, seeking good proposals from far and wide. He then summoned the Ministers of the Six Ministries to formulate the broad policies for the next three years.

After so many years of continuous war, livelihoods had collapsed and fields lay fallow. The population figures were not yet available, but no one needed to see them to know they would be grim. What the new dynasty needed now was neither foreign expansion nor the construction of grand palaces for wanton pleasure. It needed lighter labor service, lower taxes, and time for the people to recover.

Years of war had swollen the army to an almost terrifying size. Keeping those men fed and battle-ready drained the treasury like water down a sluice. Meanwhile, throughout the Central Plains, nine homes out of ten stood empty. One could pass through several villages without seeing a single grown man. Farming had ground to a halt. If this continued, the fall of the state lay just ahead.

The army had to be reduced-but which forces should be cut?

Taxes had to be lowered-but which ones, and where should they be abolished entirely?

Those were the truly urgent questions.

Five of the Ministers of the Six Ministries were old followers who had helped Luan Zhenghuan conquer the realm. Only the white-haired Minister of Rites was a great scholar of the age, persuaded to emerge from retirement so Luan Zhenghuan’s court might have a respectable ornament.

When the emperor first spoke of lighter labor service and lower taxes, the Minister of Rites thought little of it. Anyone could shout a few slogans. But as the emperor continued, explaining the issues in clear language with precise and detailed reasoning, the minister’s expression gradually turned solemn.

“Your Majesty is a benevolent sovereign,” the Minister of Rites said from the heart.

Emperor Gaozu had no intention of hoarding power. When he first took the throne in his former life, he had valued authority above everything else. Yet after sitting in that position for many years, his hunger for power had instead faded.

He offered a few simple remarks to set the discussion in motion, then sat at the head of the room while his capable ministers cited examples from every quarter and crossed verbal swords. When the debate reached a particularly interesting point, he instinctively turned to make a comment to the person beside him-only to realize the seat on his right was empty.

Where was the Crown Prince?!

In his former life, whenever Emperor Gaozu discussed military and state affairs with his senior ministers, he always had the Crown Prince attend at his side. The boy was to listen more, observe more, and remember more.

No one was born knowing everything. In Emperor Gaozu’s view, that meant a person ought to study hard afterward and gain plenty of practical experience.

An emperor might be born into chaos, rise through the army, endure setback after setback, and ultimately achieve greatness. But what of his son? The boy grew up in the deep palace under the care of women. The farthest journey he had ever made was out the door of his own residence, and the heaviest object he had ever lifted was his rice bowl. Then, at the end of it all, the emperor grabbed his son by the collar and raged in bitter disappointment: “Son, how can you be unable to withstand the slightest hardship? You’re nothing like your father!” Was that not complete damned nonsense?

Luan Zhenghuan had not yet appointed a Crown Prince. In both legitimacy and ability, however, the person best suited to the position was unquestionably Luan Anguo, Empress Miao’s eldest legitimate son.

Of all Luan Zhenghuan’s sons, Luan Anguo was the oldest and had experienced the most. When he was small, Luan Zhenghuan had already left his mountain stronghold but had not yet risen to prominence. Anguo had witnessed the fickleness of the world, learned the treachery of human hearts, and understood that during his father’s years of campaigning east and west, the man had truly gone out to fight with his head tied to his belt. He was capable of stabilizing the rear and commanding the confidence of the old ministers.

Had Luan Zhenghuan not tired of the old as soon as he found the new, and had the palace consorts not whispered constantly in his ear, Luan Anguo would have been appointed Crown Prince long ago.

At that thought, Emperor Gaozu summoned a eunuch. “Bring the Eldest Imperial Son here.” He intended to test Luan Anguo’s mettle.

The eunuch departed at once. The ministers’ debate paused briefly, then resumed with the same clash of verbal blades.

Whatever else might be said, the emperor’s willingness to let the Eldest Imperial Son participate in state affairs could only be a good thing.

Luan Anguo was seventeen this year. Because he had not yet married, he had not left the palace to establish his own residence. The eunuch hurried away with the summons and soon returned with him.

Emperor Gaozu studied the young man and silently exclaimed in approval, Fine lad!

Luan Anguo was a heroic-looking youth with lightly tanned skin, broad shoulders, a strong body, and well-proportioned limbs. He had not yet finished growing, but one could already see that he would become a tall and powerfully built man. Even the spirit in his stride carried an easy blend of agility and composure.
Emperor Gaozu liked what he saw. The emperors in the space also nodded to themselves.

Ying Zheng thought of Fusu, who had obeyed a false edict and died. Liu Che thought of Liu Ju, who had killed himself after his defeat. Li Shimin remembered the high-spirited brilliance of his eldest son Li Chengqian in his youth. Zhu Yuanzhang thought of his beloved son Zhu Biao, who had died too soon. For a time, none of them spoke, each privately grieving.

After entering, Luan Anguo saluted his father and addressed him as Your Majesty. Then he greeted the old ministers in turn. His words were modest and warm, leaving those who heard them with the pleasant sense of a spring breeze brushing their faces.

Emperor Gaozu nodded but said little. He merely pointed to a chair beside him and instructed, “Sit here and listen as well.”

Luan Anguo asked no questions. He answered, “Yes,” took his seat silently beside his father, and listened to the ministers’ discussion with complete concentration.

The debate continued without pause until noon. The ministers spoke with fervor and offered their various opinions, while Luan Anguo listened, absorbed.

Emperor Gaozu held a cup of tea that he had intended to drink, but the discussion became so compelling that he forgot it. When he finally came back to himself, he saw a eunuch hovering outside the doorway, apparently uncertain whether he ought to enter and interrupt.

Summoned inside and questioned, the eunuch hurriedly explained, “Her Majesty has arranged a banquet in Chonghua Hall. The imperial princes and princesses have all arrived, but after waiting and waiting without any sign of Your Majesty, she sent this servant to see what had happened.”

Only then did Emperor Gaozu remember the arrangement. He glanced at the hour and saw that it was indeed late, so he rose and smiled at the ministers. “We agreed with the Empress yesterday to hold a banquet in Chonghua Hall today. As it is a family feast, We will not invite you to accompany Us.”

Most of the ministers were old retainers and spoke with him familiarly. After exchanging a few jokes, they rose and took their leave.

Emperor Gaozu had been seated all morning and wanted to stretch his limbs, so he did not take a palanquin. He walked toward Chonghua Palace instead. Luan Anguo followed one pace behind, while the attendants trailed them at some distance.

In the easy tone of a man on a spring outing, Emperor Gaozu asked Luan Anguo, “Did you make any sense of what you heard?”

Luan Anguo replied, “The realm is exhausted and the registered population has fallen by half. We must allow the people to recover and restore the strength of the state.”

Emperor Gaozu felt a measure of relief. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Come. Your mother is still waiting for us.”

Luan Anguo answered, “Yes.” He was respectful, but there was little intimacy in it.

Emperor Gaozu raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Luan Zhenghuan had five sons and seven daughters. Luan Anguo was the eldest son at seventeen. Princess Qinghe, the eldest daughter, was thirteen.

Emperor Gaozu was quite satisfied with Luan Anguo after meeting him today. Although some of the other sons were also outstanding, he paid them little attention. When his gaze moved to the daughters, however, he looked a few extra times.

He had seven daughters. Which poor little thing would be beaten to death on her Prince Consort’s orders?

Emperor Gaozu recalled the phrase “the jade pendant sought for ten years,” then considered the age at which a princess would likely marry. That eliminated the little turnips who were still barely knee-high. First, they were too young for the timing to fit. Second, they could not possibly have left the palace to meet an unrelated man. They could be ruled out at once.

By comparison, the three eldest princesses were the likeliest candidates.

His eldest daughter, Princess Qinghe Jingrou, was thirteen. His second daughter, Princess Zhaoyang Jiaojiao, was twelve. His third daughter, Princess Guangping Lanhui, had just turned ten.

Emperor Gaozu’s gaze lingered on the princesses for so long that Empress Miao noticed. It reminded her of another matter. “Jingrou is thirteen this year. It is time to begin seeking a husband for her. We can settle the match early and let her marry in another two years. This subject-wife lives within the palace and knows little of affairs outside. Your Majesty will have to make the decision.”

Jingrou was Princess Qinghe.

“A young man worthy of Jingrou? No one comes to mind just now. Never mind. She is only thirteen. What is the rush? It would be better to keep her another two years.” Emperor Gaozu had yet to unearth the wretched Prince Consort who would dare beat his princess to death. He had no desire to marry off a daughter too early.

He and the other emperors had concluded that the Prince Consort would dare such a thing only after the Great An Dynasty fell. But what if there were another reason?

What if the Prince Consort was simply a complete fool with a piece missing from his brain?

Better to wait.

As Emperor Gaozu considered this, another thought came to him. He lowered his voice and told the Empress, “Look into something for me. See whether any unfamiliar objects have appeared among Jingrou’s, Jiaojiao’s, or Lanhui’s possessions-jade pendants in particular. Do not alert anyone. If you find anything, tell me privately.”

The smile on Empress Miao’s face deepened when she heard him address her so informally as you and me. Though she found the request rather strange, she did not ask questions. “If I discover anything, I will tell you.”

After the palace banquet ended, Emperor Gaozu did not return to Taiji Hall. He ordered Luan Anguo to accompany him, and father and son set out together for the imperial hunting grounds beyond the city.
Luan Zhenghuan had won the realm from horseback, and so had Emperor Gaozu. When he drew his bow, he never loosed in vain. Urging his horse through the forest, he fired arrow after arrow, and every shot struck its mark.

Beside his father’s bold agility, Luan Anguo appeared steadier. He did not compete with his father for prey and seldom drew his bow, but every arrow he did release found its target. Perhaps because he had several times remained behind to oversee an army camp, he possessed a composure rare among youths his age.

Father and son both rode exceptional horses that the mounts of the Imperial Guards could not match. At first, the escort followed behind them. Before long, however, the pair had vanished from sight. While the guards were still at a loss, a bear roared in the nearby woods, shaking the mountain forest. Alarmed, they spurred their horses toward the sound.

When a powerful enemy stood before you, the smallest mistake could mean the difference between life and death.

Steady-minded though Luan Anguo was, a trace of panic appeared in his eyes. He nocked an arrow and instinctively looked toward his father, hoping to find some support there. Yet when his gaze shifted, he saw the emperor sitting upright in the saddle. Emperor Gaozu had not drawn his bow. He merely remained at the young man’s side, watching him with a warm and encouraging gaze.

Their eyes met, and Luan Anguo suddenly remembered his father teaching him to ride when he was a child.

“Don’t be afraid.” His back had gone taut as a bowstring, but Emperor Gaozu smiled and reassured him, “Your father is here. I won’t let anything happen.”

Luan Anguo’s heart settled. He steadied himself, aimed at the enormous bear’s chest, and let an arrow fly. There was a muffled thud as the shaft buried itself halfway into the beast. Maddened by the pain, the bear lunged forward.

Luan Anguo showed no panic. He turned his horse aside, then fired three arrows in rapid succession, each driving irresistibly toward a vital point.

A succession of bone-jarring impacts came from the forest, followed by the tremendous crash of something heavy striking the ground. Luan Anguo swiftly wheeled his horse away again to avoid the branches and trunks snapped by the falling bear. At the sound, however, youthful delight and exhilaration broke across his habitually composed face.

The Imperial Guards arrived to find an enormous gray-brown bear lying motionless on the ground. Several trees as thick as a grown man’s thigh had snapped beneath it, proof of the force with which it had fallen. Astonished, the guards dismounted and pleaded guilty. “We arrived too late to protect Your Majesty. We beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness.”

“It was not your fault. Rise.” Emperor Gaozu reined in his horse, perfectly at ease. “A boy killed a bear. It is nothing.”

Everyone knew the emperor’s martial prowess and had assumed he was the one who had drawn his bow and killed the bear. Only after hearing his explanation did they realize the beast had been hunted by the Eldest Imperial Son. They offered praise one after another. “His Highness is valiant and has all the bearing of His Majesty!”

“As the saying goes, a tiger father cannot sire a dog of a son. It is true indeed!”

Only Luan Anguo noticed the arrow buried in the back of the bear’s neck, so deep in bone and flesh that nothing but the snow-white fletching remained exposed. The force behind that shot must have been immense.

Father and son had not prepared special bows and arrows for this hunting trip, so there was no way to distinguish whose arrow it was. Luan Anguo nevertheless understood perfectly. From where he had been positioned, he could never have struck the back of the bear’s neck. The emperor could be the only person who had loosed that arrow.

He lowered his head slightly, then soon raised it again. Smiling, he modestly declined the Imperial Guards’ praise and listened as the emperor ordered men to carry the bear back to the palace so that Empress Miao could enjoy the spectacle as well.

The attendants would handle such trivial arrangements. Father and son turned their horses toward home. The emperor was in excellent spirits throughout the return journey and chatted at length with the Commander of the Imperial Guards. Luan Anguo did not interrupt. Only after the two men fell silent did he urge his horse a little closer and call somewhat awkwardly, “Father.”

Emperor Gaozu turned to look at him. He brushed his riding crop against the boy’s tanned cheek and laughingly scolded, “Foolish son!”