Chapter 80: The Imperial Lecture

Chapter Eighty: The Imperial Lectures

Although Zhu Qizhen very much wished to leave the palace immediately, it was not out of a desire for amusement, but rather to witness the true Beijing, to see the real Ming Dynasty. Though he had already spent half a year in this era, his movements had been confined within the imperial city, and he understood nothing of the real Ming world. While the far-flung regions might remain out of reach, he was determined to understand at least the city beneath his feet. Only then could he prescribe the right remedy.

But since the Grand Empress Dowager had already decreed that he could not leave the palace until after the Spring Imperial Examination, Zhu Qizhen had no choice but to wait.

During this period, Zhu Qizhen did not idle away his time. On the second day of the second month, he held his first imperial lecture session.

This particular session was carried out with the utmost formality. Though it was still held in the Wenhua Hall, all five members of the Grand Secretariat were present, and the Embroidered Uniform Guard was in charge of the ceremonies. Nearly half the Hanlin Academy attended as well, even if just to stand respectfully to the side and fill out the numbers.

Yu Qian was naturally among those in attendance. The lecturer, however, was Wang Zhi.

Despite the grand occasion, Zhu Qizhen could not help but feel a certain indifference and boredom. He greatly admired Wang Zhi’s learning; in daily lessons, no matter how cunning or difficult his questions, Wang Zhi was always able to handle them and skillfully steer the topic back, never straying from the point. Zhu Qizhen had even tried to challenge him with questions rooted in physics, only for Wang Zhi to answer with explanations drawn from yin-yang and the I Ching. Sometimes, Wang Zhi’s reasoning, though clearly off, left Zhu Qizhen unable to refute him outright. Of course, he could have performed certain physics experiments to prove Wang Zhi wrong, but all judgments of right and wrong depended on a shared set of values. Without such common ground, any argument would be like chickens and ducks talking past each other. And even if he forced Wang Zhi to admit defeat, what would it amount to? In the eyes of the scholarly class, it would only seem as though Zhu Qizhen was using imperial power to bully a learned official.

While this left Zhu Qizhen somewhat dispirited, it also made him realize how arduous the task of promoting science would be.

But today was different. With so many high officials in attendance, Wang Zhi dared not stray from his prepared script; every word of the lecture followed the official outline precisely. To Zhu Qizhen, this rendered the entire affair flavorless and dull. Yet, as Emperor, he had to appear deeply respectful of the sacred learning and display keen interest, the ceremonial aspect far outweighing any true instruction.

The whole exercise left Zhu Qizhen both physically and mentally exhausted. Still, he understood that this was a prime opportunity to win hearts and minds. After the session ended—traditionally, the Emperor granted rewards and hosted a banquet for those attending, hence the term "imperial lecture banquet"—Zhu Qizhen departed from custom. Standing at the Wenhua Hall’s entrance, he personally sealed red envelopes containing lists of gifts, handing one to each official as he met them, saying, “Sir, you have worked hard.”

The senior secretaries dared not accept so lavish a gesture without returning the courtesy, and the other Hanlin scholars, some moved to tears, bowed low in gratitude. For a time, news of the Emperor’s generosity and reverence for talent spread like wildfire through Beijing. The city was then crowded with scholars from all corners of the realm, and the story quickly won him deep admiration among them.

Zhu Qizhen knew that when these scholars returned home, his good name would be carried to every corner of the empire. For an Emperor without real power, this was a considerable boon.

Yet the thought that he would now have to attend two such sessions each month—on the second and sixteenth—was irksome to Zhu Qizhen. But as he had no authority to change the rules, he could only accept it as routine performance twice a month.

The remainder of his days settled into a more regular pattern, with daily lectures resuming as before. Each afternoon, Zhu Qizhen would ride out to personally inspect the fields he had ordered to be cultivated.

He had to admit, Ruan An was a master of his craft, never once disappointing. In just over a dozen days, Ruan An had carved out more than a hundred acres near the southern lake, both paddy and dry fields, with every manner of grain and vegetable, and several cash crops such as cotton, mulberry, hemp, date and persimmon trees, chestnut trees, and more—crops commonly grown in Ming China. Some of these trees had been transplanted whole, thriving so well that they would bear fruit by autumn. The waterwheels and channels Zhu Qizhen had requested were all robustly built, and the fields flourished accordingly. He had not inquired how many men had labored here, but it was clear that, with his frequent inspections, the palace eunuchs now regarded working these fields as a coveted post—laborious, perhaps, but a rare chance to be seen by the Emperor.

Every time he came, Zhu Qizhen brought Yu Qian with him, and as they strolled the fields, dismissed all others, leaving only Wang Zhen and Yu Qian by his side. Zhu Qizhen would have Wang Zhen bring a memorial or two, and discuss it with Yu Qian, often asking whether there were hidden abuses in what he read.

One day, Zhu Qizhen had Yu Qian review a memorial reporting that the Northern Tartars had captured Shandan Garrison and killed its commander. Zhu Qizhen remarked, “The northern invaders press upon us more urgently each day. Today we lose a commander; tomorrow, will it not be a general? This is intolerable.”

He knew the court was in no position to fight a major war, but the relentless pressure from the Oirat Mongols left him at a loss. He even suspected that his own words at the great court assembly had been turned against him by Toghon, the Oirat chieftain.

Yu Qian read the report and said, “Your Majesty need not worry. The loss of Shandan Garrison will not go unavenged. Shandan is a vital horse-breeding ground—how could the Northern Tartars be allowed to covet it? Within this year, Minister Yang Rong will surely take action. Your Majesty need only wait and see.”

Zhu Qizhen was taken aback. “Shandan Garrison is a horse-breeding ground? Is that true?”

Seeing his surprise, Yu Qian quickly explained, “Shandan has been famed for horse breeding since the Han Dynasty. Though our dynasty has not established a formal horse ranch there, the garrison itself bears the duty of raising horses. A significant portion of the court’s cavalry comes from the northwest, and the horses of Shandan are considered the finest.”

Zhu Qizhen drew a deep breath. “How vexing.” He cast a searching glance at Wang Zhen.

Wang Zhen immediately understood the reason for the Emperor’s reaction: he himself had never known this fact. Herein lay the difference between Wang Zhen and Yu Qian. Though Wang Zhen was also educated, years spent in the palace had honed his skills in intrigue and currying favor with the powerful, but left him woefully ignorant of statecraft.

Had Yu Qian not explained, Zhu Qizhen would have thought it merely a minor garrison—five thousand six hundred men, a regrettable loss when captured and its commander slain, but nothing more. Yet Shandan was also a horse-breeding ground for the court—a fact Zhu Qizhen had not known. Now he realized that the real loss was not just of men, but of horses. No need to even check; they had surely been plundered, or, if not, quietly appropriated by those below, else the matter would have been reported differently.

Warhorses were always a strategic resource in ancient times. Zhu Qizhen did not know the exact number of horses at Shandan, but he instinctively sensed that their loss was worth more than the loss of soldiers. He asked Yu Qian, “How many horses did Shandan Garrison raise?”

Yu Qian replied, “I do not know, Your Majesty. The number of horses is a tightly kept state secret. Only Minister Yang Rong could answer that.”

Zhu Qizhen waved his hand. “If you say Minister Yang Rong will not let the Tartars go unpunished, then clearly the loss at Shandan is grave enough. I will not press the matter. But, sir, tell me more about the horse-breeding at Shandan.”

Yu Qian answered, “Certainly. To speak of Shandan is to recall the great General Huo Qubing. When he defeated the Xiongnu and seized Mount Yanzhi, the Xiongnu mourned, ‘Losing Qilian Mountains, our livestock no longer flourish; losing Yanzhi Mountain, our women lose their beauty.’ Shandan lies south of the Qilian Mountains, once the Xiongnu’s horse land.”

“In the Northern Wei, horse breeding flourished here, with reportedly two million horses. Numbers dwindled in later dynasties, but even in Tang times, there were seventy thousand. In our own dynasty, though there is no dedicated Horse Directorate, Shandan still maintains over ten thousand horses.”

Zhu Qizhen sighed softly. “The horse policy, the horse policy...”

His heart ached. By now, the Ming horse administration had become notorious for its abuses, and Yu Qian, the dynasty’s most capable regional official—serving in Hebei, Henan, and Shanxi—had long spoken out against these ills. Thus, Zhu Qizhen understood well what ten thousand horses meant: it represented the hard-earned wealth and toil of twenty thousand households.