Silence spread once more through the Huagai Hall.
It was not the awkward silence of men who had nothing to say, nor the weary silence of a court long accustomed to caution. It was the silence that came when numbers struck harder than swords.
Even those who did not understand phrases such as "transformation of productive forces" or "feudal state structure," even those who could not quite grasp what was meant by "state operated economy" or "nationalization," could still understand simple arithmetic. Forty million strings of cash compared to two million. Nearly eight million compared to fifty thousand.
One did not need to be a scholar to know when a comparison had become an indictment.
And those who stood within this hall were no fools. Every man present had studied the history of the Song.
Who did not know that during the reign of Emperor Shenzong, the Song had fought the Western Xia again and again? Who did not know of the disasters at Lingzhou and Yongle City? By any measure of territory, of military strength, even of internal stability, the Song had fallen short of the present Great Ming.
And yet, in commercial taxes alone, the Song had collected tens of times more than the Ming. In wine tax, the difference reached a hundredfold.
It was a brutal comparison. Brutal enough that the Son of Heaven, who moments earlier had been animated in criticizing Jia Sidao for excess and misjudgment, now found himself without words.
Zhu Di glanced at his elder brother, who was equally silent. Then he looked toward their father, whose two brows had drawn so tightly together that they nearly formed a single line. After hesitating more than once, he finally ventured, "Father, perhaps the commercial tax…"
The young man called Wen Mang, whose voice from the luminous curtain sounded strangely like his own, had spoken in a tone half comprehensible and half mystifying. Zhu Di did not pretend to understand the theories. But the meaning had been plain enough. It was a direct criticism of imperial policy.
And policy meant revenue. Revenue meant military expenditure. Military expenditure meant the safety of Beiping.
He was to depart for his fief after the New Year. He would sit on the frontier, facing the northern steppes. If there was insufficient silver for troops, insufficient grain for horses, he would be the one to suffer for it.
Still, he knew from experience how such suggestions were usually received.
"You understand nothing," thundered Zhu Yuanzhang before he had even finished. "Have I not just said that the Ming must take agriculture as its foundation?"
Zhu Di lowered his head and endured the scolding. From the corner of his eye he saw Zhu Zhen grinning at him with open delight, teeth bared in shameless amusement. Zhu Di rolled his eyes. As expected.
Then came Zhu Biao's calm voice.
"Father, other matters may be discussed at leisure. But as for the wine tax, it may be worth attempting on a trial basis."
Zhu Yuanzhang nodded at once, approval softening his expression. "Wine requires grain. Increasing the wine tax accords with placing agriculture first. Biao considers matters thoroughly."
Zhu Di suddenly felt his teeth ache.
The matter was set aside for the moment. The Ming emperor shifted his attention to another point.
"And this 'Good Sacred Grandson, the Xuande Emperor.' Who might that be?"
Though he spoke lightly, his gaze had already drifted toward Zhu Xiongying, who was whispering with Zhu Bai and laughing with bright innocence.
Was this not his beloved eldest grandson?
From the dragon tablet that had descended earlier, they had learned that Zhu Bai would die in the thirty second year of Hongwu, forced to suicide by his own nephew. His posthumous name would later be restored by Zhu Biao.
Perhaps, then, in his later years, Zhu Yuanzhang would have followed the precedent of training Zhu Biao by allowing Zhu Xiongying to observe governance early. Perhaps this had led to conflict. Perhaps turmoil had followed, only to be smoothed over once Zhu Biao ascended the throne.
If this grandson were later praised as a "Good Sacred Grandson," such a title brimming with commendation, then perhaps he had erred in youth and corrected himself by reflection.
If so…
Would that not make the Hongwu Emperor's house one that produced three worthy rulers in succession?
The thought stirred his heart more deeply than he cared to admit. His gaze upon Zhu Xiongying softened.
He turned to his son. "I speak with you often of state affairs. If you gain insight, Biao, you may share it with Xiongying as well."
If the boy had once strayed, perhaps early guidance would prevent it. Perhaps, with the aid of this mysterious luminous curtain that revealed history yet to unfold, he might break through fate's predetermined walls.
Perhaps.
…
Within the Guangzheng Hall of another time, Master Kongjiong nearly allowed two tears to fall.
He could not remember the last time he had heard a descendant speak so solemnly of the temple name of Emperor Taizong of Song.
He set aside his prayer beads. His back straightened. His chest lifted slightly.
Was not the Song's commercial taxation also worthy of praise?
He no longer dared to hope for restoration of the title Prince of Jin. But perhaps the matter of remaining in monk's robes could be reconsidered?
It had been so long since he tasted the rich meats of Bianliang. He had nearly forgotten the flavor entirely.
Then he looked up and met the unfriendly gaze of his elder brother.
"If not for the disaster at Gaoliang River," Zhao Kuangyin said evenly, "if you had understood even half of military affairs, if you had relied upon the elite imperial troops I trained and advanced slowly into the Yanyun region…"
"Would it have fallen to the Hongwu Emperor to clean your mess?"
He continued, voice neither raised nor softened.
"To unify China and then turn to commerce for national prosperity, that is commendable. Had you established foundations as solid as Emperor Taizong of Tang, would I criticize you? Would later generations dwell upon your shortcomings?"
Master Kongjiong's shoulders slowly sank back down.
Zhao Kuangyin shook his head and turned away. He addressed Qian Chu instead.
"What is meant by nationalization of the economy?"
Qian Chu hesitated. He weighed his words, then finally bowed his head. "Your Majesty, I do not know. I must reflect further."
Zhao Kuangyin nodded in understanding.
Li Yu, however, could not help but feel slighted. "Why does Your Majesty not inquire of me?"
Zhao Kuangyin studied him from head to toe, then shook his head gently.
"If you understood commerce, would we meet as we do now?"
Jinling's trade had indeed flourished. But its ruler had clearly not mastered the nature of that prosperity.
Li Yu fell silent.
Qian Chu of Qiantang laughed aloud, unrestrained.
Above, the luminous curtain continued, its voice calm and analytical.
[Lightscreen]
[Some later historians have argued that Jia Sidao's Accounting Method and the Public Fields Law contributed directly to the fall of the Southern Song.
The Accounting Method, though tainted by factional bias and political infighting, was in essence a measure aimed at curbing corruption within the military.
If anti corruption alone were enough to destroy a state, then it would be more accurate to say that such a state had already reached the brink of collapse.
The significance of the Public Fields Law was far more complex.
Its implementation and eventual failure provide one of the clearest examples for understanding the nature of landlord power in traditional China.
In ancient times, feudal landlords did not involve themselves directly in agricultural production. Their primary economic role was to collect land rent. Rent formed the foundation of their livelihood and sustained their consumption.
As a result, the more land a landlord possessed, the higher his standard of living. Greater wealth gave rise to greater material desires.
Those desires, in turn, drove landlords to acquire still more land, in order to satisfy their expanding appetites.
This cycle, simple and relentless, lay at the core of landlord behavior.
The Public Fields Law sought to disrupt this cycle.
It imposed limits on land ownership according to official rank. At the same time, it authorized the state to forcibly purchase privately held land, reducing the total acreage under landlord control.
The immediate consequence was a decline in landlord income and living standards.
This was something landlords found extremely difficult to accept.
Yet for the common people, who had long suffered under landlord domination, the Public Fields Law offered no real relief.
It did not eliminate exploitation. It merely changed its form.
The identity of the exploiter shifted, but the condition of the peasantry did not improve. In many cases, intensified conflict only made their situation worse.
Most crucial of all was the political transformation that had already taken place by the late Southern Song.
Due to the unprecedented concentration of land ownership, the landlord class had come to dominate the entire system of land relations.
Their interests had merged with those of the state itself.
The landlord class had, in effect, become the true master of the Southern Song regime.
As previously discussed, the essence of the Public Fields Law was to replace private landlord ownership with a form of state controlled land ownership.
In practical terms, this meant taking away the very foundation of landlord survival.
Jia Sidao's predicament was fundamentally no different from that faced by reformers of the Northern Song.
He sought to carry out political reform without bloodshed. His methods reflected compromise and restraint.
But he failed to understand one truth.
Revolution is never a dinner invitation.]
The words echoed long after the voice ceased.
In Huagai Hall, Zhu Yuanzhang's fingers tapped slowly upon the arm of his throne.
He had risen from peasantry. He had seen landlords up close. He knew their appetites. He had broken more than a few in his rise.
Agriculture was the foundation, yes.
But grain alone did not forge steel, nor pay soldiers, nor defend borders.
Zhu Di dared not speak again. Zhu Biao remained thoughtful. Zhu Xiongying laughed in ignorance of the currents swirling about him.
Three generations stood beneath one roof.
The future, like the luminous curtain above, hovered just out of reach.