21. The Wicked Truly Descend into Utter Evil

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Zhang Xun had truly changed. Sitting at the end, Xu Daoming carefully observed Zhang Xun as he assigned tasks and arranged accommodations for Wen Tianxiang and his family and servants. There was no trace left of the spoiled young master who had caused trouble everywhere just a few years ago.

Speaking honestly, Xu Daoming had a certain connection with the Zhang family.

As mentioned earlier, Zhang Xun had an older brother and sister, both of whom had died young. This was actually quite common at the time. In Zhang Xun’s generation, having four out of six siblings survive was considered fortunate.

Many at that time didn’t regard children under seven as fully human; whether they survived was seen as fate’s will. Losing a two- or three-year-old child was treated as if losing a mere object—partly because families had many children and thus grew emotionally detached, and partly because life was so harsh and death so common.

But the Zhang family was different. As a wealthy and influential household, even after losing two children, Zhang’s mother insisted that the youngest, Zhang Xun, must be protected at all costs.

How to protect him? By buying a substitute.

There were many ways to buy a substitute child. In the Qing dynasty, a salt merchant who had a son late in life bought ninety-nine substitutes from temples and monasteries. What did that mean? Ninety-nine boys were sent to monasteries to become monks, bearing the calamities meant for the son.

According to superstitions of the feudal era, this was the most potent method to ward off all misfortunes. If these substitute children died, they were thought to have absorbed the original child’s disasters.

Poor families had their own methods: they would write the child’s birth details and name on yellow paper, then place it beneath the statues of underworld kings or immortals. When these beings came to collect souls, finding none matching the child’s details, the child would be spared.

This practice, though essentially a spiritual self-delusion, was widely believed by simple folk.

Given the Zhang family’s wealth, buying ten or more boys to send into monasteries would have been easy. Fortunately, Zhang Xun’s father was a rational man who dismissed superstition, only half-believing Zhang’s mother’s insistence. He refused to buy substitute children, consenting only to the yellow-paper ritual.

Who wrote the yellow paper? Xu Daoming’s master did.

When Xu Daoming was introduced, Zhang’s mother urged Zhang Xun to quickly kowtow to the Daoist priest who had performed rituals to ensure the boy’s happiness and survival.

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It was hilarious—this mother was truly something, blending a loyal spirit devoted to royal affairs with superstitious feudal customs, a truly eclectic mix.

Well, nothing compares to making one’s mother happy; Zhang Xun stood and bowed to Xu Daoming. Xu Daoming hurried over to steady him. Had his master been present, Zhang Xun would have kowtowed, but since his master was merely a sutra reciter, Xu Daoming feared the bowing might shorten his life.

At this moment, Wen Tianxiang spoke of the time at Tai Lake when water bandits rose up, praising the bravery of Xu Daoming and his fellow disciple. Zhang’s mother nodded repeatedly, affirming that the Daoist priests had always been protectors of the helpless.

Enough talk, let’s begin the feast.

They were old acquaintances, so no formal introductions were needed—just start eating and settle accounts early.

When it came to the feast, Xu Daoming pointed to Xie La standing behind him and said his junior disciple wouldn’t sit at the table but was invited by the elder gentleman to receive alms and have a full meal.

The seating was divided; the forty-dish meal actually included at least sixteen kinds of preserved fruits and dim sum, with four kinds of wine rotated. With such an elaborate spread, it would have been simpler to just give Xie La fifty large steamed buns.

Fifty? Zhang Xun and his mother were curious. Don’t worry, we have five thousand bushels of grain. Fifty, five hundred, or five thousand buns are all fine.

Zhang’s mother immediately ordered someone to steam the buns. In Jiangdong, steamed buns usually meant stuffed ones—meat, vegetarian, or bean-filled, all common now.

Watching Xie La eat buns, he quickly finished sixteen from one basket. The remarkable thing was he didn’t drink any water, just ate them dry. Zhang Xun and his mother were amazed. Only then did Xu Daoming explain that Xie La and Zhang Xun shared some fate.

On the night Zhang Xun bought his substitutes, Xu Daoming’s master had found Xie La abandoned at the temple gate. Although not Zhang Xun’s substitute, there was a connection.

Hearing this, Zhang’s mother immediately ordered two chickens brought over; it was pitiful to feed the boy only buns. Look at him—so thin—it was clear he hadn’t eaten well at the temple. Watching Xie La eat heartily, she clapped her hands in delight.

Meanwhile, Zhang Xun talked with Wen Tianxiang about the current situation in Hangzhou.

The letter didn’t mention the court’s affairs in Hangzhou, so Zhang asked the recently resigned Wen Tianxiang for more insight. Wen sighed deeply, explaining that many courtiers flattered Jia Sidao. He, Zhang Cheng, and Lu Xiufu all passed the imperial exams in Bao You’s fourth year (1256), with Wen as the top scorer. Though not demoted, they were stuck in middle to upper-middle ranks, unable to advance further.

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In contrast, Jia Sidao’s cronies, such as Chen Yizhong, who passed the exams in Jingding’s third year (1263), had already become Ministers of Justice. Chen was seven years junior to Wen, yet held such high office. Lu Xiufu was still a councilor in Huai East, and Zhang Cheng just a bureau official. Could such a government ever improve?

Take Liu Mengyan, for example. Once promising, he now acted as if blind and deaf, content as a scholar at the Duanming Hall and Vice Minister, feigning ignorance of Jia Sidao’s tyranny and even congratulating him on his birthday like a nephew.

Factional strife aside, Zhang Xun then asked about the financial situation. If the Song court could still guarantee sufficient revenue to support the expanding military expenses, it would at least buy him more time to prepare to surrender.

Wen Tianxiang shook his head.

Contrary to many’s belief that Song’s maritime trade was flourishing, with trade taxes exceeding land taxes, during Chen Gou’s time, the government engaged in “hemai” — buying over sixty percent of a ship’s cargo at a fraction of its value. “Hemei” meant paying one coin for goods worth a hundred million.

When wartime pressures mounted, the court bought up nearly all “fine goods.” Chen Gou knew this would discourage maritime trade, issuing orders that, due to war, “hemai” would only tax one-tenth or one-fifth of fine goods, taxing only coarse goods.

But such decrees were never enforced. Even during decades of peace in mid-Southern Song, maritime taxes exceeded forty percent.

By now, in Zhejiang, Fujian, and Guangdong, ship owners were forced to sign contracts and sail, with officials naming them personally. Their safety and profits were disregarded.

Seafaring became a political mandate: refuse and be imprisoned and have your property confiscated.

Go and die; refuse and die immediately. At least going meant some chance of survival, even if all was lost. Refusing meant instant death.

Fujian’s coastal ship owners wailed in despair, begging Song officials for mercy, but the court refused to relent.