33. Each side was given fifty strokes, and the matter was put to rest.

The first month of the ninth year of the Xianchun era.

Zhang Xun was at home with the main gate thrown wide, welcoming the elders of the seven branches of the clan. On New Year’s Day, they would perform the annual rites to their ancestors. Zhang Cheng was away, so Zhang Xun naturally served as chief celebrant this year. Besides, his reputation had improved considerably, and none of the clan elders saw anything improper in his taking charge.

Once he had two more bridges repaired, donated a few dozen mu of school fields, and lent a hand to widows, widowers, orphans, and the childless, his public image would be firmly established. Then he could represent Changzhou’s local gentry in surrendering to Bayan.

The thought made him rather ashamed.

Every generation of the Zhang family’s ancestors had been loyal subjects and filial sons. At the very center hung the portrait of the Grand Tutor, Duke Wenjing Wei. His eyes shone as he gazed down at the people standing below.

“For ten thousand miles I served the king’s cause,
Seeking nothing for myself.
I knew the hardships beyond the frontier;
How could I have labored merely for wife and child?”

As a minister, he had spent decades rushing tirelessly from place to place, guarding the borders, securing the realm, planning matters of state, and selecting worthy men for office. In the end, he had died regretfully of illness while serving in Jiankang.

How could he have known that the descendants behind his portrait were now contemplating the betrayal of the old House of Zhao?

When the ancestral rites were over, Zhang Xun had to distribute among the clansmen who owned little land and struggled to make ends meet the seasonal gifts sent in from estates in every direction, shops north and south, the river trade, and various other sources. Their own household did not lack for food, but the collateral branches that had long since split away might not be so fortunate.

If they distributed a few things every year, perhaps one family might produce a promising scholar—one who was a peasant in the morning and entered the Son of Heaven’s court by evening. If the Zhang family wished to remain prosperous from generation to generation and preserve its foundation, it had to rely on the imperial examinations.

“Zhang San! Zhang San, get over here.”

The clan elders were already eating in the rear courtyard, while Zhang Xun had come to the front hall to inspect the descendants of one of the collateral branches.

“What is it?”

Zhang Xi had been fiddling with the abacus, but at Zhang Xun’s call he sprang over at once.

“Give each family another bolt of silk. I’ll have it issued from the storehouse.”

If he wanted a reputation good enough to win everyone’s approval, he had to be willing to spend money.

In any event, Zhang Xun was now in charge of the household. His mother had completely withdrawn from such minor affairs, and distributing several hundred bolts of silk would not even cost as much as setting today’s banquet table.

“That’s quite a sum…” Zhang Xi closed his eyes and began calculating rapidly in his head.

“It isn’t your money.”

Zhang Xun laughed. I’m not worried about it, so why are you?

“Take two extra bolts. You can give them to your aunt so she can have another garment made.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Zhang Xun glanced at Zhang Xi’s darting eyes and guessed that the boy had some little scheme in mind.

Rather than wait for him to wheedle something out of other people, Zhang Xun might as well give it to him directly. One or two bolts would hardly make a difference.

“Heh-heh. Your generosity is boundless. You’re always looking after us poor folk.”

His little ploy exposed, Zhang Xi neither hurried nor grew embarrassed. Instead, he merely grinned.

He seemed to have figured out that Zhang Xun was not the sort to begrudge a little money, and had deliberately waited for this opportunity. Since Zhang Xun would not care, and Zhang Xi could secure a small benefit for his own family, why not?

“Off with you. Go on, get to work.”

Zhang Xun waved him away and turned to greet the clansmen nearby.

The Zhang family had multiplied in Changzhou for more than a dozen generations—over four hundred years. The various branches of the clan were so numerous that several hundred households would actually have been considered few. Now, for the ancestral rites, they had come hurrying from every direction to offer incense and bow before the tablets. Men and women, old and young, pressed together in noisy crowds. Children ran about while adults called after them. Many people came forward to offer greetings, but Zhang Xun knew none of them and could only clasp his hands and nod.

The people from outside the main household were generally not invited to the banquet. They received a few gifts, then went home to prepare their own meals. When they heard that Zhang Xun had added another bolt of silk for every family, they were delighted. Some even had their juniors kneel and kowtow to him.

Oh, give me a break. It was New Year’s, and Zhang Xun was only nineteen years old—twenty by the traditional count. What were they kowtowing to me for?

While he was exchanging New Year’s greetings, a servant came from outside with a report. The government offices in the city had already sealed their doors for the holiday, but the postal station and customs office remained open. Word had arrived from the imperial entourage that after the fifteenth day of the first month, the newly appointed prefect of Changzhou, Academician Zhao Rujian, would be taking up his post.

Well, Li Tingzhi and Fan Wenhu had been tearing into each other for two or three months and still had not reached a conclusion. Yet Changzhou’s appointment had already been settled. As expected, it was Zhao Rujian, the eighth-generation descendant of Emperor Taizong.

Zhang Xun had known the news since last year. This was merely confirmation. The announcement now was simply to inform the officials and gentry of the entire prefecture that they should go to the Dismounting Pavilion or the Mooring Pavilion to welcome the new prefect when he arrived.

After all, the incoming prefect was a grand official and one of the ruling class. He would serve a three-year term and, barring unforeseen circumstances, join them in exploiting the people of Changzhou for those three years. You give me face, I give you substance; we would raise one another up and muddle through together.

After acknowledging that he understood, Zhang Xun dismissed the servant to attend to his duties. Then he thought that the man had made a difficult trip into the city during the New Year holiday. He turned back, called for Zhang Xi, and handed the servant a bolt of silk.

If even a ride-hailing service raised its prices over the New Year, surely this was only reasonable.

Back in the front hall, Zhang Xun announced that the new prefect would soon be taking office. The clan elders said they would follow his instructions. They would prepare a troupe of drums and gongs, make a great deal of noise, and go welcome the new prefect. It was a familiar procedure.

Naturally.

“Come, sit down and have a cup of hot wine. Let us celebrate the New Year in good cheer.”

***

Changzhou was not the only place where matters were unfolding. Even during the first month of the year, debate at court continued without pause. Some men had already submitted memorials openly declaring that it was precisely because Jia Sidao had refused to personally assume supreme command that the generals on the Xiangyang relief front had fallen into discord, preventing them from concentrating their forces and achieving the objective of rescuing Xiangyang.

If Jia Sidao took command, who in the realm would dare disobey his military orders? Only a commander of his stature could bring together the entire military strength of the upper and lower reaches of the Yangtze and send it to relieve Xiangyang.

With such a momentous issue before them, the quarrel between Li Tingzhi and Fan Wenhu was pushed into the background. All the court needed was a pretext—a pretext to bring Jia Sidao down.

So Jia Sidao had no choice but to submit a third memorial, declaring his willingness to leave the capital, take command of the army, and serve as Grand Commander-Envoy in the campaign to relieve Xiangyang.

Zhao Qi, however, had no intention of letting him go. He merely said that Xiangyang had just received a large quantity of supplies and had no difficulty holding out. Everything could be reconsidered after the officials returned to work in the first month.

In plain terms, he was giving Jia Sidao time to suppress the opposition during the interval.

Xiangyang had not yet fallen, after all. The Jinghu defenses had not collapsed either, and Yingzhou, Ezhou, Huangzhou, and other places remained under Song control. Most importantly, Li Tingzhi had gathered more than thirty thousand men, while Fan Wenhu had gathered more than twenty thousand. Of the army of several hundred thousand, a third still remained. Recruit another fifty thousand, and they could once more assemble a force of a hundred thousand to send toward Xiangyang.

The situation had not yet deteriorated beyond repair, so there was still time for factional struggles.

And even if it did deteriorate, they could continue fighting among themselves. The Southern Ming had managed as much.

Thus, in order to quiet the criticism, Jia Sidao first planned to eliminate the pretext that had provoked everyone’s outrage. Asking him to execute Fan Wenhu to appease the realm was impossible. Fan Wenhu was a favored general, after all, and still had more than twenty thousand men under his command. Yet in all likelihood, this mess had been caused by that incompetent fool Fan Wenhu. What could they do?

Give each side fifty strokes, then settle the matter with a cup of penalty wine.