Since the Yan clan’s rebellion, Wen Yanran had been working overtime for two consecutive months, without rest even during the spring hunt – not because she truly enjoyed working, but rather because the submission of the Northern Territories had generated a massive backlog of matters requiring attention.
It was not until May of Zhaoming that Wen Yanran finally found a bit of free time.
Just as she turned her attention to the Grand Canal, she received news that Xiao Xichi had sent a new batch of grain to support the Emperor’s canal construction project – the early rice of Luonan had a short growing cycle and strong vitality, yielding a substantial harvest even with extensive farming methods, making it perfectly suited for delivering a backhanded blow to Wen Yanran, who was intent on playing the role of a tyrant.
Plums were newly ripe, and banana leaves had just begun to unfurl.
Since the reigning emperor had been staying in the capital for quite some time, officials from the Imperial Household transplanted several flowering trees from Gui Palace to Taiqi Palace as a modest embellishment.
This year’s temperature was far more normal than the previous year; the sweltering heat had yet to arrive, and the capital remained pleasantly cool. Attendants from the weaving chamber were summoned to take the emperor’s measurements for tailoring new garments.
Several bolts of newly woven fabric were presented for the Emperor’s appraisal – the first was pristine white and soft, while the others were in shades of red and purple. These fabrics were all made from cotton and had not undergone any dyeing process.
Since the Emperor had shown a clear preference, the artisans in the weaving chamber naturally devoted themselves to meticulous research. The fabrics they now produced had become increasingly soft and finely textured. They selected naturally colored cotton and wove it into cloth, naming them Jade Cloth, Purple Cloth, and Vermilion Cloth respectively, which became highly sought after by the nobility in the capital.
After Wen Yanran inspected them, she found them satisfactory and instructed the weaving chamber to create two sets of relatively plain new garments for her to wear when she ventured outside the palace.
Once the imperial attendants received their orders and withdrew with the fabrics, Wen Yanran saw that the hour was still early and summoned a sedan chair to take her to Tianfu Palace.
She had recently taken to visiting frequently, listening to Wen Jingmei recount anecdotes about the emperors of the previous Zhou dynasty, supplementing her general knowledge.
The reason Wen Yanran had developed such an interest stemmed from the fact that two days earlier, when the list of successful candidates from the Talent Selection Examination had been delivered to Western Yong Palace, she had noticed one individual bearing the title “Interior Marquis of Jiaoyang.”
At the time, Wen Yanran nearly assumed that the Great Zhou had a place called “Jiaoyang Interior.” It was only later that she learned this examinee was the wife of the Marquis of Dong, and the full title of the Dong family’s peerage was Marquis of Jiaoyang. The Great Zhou court collectively referred to those who obtained noble status through their spouses as “Interior Marquises.”
Having been transmigrated for several years, she had thought herself quite familiar with this era, yet there remained many matters she did not fully understand.
Wen Yanran considered it perfectly normal that there were things she did not grasp, but the ministers around her made little effort to clarify her doubts. Instead, they often displayed a blind conviction that “I believe Your Majesty knows everything.”
All things considered, Wen Jingmei was far more suitable as someone with whom she could discuss matters of common knowledge about the Great Zhou. Wen Jingmei’s ancestors included the founding emperor’s sister, Princess Luojin, and for generations, the State Preceptors had been chosen from this lineage. When many ministers instructed Wen Yanran on the history of the current dynasty, they habitually observed the principle of avoiding mention of the sovereign’s faults out of reverence. Wen Jingmei, however, occupied a detached position and could speak with greater candor.
Of course, given the State Preceptor’s temperament, Wen Yanran strongly suspected that if she did not take the initiative to ask, he would simply apply a long-lasting silence debuff to himself.
When she arrived today, what she discussed with Wen Jingmei were the old affairs of Emperor Dao.
Wen Jingmei was not certain why the Sovereign had suddenly taken an interest in those ancestors who had performed rather poorly in their primary duties, but she could roughly guess that the other was using history as a mirror.
The State Preceptor’s line of thinking was sound, though he had not entirely grasped Wen Yanran’s true intent – using history as a mirror was indeed the case, but the aim was not to avoid the mistakes of predecessors; rather, it was to draw lessons from the local tyrants of this era.
Wen Jingmei explained from the beginning. “Emperor Dao was fond of wine from an early age and loved hunting excursions. After ascending the throne, he often rode through Jingyuan.”
Wen Yanran: “…”
The opening personal hobbies were already difficult to emulate – she didn’t enjoy drinking or hunting. Would substituting fruit juice and alchemy work? Since the modern Elixir Palace and Nie Palace were both located within Jingyuan, geographically speaking, it should be roughly equivalent.
Wen Jingmei continued, “After Emperor Dao took the throne, he once commanded the Imperial Household to search for fierce beasts. He also had a high platform constructed within Jingyuan, where he took pleasure in watching them fight, expending an incalculable amount of resources.”
This emperor enjoyed watching fierce beasts battle, and capturing the beasts themselves was already costly. Considering the current state of logistics, simply transporting those animals from various regions to the capital represented no small expense.
Just as Wen Yanran was listening with keen interest, a hint of hesitation appeared on Wen Jingmei’s face. He paused briefly before saying, “Emperor Dao, drunk, ascended the platform. In a state of profound inebriation, he jumped down and engaged in combat with a bear.”
Wen Yanran’s pupils abruptly contracted.
This was a tyrant’s move she could not replicate.
The Director of the Imperial Household during Emperor Dao’s reign had exhausted every means to satisfy the Emperor’s personal desires, and the fierce beasts he gathered were naturally those with exceptional fighting prowess. Upon spotting someone leaping down from the high platform, they lunged to attack. Yet Emperor Dao was also a formidable figure – remarkably, he did not perish on the spot. After being rescued by the imperial guards, he was immediately sent to the palace for recovery, developed a high fever that same day, and passed away within Western Yong Palace three days later.
Wen Yanran nodded – at first glance, this predecessor’s cause of death appeared to be infection from wounds, but upon closer consideration, it was somewhat self-inflicted. It was the kind of death that later historians would find difficult to euphemistically justify and could only choose to gloss over.
The manner of Emperor Dao’s death was unprecedented, and it would be difficult for anyone to follow in his footsteps. Wen Yanran now understood that the character “Dao” (lamentation) was considered a neutral posthumous title, implying a ruler who died young. Given the circumstances of his death, this posthumous title was actually quite apt.
Seeing that the Sovereign remained silent, Wen Jingmei quietly waited as well. After a moment, he heard the other laugh and say:
“I sometimes wonder what my own posthumous title will be.”
This was rather difficult to respond to, so Wen Jingmei simply smiled and let the matter pass.
Wen Yanran understood in her heart that, as the final emperor of a dynasty, her posthumous title would likely be “Min” (sorrow).
Since Emperor Dao was after all the grandfather of the current emperor and not far removed from the present era, Wen Jingmei did not dwell on him further. Instead, she turned to discussing Emperors Xiang and Si, who belonged to a more distant period.
Emperor Xiang lived four generations before Emperor Dao. He was not truly a good emperor – because his empress came from a powerful clan, the consort kin’s influence at court was considerable, and they managed to secure a relatively favorable posthumous reputation for him after his death. During his own reign, however, his extensive military campaigns had placed a heavy burden on the state treasury.
Wen Yanran nodded inwardly. Extensive military campaigns – she had done that too. It seemed she had done quite rightly.
Emperor Si was the daughter of Emperor Xiang. The reason she received this posthumous title was that it carried the meaning of “regretting past faults.”
By the time Emperor Xiang passed away, Emperor Si was already past thirty. Having spent many years as an imperial princess, she had built her own power base. After ascending the throne, she gained control over the court without much difficulty. A few years into her reign, she began a massive purge of her own kin. Many of her siblings who had once contended with her for the throne saw their maternal families exterminated down to the last member, sending shockwaves through both court and society. Numerous ministers submitted memorials pleading for leniency – many families that had intermarried with the imperial house were descendants of meritorious officials from the founding of the dynasty, and it was considered inauspicious to arbitrarily end their sacrificial rites.
After receiving the ministers’ memorials, Emperor Si did something highly inventive: she stripped the surviving siblings – those who had been imprisoned rather than executed – of their imperial clan status, had them adopted into the families of their respective maternal relatives to take charge of continuing those families’ sacrificial rites, and thus severed, from the perspective of ritual and law, any possibility of these siblings contending with her for the throne.
Apart from her paternal blood relatives, even more distant imperial clan members did not escape this calamity. During Emperor Si’s reign, the number of imperial clansmen plummeted from 140,000 to fewer than 30,000. Under the justification that “distant branches of the clan frequently voice resentful words, all due to being constrained by the Wen surname,” a legal provision was established stipulating that all those five generations or more removed from the main line – meaning the Emperor’s own lineage – could voluntarily request to be removed from the imperial clan and return to their maternal families.
The Great Zhou governed the state through the principles of loyalty and filial piety, holding fraternal devotion and familial piety in high esteem. For this reason, Emperor Si’s actions appeared all the more cruel and inhumane, and even the level of support for the imperial house suffered as a result. According to legend, in her later years, Emperor Si deeply regretted what she had done after first ascending the throne.
Yet in Wen Yanran’s view, Emperor Si’s actions carried a certain inevitability.
The Great Zhou had been established for over three hundred years, and the descendants of every emperor’s children were inevitably imperial clansmen, while the descendants of clansmen remained clansmen as well. The family’s numbers swelled at an astonishing rate. By Emperor Si’s generation, the imperial clan had grown exceedingly large. These clansmen occupied land, concealed registered households, paid no taxes, and many enjoyed noble titles, all of which entailed considerable expenditure. In normal times, this might have been manageable, but during Emperor Xiang’s reign, frequent wars had depleted the state treasury. If Emperor Si did not wish to directly confront powerful aristocratic families and local magnates, she had no choice but to strike at a softer target – the imperial clan itself.
However, this precedent also reassured Wen Yanran – it seemed her thinking was correct. When an emperor implemented certain policies, even if they objectively reduced the state’s burdens, as long as they clashed with the interests of entrenched classes, instability would ensue, and the emperor would inevitably earn the reputation of a tyrant afterward.
Noticing that the hour was growing late, an attendant approached to request the Emperor’s return to the palace. Wen Yanran rose and offered a slight smile. “Thank you, Brother, for instructing me.”
Upon her return from Tianfu Palace, the palace attendants happened to have just brought in a batch of memorials from the Department of State Affairs.
Chi Yi stepped forward to report. “Some ministers at court are urging Your Majesty, hoping for a change in the policies regarding the southern territories.”
Wen Yanran raised an eyebrow slightly. “What about the southern territories now?”
This year there had been no natural disasters, grain supplies were abundant, and the various southern coastal states, after being thoroughly disciplined by Xiao Xichi, had become more compliant than ever. None seemed likely to present any pleasant surprises.
