Chapter Thirty-Five: Strategies for Governing Jiaozhi

Chapter Thirty-Five: Strategies for Governing Jiaozhi

Zhu Qizhen, having listened to Zhang Zhong’s words, whether they were entirely true or not, felt overall quite pleased.

“Good. I now understand most of the situation in Jiaozhi,” Zhu Qizhen said. “But for Jiaozhi to have ended up like this is truly regrettable. I wonder, how should Jiaozhi be governed? Do you have any advice for me?”

At these words, Zhang Zhong’s breathing grew more rapid. Until now, he had only been asked to report the situation; now, he was being asked for policy advice.

Moreover, this was advice on how to govern Jiaozhi.

Jiaozhi was now the Kingdom of Annam, no longer the Ming province of Jiaozhi. Yet Zhu Qizhen was still asking how to rule it—Zhang Zhong understood the implication all too well.

In other words, Zhu Qizhen harbored intentions of attacking Jiaozhi again.

For a moment, Zhang Zhong felt both joy and anxiety.

He was glad because if war broke out with Annam again, the obvious choice for commander would be someone from the lineage of the Duke of England. The reason was simple: only the old followers of the Duke had sufficient experience.

If only the old Duke, Zhang Fu, were a bit younger, he would be the ideal candidate. But Zhang Fu was already over sixty, and given the current situation at court, nothing could be done until the emperor took full control of the government. That would not be for some years. By then, Zhang Fu would be nearing seventy and hardly fit to lead troops into battle.

If Zhang Zhong’s own health held, it would be a splendid opportunity to follow in his father’s footsteps and campaign. Years from now, he would be the same age Zhang Fu was during his own expedition to Jiaozhi. In Ming times, it was not uncommon for fathers and sons to succeed each other as generals. But whether his body could endure for all those years was uncertain.

Suppressing his emotions, Zhang Zhong said, “In my view, the strategy of integrating Annam as administrative counties is far too rash.”

The weaker he felt physically, the stronger his desire became to leave a name in history, so his words were more forthright than usual. He flatly rejected the policy set by the Taizong Emperor. “At first glance, the people of the Central Plains and those of Jiaozhi seem no different, but in truth their hearts are not the same.”

“Therefore, if we wish to administer Annam as counties, we must not rush it.”

Zhu Qizhen said, “I thought you would support the restoration strategy.”

The restoration strategy, in fact, meant abandoning Jiaozhi.

Even before the imperial army withdrew from Jiaozhi, this topic had been debated at court. The Xuanzong Emperor had often discussed it with his ministers, including Yang Shiqi and others.

The reason was straightforward: the court could no longer bear the cost of holding Annam.

From the fifth year of Yongle, when Zhang Fu pacified Jiaozhi, until the Xuande era when Jiaozhi was abandoned, for more than twenty years there had been almost constant warfare. Add to that the major undertakings of the Yongle reign—five campaigns against the Mongols, the relocation of the capital to Beijing, Zheng He’s voyages, and so forth—each was a massive drain on national resources.

It was inevitable that the Ming dynasty could no longer sustain such power.

Jiaozhi was like a great wound on the body of Ming. To abandon it might seem cowardly, but the necessity was very real.

“Your Majesty, for the sake of Jiaozhi, over a hundred thousand Ming soldiers have perished. Among them were many loyal ministers and fine generals, all dying far from home. If we do not reclaim Jiaozhi, did these men die for nothing?” Zhang Zhong declared loudly. “Are we to discard the great work of the Taizong Emperor just like that?”

For most, Jiaozhi was a distant concept. But for him, it was vivid and tangible.

Of course, he had never actually set foot in Jiaozhi. By the time he was born, his father Zhang Fu had long since returned from his four campaigns there.

Yet he remembered well how many uncles and older cousins, having come from Jiaozhi to the capital, would pay their respects to Zhang Fu. As his son, Zhang Zhong would also greet them. Then, when news of a great defeat in Jiaozhi arrived, he clearly remembered his father’s expression.

His always resolute father spoke in an unusually weak voice, telling him that those uncles and cousins would never return again.

He still recalled how, when the decision to abandon Jiaozhi was made, his father shut himself in the back garden, carving the names of those fallen uncles and cousins onto ancestral tablets, drinking as he worked.

When his mother finally forced open the garden gate, she found his father lying drunken and weeping among the tablets.

Thus, while the rest of the world might speak of abandoning Jiaozhi, not a single member of the Duke of England’s household could utter such words.

For the Duke’s family, it was not only a matter of national enmity, but also personal grief.

“I have not forgotten,” Zhu Qizhen said, enunciating each word. “That is why I ask you for a strategy to settle Jiaozhi. If we conquer but cannot pacify it, then, whether or not I can forget, I will never attack Jiaozhi again.”

Zhang Zhong replied, “I understand, Your Majesty. There have always been strategies for pacifying Jiaozhi, but I do not know if Your Majesty would be willing to use them.”

“Speak,” Zhu Qizhen said.

Zhang Zhong replied, “Since we cannot govern them as counties, we can only enfeoff Jiaozhi. Why not use a prince of the imperial clan, rather than a foreign surname? Assign an imperial prince to guard Jiaozhi, or divide the land and establish a vassal state.”

At this, Wang Zhen thought to himself, “Who would have guessed this Young Duke of England would be so audacious?”

The matter of the Jingnan Rebellion had always been a sore spot for the Ming dynasty. Only a few decades had passed since then, and no one dared mention it. But there was one point of political orthodoxy in Ming: the reduction of the power of the princes.

From the reigns of Jianwen, Taizong, Renzong, and Xuanzong, this policy had been consistent—some implemented it well, others not so much.

Never had anyone dared, on such an occasion, to suggest a policy contrary to the reduction of the princes.

Zhang Zhong was indeed bold.

Perhaps Zhang Zhong realized this too and immediately explained, “This is not my own strategy, but rather what I imagine to be the late Taizong Emperor’s intention.”

“The Prince of Han, son of the Taizong Emperor, was much beloved. During the Jingnan Rebellion, he rendered great service, yet Taizong did not grant him a rich fief, wishing instead to enfeoff him in Jiaozhi or Yunnan.”

“Why? Not because Taizong did not love his son, but because he was planning for the long term. These were far-flung regions, troubled by rebellious chieftains or uncooperative people, but the Prince of Han was capable enough to pacify them.”

“Had the Prince of Han heeded the Taizong Emperor’s command, he would now be a powerful southern prince. So long as he remained loyal to the court, what difference would there be between Annam and Joseon?”

“Impudence!” Wang Zhen barked sharply.

Zhang Zhong immediately knelt and said, “I am guilty of a capital crime.”

The Prince of Han’s fate was well known: he had been executed by Emperor Xuanzong, burned alive in a bronze cauldron. Thinking himself the equal of the Taizong Emperor, he had rebelled, only to be crushed.

Whatever the case, it was an ill-omened precedent.

Had the Prince of Han not been in Shandong, but instead commanded tens of thousands of troops in Jiaozhi, things might have turned out very differently.

Thus, Zhang Zhong’s example was not the most appropriate one.

Still kneeling, Zhang Zhong continued, “My example may be ill chosen, but when the matter of enfeoffing the Prince of Xiang was discussed, Emperor Xuanzong also considered granting him Yunnan. Is this not the same idea?”

Zhu Qizhen smiled faintly. “Enough. You need not say any more. I understand your meaning.”

To propose a policy of enfeoffment—someone still dared speak such words! Zhu Qizhen found it hard to believe, but the idea suited him perfectly.

He had long considered enfeoffment—not in Annam or Yunnan, but overseas.

After all, with so many territories overseas, the Ming’s ability to govern was already strained in Annam, let alone further afield.

So the policy of enfeoffment had long been on Zhu Qizhen’s mind—just not for now.

He said, “For the sake of the Duke of England, I will pretend I never heard today’s conversation. Eunuch Wang, keep your people in line. If even a single word of today’s talk leaks out, you know what to do.”

Wang Zhen immediately replied, “I understand, Your Majesty.”

Zhu Qizhen continued, “Zhang, as the heir of the Duke of England, you will surely inherit the dukedom and become a pillar of the state. Some things must be considered thrice before being spoken aloud.”

“You look tired. Go home and rest for today.”

With a signal from Zhu Qizhen, a young eunuch promptly escorted Zhang Zhong out of the Palace of Heavenly Purity.

Once outside, Zhang Zhong realized his clothes were soaked through, though it was already summer and the palace was kept cool with ice. It was not heat but nerves that had drenched him. He felt a lingering fear—how had he dared to say such things just now?

But after carefully pondering Zhu Qizhen’s words, he sensed layers of meaning.

That final “consider thrice”—did it mean his proposal was wrong, or merely incomplete? For a while, Zhang Zhong puzzled over it, his eyes gradually brightening as he leaned toward the latter interpretation.

Enfeoffment alone could not solve the problem of Annam; in other words, the emperor did not object to enfeoffment itself.