Restoration of the Great Ming: A Tianqi Timeline

[RexSueciae]

Shi Kefa, up-and-coming bureaucrat in the Ministry of Works​

In Rome, Pope Urban VIII dies. He leaves behind him a legacy that touches most of Europe and occasionally lands farther afield -- even China. An eloquent man, the author of some decent hymns, the promulgator of papal bulls condemning such sins as slavery and the use of tobacco. He had proven himself a friend of the Jesuits (who are grateful to him), confirming the legitimacy of their missions in the New World and in China. He reigned as both vicar of Christ and as a secular prince, seizing the Duchy of Castro by force of arms. He canonized several saints and created more than seventy cardinals, including at least four of his own blood relatives.

And now he’s dead. He is succeeded by one of the cardinals he’d created, Giovanni Battista Pamphili, who takes the name Innocent X.[1]

The new pope inherits a papacy greatly depleted of funds -- wars are expensive -- which he tries to recoup in part by seizing properties owned by the late pope’s relatives. (He’s a little upset with them. You see, apart from the usual politicking, some years ago the late pope’s brother had commissioned a painting where the Archangel Michael is trampling a Satan who greatly resembles Cardinal Pamphili, an act viewed as gravely insulting and for which Innocent X has never quite forgiven them.[2])

Pope Innocent X is also a little bemused by one action recorded in the papal records -- among the many cardinals appointed by his predecessor, several had been created in pectore, which is to say secretly, in the custom of the church -- and while Urban VIII had eventually published most of their names, he died without revealing the name of the last one (although there are some reports that he attempted to do so on his deathbed). This isn’t the first time that such a thing has occurred, but it’s still odd.[3] The new pope shrugs and gets on with his work.

Now let’s swing back to our usual stomping-grounds. Injo of Joseon, who had reigned since a 1623 palace coup put him in power, dies after a sudden illness. He is succeeded by his eldest son, the Crown Prince Sohyeon.

Some whisper about skullduggery afoot. The late king had been in apparent good health right before he died, and naturally there are rumors of poison. Adding to the mystery, his heir Sohyeon had evidently been gravely ill but had recovered. Historians debate the exact sequence of events which had taken place. The consensus view, in line with that expressed by the Ming chronicler Zhong Hecao, is that both individuals fell ill in close succession due to a contagious disease or inadvertent contamination. This “official” record of events was likely adapted verbatim from the more comprehensive Annals of the Joseon Dynasty. However, revisionist historians have posited that either both men were poisoned by an outside force, or that Injo (for uncertain reasons) had attempted filicide, and was subsequently assassinated by some agent loyal to Sohyeon. These interpretations have inspired numerous fictional works but, truthfully, the full story may never be told. Maybe there was some kind of conspiracy in the Joseon court, but its participants, if any, have yet to be identified.

So who is the newest king of Joseon? He is often compared to his father, who was regarded as a reliable pro-Ming figure, although obviously the nobles of Joseon are positively inclined towards their large, powerful neighbor in general. That said, some historians criticize Injo as a vacillating, ineffective personality who “got lucky” by happening to be king at a time when first the Ming and later the Northern Yuan flexed their might in destroying his most immediate geopolitical foe, the Later Jin.[4] In contrast, his son is regarded as more thoughtful, open-minded, and decisive -- at least, that’s what his supporters hope.

The former Crown Prince assumes the temple name of Hyojong upon his accession. His foreign wife, Erdani, gives birth to the couple’s first child, Yi Seok-rin, a healthy boy who is granted the title of Crown Prince Gyeongwan.[5]

The Joseon court is very much continuing their usual polite relations with their nominal suzerain (the Empire of the Great Ming) but are also interested in cooperation with the Northern Yuan -- the king loves his wife -- so things might get interesting.

Shifting our attention to Dongshan, the island is rocked by the publication of -- no, it’s not an economics treatise from Di Yimin. It’s a rambling religious text of uncertain authorship but often attributed to Amakusa Shirō a.k.a. Geronimo (sometimes described in European sources as “Geronimo Amakusa”), the charismatic Japanese Christian and figurehead of an abortive rebellion, who has resided on Dongshan since 1638 when he and his followers were evacuated by Admiral Zheng’s fleet.[6]

The document is not a work of great literature by any standard. Sometimes called the Pearl of Great Price (after the Biblical passage which it extensively references), the book recounts a series of surreal (and sometimes erotic) images personally revealed to Geronimo over the course of his life, brought to him by an Angel of the Lord, because he has been blessed with a direct line of communication with the Christian divinity, and he’s been ordered to share his message with everyone in the empire, because the Lord has a special interest in China, obviously. The Pearl is easy enough to read, and while its authorship may be questionable it is swiftly adopted and reprinted by Geronimo’s religiously heterodox followers.

Responses are mixed. These people are a dedicated bunch who are already convinced that their leader works miracles, leading to some curiosity from their neighbors. Actual Christians in China are less curious and more dismissive -- Nicolas Trigault writes some disapproving words back to Rome reporting on the actions of “Balaam over the sea” which is probably a reference to Geronimo and the allegedly licentious ways of his followers. Obviously, there is no such thing as a (Catholic) Chinese Inquisition. Geronimo’s followers might be fined by local magistrates for disturbing the peace, but they won’t be burnt at the stake -- in China, at least. In the Philippines and Macau, the authorities there would probably disapprove. Admiral Zheng in Dongshan doesn’t care much, since Geronimo’s followers are among the foremost of the settlers willing to take up residence in the backcountry, and he needs all the people he can get -- there’s rumblings of war with the Dutch, and also he’s been having some trouble with the indigenous population. But we’ll get to that later.

Oh, yes, and Geronimo’s getting attention outside of his usual circles. The poet Wang Wei mocks him as the “leader of little fishes” which swim about in the sea, since that is where pearls can be found -- it’s an idea which swiftly finds approval among Geronimo’s actual followers, who start calling themselves the Fishermen (for Biblical reasons). Although the Fishermen by and large aren’t actually fishermen, who have more interesting gods. Still, awareness is starting to spread. The small Christian community, both foreigners like the Jesuits and local converts, think that Geronimo is one weird guy. Politically conservative members of the imperial court grumble that things weren’t like this back in the good old days.

Speaking of the imperial court, Dong Kewei, at the Ministry of Works, is reviewing a report drafted by his deputy Shi Kefa.[7] China’s canals are more or less functional, thanks to the Ministry being mostly competent (also because Minister Dong, as the emperor’s unofficial spymaster, wields a lot of soft power that’s technically outside of his legal remit, so his expenditures get approved very quickly). But canals aren’t the only waterways in China. There are rivers, some of which are quite large.

Shi Kefa writes that he had by chance heard of the Ming ancestral tombs which the Hongwu Emperor had built along the banks of the Hongze Lake. These are not technically imperial tombs -- the emperors themselves are interred elsewhere -- but the Hongwu Emperor was really big into lavish building projects to honor his ancestors.[8] The mortuary complex near Hongze Lake contains the remains of the Hongwu Emperor’s grandfather and empty tombs for more distant ancestors. It is perhaps less important than other Ming imperial mausoleums, but it’s still important.

It is also in danger. Shi Kefa warns that the tomb is built perilously close to the shores of the lake. This was done for reasons of feng shui, which is well and good, but the people who built the place didn’t take many precautions to prevent flooding. And Hongze Lake is fed by the river Huai. Now, the Huai River, like most of China’s large, silt-heavy rivers that flow from west to east, is prone to flooding. It’d only take a really bad season, or a silt clog somewhere down the line, before something catastrophic happened. So, since Shi Kefa is looking for a new project (and because he wants to make his name, since his boss is gonna retire someday and he wants to be Minister of Works when that happens), he suggests a project to either redirect the flow of the Huai or, if that is impractical, to construct large dikes or other earthworks to protect the ancestral tombs, just in case. Minister Dong is a little skeptical of his subordinate’s analysis, but he appreciates the effort, and he figures that it’ll create employment for the locals, so he signs off on the second plan to build dikes.[9]

There’s bloodletting elsewhere in the world -- the Portuguese and Spanish are still killing each other -- but for China, in the here and now, these are peaceful days.

---

Footnotes
[1] All this is OTL thus far. I can’t think of anything that would have changed any of this -- Ming influence has resulted in Lorenzo Ruiz and Francesc de Borja being canonized ahead of schedule but wouldn’t have shifted the balance of power in the College of Cardinals, so the 1644 conclave proceeds as normal. Pope Innocent X is probably best-known as the guy in a truly excellent painting by Diego Velasquez, and then in some more disturbing paintings by Francis Bacon.
[2] This happened IOTL.
[3] Pope Pius IV created a cardinal in pectore at the consistory of 1561 and failed to publish the name before death, the only earlier example of this kind of mishap that I can find. For more information on the practice of in pectore, I recommend Wikipedia. You can speculate as to the identity of Urban VIII’s secret cardinal -- who is not listed as one of Urban VIII’s OTL cardinals -- and why I have mentioned this seemingly minor incident in my timeline.
[4] This is pretty much the OTL consensus on Injo, except he had to submit to the Qing and also IOTL was probably successful in murdering his son. ITTL he has his detractors but Joseon did well under his reign, so he comes off a little better.
[5] The temple name is the same as the one his brother took upon ascending the throne IOTL -- and, for that matter, the name / title that he gives his son is the same as one of his OTL children. What can I say? I’m lazy.
As an aside, many East Asian royal figures of this time period are commonly described by their temple names -- some Chinese dynasties are described this way by convention, although for Ming emperors the custom is to describe them with their era names. So, for example, our guy the Tianqi Emperor is so called because his era was that of a “heavenly opening;” he was given the name Zhu Youjiao at birth and received the temple name Xizong. Don’t worry about it too much. I try to be consistent, at least, with how I refer to people, and if I make a goof then that’s on me.
[6] Remember him? The Shimabara Rebellion may have fizzled out ITTL but its legacy lives on.
[7] For a review of who’s who in the bureaucracy, refer to Dramatis Personae [1638] and the updated list of top officials in 1641.
[8] This was mentioned previously in 1634. The tombs mentioned previously in Fengyang are often called Huangling while the ones mentioned in this update near Hongze Lake are often called Zuling.
[9] Shi Kefa has good instincts. IOTL nobody paid much attention to the tombs, partly because the Ming dynasty was collapsing and the Qing dynasty was still figuring stuff out. Consequently in 1680 when the Yellow River suddenly changed course and started flowing into the Huai, massive amounts of water entered Hongze Lake and completely submerged the Zuling tombs. They were not seen again for approximately three hundred years.

 

[RexSueciae]

An undisclosed location​

There were three men. The first was probably the least important, and the most prone to bluster. His name was Wang Shaohui.[1] He was dressed in the robes of a scholar. This is not to say that his two companions were dressed altogether differently, since this was supposed to be a secret meeting, and wearing very fine clothes did not go well with sneaking around backstreets. It would only draw attention.

In fact, although Wang Shaohui was dressed in the robes of a scholar, even that was a bit of a reach. He had not, in point of fact, been anywhere near the imperial bureaucracy in at least a decade. There were many in court who would not have considered him to have been a gentleman.

This bothered him, and though he was an old man, he spoke like he had something to prove.

“I have heard that the princess,” and the way he ground his teeth made it clear that he only narrowly prevented himself from saying something treasonous, “has progressed in her adoption of that barbarian superstition. They say she has participated in the ceremony of baptism.” The foreign words like poison in his mouth.

The second man in the room just looked at him. “And?”

“And it is a disgrace!” Wang all but shouted at the man. He regretted it immediately; the second man’s smile turned to ice. This was not a man who took insults lightly.

The second man’s name was Wu Sangui.[2] He waited until Wang had settled down before he started to speak.

“The rumors that you bring to these meetings,” he said, “are not unwelcome, but I fail to see their use. The emperor, wise and stately that he might be, has allowed his daughter to be raised according to strange customs. That is unwise, perhaps, but certainly not a crime.”

Wang goggled at him. “Not a-! Sir, are you out of your-”

“Nonetheless,” Wu Sangui smoothly continued, “it is, perhaps, an indication of larger things. And I have no doubt that you, and perhaps even some more legitimate members of our empire’s bureaucratic classes, have concerns. Grave concerns, in fact.”

This man was a dangerous one. Cultured and well-educated, perhaps. But while Wang had continued his education and attained the jinshi rank way back in the twenty-sixth year of the Wanli era,[3] Wu had gone into the military service. He’d made a name for himself on the northern frontier.

“Have you made much progress with the economic analyses?” he asked. “The Ministry of Finance has come out with some more draft proposals for the ceramics business. Do the numbers add up?”

Wang huffed. “They might. But nobody will be able to extract that level of revenue for years. And that’s assuming the local bigwigs play along, which I doubt. On the whole, you’re better off relying on that pirate lord and his gold. Which is a foolish notion.”

“The admiral is not to be underestimated,” Wu warned. “But he does have a bad habit of picking fights with foreigners. Not his pet foreigners that he keeps on the island, but the others, the Dutchmen.” He couldn’t entirely disrespect a fellow fighting man. In many ways, Wu understood the admiral’s motivations. But still, he did all his fighting on the land, and he neither knew nor cared about matters outside his domain.

“To be honest,” he said to the disgraced scholar Wang, “I do not know why you put so much emphasis on useless stuff. It is money which is the meat and bones of the thing; that, and honor, to be sure. We are told the north is at peace; our foes have been subdued by our loyal brothers-in-arms. Now there is precious little to do, except to maintain the forts that have suddenly been rendered useless. Not perfectly useless, that is true. If our empire’s erstwhile tributaries were to turn on us, those northern forts would become quite useful indeed.” Wu leaned back. “But I am a man of war. I see the barbarians at peace, and I would have us press home the message that we are not a people to be forgotten, take their wealth for our own. There are those in the north, and in the west, and yet we rest on our haunches, content to raise great monuments for the future.”

“It is not proper to speak of war in such terms,” Wang muttered.

Wu didn’t pay him much attention. Wang liked to quote from the classics whenever he talked about the real business of war, but Wang was stuck with him. The alternative to allying with a soldier was with Zheng, or those of his ilk. And if there was anything that Wang hated worse than anything, it was merchants.[4]

“Who’s your new friend?” Wu gestured to the third man, who had thus far said nothing. “This isn’t the first time you brought someone here. Is he gonna wimp out like the last one?” It was not wise to bring on too many potential conspirators to meetings whose discussions sometimes veered dangerously close to treason. Wu had silenced a few reluctant souls himself.

But Wang straightened himself, and suddenly he was the one smiling like he knew something that Wu did not.

“I would like to tell you a story,” he said.

“Better watch your words among strangers,” Wu said, glancing again at the newcomer. The man looked familiar, though he couldn’t quite place him. “And mind that you don’t condemn yourself with talk of treason.”

“But there is no treason,” Wang said. “Allow me to explain. Years ago, perhaps before your time, for you are much younger than I am, our emperor -- the grandfather of the man who now sits in the imperial palace -- wished to bestow the throne upon one of his younger sons.”

“Right,” Wu said. “I’ve heard the story. Now-”

“Please do not interrupt. As I was saying, he wished to do so, but the palace bureaucrats refused to acknowledge it as legitimate. And so, when the emperor died it was his elder son who was recognized as sovereign -- the father of the man who now sits in the imperial palace -- and he lived a very short time before he was carried off by some vagary of fate. And now here we are.”

Wang cleared his throat. Even though his audience was very small, he didn’t want to yield a scrap of the attention.

“Now,” he said, “we say that the empire recognizes its emperor, and that all the nations of the world pay tribute to him. But there is much that can happen. And the minds of the common folk are easily mistaken. For example: is there anything to say that the will of the emperor -- the true emperor -- can ever be defied? Our great and noble emperor of the Wanli era named his true heir, and the mutterings of the court could never change his mind. Even if a usurper succeeded to the throne instead. I tell you, my warmongering friend, there is an opportunity to be had.”

Wu’s mind raced. He looked at the third man. “That’s where I recognized you,” he said. “You’re the Prince of Fu!”

“Correct,” Wang said. “Cousin to the man who, illegitimately, holds court in the imperial palace. Son of the prince who was favored by the Wanli Emperor. The true emperor.” He grinned. “I invited him along because he has views...favorable to our discussions. And I am fully confident-”

The Prince of Fu waved him to silence. Both the men looked at him.

“Excuse me,” he said. He leaned forward. “I know full well that this is no theoretical discussion. And even if it were, enough has been said thus far to have you both cut apart for treason.”

The silence stretched. Sepulchral.

Then the Prince of Fu gave an almost imperceptible smile. “Lucky for you,” he said, “I am not entirely opposed to...discussions. And I have my own contacts. So, this is what we must do…”

---

Footnotes
[1] 王绍徽. A real person, perhaps best-known IOTL for dedicating poetry to Wei Zhongxian and for helping that eunuch persecute members of the Donglin movement. As you can imagine, this has not been beneficial to his career, now that Wei Zhongxian is dead and buried. Similar things happened IOTL, except that things happened a little slower.
[2] Yes, that one. Some people are destined for infamy no matter the timeline.
[3] 1598
[4] Traditionally, merchants were not viewed favorably for a number of Confucian reasons. But also Wang is kind of an asshole.

 

[RexSueciae]

Abel Tasman, one of the more competent captains in the employ of the Dutch East India Company​

There are many things one can say about Abel Tasman, foremost among them being that he is a highly competent captain who had up until now been leading Dutch East India Company expeditions to the various far-flung lands south and east of Batavia. Now he heads north; specifically, to the coast of Dongshan, with a flotilla of heavily armed vessels.

The Descent Upon Luoyang catches the sailors of Dongshan by surprise, many of their ships at anchor, and Tasman takes the opportunity to blast away as much as he can before withdrawing in the face of another of Zheng’s fleets bearing hard upon them from the direction of Fujian. The intention was to bleed the locals enough that Dutch hegemony could be reasserted elsewhere on the island -- potentially the northern bits, with the gold being extracted. And also, fuck the Portuguese, who continue their operations on Dongshan under the Admiral's protection.

(Granted, both the Portuguese and the Dutch are currently fighting wars with the Spanish, nominally over the question of whether Portugal and the Dutch Republic are independent, but at this point it’s pretty clear they’re both independent and are gonna stay that way, so there isn’t all that much in the way of camaraderie between the two nations. And in any case, colonial affairs are a separate thing from European affairs.)

Admiral Zheng is furious. He immediately gathers together as many ships as he can and stages a raid-in-force on Batavia. The Dutch retaliate with another inconclusive expedition to the east coast of Dongshan. Some opportunists from Zheng’s men make attempts to seize Dutch ships coming from Japan.

Honestly, a lot of this is basically what everyone had been doing all along. But the large-scale expeditions are a little bit of an escalation. Zheng is pretty sure he’ll be able to pummel the Dutch into backing off, eventually. The only question is, how long will it take?

Zheng has the Portuguese on his side, at least. They are not able to give much help. Zheng’s ships can stop for supplies at any of Portugal’s colonial possessions, such as the village of Lifau, on the island of Timor; while today Lifau is known as a bustling metropolis, at the time it was a tiny Portuguese outpost. The main reason why the Portuguese have settled there is because the Dutch had kicked them out of some more profitable islands.[1]

Relations with the Spanish are complicated. On the one hand, they don’t care for the Dutch. On the other hand, they don’t care for the Portuguese. Things are still quite chilly, but the Spanish are largely content to sit out this weird colonial slapfight, as long as the Manila Galleons keep making it through.

Meanwhile, Ejei Khan (who is still officially regarded as successor to the Yuan emperors, although he’s been pulling back on such rhetoric out of circumspection towards China) has been conducting raids -- to the west, this time, because a certain proportion of his followers like raiding, and while seizing a lot of land from the Jurchens was a great boon, now the young men are getting restless. Ejei Khan manages to direct the raids towards the west -- he does not want to worsen relations with the Joseon or the Ming -- and like his father, he is nominally a partisan of the Nyingma school. The degree to which his religious values were sincere or a convenient excuse to fight people is still debated, although consensus leans to the former. Records kept by the Dalai Lama indicate that Ejei Khan’s forces may have raided as far afield as the Tibetan Plateau, although this was undoubtedly an extraordinary event and not entirely representative of relations between the two states.

Part of the reason why the Joseon are not being targeted for raids is that Ejei Khan’s half-sister (despite later questions about exact parentage), Erdani, is married to the king of Joseon and is the mother of his son. While she is called Hyeonryeol[2] in Joseon-originating sources, she is more often called Erdani (meaning something like “jewel”) or a direct translation in sources from anywhere else. The Crown Prince Gyeongwan is a healthy infant, and his parents hope to give him many siblings. For what it’s worth, given their dedication to the task, it’s likely not going to be very long.

Shi Kefa, meanwhile, is creating vast embankments and retaining walls along Hongze Lake in order to prevent future flooding. His project is, of course, in the beginning stages, but in later years it will grow into something truly beautiful. Just like that other work of Ming-era engineering, the Great Wall (preserved in segments to the present day, having long since lost its military use as a barrier against northern barbarians), the walls of Shi Kefa (referred to variously as the “Short Wall,” the “Jiangsu Wall,” and the “Zuling Wall”) are a modern-day tourist destination. Indeed, a later emperor will order additional walls and levees built to protect the walls from deterioration, pushing Hongze Lake further away from the great tombs built nearby.

That’s years to come in the future. And while Shi Kefa’s walls will end up surviving the test of time, in 1645 people are paying much more attention to events unfolding in Beijing...

---

Footnotes
[1] IOTL the Dutch eventually pushed the Portuguese off the western part of Timor, but that hasn’t happened ITTL.
[2] Regnal name given to a Joseon queen consort from OTL.

 

[RexSueciae]

Imperial palace, Beijing

“When you’re a father,” the emperor confided in his guest, “you’ll want to spend every minute you can with them. It seems only yesterday when my eldest was born, and now my sons are both men.” He gestured to his daughter. “She is still young, but I do not think I will have any children after her. So I take all the time I can.”

Zheng Chenggong,[1] son of the great admiral, nodded respectfully. He was a handsome young man, very much built in the image of his father, and he was of an age with the emperor’s two sons, the imperial princes. Admiral Zheng had sent him as his representative to deliver his report to Beijing; the newly hot war against the Dutch was going about as well as could be expected, but it occupied all of his attention.

“My father was away for much of my youth,” the younger Zheng replied. “I’ve never doubted him, but I do wish he wasn’t away for so long.” He sighed. “Attached to his duty. Or his business,” he said. “He was born for the high seas, and I don’t think he’s ever had much interest in the affairs of the land.”

The emperor agreed with that. Admiral Zheng was a fine man, but he was definitely a piratical type at heart. A loving father, if an absent one. But just as the emperor had done his best to raise his children -- to hopefully impart upon them the learning that he never seemed to be able to grasp -- the Admiral had hired only the best scholars to teach his son. The younger Zheng was dressed in the finery of a gentleman.

There hadn’t been many seeking an audience with the emperor that day. It had still been very boring. The emperor never understood how sovereigns of ages past could sit through hours upon hours of that nonsense. And he thought he understood his grandfather now, the emperor whose diligence had waned by his later years, when the old man had all but quit the court.

Well, he was the emperor now. So when he decided to call the audience period to a close and retire to his private quarters, that was that. And he liked talking to the younger Zheng. It was a blessing to have fine sons, and he was content with his two boys, but having spent so much time with the imperial court in his youth, Zheng was practically family, too.

The princess -- and everyone still called her the Princess Yining, although she had chosen the Christian name Maria, which the emperor thought sounded strange -- was listening to Master Jin,[2] her tutor, as he read to her from a book of stories. The emperor had made sure that his sons got a literary education, partly because it was the right thing to do, and partly so that he’d be able to listen to the stories sometimes. So it was fine that the princess got her stories, too. This story, that Master Jin was reading aloud, was about a man who had gone to sea and had been swallowed by a great fish. It was a fine enough story, the emperor thought, since men ate fish so often that they should not be surprised when a fish got some measure of revenge. And the man didn’t die, anyways, which was more than could be said about most fish that were eaten by men.

The emperor allowed himself to relax, stretch out his legs, lean up against his wife. She was dozing a little. These were quiet days, and he was perfectly content to-

What was that sound?

A distant commotion, muffled shouting. Then the pounding of fast-approaching feet.

Three men burst through the door. They carried swords. They were definitely not his loyal guards. And as they recognized him, they raised their weapons.

“The usurper!” One of them shouted. “Kill him!”

The emperor was frozen in shock. He wanted to say something like, “what is this?” or “how dare you!” but the words would not leave his mouth.

Zheng Chenggong did not hesitate. The young man grabbed a small porcelain figurine and hurled it at the nearest interloper. It rebounded off the man’s skull with a painful-sounding thud; as he staggered, Zheng was running forward, stabbing him (stabbing him? he’d extracted a small knife from his robes, it looked like, which would have been highly illegal, considering he’d been armed in the presence of the emperor), yanking the sword from the man's hands, swinging it wildly at the other two who dodged backwards, warded off by the sheer ferocity Zheng displayed.

The empress screamed. The emperor hurried her backwards, towards his daughter and Master Jin. “Stay back,” he ordered, then he turned his attention again to the fight. A weapon -- he needed something. Young Zheng had bought them some time, but he was visibly tiring, and now as the bandits rained heavy blows at him it seemed all he could do was to parry them with his knife and sword. The emperor grabbed for the nearest piece of heavy furniture -- a chair, something that had cost his father a fortune, as it had been purchased from an avaricious provincial noble -- and was advancing to aid his friend when he froze. More rapid footsteps approaching.

Two more men burst through the door, but these were not like the first set of intruders. Their skin was quite dark, their apparel expensive-looking, and in their hands they carried long guns.

“Young master! Get down!”

Zheng Chenggong threw himself to the side, out of the way, and a moment later the emperor dropped to the floor as well. Twin thunderclaps rang out; he tasted acrid smoke. His ears rang.

The two remaining interlopers fell like so much dead meat. One had a chunk missing from his torso; the other had lost a cavernous wedge from his head, just about half of it gone entirely.

The princess was crying, but so far as he could tell she was unharmed. The emperor staggered to his feet. The two newcomers did not so much as glance at him; they ran to the younger Zheng, who, the emperor saw, was bleeding from a cut to his arm. One of the men tore part of a nearby tapestry to bandage it.

Once more, the sound of running feet. This time, the emperor was relieved to see a familiar face: Dong Kewei, his longtime Minister of Works.

“Urgh. I’m getting too old for this shit,” Minister Dong gasped, leaning over, hands on his knees. “Lucky I ran into the Zheng family’s bodyguards on my way here. Your majesty, we have a problem.”

“What is it?” The emperor demanded. “What’s going on?”

“Unknown number of traitors in the palace. Not sure how long it’ll take to get them all; they had help from someone important, looks like.” Minister Dong looked angry. “Sorry, your majesty. There’s street fighting in the city, and who knows what kind of unrest in the provinces. Someone’s pushing things along. It’s all happening too fast.”

“What?”

“Like I said, we have a problem. Rebels popping out of the fucking woodwork. We can’t evacuate you from the palace, and that would be foolish anyways, but this place isn’t short of bolt-holes. Shouldn’t take long at all. Come with me, all of you. If those dogs-heads managed to get in here,” he waved at the dead men, “then it’s clear they know the layout of the palace, and there might be more coming. We’re on the alert now, obviously, but I won’t risk your life, your majesty.”

“Wait.” The emperor’s mind raced. “My sons. They were supposed to be with Minister Wang, touring the Ministry of War. Where are they now? Minister Dong, you must find my sons.”

“I will. I promise.” Minister Dong helped the younger Zheng to his feet. “I need just a little time. Come on, your majesty. You’ll be safe, but we have to move quickly.”

---

Footnotes
[1] Remember that IOTL he became known as Koxinga.
[2] As you may recall from previous chapters, this is the Chinese name for the Jesuit Nicolas Trigault.

 

[RexSueciae]

A hidden room, Beijing

The room they were in was a fairly well-appointed suite just like any other, but one that Minister Dong, in his foresight, had discreetly fortified in subtle ways, allowing for the entrances to be barricaded with ease. The emperor thought that he was handling things rather well, all things considered. He did his best to comfort his wife and daughter. Master Jin was praying quietly. Zheng Chenggong winced now and then from his wound, but made no complaint. The two Zheng family bodyguards -- their names were Mpanzu and Zuberi -- were the only ones who seemed unconcerned; to them, this might as well have been any day on the job.

Footsteps at the entrance. “It’s me.” That was Minister Dong’s voice.

Minister Dong was accompanied by a guard of his own. The emperor recognized Shi Chunjing, who had accompanied him and Master Jin during their incognito wanderings some years ago. A loyal, trustworthy man.

“My sons,” the emperor demanded. “Are they safe?”

“As far as I know, your majesty, they are.” Minister Dong bowed low, almost swaying with exhaustion; Shi Chunjing steadied him. “They are alive. Minister Wang and the imperial princes were inspecting one of the northern depots when seemingly half the army turned on them. It was almost a bloodbath but enough men stayed loyal that they were able to fight their way out. They were forced to retreat northward, and we’re not sure of their exact movements, but as far as I can tell, both the Minister of War and your sons are alive and headed for safety.” Wherever that was.

The emperor exhaled. “That is good.” He looked at Minister Dong. “And the city? Our court? What has happened?”

“We are making inquiries. The exact spark for this conspiracy has yet to reveal itself, but this is bad. Almost as bad as the great crisis which ended the era of Zhengtong.”[1]

“That sounds horrible.”

“It is.” Minister Dong winced. “The Embroidered Uniform Guard is running down all the rumors they can. This palace is safe; we’ve cleared every building, room by room, and we’ve killed at least a dozen assassins thus far. In the city, there was almost a riot in the eastern neighborhoods but our men were able to eventually restore order. Unfortunately, before then there was some significant bloodshed.”

“How much?”

“Most of the highest court officials have escaped harm,” Minister Dong said. “But not all. Minister Cai, at Personnel, is dead. Minister Wang, of course, is somewhere in the north with the loyal part of the army and the imperial princes. Your Grand Secretary is still alive, I know that Qian Qianyi was able to get to safety with only minor injuries, there was a bit of a brawl. The rest, I’m not sure. I received a message from Minister Zhou at Revenue, he said he survived an attack but I don’t know where he is right now. I’ve got runners trying to locate him but he’s not at his house in the city. I can only hope he’s alright.”

“I’ll need to speak with my loyal advisors,” the emperor said. They’d have ideas, hopefully. Someone would know what to do.

“I’ll have them summoned,” Minister Dong promised. “The main threat is the mutiny in the north; the revolt in the army should be suppressed with haste. Elsewhere...there are plots and rumors, out among the provinces.”

The provinces would need to stay loyal to him. Or at least, not actively support the rebellion. The emperor grimaced.

“The people of this city-”

“They still honor you, your majesty,” Minister Dong quickly reassured him. “When violence broke out, the agitators were flushed into the open. The vast majority of the common folk still remember when you walked among them. There weren’t many foolish enough to join this rebellion.”

“Some did,” the emperor murmured. “There has been too much blood spilled already.”

Minister Dong opened his mouth, then closed it. “I apologize,” he said. “I almost forgot.” He bowed again to the emperor, but his regret was directed to Master Jin. “During the violence, before loyal soldiers were able to restore order,” he said, “a number of conspirators assaulted the Jesuit mission in the city. There was...significant bloodshed, I’m afraid. The murderers put to death around half of the men there before they could be stopped.”

Master Jin was of a naturally pale complexion but his face looked almost bloodless now. “If it pleases the emperor,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “I would like permission to arrange a funeral service for my deceased brothers.”

“It shall be done.” The emperor waved his hand. “Minister Dong,” he said, “I want the surviving members of my government here, in the palace, before sunup tomorrow. And I’d rather you be conscious when we meet with them, so you are ordered to rest tonight and designate a subordinate to retrieve the officials, if necessary.” The emperor gently shook him by the shoulder. “I need as many minds as possible to work this thing, Kewei. I’d rather yours be among them.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” The man was practically leaning on Shi Chunjing as he made his departure. The emperor watched him go with some concern. Minister Dong was no longer a young man.

He thought of how his predecessors would have handled things. His late, lamented grandfather; his thoroughly unlamented father. It occurred to him, suddenly, that if his father, he of the abruptly terminated Taichang era, had not perished so suddenly, he might well still have been alive today. If only this was his father’s problem to deal with, and not his own...

He waited, hoping for some burst of inspiration, but none came. Quietly, he sat back down, listening to Master Jin’s foreign prayers.

---

Footnote
[1] In 1449 (by the Gregorian calendar), the Northern Yuan captured Tumu Fortress and with it, the Zhengtong Emperor. The emperor’s younger brother assumed the throne, the former emperor was released by his captors but immediately placed under house arrest by his brother, and eventually he rose up and overthrew his brother to become emperor again, choosing the era name Tianshun for his second reign.

 

[RexSueciae]

Imperial Palace, Beijing

Normally, he’d have his Minister of War advise him. But that wasn’t possible now. Minster Wang and the imperial princes were somewhere in the empire’s north, fighting for survival against whatever disloyal faction had been flushed into the open.

He had the rest of his ministers -- minus Personnel, he’d need to make an appointment to replace the late Minister Cai -- and hopefully, their combined knowledge would make up for any shortfall.

Qian Qianyi was there. The Grand Secretary had a bandage across part of his face. “Your majesty,” he said, “if it is any comfort, your imperial ancestors survived far worse calamities in their time.”

He did not respond.

“I have double-checked all of the usual astronomical phenomena,” that was Kong Zhenyun, Minister of Rites, “and there was nothing at all to foretell such a turn of events. Whatever happened just now, it was not due to the displeasure of Heaven.”

“Thank you,” the emperor said, a trifle coldly. “Does anyone here know of a concrete, tangible step that I can take? Or must I sit in this palace and hope that the rebellion burns itself out?”

Nobody said anything for a while. Minister Kong looked like he’d swallowed a slice of bitter melon.

Finally, Minister Zhou cleared his throat. “Your majesty,” he said, “I think the best thing to do is to continue gathering information and organizing our forces. We need to find those who are truly loyal and gather them here, to safeguard the city -- and your person -- against any future threat. Then we smash the traitors.”

The Minister of Revenue was accompanied by his secretary, Gao Xuan. The emperor faintly remembered that the man had come from Kaifeng and was now very much Minister Zhou’s right hand. In fact, when the violence had broken out in the city, Minister Zhou had apparently been laying low in Gao Xuan’s residence, in the city. Could they be...? No, that’s ridiculous. Although Zhou’s from Fujian; I guess that wouldn’t be too surprising.

“First things first,” Qian Qianyi leaned forward, “by your order, we will reach out to the provincial governors and commanders across the empire to gauge their loyalty. We must be aware, though, that the conspirators may already be doing the same.”

The emperor nodded.

“There is also the matter of the other imperial princes,” the Grand Secretary continued. “I refer, of course, to the sons and grandsons of your imperial predecessors, on their estates in the countryside. It is not inconceivable that-” He checked himself. “I mean, the conspirators may have decided, in the event that your sons-”

“Thank you, I quite understand your point.” The emperor tried not to think about it. “Very well, see to it. And have the Prince of Xin, my younger brother, summoned to me immediately. I wish to speak with him.” The prince was in the city, was in fact staying in one of the guest palaces at the present moment.

“Very well.” The Grand Secretary hesitated. “Your majesty, about our tributaries and vassals-?”

“Out of the question,” interrupted Minister Zhou. “The power of the emperor will not be trivialized. Besides, what kind of support do you think they’d be able to offer? A few horsemen from the steppes? A boat from the king of Ryukyu?”

The emperor did not respond, but turned to Zheng Chenggong. Normally, when he met with his ministers, he’d do something to disconcert them a little, like inviting Master Jin to sit in on the meeting, but the Jesuit was performing the funerary rites for his deceased colleagues, so the emperor had improvised a little. True, he seemed to disconcert people just fine by himself (and he wondered at that, sometimes; people behaved so illogically, with so many minor social rules that did not make sense, and as far as he could tell, he was the only one who was being truly logical about things). It still helped to have someone else with him.

Zheng coughed. “Well,” he said, “this is a little embarrassing, but irrespective of the nature of my father’s relationship with the imperial throne and the exact political nature of the structural norms in-”

“This isn’t the metropolitan exam,” the emperor said. “Just answer this: how soon can your father, the Admiral, bring reinforcements from Dongshan against the rebels?”

“Um.” Zheng took a deep breath. “I don’t know, exactly. The foreigners are being extremely troublesome, and when I left I remember that he was preparing for a major battle. If you lend me your fastest ship, your majesty, I can return and tell him what’s going on. And then I’ll bring as much help as can be found.” He grimaced. “That is my promise, your majesty, but I’m afraid I don’t know how quickly this can be possible.”

There was some tension, among the ministers, when the emperor had turned to Zheng. The tension seemed to ease at his admission that the Admiral’s reinforcements might be delayed in their arrival. For a moment the emperor was very annoyed. The survival of the dynasty was paramount, no matter where they sought assistance! Well, that was court politics for you.

“That is fine,” he said. “You shall have your ship. Tell your father that unfortunately, this crisis is more urgent than any merchant adventures.” The emperor stood, signaling an end to the conversation, and everyone else scrambled to their feet. “We meet again this time tomorrow. Now, I am going to speak with my brother.”

 

[RexSueciae]

Imperial Palace, Beijing

“Brother, I will not ask again. Open this door.”

There was the sound of furniture scraping. The Prince of Xin had refused his summons, had yet, in fact, to leave his private quarters. He must have been getting food delivered, somehow, but evidently he’d barricaded himself away and was not inclined to show his face.

It was understandable, given the recent traumatic events. Some of his council had suggested that he punish his brother for not showing up when called. The emperor thought that was a load of nonsense. His brother had always been a paranoiac. This was something he could deal with himself.

Eventually the sound of furniture moving stopped. The emperor waited a moment longer before pushing his way inside.

The room was in somewhat greater disarray than normal, which was saying something. His brother, stoop-shouldered and slightly wild-eyed, stood before him. “I had nothing to do with this,” he said, his voice slightly jerky with nerves.

“I-”

“I promise you I knew nothing,” he said, “I know people are going to be whispering about me because they think I’m mad but I didn’t have anything to do with-”

The emperor hugged his brother. “Shut up,” he suggested lightly. “I know that. I’m your brother. Remember Master Sun?[1] He wouldn’t want us to be stupid. Take a deep breath. Everything’s going to be fine.”

His brother breathed in, breathed out. “Thank you,” he said, quieter now. “I apologize. I’ve not been myself lately.”

“That’s okay. Just think for a moment,” the emperor said. “I know full well you wouldn’t raise a hand against me. And the conspirators are trying to kill my sons, this I know too. So it’s not one of us. Think. Who do you think is the center of this plot?”

The Prince of Xin thought about it. “Our cousin,” he said. “The Prince of Fu.”

“I thought so as well. Your reasoning?”

“He was son to our father’s brother,” the prince recited, “and there are some that said that he should have been emperor in your stead. But lately...yes, that makes sense. He has been traveling the country himself, and yet he has been absent from court functions for -- how long?”

“Long enough. Always wanting to plead off for one reason or another.” The emperor’s voice was grim. “I don’t want to spill his blood without being sure. But he will need to explain himself when this is over. I hope he won’t convince any of our more distant relations of his cause. It all fits, though. After myself, my sons, and you, he is next in line. And he is nowhere to be found.” He patted his brother on the back. “We’ll find him in due time. He’s probably reaching out to people he thinks he can turn. Which is where I’ll need your help.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You can write, far better than I can.” The emperor, after years of hard work, had finally learnt to write his own name clumsily with a specially made brush. He had been content with that; he had others to read and write for him, as he always had. “I’ll need you to reach out to the contacts you’ve made over the years. Let our subjects and our allies know that we stand strong. Something subtle. Don’t say that we’re going to crush them utterly if they betray us, but imply it. I don’t know. You’re better at this sort of thing.”

“Right.” The prince was breathing normally now. “I think I can do that.” He tried to smile. “But if they turn against us-?”

“Don’t even think about that,” the emperor said firmly. “They won’t. Heaven itself wouldn’t let them do that.”

---

Footnote
[1] Sun Chengzong, formerly Grand Secretary and once a tutor to the future emperor. Remember him? He's been in retirement since 1638 and is quite old, but ITTL he is still alive. for now

 

[RexSueciae]

Menasunkur village, Ezo

The village stood at the mouth of the Shibechari River, so named because of the many salmon that spawned in its waters, although this was not the right time of year for salmon. In fact, it was more typical in these months to receive visitors from across the seas. Not, of course, the prideful retainers of clan Matsumae, who only ventured beyond the hinterlands of their town when they wanted something. The foreigners from across the seas were a different kind, and tended to arrive as unobtrusively as possible. Someone had mentioned to Wakka that the Matsumae didn’t really care all that much, but if they knew the true extent that the other foreigners were around, they might start demanding a larger tribute in exchange for their silence, so everyone maintained the polite fiction of secrecy.

Wakka, personally, was skeptical that this state of affairs would last for very long. The Matsumae were not the abstemious sort, and even if they enjoyed autonomy from their bosses further south (Wakka was not very familiar with the government of the southerners), sooner or later they’d ask for too much. And then what would his people do?

He tried to explain this to his friend Isonash, but the younger man just grunted. “You think too much, man.” His head was wreathed in a cloud of smoke.

Wakka sighed. The other foreigners -- the ones from across the seas, not the Matsumae -- brought with them interesting goods to trade, including the leaves of some plant that Isonash liked smoking. It put the guy in a good mood, but he would get kinda grouchy whenever he ran out.[1]

But Isonash had his cigarros, so he didn’t care much. Wakka felt something was off, though. For one thing, the ship was late. And the foreigners who disembarked were looking awfully grim when they went to talk to the chief.

“Come on. Live up to your name a little.” He nudged Isonash. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

Isonash sighed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Probably the war or something.”

“War? Who’s fighting?”

“Depends on the war.”

“There’s more than one?”

Isonash breathed out another cloud of smoke. His parents had hoped he’d grow up to be a great hunter. Well, he did well enough to trade for cigarros, but he did little else. “Sure,” he said. “The new foreigners are in a pissing match with Matsumae’s bosses. Which would be interesting enough if the new foreigners weren’t also fighting themselves, because they’re trying to figure out who’s the real chief. Something along those lines.” He tapped his forehead. “I keep my ears open.”

Wakka sighed. Somehow, the fact that Isonash didn’t even have to try to be successful was annoying. Not like anybody tells me anything, Wakka thought.

“Why’d you ask?” Isonash broke into his musings. “You looking to join up with them, become a sailor?”

“Nah. I’m not going away like that.” Although there were plenty of folk who did. The work was hard, they said, and dangerous, but quite profitable. “And if they’re in as much of a mess as you say, what’s the use, huh?”

“Mmm, they may be recruiting among us now, for all the good it does them. I wouldn’t count them out just yet,” Isonash said, taking another deep breath of the fragrant smoke. “But I don’t think they’ll be able to get our chief much of the stuff he wants. He’s been stockpiling all kinds of fancy weapons, that’s no secret here, and I don't think he'll be happy with any delay.”

Wakka had heard something of it but hadn’t really thought of it until now. Of course the chief liked weapons; what chief didn't? “You think the chief’s about to make a power play? Against Matsumae?”

“Not my business,” Isonash said calmly. “I wouldn’t put it past him, once he’s ready. If there’s one thing about Shakushain, he’s not lacking in courage. That’s for sure.”[2]

---

Footnotes
[1] Isonash is smoking tobacco, likely traded to Dongshan or “acquired” from the Spanish, who have been cultivating tobacco in the Philippines for decades. Not opium. Just for the record.
[2] IOTL, Shakushain was a chief of the Menasunkur Ainu who eventually led his people in a border skirmish that became a general war against the Matsumae. The conflict ended with a negotiated peace but Shakushain and many of his retainers were assassinated immediately afterwards. ITTL he’s obviously alive as of 1645-46. Japanese Wikipedia notes that another guy was chief until Shakushain inherited the position in 1653, but Shakushain is chief now because of butterflies or something. (His predecessor died IOTL amid a border skirmish with another Ainu group, so let’s say that it happened a little bit earlier -- or Dongshan-provided weaponry led to more violent conflict that led to some deaths ahead of schedule -- so our guy Shakushain is in charge right now.)
Wakka and Isonash, being rather minor characters intended to give a quick snapshot of the Ainu, are fictional.

 

[RexSueciae]

Changgyeonggung, Hanseong

Hyojong of Joseon relaxed in the cool breeze coming through the great arched window. He’d had this palace renovated as a wedding present to his wife. There were other palaces, of course, but he had become rather fond of this one.

Gentle footsteps. “Is that you, dear one?” It was, of course. He turned to embrace her. “How have you been, my precious gem?”

Their lips met. Further conversation was unnecessary and, at times, quite impossible. Although they enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

Afterwards, spent, he relaxed, his queen curled up in his arms. “I received an emissary from the Ming court today,” he said.

“Oh?” Erdani -- for so she was known in all but the most formal ceremonial contexts -- raised her head. “The real court, you mean?”

“The one in Beijing, yes. Not the rebellion that’s going on. Careful how you talk, now,” he teasingly pinched her bottom.

“I did not question the legitimacy of our esteemed elder brother,” she said, swatting at his hand. “And if the emperor’s men were in our bedroom, listening to us talk, then after what they’ve just seen, they should be in a good mood, anyways!”

He laughed. The idea of the Ming emissaries watching him and his wife was, frankly, absurd.

“It’s all a mess,” he said.

“You are not wrong.” Erdani stretched her arms, only to cuddle even closer to him. “From what you say, this princeling thinks that he’s the true emperor, with a superior claim to the man who rules in Beijing, because his father should have been emperor before him? How many generations removed are we from when the controversy actually mattered?”

“One or two, I think. Not that it makes a lot of practical difference.” Hyojong yawned. “Point is, we’ve got some quite violent men looking to gather support in their little civil war. And we’ve got the emperor in Beijing making it very clear that he counts upon our loyalty and continued support.” Or at least, not giving any support to the usurper.

“Mm. I could have told you as much, and I haven’t talked to any emissaries.”

“Quite so. And yet,” the king continued, “the emperor has a special request of us. If his sons, the imperial princes, make it to our territories, we are to extend them every gesture of hospitality and keep them safe against their enemies.”

Erdani raised her head. “What?!”

Hyojong briefly filled her in on all that had happened.

“But they haven’t arrived yet, have they? How long has it been?”

“I am not sure. I assume the rebels attempted to capture them at the beginning, failed, and are now searching for them. The emissary came to me by a rather fast ship.” It would take longer, he knew, for someone to travel overland. Especially if they were trying to hide.

“That’s interesting.” Erdani appeared to be thinking. “Well, that settles it. You will need to call out the soldiers. Being neutral, now, is no longer an option.”

“What?”

“Husband of mine,” she said patiently, “if the princes arrive, they will likely be pursued. We cannot let them cross our frontier and then be butchered by their enemies. That would reflect very poorly of us, and would show the world that we are either faithless or weak. So you will need enough of an army to keep the frontiers safe. And given the desperation, as you have described it, of the rebels, they may even be willing to fight us for a chance at the princes -- assuming, of course, that the princes still live, and can be kept safe in our domains. So we are committed. It would be in the best interests of the kingdom to take these actions.”

His head swam. “Well,” he said, “I suppose you’re right. You have no objection? I mean, your family, that is to say your brother’s folks, they wouldn’t mind?”

Erdani snorted. “Him! He’s looking to the west, he doesn’t care who rules from Beijing. There may have been Yuan princes in Beijing once, but not now, hundreds of years later. He is indifferent, which means support for the status quo, because he doesn’t want the trouble of dealing with an unknown.” She kissed him on the cheek. “And I’m married to you now, which means I share in the fate of Joseon. So I think you should stay in the emperor’s good graces and, if the chance arises, keep the princes safe.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He lapsed into silence. “You know,” Hyojong said with a sigh, “sometimes I almost wish my father was still alive.”

“Hm?”

“Then this would be his problem. I mean, I know we had our arguments,” the king rubbed his face, “but the way he died...none of that made any sense! Would he try to poison me? Or was it one of his friends? And then he died too. So maybe it was all just a horrible accident, or a rare sickness. Something like that. I just...I don’t know. I don’t know what to think, sometimes.”

Erdani had gone very still. “Your father,” she said gently, “was not a bad king, but he was, hmm, easily controlled? I recall hearing that he got the throne because some men at court ousted his predecessor and elevated him. Maybe the court factions, they got impatient and wanted you in charge instead? That would explain everything, I think. They want to use you,” she hissed, “as a puppet.”

Hyojong smacked a fist into his palm. “That’s it. I do believe you have it. Well, my darling wife,” he said, “I’ll be doing just what you said. And once I’m done, I’m taking a thorough look at the powerful men in my own kingdom. Can’t have them doing the same thing they did to my father, can I?”

Erdani smiled at him, seeming almost relieved. “Of course, my husband. Now, if you are ready again...”

They didn’t discuss politics the rest of that night. They had better things to do.

 

[RexSueciae]

Qianjiang County

Daišan of the Aisin Gioro grumbled as he was helped into his robes. He felt sluggish, irritable. The unseasonable cold did not help. He’d bounced around various administrative positions in the previous years, and even when he held no official responsibilities people wanted to hear what he had to say. It was stupid. All he wanted to do was...what? Honestly, he didn’t quite know. Maybe just be left in peace for once. Then he could finish writing up his family chronicles. Wouldn’t do to have his clan’s history be forgotten; there were not many of his father’s blood still alive. Although so far he hadn’t gotten much written down; he kept revising the manuscript, writing and rewriting an account of his time fighting the Yellow Tiger.

Back then, he thought to himself, I was alive. And he was. Leading an army against the greatest peasant rebel of all time, a bandit-warlord of legendary cunning! Well, truth be told, there was his Plain Red Banner but there were also the Chinese lads that Hong Chengchou had commanded, brothers-in-arms as they’d forged something new together. That old codger was living quietly at one of his country estates these days.

When he had a sword in his hand and the taste of battle in his mouth, those were good times.

Ah well. Life is funny like that. Now he wrote things and he listened to idiots. He wondered how any bureaucrat could stay sane. Shouting at the most foolish idiots seemed to help. Nowadays they only came to him for really important things.

He did not eat much in the mornings, but accepted a cup of tea from his housekeeper. That put some warmth back into his body. His housekeeper returned once he was done. “You have a visitor,” Yin Xinzang said.[1] Madam Yin was nice enough. Literate, at least. Someone who could give coherent feedback on his literary endeavors.

“Just what I needed today,” Daišan grumbled. Another person with a petty problem who would ramble at him for too long. Hopefully the petitioner was an educated fellow. He had trouble enough with the local peasants, whose speech was radically different from that of the northern dialects which his own people had grown accustomed to using in diplomacy and trade.

Funnily enough, though, enough of his men had married local girls and settled down that the languages seemed to be fusing, almost. In parts of the Sichuan area that had been most devastated by the Yellow Tiger’s rampaging, he’d found land for his men to farm, and now there were patchwork areas where it seemed like three languages were spoken at once.[2]

Anyways, might as well deal with this visitor. Then maybe he’d go back to bed. Nobody could tell him not to, although Madam Yin might call him a silly man and ask to read more of his writings.

I’m getting too old for this.

But he trudged to the room that he used as a sort of office, where he sometimes received visitors.

The visitor was already there when he arrived, and he glared at the man. The visitor prostrated himself upon the floor. “Oh, honorable sir,” he said, rambling through a series of titles that Daišan half-remembered receiving, “I bring to you messages from the true emperor for assistance against the usurper in Beijing.”

Daišan stumped over to the couch reserved for him -- he needed a great many cushions these days to be comfortable -- and sat down. He cleared his throat. “And this emperor of yours, he is...?”

“You would recognize him if you met him, honorable sir! He was the man who, when he still held the title Prince of Dechang, accompanied you to this place, and now he requires your loyalty and assistance.”

Right. There had been a prince of some sort detailed to his army. The young fellow had traveled with the Plain Red Banner until it had arrived and he had met Hong Chengchou for the first time. The news coming out of the north came into greater mental focus. A prince who thought himself more than a prince. A cousin of the emperor, hadn’t he been?

He asked that question bluntly, and the visitor winced. “Honorable sir,” he said, and then began to explain how the previous emperor -- no, the one before that -- had always intended one son to rule, but another had become emperor instead, and that man’s son now sat the throne in Beijing, and the true emperor’s son was the one now looking to take rightful place.

It was all a bit confusing. Among his own people, Daišan knew, the wishes of the ruler would have sufficed. After all, he himself had been passed over for leadership in favor of a younger son, hadn’t he? But, as fate would have it, at this point he was perhaps the most senior of the Aisin Gioro still alive. The world turned in mysterious ways.

“Alright,” he said, although he really didn’t catch all the details. “And what would you have me do?”

The visitor gestured toward a wooden chest that he’d evidently hauled with him. “Payment from his imperial majesty. Shall I?” He opened it. Inside was a tremendous quantity of silver.

Daišan grunted. “Payment for fighting.”

“I would not think of it like that,” the visitor said. “Think of it as the means to raise an army. Think of it as a down payment on what is owed to the loyal subordinates of the true emperor, the rightful emperor-”

“Does that fellow have a name yet?” Obviously the prince still had his old name. But Daišan remembered that emperors liked to have several names. Most importantly, the name of the new era, just as “Tianqi” was the current one.

The visitor winced a bit. “Our emperor,” he explained, “is a little bit indecisive, and has not yet communicated his final wishes for what will be the name of this new era, considering that his father’s reign was never realized, and wishing to avoid any conflicts with names chosen in accordance with improper-”

“Never mind, explain to me later,” Daišan interrupted. Some men could ramble out more words than there were birds beneath the watchful eyes of the Sky Father. He wasn’t really interested. “Your fellow, the guy who used to be prince of...wherever,” he said, “how many men does he have under arms?”

The visitor hesitated. Unfortunately for him, he was an honest man. He told Daišan the correct numbers. They were not impressive.

So it was a mutiny in the northern army. Well, numbers didn’t mean everything, but it wasn't the largest part of that army, looks like. And more men are expected to join the cause? But from where? Oh, I see. I’m to be that man. Or one of them, at least.

He glanced over at the silver. A man could raise quite an army with that. His boys who had settled down, maybe they’d be convinced to return to arms. Or maybe their sons; he had been keeping an eye on them, hoping for bright young officers. Most of ‘em had Han officers. But then, some of his bannermen had been assigned Han soldiers. Hmm. He wouldn’t need that much silver to get his most loyal men onboard, but after that...

“I think,” he said indistinctly, “that your proposition has some meritorious elements.” He leaned forward, his face resting on his chin. “And I think...”

His voice trailed off. He mumbled something.

“Beg pardon, sir, what was that?” The visitor perked up, but when Daišan mumbled again a look of impatience crossed the man’s face. “Excuse me, sir, I cannot understand you,” he said, stepping closer, “what did you-”

He gasped as the blade slid into his chest.

“Sorry about that.” Daišan withdrew his knife almost delicately, wiping it clean on a piece of cloth. “I can’t be expected to lunge at people, with my age. Needed to get you a bit closer.” The visitor was staggering, in shock. Well, he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“I remember your prince,” Daišan said quietly. “Not a bad man, I’m sure. But I also remember the emperor -- the real emperor -- who gave me a home. Gave me purpose. If not for him, I’d have spent my days waiting for some ambitious cousin to murder me. I would've been an afterthought. But now?” He spread his arms wide. “I will be remembered. My family will survive, through me, in the chronicles that are to be written. What kind of a fool would I be, to maul my benefactor like a mad dog?”

People who’d been stabbed took an awfully long time to die. Ah well. Daišan watched impassively. After the final death throes were over, he reached over to ring a small bell.

Yin Xinzang re-entered. If Madam Yin had any opinion about the dead man on the floor, she didn’t show it. “Yes?”

“If you would be so kind as to have one of the servants dispose of...this,” he said, “I would be grateful. Oh, and will you help me over to my writing-desk? I have a few things I need to write.”

Orders to his subordinates, to former officers now retired and bright young men who’d grown into their own. Even the ones who’d settled down would answer him, he knew. And the younger men would want the chance to win their own glory.

He’d pay a visit to Hong Chengchou in person, though. The two of them together, at the head of an army, it’d be just like old times.

Daišan grinned. The irony of it all was not lost on him. How many times had a Jurchen host ridden north to Beijing?

---

Footnotes
[1] Yīn Xīngzāng (殷星牂), fictional character. Like most fictional characters in this narrative, name is based on that of a dear friend.
[2] Referring, of course, to the Jurchen language -- which will likely survive better in Sichuan than under Joseon / Northern Yuan domination -- mixed with various northern Chinese dialects and with the local Sichuanese dialects. Essentially, three different languages.

 

[RexSueciae]

Somewhere in the highlands north of Beijing

Wang Shaohui held his face in his hands. This was not going as planned.

He’d been rocketed through the ranks of his emperor’s fledgling bureaucracy by virtue of being perhaps the only administrator in the rebellion who knew what he was doing. And it helped that he was there in the very beginning, when him and that rogue Wu Sangui had thrown in their lot with the emperor-to-be.

In hindsight, that had been something of a high point.

Not that he had any real place to complain. His stomach had been badly troubled by all the campaigning that had been done in recent weeks, accompanying what was basically an autonomous army that was plunging through the northern reaches of the empire, hunting for the imperial princes. It was a great relief when they’d finally decided to establish permanent quarters.

But that just meant that he had to do actual work. There were still people with petty complaints, quarrels that needed to be settled. He hardly had enough graduates to hear everyone’s petitions. There were some who doubted the legitimacy of his emperor, the true emperor, and tried to send their petitions to Beijing. A few public executions had put an end to that.

Not everyone in his administration was of the highest possible educational background. That could be tolerated for now, so long as the situation was rectified eventually.

At the very least, he’d managed to free up enough people to draft appropriate missives to various figures whose support he needed.

It was impossible to hear from every corner of the empire in any timely manner, but even with the present war, and the various wars over the previous years, he could talk to some of his correspondents. He had hopes that some of them would declare for the cause.

So far, he’d heard back from the Prince of Gui, who had been politely noncommittal.[1] Wang suspected that he’d only received a response because the prince had also been one of the Wanli Emperor’s many sons and didn’t want to cause too much trouble with either side in the conflict. The Prince of Tang had also responded, and had been almost receptive to the overtures. Almost.[2] Wang was hopeful, but kept firmly in mind that the Prince of Tang was only of distant imperial descent, as one of his ancestors hundreds of years ago had been a younger son of the Hongwu Emperor.

That was as much support as he’d gotten from the extended imperial family. The Prince of Rui hadn’t bothered to respond; he was pathetically grateful to Beijing for saving his fiefdom from the Yellow Tiger.[3] Neither had the Duke Yansheng said a word, but no wonder there, for one of the Kong family was then serving as Minister of Rites, and so they’d naturally support the status quo.[4] At this point, Wang was actively hoping that the foreign barbarian Daišan would come around to his side, as they’d sent him a messenger with a hefty bribe.

For now, he and his subordinates were trying to organize what they had. It wasn’t nothing. Still, it hadn’t really occurred to him before how difficult it was. Everyone, it seemed, had their own priorities. Some were rabidly anti-Christian, had heard the most appalling rumors of the Fishermen coming out of Dongshan. Some were traditionalists who hadn’t really gone along with the official succession following the Wanli Emperor, but were reluctant rebels at best. Some were naked opportunists. And there were, of course, many who were simply hungry peasants willing to fight for whomever fed them. Wang liked those the least but was forced to rely upon them more and more. As levied infantry, if nothing else.

Despite everything, he really liked to think that he had been making progress.

And then Wu Sangui had ruined everything.

Those were his footsteps outside, no doubt. The general entered. “That could have gone better,” Wu said casually.

Wang did not bother looking up at him when he spoke. “You had one job. One.”

“Wasn’t my fault.” Wu Sangui was not a man to admit fault. “We got there okay. He knew we were coming, barricaded the gates of his household. Things got out of hand after they shot at us.”

“Out of hand?!” Wang Shaohui all but shrieked. “You- you utter fool!” He didn’t care that the general was almost certainly armed. “Sun Chengzong was not to be harmed! Instead, I hear that you’ve burnt his house and massacred him and his retainers! What were you thinking?”

They’d hoped to get the old Grand Secretary on their side. Or, at the very least, neutralize him politically. Someone had eventually remembered that Sun Chengzong had been tutor to the false emperor, once, and that perhaps the imperial princes had taken refuge with him.

Wu Sangui refused to allow himself to be provoked. “The princes weren’t there,” he said. “So we had no reason to negotiate any further. And he’d barricaded the gates to his estate, and after things went bad his people started shooting at us.” He spit on the floor dismissively. “We killed him. What does that matter?”[5]

There wasn’t much that Wang Shaohui could have said. What he wanted to say was that he really didn’t like the idea of killing a venerable old fellow who’d been involved with the bureaucracy for so long. It bothered him a bit, that he could feel sentimental in that way. And as a practical matter, once news of the death got out, it wouldn’t make his job any easier. Making friends by the sword was...complicated.

“In any case,” Wu Sangui continued, “we’ve shown people that we mean business. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but they went for us first. Far as I’m concerned, it was perfectly justified for me to use all available force to eliminate the threat.”

Wang Shaohui opened and closed his mouth. He was spared from having to think of more words when his emperor walked into the room.

“I have come to a decision,” their emperor said, serene as could be, ignoring his subordinates as they fell to their knees. “My era shall be known as Hongguang, for I shall be a great light to my people.”[6]

Wang Shaohui murmured acquiescence. Fortunately, that seemed to be all the man had wanted to say. The Hongguang Emperor left just as suddenly as he’d entered. Wu Sangui got to his feet and strolled off, no doubt to see to his soldiers.

Wang Shaohui did not rise for some time. Then, wiping his face, he got up, staggered to a nearby basin, and vomited.

---

Footnotes
[1] Zhu Changying, who IOTL was father to the Yongli Emperor, the last emperor of the Southern Ming. ITTL his son has not yet succeeded to those noble titles (and also there aren’t any emperors of the Southern Ming).
[2] Zhu Yujian, who IOTL was briefly the Longwu Emperor of the Southern Ming. He was killed by the Qing and his son, the Shaowu Emperor, mostly spent his time fighting the Yongli Emperor over who was the real Ming emperor. Oh, yes, and IOTL Zhu Yujian was stripped of his princely title for some time by the Chongzhen Emperor because he killed his uncle who had allegedly killed his father in some weird family feud. Presumably he hasn’t done that ITTL but he’s still very much the loose cannon of the Ming princes.
[3] Zhu Changhao, fifth son of the Wanli Emperor, who IOTL was killed by Zhang Xianzhong (the Yellow Tiger).
[4] Duke Yansheng was a noble title with special privileges held by the most direct male-line descendant of Confucius (Kongzi).
[5] IOTL Sun Chengzong retired from politics and died leading a last stand against the Manchu invasion. ITTL Sun Chengzong had a somewhat longer career, and a longer life -- he’s managed another seven years, meaning he’s lived to his early 80s -- and has died leading a glorious last stand.
[6] He chose this IOTL as well, when declaring himself emperor of the Southern Ming.

 

[RexSueciae]

Beijing

It was a terrible thing to be alive. That was what Nicolas Trigault knew in his heart, had known for most of his life. He had kept a firm lid on his sorrow, resolving to do all that he could. Tend to the living and bury the dead. And there were a great many dead.

Not all. The rebels had killed many of his friends, in the initial massacre. Old Longobardo had been slain.[1] Schall Von Bell was still alive, but on death’s door; the man had lost a great deal of blood, and lingered between two realms. There were still enough alive to keep the mission running. And there would be more young fellows dispatched, surely, to replenish their numbers.

Or maybe orders would come from Rome to pack it in and return to Europe. Or to focus more on Macau, the Philippines, or the communities of India. If such an instruction arrived, he would refuse. He had been sent to Beijing and he intended to stay there.

He remembered, some time ago, reading a long poem by John of the Cross which referenced the “dark night of the soul.” He did not think much of it at the time, nor did he care much for the author. John of the Cross was undoubtedly a very spiritual person, but he gave the impression of being slightly disturbed (though admittedly given his sufferings on earth, he had every right to be unbalanced). And Nicolas did not care much for the man’s admirers, who venerated his corpse in a way that would surely bring censure from Rome.[2]

But that was a wonderfully evocative phrase. The dark night of the soul. He could see, now, what it meant.

He pulled his robes tighter around himself. It was unseasonably cold. He couldn’t stay in the palace, or in the mission house, or in any of the neighborhoods he knew, and part of it was the traumatic events of the recent past, but part of it...well, at this point he was pretty much the most senior of his society in Beijing. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be appointed Superior General.

The thought did not cheer him. Even now, the rumbling of cannon could be heard from the north, and smaller guns. It seemed like the rebels were once more pushing towards the city, having abandoned their lurching about. Still no word from the princes, too. They could only be alive, if they had not yet fallen into the hands of the enemy.

The city was safe. The walls would hold. Even still, an army could cause any amount of destruction to the countryside; they might even subject Beijing to siege, although that sounded unlikely. The fact that the rebels were likely hungry (and more desperate) did not prevent prices from rising in the Beijing markets. Already, some of the poorer classes were growing restless for want of food.

So he’d put on some of his more unobtrusive robes, still of good quality but a little threadbare (and then a heavier coat on top of them, for he found himself more susceptible to cold these days). Then he’d slipped out to walk the streets anonymously. There were always thieves and ruffians, but that was the case with all cities, and he knew that his Lord would protect him as he walked about, anonymously distributing alms.

He’d wandered, for a time, pressing a coin into the hand of a beggar when he could, immersed in the ebb and flow of the crowd.

It was getting late. The wind was cold, and cut like a knife.

The emperor would fuss over him. If the emperor’s favorite Jesuit should catch a chill, what then? He didn’t want to go back to the palace just yet, though. The memories made him shake worse than the cold did. Brother Martino[3] had helped him with the funeral service. Poor fellow; he’d insisted on tending to the bodies himself.

The weather was quite cold, though, and he was no fool to openly defy the weather.

He must have been quite a sight, stumbling through the nearest lighted entryway; the building, which he took for a somewhat dilapidated inn, looked nearly deserted, although a small man by the hearth jumped up to usher him inside. “Come in!” the man said. “It is much too cold for an honorable gentleman like yourself to be out there. Sit, warm yourself for a while.”

Nicolas Trigault sat, and was warmed. He looked about. There was the palpable atmosphere of neglect in the air, though the building had evidently been a fine one in the past. He accepted a cup of tea from his benefactor. “Thank you,” he said politely. “Who might you be, and what is this place?”

The man bowed. “My name is Zengxiu,”[4] he said. “This house,” he waved his hand towards the slightly run-down surroundings, “was once the home of my honorable ancestor.” He bustled over to an alcove and unfolded a screen to reveal the painting of an ordinary-looking man, a bureaucrat in a court robe. “This was Yang Jisheng,” he said, “and this was where he lived, in the city. The Pine and Bamboo Hall. My father’s father was kin to him, and this building rightfully should stay in the family, but I have no children.”[5] The man carefully stowed away the painting. “Who knows what will happen, then. Perhaps another cousin will come in to maintain the place.”

Trigault thought for a moment. “Jisheng,” he said thoughtfully. “You mean, the man in that play, ‘The Phoenix’s Cry?’ That a past emperor-”

“The very one!” Zengxiu said. “A fine man he was. If men like him were alive today, we wouldn’t have this unpleasantness happening now.” As if on cue, the rumbling of cannonfire sounded again in the distance.

Men would be dying. The walls of Beijing would hold, surely…but he remembered stories from this country’s chronicles, of other times that armies from the north had taken the city. He had a sudden image, uncannily vivid, of the modern Beijing in flames, being sacked by an army. Trigault wrenched himself back to the here-and-now.

“This house,” he said, “it was important once, being the home of such a fine person. If it could be restored to its former glory…?”

“Ah, I don’t think of such things,” his host said. “What good is it to dream? But if I were not the juniormost descendant of a junior line, perhaps I’d have it refurbished as much as possible, and it would be a fine house indeed. Children would play in its courtyards, and in the wintertime people from the neighborhood could drink tea and be warmed here.”

Good enough of a cause for him. Trigault pressed his coin-purse into the man’s hands. “Here,” he said. “Make sure at least some of this gets into the hands of the poor. The rest…well, I’m sure any neighborhood could use another gathering-place. Thank you for the tea,” he said, rising to leave. “It was very kind of you, on a night like this.”

Nicolas Trigault bustled back to the palace with a spring in his step.

---

Footnotes
[1] IOTL he lived to a very old age and died in 1654. He has been less lucky ITTL.
[2] This is OTL. John of the Cross was not beatified until 1675, but popular veneration of his corpse had already begun shortly after his death. In 1647, the Pope realized that people were venerating the corpse of someone who wasn’t even a saint, and so he ordered the relics buried.
[3] Martino Martini, who has arrived in China on schedule and who is still resident in Beijing because Li Zicheng never sacked the city ITTL.
[4] 贈咻 -- not a historical character; I have inserted this one as a cameo to honor someone who did a service to this timeline.
[5] This is all OTL. The Beijing residence of Yang Jisheng was largely forgotten until the Qing dynasty rediscovered it. ITTL, it reemerges from obscurity a bit earlier.

 

[RexSueciae]

Imperial Palace Complex, Beijing

The emperor fiddled with the hem of his robe. He’d made the snap decision to raise up Zheng Chenggong as his primary military advisor, for the moment, which had its benefits and drawbacks. Maybe the elder Zheng would have been a steadier hand. But then again, the admiral had offended quite a lot of the bureaucracy, while his son was a more cultured young man.

Still a warlike fellow, which was for the best, if he was to rule Dongshan someday. And always accompanied by some barbarian mercenary. Today the young man’s bodyguard was a silent Spaniard, named Javier something-or-other, who had apparently been living in the former Spanish outpost and had stuck around under the Portuguese.[1]

The emperor snorted to himself. He still couldn’t remember half the names of the provincial capitals, but he remembered a thing or two about that little island and the adventures of his friends. When he was a child, Master Sun had been most vexed with him, and the slow progress he’d made at his lessons! Facts and figures had mostly slipped from his attention and vanished, but a chance encounter with one of the palace artisans had given him a lifelong love of woodworking. It was something his courtiers had learnt to tolerate; he gave his attention to those things which held his interest.

There would have to be something done to regularize Dongshan, after the fighting was done. He’d have to ask some of the palace historians what was previously done.

The thought brought a brief smile. He remembered a conversation he’d had with Minister Zhou the other night; his head of Revenue was quietly frustrated that a lot of draft plans for regularizing the porcelain markets were being delayed. The fact that there was a hostile army in the north, well, that was bad, but his ideas about porcelain production -- there was merit in what he said. Apparently there was a lot of work that had to be done, but also money to be made.

Assuming everybody survived the days to come.

He and the younger Zheng were reviewing a ragged band of men that were technically fit to be called soldiers. For the city’s poor, anticipating a siege, it was natural enough that the more able-bodied would volunteer. He wondered how well they’d do if they were actually sent to battle, though.

Every so often, more civilians would come streaming in, fleeing in advance of the mutinous traitors in the north who surrounded the false emperor. Some of the soldiers from that group were defecting, apparently. Not all at once; not all had the nerve to do that. And it didn’t help matters that he, himself, was not exactly flush with manpower.

After the chaos of the early days, there had been several small pitched battles, to decidedly mixed success. On the one hand, his enemy could ill-afford to replace losses. On the other hand, he couldn’t let his (in many cases second-tier) commanders lose too often, either. It would look bad, might even inspire people to start defecting the other way.

The imperial princes had been less than helpful, too. True, he’d learnt from his spies that they were probably not supporting the usurper...yet. They knew which way was up. But they weren’t exactly hurrying to his aid, either, no matter how they assured him via official channels that they definitely had nothing to do with the usurper Prince of Fu.

It is like being emperor of air, he thought savagely. Year by year, it seemed like another bit chipped away from the innocence he had as a child. Now he could understand why his grandfather had withdrawn from his duties, why some of his other ancestors had been similarly neglectful, leaving the business of state to eunuchs.

He was emperor as long as other people thought that what he said was right. And once one person was bold enough to raise himself against the throne...

Once this is done, we shall all have work to do.

If everything went well. If not -- the wry thought crossed his mind that he could flee to the protection of the Zheng family on Dongshan. But the thought of an emperor living on Dongshan was absurd.[2]

As he and the younger Zheng concluded their business, a messenger ran up to them. The mercenary called Javier intercepted the man, listened to his words, then went to confer with his master Zheng, who was the one to eventually approach the emperor.

“Your majesty,” he said, “our scouts report that the usurper’s army is on the move. They will be at the outskirts of the city within the week. I believe they intend to offer battle once more...”

---

Footnotes
[1] Just like Zengxiu, from the previous chapter, this is another cameo to honor an individual who did a kind favor to this timeline.
[2] Yes, that was a joke about the OTL exploits of Koxinga and his continued support for the Ming dynasty. Although the Zheng family was very much in it for themselves; providing shelter for a surviving imperial prince granted them legitimacy, and may have been for sincere reasons, but obviously it was the Zheng family calling the shots around what was called Tungning IOTL.

 

[RexSueciae]

On the road

It was good to be on a horse again. With every mile, the years fell away from him; this was where he belonged. He even thought he remembered the little towns, the lands he’d passed as he’d come this way, years ago. And then there were things that he’d forgotten in his rose-tinted nostalgia. Horses were fine animals, but keeping them fed was a mighty chore, and transporting them by river barge was a bellyache.

Daišan didn’t let it bother him. They were making decent time. The usurper’s coin spent as good as any other, though he’d had to reach into his own purse (metaphorically speaking) to ease things along. If all went well, he would be richly rewarded, of course. If things went poorly then he’d have bigger problems.

And it helped that this time he didn’t have nearly as many horses with him. True, the scions of the Aisin Gioro were all competent enough on horses, and his retainers and their sons could ride like the very gods of war. But his forces included plenty of locals, and in a generation or so who knew how they’d look? Something mingled together and new. And it wasn’t as if his people were all horsemen by nature. His ancestors were a trifle more sedentary than the horse-mad khans of the far steppes.

They came north, faster as his boys got used to traveling. They were all his boys, though at this point his army was a new kind of thing. The veterans of the Plain Red Banner were augmented now with other recruits. The soldiers who had come south with Hong Chengchou, soldiers who’d been recruited in the vicinity of Sichuan.

And, increasingly, they were joined by more. Not just disorganized, starving peasants who would carry a spear, or clean clothes, or whatever else was needed as a pleasant alternative to starvation. Actual organized soldiers, led by officers.

He remembered meeting with some local potentate, a distant descendant of some imperial prince, who had been welcoming enough but who had dithered terribly over what to do. He was loyal to his august sovereign, the fellow had explained, but there was so much unrest in the area, and shedding blood was so terrible, and wasn’t it true that the rebel was another cousin? That was deeply, deeply unfortunate, we are of course loyal subjects of the emperor, it’s just...

Excuses and excuses. Daišan had half a mind to wallop the idiot, but that might have consequences. Brawling with someone who was technically a prince was a bad idea. So was calling him an idiot to his face. He didn’t care to waste his breath on someone who wasn’t worth it. He just crossed his arms and silently regarded the fellow with his talking-to-idiots face. A touch of skepticism mixed with a glowering impatience.

It worked. The man had been unnerved by his silence and had filled it with his rambling, more excuses, and at last the offer of assigning some (some!) of the local garrisons to accompany him north to Beijing. Plus guides to lead the way to the next province. Plus supplies and provisions of all sorts. And so on, and so forth.

It was remarkable what you could get out of people by just letting them talk themselves into it.

And once that was done, the rest came easier. After so many of your colleagues had declared for the true emperor, would you want to be the first to outright defy him? Of course not. Easier to just go along with everything.

They passed through cities and towns, and the wary common folk seemed to approve of them. People cheered their passage. He’d feared more unrest than he was seeing; it took him a while to realize that just as he remembered a little of the first time he’d passed this way, heading south, so too did some people remember him.

Being respectful to people, it turned out, meant that they respected you in turn. What a concept.

It was at the home of some village headman, drinking the weakest tea he’d ever tasted, that he got the first real updates on what was happening.

“It’s getting bad, up there,” the man said, scratching out a crude sketch in the dirt. The lines vaguely resembled the layout of Beijing. “My wife’s cousin was in the city to deliver a memorial from our magistrate, and he barely got out before the armies started going at it again.”

Daišan listened as the man explained what he’d heard of the usurper’s forces. Hmm. The city’s walls were in no danger, surely. Not enough men to force an entrance, save by some clever stratagem, and Daišan knew that clever stratagems were mostly campfire tales. Little boys imagined that they would figure out some trick to win a battle, like they imagined the great khans of yesteryear had done it. Experienced leaders learnt that nine-tenths of the trouble was simply getting your men from here to there in a single mass, without losing too many to desertion or fatigue. Once you had your army in place, then you could start thinking about tactics.

He did a bit of mental math about the size of the city’s population and the amount of, say, rice and millet that could be easily stored. Subtract that which would be regularly eaten, and accounting for how much could be brought in from the countryside, but divide that by half since foraging operations would be sorely tested with the rebel’s forces lurking about...

It looked like they needed to travel quickly indeed.

They traveled all that day and the next until finally, in the distance, they heard the sound of guns. It made the fine hairs of Daišan’s arms stand on end. They were going back into the thick of it, no doubt. He remembered his youth, the raids on the emperor’s fortresses, his brave and daring father. Funny, the way life went. Not for the first time, he shook his head ruefully at the thought.

Time to prove what kind of men they were.

There wasn’t much space to have them drawn up for him to do a speech, but they made the best of it, and the officers would relay his words if necessary. On his horse, he thought he still cut a martial figure.

“My boys!” They answered him with a cheer. “Some of you rode with me when we hunted the Yellow Tiger. That was a fine hunt. Now we hunt another, just like him. A monster out of myth, who dared to raise his head against our emperor.”

There were more cheers at that. He might be old, but he was still able to pitch his voice to carry over a crowd.

“You and I are here because it is our duty,” he said. “Because it is correct. But most importantly, my boys, we are here because we are the equal of any body of men in this empire! None better! We will personally, every one of us, send the gutless rebels screaming back to the caves where they spawned!”

The roar that answered him was one of jubilation.

“To immortality!” he shouted. “We ride!”

 

[RexSueciae]

Gao Xuan shivered as he climbed the stairs up to the battlements. The emperor had insisted on being allowed to watch the fighting from the city’s walls, and had stayed up there long after everyone else had grown tired and left. His many attendants had remained the longest, but the emperor had dismissed them, and they hadn’t argued much before hurrying away to someplace warm.

Thankfully, someone had managed to convince the emperor to wear heavy furs. No sense in letting the Son of Heaven catch his death from cold.

“Who is it?” The emperor half-turned. “Oh, it’s you. No, don’t bother with that, young man, the stone’s cold enough as it is. What is it?”

Of course, the emperor could tell people not to go on their faces before him, but for one with Gao Xuan’s rank, it would be overly familiar not to make some gesture of genuflection. “Your majesty,” he said cautiously, “my master, Minister Zhou, humbly asks for a moment to discuss-”

“I know, I know. He’s been after me for days now, something to do with the tax system. Don’t worry, young man, I’ll speak with him in a little bit.”

Calling him “young man” was a bit much, but then the emperor himself was of fine middle age, and he had sons who were only a bit younger than Gao Xuan was himself. Maybe it was that which emboldened him to speak further. “Your majesty,” he said, “would you like to come down from the battlements? How much longer will you be up here?”

The emperor made an indifferent gesture. “To be honest, there hasn’t been much to see.” He pointed out a spot a fair distance away, where the cleared land near the city’s walls gave way to farm buildings, and fallow fields, and even trees in the fair distance. “Some time ago, a band of the rebels broke into the open just over there. And then some riders from the Red Banner came after them and butchered the lot.” The bodies were just barely visible, minuscule in the distance. “Apart from that, I haven’t seen anything. Distant gunfire, sometimes, and even that only occasionally.”

The emperor paused. “Almost funny,” he said.

Gao Xuan waited, but nothing else came. “Your majesty?”

The emperor waved his hand at the countryside. “All of it,” he said. “People bow to me when I walk past, and at a word I can have an army sent across the world, or have a man put to death. And people might try to have me killed, but others will jump to serve what they imagine are my interests.”

He half-smiled. “Yet,” he said, “making anything stay in place…I feel like the captain of a great ship, and the crew all jump to my orders, but every time I tell them to do something, two more things happen…”

His voice trailed off.

“Your majesty,” Gao Xuan asked delicately, “why are you still up here?”

The emperor looked around from where he stood atop the city’s walls. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I think I just wanted to watch. Because I’m supposed to; because it’s what I can do. But I’m not sure if there’s much use in it.” He exhaled heavily. “Well,” he said, a wry note in his voice, “I might as well come down and see what Minister Zhou has to say. No need for me to catch my death of cold.”

They began down the stairs, back to the city. “A bit foolish of me,” the emperor said to himself. “Can barely feel my hands. I think that’s quite enough for one day…”

 

[RexSueciae]

Painting of Magnolia and Erect Rock, Cheng Hongshou (mid-1600s)​

As one can imagine, the years of 1646 to 1647 were dominated by the Prince’s Revolt and its aftereffects. A note, of course, that while today the common name for the conflict is “the Prince’s Revolt,” such a name would have actually been taboo at the time, considering the exceedingly thorough manner in which the former Prince of Fu was posthumously deprived of his titles. Contemporary descriptions tended towards nonspecific terminology, e.g. “the recent unpleasantness” and “the conflict in the north.” Mention of the whole affair is cursory at best in the official Ming chronicles, likely due to embarrassment, and has resulted in modern historiography depending largely upon foreign and societally marginal sources which lack that degree of circumspection.

In any case, the revolt being put down (not without significant bloodshed; it is estimated that parts of northern China decrease in population by around 10% -- mostly internal displacement and not death, of course), we can pause and take stock of the other things happening around the empire.

The Northern Yuan, surprisingly enough, do not take the opportunity to raid southward, as they might have been expected to do in times past. Indeed, despite their acknowledgement of Ming suzerainty, a different leader might have chosen to remind everyone that once upon a time, the Northern Yuan had been the imperial Yuan dynasty, under Kublai Khan and other great kings. (“Yuan restorationism” is a later topic of romantic nostalgia, particularly in popular fiction, reminiscent of certain literary trends observed in the Kingdom of England, though its historical presence is likely overstated by revisionists.)

But the Northern Yuan do not ride south. Historians have designated this time as the “Great Realignment,” starting in the reign of Ejei Khan and continuing for the next several generations. Ejei knows full well that the Joseon would be glad to expand at his expense, should he break the peace; regardless of the chaos in Beijing, sooner or later an emperor would emerge (or re-emerge, as things turned out, since the Tianqi Emperor and his faction prevailed). Then they would look north, and punish any opportunistic violence that may have broken out on the frontier.

Instead of plundering northern China, or fighting with Joseon, the Northern Yuan turn west. There are quite a few notable skirmishes which happen, mostly because of their documentation in Chinese sources, but what is remembered best takes place in mid-1647, at the border town of Guihua.[1] This is a little awkward, given that Ejei’s father had actually raided the place some years back, but bygones are bygones. Guihua is, of course, renowned for Dazhao Temple, a scenic Buddhist monastery whose construction had been funded by the great Altan Khan. Actually, that’s a little bit more awkward, since Dazhao is very much affiliated with the Gelug school while Ejei Khan (like his father) favors the Nyingma.

The so-called Council of Guihua (which mostly takes place outside of the city) laid the groundwork for, if not complete harmony between the khans of the Northern Yuan and the Dalai Lama in Tibet, at least the framework of a relationship. The Council is recorded in the writings of Nicolas Trigault as something like an ecumenical conference, as one might expect from the perspective of a Catholic familiar with the Councils of Nicaea and Chalcedon and all the other great church councils. In truth, the Council of Guihua is more of a diplomatic summit, mapping out formal spheres of influence between the Mongols and Tibetans (and saber-rattling as one might expect). Religion is discussed, but is more of an afterthought. The Ming soldiers and merchants who happen to be present in town are mostly confused by everything that’s happening. Surprisingly, no fights break out at the Council. Of course, in the coming years there will still be multiple low-level conflicts between the Mongols and Tibetans as disagreements are settled with violence, raids in response to some insult, et cetera, but that’s to be expected. Great monuments are not built in a single day.

And in any case, such affairs aren’t much noted in the provinces, save among the imperial court officials whose job is to monitor affairs of the tributaries. No, the more immediately interesting developments have to do with the porcelain industry.

Let’s take a step back. Jingdezhen porcelain had for a long time been an iconic Chinese trade product, being put out by great kilns with imperial patronage. Porcelain itself was kind of a mid- to low-prestige item, fairly unimportant in the domestic market. Cups and plates and things; common as dirt! Almost literally, considering the materials used to make porcelain. As a trade good, porcelain in China wasn’t highly valued unless it was extraordinarily fancy. Historically, much of the trade in porcelain went to other countries -- to Japan, for instance, or down the Silk Road to the west, where porcelain products were exotic and highly valued.

The product coming out of Jingdezhen had long been regarded as the best of the bunch, especially because the imperial family supported the industry there. Unfortunately, due to decades of unrest and, frankly, outright neglect from Beijing starting during the reign of the Wanli Emperor, the Jingdezhen kilns had been largely left to fend for themselves. They still exist, of course, largely turning their attention to producing much cheaper product for private sale, either domestically or overseas.[2]

Zhou Qiyuan, the Minister of Revenue, has been waving his hands and pointing at the porcelain industry for a long time. He’d been really loud about it back in 1642 when he was appointed to run the ministry, but this has been a pet issue going back to when he was a much lower official, decades before. The emperor would like more revenue, yes? Why not just take control over porcelain and make a new state monopoly? Failing that, maybe the emperor could just regularize and tax the process. A lot of the porcelain trade (particularly foreign exports) has been slipping through the cracks, and though China has long had abysmal state revenues, the market for porcelain is one place where money can be safely skimmed off the top without too much trouble. It would be a little unusual, but the numbers check out.

The emperor agrees. Many of the neglected kilns are re-established under state patronage, but instead of merely making porcelain for the use of the imperial household, they’re officially producing goods for profitable export. A few men in the industry had been heavily fined, and at least one executed, for alleged disloyalty during the recent unpleasantness; their enterprises are taken over by loyal men. The Prince of Yi, an imperial prince who has lands nearby, is put in charge of organizing all of this as recognition of aid rendered to Daišan during the latter’s relief expedition to Beijing.[3]

Speaking of Daišan, he’s doing rather well for himself, being rewarded (again) for his actions against rebels. Unlike the fight against the Yellow Tiger, this time he is able to retrieve the identifiable corpse of the renegade scholar-official Wang Shaohui, which is posthumously decapitated. It is believed that he was also able to retrieve the corpse of the former prince, who had hanged himself. The official chronicles are silent on the matter, given the degree to which the former prince’s name was expunged from the chronicles, but historians agree that the unfortunate rebel was likely also subject to posthumous dismemberment. Daišan is less lucky in apprehending Wu Sangui, who escapes with some of his followers and becomes a common outlaw. It will be several years before that man’s death is confirmed.

Anyways, Minister Zhou is very much pleased with himself, having gotten his economic ideas put into practice, and Daišan is also richly honored for his actions. Admiral Zheng is…less fortunate. His enemies at court make much of the fact that his reinforcements arrive in Beijing weeks after Daišan, much too late to be of any use! (To be fair, he was traveling greater distances and Daišan was able to use river boats and the Grand Canal to speed his travel, just as he did years before. And Admiral Zheng was dealing with fighting against the Dutch and other foreign interlopers, although to be fair his own bellicosity was a large part in why there was fighting with the Dutch in the first place.) Although he is not formally punished or demoted (he still retains the emperor’s favor), Zheng Zhilong appears to largely retire from public life around this time; he is aged beyond his years, not in good health, as years of fighting and the occasional tropical fever have taken their toll. His son, Zheng Chenggong, will serve as de facto regent of Dongshan for the rest of his father’s life.

And what of Dongshan? Some steps will be taken to regularize its position in the imperial bureaucracy. While Zheng Zhilong retains his title as “Admiral of the Coastal Seas,” it is finally decided that the title will not be hereditary, having been intended as an honor specific to the elder Zheng. Dongshan will officially be classified as a protectorate (dūhù fǔ), modeled somewhat after the military protectorates of earlier dynasties (for example, the Tang dynasty’s protectorates along the western frontier). That said, just because the name is the same does not mean that known traits of the one protectorate can be casually ascribed to the other. Students of Chinese history often make similar mistakes as students of Roman history who conflate the “dictatorship” of the early republic with the “dictatorship” of Sulla and Caesar. For historians, the characteristics of the protectorate are those things which the protectorate has been documented as doing. Of course, much is made of the “protectorate” anyways because all parties (even the Zheng family) want a respectable term from antiquity, so although there is technically no continuity between the status of Dongshan and the protectorates of earlier times, the term sticks. Zheng Chenggong will essentially be a governor-for-life, answering directly to the throne and responsible for coordinating military operations in the area. While he’s still very much his father’s son, and opportunistic raids against foreigners will still be happily undertaken (where they don’t interfere with trade), much of his effort will be directed toward pacifying Dongshan’s still-wild interior. And he’s a trifle more practical-minded, at least relatively speaking. Relatively. Again, he’s his father’s son. A little bit of filibustering is to be expected.

Shi Kefa, who had embarked on the project to protect the ancestral tombs of Zuling, has announced that his elaborate system of walls is nearing completion. Or, at least, they're sturdy enough to work, and the elaborate ornamentation can be done by dedicated artisans. He’s honestly rather put out that the civil war has distracted people from all the good work he’s doing. Fortunately, his boss Minister Dong praises him for his efforts, and promises him further prestigious postings after the current project is wrapped up. Minister Dong, after all, isn’t getting any younger, and he could use an intelligent and hardworking young(er) man to take over things after he’s gone.

So Shi Kefa returns to Beijing, letting his subordinates put the finishing touches on his construction project. Meanwhile, other people are leaving northern China, displaced by famine or war. In some cases, suspected rebels flee for their lives, while others are spared the executioner’s ax but are sentenced to internal exile. These last are sent to a variety of places. The traditional place to serve such a sentence is the western frontier, but others come to Dongshan, which accepts any manpower it can get, absorbing people into its melting-pot culture. There are also greater levels of involvement in Ryukyu and even Ezo, that island on the fringe of Tokugawa Japan, whose Ainyu inhabitants do steady but low-level trade with Chinese merchants. Of course, it’s mostly experienced hands, and not exiled rebels, who do business in these quarters. Still, this time period marks an important milestone in Chinese influence across Eastern and Southeast Asia, as increased trade leads to the flourishing of expatriate communities across the region...

---

Footnotes
[1] IOTL now known as Hohhot.
[2] Everything I’ve just described is pretty much exactly what happened IOTL. The style of porcelain from this era is known as Tianqi porcelain (after the emperor).
[3] The current Prince of Yi is probably Zhu Ciyi, who IOTL died in this year while fleeing with the Southern Ming. His heirs were largely supporters of Koxinga, although they don’t appear to have been as prominent as the Prince of Ningjing, Koxinga’s resident Ming figurehead. The Princes of Yi descended from a younger son of the Chenghua Emperor.

 

[RexSueciae]

The Amur River​

The reason for the rapprochement between Ejei Khan and the Dalai Lama quickly becomes apparent in the spring of 1648. And it’s mostly because of this one asshole named Vassili Poyarkov.

No, he’s not an official representative of any particular government. You see, the Tsar of All Russia is more concerned with things happening in Europe, to the west. The Thirty Years’ War is winding down, the English Civil War and related conflicts are flaring up again, et cetera and so forth. The Tsar sees this, but is more interested in duking it out with Poland-Lithuania over Smolensk. (Poland-Lithuania had won the last war but maybe this time Russia will do better!)

Again, the eyes of the Tsar are pointed to the west. That’s where the most productive land is conveniently located, and it’s his hope that good tax-paying Russians will someday inhabit them. The east? Bah. A handy place to absorb Cossacks and troublemakers and adventurers who would otherwise cause trouble. Ever since Ivan the Terrible, the east has held this reputation; after the Khanate of Sibir fell, hardly any organized resistance stood in the way.

So various Russians have been making their way east, fighting the locals and bringing diseases like smallpox with them. Russian explorers have by now reached as far east as the Pacific Ocean. It’s a matter of time before something happens.

Vassili Poyarkov is that something. He and some of his followers had set out from the outpost of Yakutsk a few years back, blundering their way around until they arrived in the vicinity of the Amur region (which is to say, the region around the Amur River, which in Chinese sources is more often referred to as the Heishui, literally “Blackwater”). Through a combination of overconfidence and brutality, Poyarkov’s gang progressed from stealing food from the locals to, eventually, literally cannibalizing their prisoners to survive the winter months.[1]

This lasted up until Poyarkov and company blundered into a roving patrol and were utterly butchered.[2]

The horsemen who had stumbled across the Russian expedition were actually in the service of Joseon -- King Hyojong’s viceroys have done a decent job of recruiting locals to serve as military auxiliaries, including many who had previously been subject-allies of the Jurchens -- but many of the people there have cousins among the Northern Yuan, and obviously there are some communications going back and forth between Hyojong and Ejei at a high level. The two kings might not see eye to eye on everything, but they’ve learnt to share and they’d rather not have anyone else upsetting the balance of power in the area.

Expeditions of roving barbarians from the north and/or west is exactly the sort of thing that they do not want at all. It’s not that either of them want the land, exactly. They just don’t want some other asshole to have it.

So Ejei Khan has been spending the last few years going around to the top men among the Mongols, sending out feelers as much as he dares to his neighbors who aren’t formal tributaries. His overtures have been successful. If he decides to go charging west and start handing out ass-kickings, his neighbors aren’t going to interfere. Güshi Khan and the Dalai Lama in Tibet are cautiously supportive; there are always hot-blooded young men who want to go off and be adventurers. Joseon, and the Ming court in Beijing, are somewhat more enthusiastic, to the point of guaranteeing support should any other neighboring polity try to cause trouble. Sure, the Northern Yuan are friendly now, but it’s always nice to have a Mongol army pointed away from you.

Shi Kefa, back in Beijing, has been workshopping various projects. New monuments in Liaoning? Refurbishments to the Porcelain Tower in Nanjing? He settles for drawing up elaborate plans to expand the City God Temple of Shanghai. His plans are not used, although eventually (a generation later) some of them serve as inspiration for new work to commemorate the temple’s posthumous veneration of Xu Guangqi.[3] (The reason why Xu isn’t being venerated so much right now is that his granddaughter, like him, is also Catholic and is a little bit leery of the whole “temple to religiously honor my grandfather” thing. With that in mind, it takes a little while for everything to be smoothed over.)

Also in Beijing are the imperial princes, who, as one will recall, were forced to flee north when the mutiny and subsequent rebellion threatened their lives. They had, in fact, escaped with the help of Sun Chengzong’s family, laying low on the frontier, and the old minister had given his life to buy them time. (The late minister’s surviving relations are now enjoying a period of extraordinarily positive favor from the imperial house.) Prince Sihuai, the younger of the brothers, throws himself into martial activities, likely to distract himself from the trauma of the rebellion. The Crown Prince Xianhuai is writing a…poem? It’s not finished yet, more to come in the future. The emperor is very proud of his son, who has done a lot better at literary matters (and, for that matter, literacy) than his father.

In any case, future scholars of literature will be far more interested in another text being published elsewhere. Remember Amakusa Shirō a.k.a. Geronimo? Young man whose followers had fled Japan in the aftermath of a failed Catholic uprising, now residing on Dongshan? Purported author of the Pearl of Great Price, a work of mystic literature, and leader of the so-called Fishermen? Well, another book has been attributed to him. This one is called The Lamb of Heaven, and it appears to draw heavily on an idiosyncratic interpretation of the Book of Revelation (possibly via a figurative translation).

It is written in language so mystical and dense and obtuse that it’s difficult to give a single coherent explanation for its contents -- so, naturally, lots of people have different interpretations. Most explosively, people focus on some passages describing the Marriage Feast of the Lamb, a topic which is briefly mentioned in Revelation. It appears that Geronimo wishes to contract a marriage -- at least spiritually -- with a woman. And then someone remembers that the Princess Yining -- daughter of the emperor, baptized under the Christian name Maria, currently about ten years old -- has talked about wanting to assume the vows of a nun (not too uncommon with imperial princesses) which she has described as being a “Bride of Christ.”

Fortunately for Geronimo et al, it’s hard to read The Lamb of Heaven and actually derive the subversive, politically unwise message that one can infer from the above passages. Prefect Di Yimin, essentially the top lawgiver on Dongshan at this point, quietly sighs and sends someone to talk to the Fishermen and tell them to be careful. Funnily enough, the text isn’t actually popular on the mainland, being more confusing than enlightening, but copies are burnt by the Inquisition in Macau, and Prefect Di has to fend off complaints from Giulio Alenio (head of the local Jesuit community and closely aligned with the Zheng family), who is demanding an investigation. Anyways, Geronimo goes into hiding for a little while to avoid offending more people. His followers, remember, are a colorful bunch, but are outnumbered on Dongshan by even the island’s community of Catholics (both European-born and local converts). Mazu, the patron goddess of actual fishermen and seafarers, is by far the most popular figure of devotion locally. Dongshan in general, and its primary settlement of Luoyang in particular, is remarkably cosmopolitan and there are many different temples and shrines located throughout.

---

Footnotes
[1] Everything that I’ve just said about Russian history is a hundred percent true. Vassili Poyarkov was a real person.
[2] IOTL he and his gang survived and made it back to Russian territory, where he was apparently shipped back to Moscow for trial. Turns out cannibalism is bad, even when you’re doing it to foreigners.
[3] The Shanghai City God Temple was originally built by the Wanli Emperor, grandfather to the Tianqi Emperor. IOTL today it venerates Huo Guang, Qin Yubo, and Chen Huacheng, but the last individual on this list will not exist ITTL, so eventually ITTL someone suggests Xu Guangqi because why not.