16. The granary holds five thousand bushels of grain.

My son is truly destined to be a general!

The Zhang family of old had produced several esteemed scholar-generals. The former Chancellor Zhang Shouwei had successively guarded Sichuan and Jiankang, repeatedly serving as a commanding minister with great contributions to the state. Yet, it was undeniable that holding office in Hangzhou and participating in central government affairs meant a desire to remain close to the seat of power.

After all, Zhang Xun’s elder brother was still stationed in Hangzhou. Being at the core of power had its advantages; when others launched accusations, one could immediately respond. Moreover, the Southern Song emperors were not known for resolute will; many decisions hinged on the final conclusion of the last person who debated with them.

Being in Hangzhou allowed face-to-face audiences with the emperor, where a few words could consolidate authority far more easily and effectively than sending petitions from distant frontier posts.

With the fierce party strife of the Song court, there was no lull period; being posted far away truly limited one’s influence.

But if the elder brother remained at court and the second son was stationed at a frontier command, what a perfect coordination that would be. With one pursuing civil affairs and the other military, the family’s legacy would be assured, as long as future generations continued to pass the imperial examinations.

Especially considering Zhang Xun’s almost celestial military acumen—such confidential intelligence and strategic planning could never be conceived by mere idle thought at home.

Unless someone had crossed through time.

Just as I was about to rouse Zhang Xun with this plan, his mother turned and saw that he had already sat up. He hadn’t spoken because he feared she had discovered his plan to surrender, leaving his mind buzzing and unsure how to explain.

But Zhang’s mother, setting aside the draft paper, smiled gently and sat beside him, instructing the maid to fetch water to wipe his face.

Huh? So she didn’t see through my surrender plan?

Seeing her kindly demeanor, Zhang Xun’s heart eased, dismissing the draft paper matter, and he calmly wiped his face and hands. He even asked the maid for a drink, who promptly brought him a cup of mung bean soup.

Next time, don’t add sugar.

And no honey, either.

Mung bean soup should be pure. Zhang Xun didn’t dislike sweets—he happily added honey to rose dew in the morning—but he felt that a thirst-quenching soup like mung bean soup shouldn’t be turned into sweet water.

Once he had composed himself, Zhang’s mother picked up the draft paper and asked what he was planning. Was he calculating the logistics and supplies needed to lead the army from Changzhou to Xiangyang?

“Huh? Ah, yes, yes, that’s right.”

With no better excuse, Zhang Xun quickly backtracked, saying he was simply using the rainy downtime to think through the relief effort for Xiangyang.

Hearing the answer she wanted, his mother smiled even more, but this time she did not urge him to rise and assume office, since Marshal Li Tingzhi had already led the mobile field army of the Two Huai to relieve Xiangyang.

Marshal Li was a renowned general, and the Two Huai troops were elite forces—perhaps a single battle would break the siege. Once the encirclement was lifted, the military situation between Song and Mongols would return to a stalemate.

What remained then would be a steady flow of arms and provisions; everything else would be minor.

A mother’s mindset was easy to understand: my son is destined for great deeds. Saving Xiangyang is a major matter; supplying food once the siege is lifted is a minor one. For great matters, he ought to take office; for trivial ones like transporting grain, any local Zhang family patrol officer would suffice.

Ah, a true mother’s love.

Having escaped suspicion, Zhang Xun hurriedly rose to burn the draft paper. Such secrets must not be revealed, not even to his mother. But she seemed indifferent; if he could write it, it meant it was already in his mind. Burn it, then.

Using the excuse of inspecting the wheat stored in the family grain depot, Zhang Xun fled swiftly. In the Jiangdong region, two crops were harvested annually: wheat and rice. The rice had already been planted; the wheat was safely stored.

Due to the crossing of the two Song dynasties, many northerners—especially from Henan—had migrated south. Along the Grand Canal, regions unaccustomed to wheat-based foods gradually began to consume them.

In Shengzhou, Jiankang, they savored “Pi Du” noodles; in Runzhou, “Guo Gai” noodles; in Changzhou, “Silver Thread” noodles; in Suzhou, “Three Shrimp” noodles—wheat foods appeared in great abundance.

Naturally, wheat cultivation flourished in Jiangdong, and dishes like wontons, steamed buns, and flatbreads became widely popular.

It’s worth noting that when the people of Jiangdong made “Ding Sheng Cakes” for Han Shizhong in the past, they used glutinous rice flour. Now, they had fully switched to wheat flour.

When the young master inspected the granaries, his servants naturally followed. Zhang Xun’s family grain depot was more prosperous than even Zhou Yu’s household once was, storing five thousand dunns of grain. After autumn harvest, it might reach eight thousand.

Of course, a significant portion would be traded to pay summer and autumn taxes. The court levied both in-kind and monetary taxes, along with corvée labor; relying solely on grain was impossible.

He vaguely recalled that during Ashu’s siege of Yangzhou, a severe drought struck the riverine region, leaving even wealthy Yangzhou devoid of military grain. Trapped inside, Li Tingzhi ordered officials and wealthy households to supply grain, but the provisions did not last. When the city fell, nearly a hundred thousand starved to death.

In other words, though this year’s harvest was decent, the next two might be poor. It would be wise to stockpile as much grain as possible, lest they fail to supply Boyan’s vast army and incur his wrath.

No one else thought as far ahead as Zhang Xun did; they merely assumed he worried that the rainy season might cause mold and rot in the grain storage.

Rest assured: every granary was built using earthen mounds, raising the foundation at least half a meter above ground to keep out moisture. Bricks were laid atop the foundation, then covered with wooden planks and reed mats, with lime mortar applied between layers for waterproofing. The granary roofs were naturally peaked to prevent water accumulation.

The entire depot yard had numerous drainage channels to avoid flooding. After the rainy season, the grain would be spread out to dry, ensuring its preservation.

Moreover, the purpose of the depot was also to aid clan members in need. Just as Zhang Xi once borrowed money from Zhang Xun, clan members could borrow grain from the depot.

This was common in the Two Jiang and Two Zhe regions, where many “righteous clans” established such grain stores to preserve and unite their kin amid the repeated collapse of clan structures.

Naturally, the grain lent to kin and neighbors was always old stock, replenished regularly to prevent spoilage.

So then, how much grain did our family’s depot actually hold? Should a great drought strike, Zhang Xun would need to supply the twenty thousand soldiers’ half-month rations, as well as feed the hundreds of thousands of Changzhou’s civilians with thin porridge for half a year.

Labor was a vital asset for capitalists and landlords, just as slaves were for slave owners—a truth unchanged since ancient times.