Chapter 32: Reminiscence of the Shu Han

Piji, I originally intended to tell you directly about what happened that day. But just as I was about to begin, I realized it would be inappropriate. Upon reflection, many things are inseparable from their causes and consequences; without them, you would be unable to understand the shifts in human emotion or why people make certain choices. Therefore, I have decided to tell the story at length.

However, too much detail is not ideal either. Many things I only know as a bystander, a witness, or through hearsay. You have studied the history of our state under your teacher, so you are already aware of much of this. Thus, I cannot guarantee that everything I say is entirely true or correct. I can only relay what I have personally experienced and witnessed. Yet, I believe that with your intelligence, this will be enough for you to judge right from wrong for yourself.

Let us begin with my own origins.

Piji, I have never told you this, but you surely know it: my grandfather was Zhang Fei, the Cavalry General of legend who could sleep with his eyes open and whose presence at Changban once terrified thousands of troops. Alas, like you, I never saw my grandfather with my own eyes. He had already passed away by the time I was born, reportedly because he was beheaded by his own subordinates whom he had flogged.

Even so, our family remained prominent in Shu. Your great-grandfather, the Zhaolie Emperor Liu Bei, was a man who valued deep bonds. Having traversed the world alone without a single blood relative, he cherished his friends dearly, treating them as brothers closer than kin. Naturally, he had more friends than any other man. My grandfather, Zhang Fei, was one of the first two friends to follow him, and being a rare fellow countryman, he was held in particularly high regard.

On the day the news of my grandfather's death arrived, your great-grandfather sat in silence for a long time. In the dead of night, he took your grandfather to our home. Your maternal grandfather was unaware of the situation and followed his sisters to pay respects to your great-grandfather at the door. It was your great-grandfather who personally broke the news, then pulled your grandfather forward, pointed to my aunt, and said, "This is your wife." He then pointed to my father and said, "This is your brother."

From that day on, our family became the last of the consort clans of the Great Han.

However, this is what my father told me; your great-grandfather had been dead for many years by the time I was born. Your grandfather’s first empress, my elder aunt, had also passed away from illness a decade prior. In that same year, he married my younger aunt and crowned her Empress. Your maternal grandfather was then a man of great power and influence, serving as a Palace Attendant and a Minister of the Secretariat—a trusted confidant of your grandfather.

With two empresses and one high official from our Zhang family, while we may not have possessed the absolute pinnacle of power in the court, in terms of glory and prestige, there was no equal in Shu.

Thus, on the very day I was born, your grandfather and my father agreed to abide by the pact of our ancestors: their children would be wed. The chosen partner was none other than your father.

You see, your marriage was arranged quite late, while I knew the path of my life at its very beginning. After all, for a woman, choosing a husband is choosing the path of her life.

Piji, do not wear such a sorrowful expression. When I was a child, I genuinely felt happy about my parents' decision. It is easy to understand: back then, everyone showered me with attention, blessings, and doting care. Your grandfather bestowed brocades upon me every year; your grandmother, Consort Wu, personally taught me how to tailor clothes. Uncles from the Guan and Zhao families often sent me ingenious gifts—lychees from Lingnan, parrots from Dianchi, and pearls from Hepu.

But the gift I loved most was a jade hairpin with a peony and phoenix design given to me by General Xiahou Ba. It is the one I wear now. At the time, he was being persecuted by the Sima clan and had fled over mountains and rivers to Shu. Because of our kinship, he stayed at our estate. He was very fond of me and said I resembled his mother, so he gifted me this hairpin. Such exquisite craftsmanship was rare in Xichuan then, and I cherished it dearly. I shall leave it to you now; one day, when you give it to your wife, tell her it is my family heirloom.

Returning to my story, I lived without a single worry. Every day, I would gaze at myself in the mirror, thinking only of growing up, marrying, bearing children, and attaining the greatest happiness a woman could have. Yet, I did not know then that a woman’s happiness is bound to the fate of the nation, and even then, the nation was already in decline.

I was born late and did not experience the era of Prime Minister Zhuge Liang’s governance. Your grandfather said that he ruled the state with strict laws, ensuring the people reaped the rewards of their labor, keeping the bureaucracy free of corrupt officials, and suppressing the Wei forces with successive victories. He was a hero rarely seen in a century. After he passed, there was no one left in the country to match him. Thus, the Great Generals Jiang Wan and Fei Yi, who succeeded him, gradually abandoned military expansion to focus on securing the borders and nurturing the people.

When I was six, a great event shook the nation: the assassination of Great General Fei Yi.

Great General Fei Yi was the father of your eldest aunt and the de facto Prime Minister of the country. That he died in such a bizarre fashion at the hands of a surrendered Wei general was truly unacceptable. The court and the public were in an uproar, believing that after years of peace, the time had come to launch an expedition for revenge. Coincidentally, the Eastern Wu Prime Minister, Zhuge Ke, sent a letter stating he had crushed the Wei forces at Dongxing, annihilating tens of thousands of enemies. He claimed it was an unparalleled opportunity for a northern campaign and requested that our country coordinate with them the following year. Consequently, your grandfather appointed the General of the Guards, Jiang Wei, as commander, and the grand cause of the Northern Expedition was restarted.

I did not understand military affairs and had never left Chengdu. Furthermore, since Prime Minister Zhuge Liang moved his headquarters to Hanzhong, the Northern Expeditionary Army had always been stationed there; whenever they launched a campaign, I never even caught a glimpse of the grand ceremonies. Thus, I knew little of these matters and rarely heard your grandfather discuss them. What I cared about then was simply for time to pass quickly, so that I could marry your father sooner.

I had known your father for a long time, as my aunt was the Empress, and my parents would often take me to the palace to pay our respects, which led to frequent encounters with him. I first met your father when I was four.

It was my first time entering the palace. It was the fourth month; the spring flowers had faded, but the summer solstice had not yet arrived. My younger aunt was delighted to see me and took me to the Orange and Pomelo Garden to play. The garden was the largest orchard in the palace, home to thousands of trees. In spring, there were peaches, cherries, loquats, and mulberries; in summer, apricots, plums, grapes, pomegranates, and bayberries; in autumn, citrus, pears, red dates, and sugarcane. It was all-encompassing, and save for a few brief intervals, the garden was always filled with flowers and fruit—the favorite place for the palace children to play.

That was when I bumped into your father. It is strange; lately, I struggle to remember many things, yet the events of my youth become increasingly clear. I was holding my aunt’s hand when I saw someone quite tall picking loquats in the distance. Upon closer look, it turned out to be your father riding on the shoulders of your eldest uncle, Liu Xuan. Your father was only six then and stood only that high, while your eldest uncle had long been a grown man—standing eight feet tall, handsome and dignified, with thick arms that looked incredibly strong. I initially mistook them for father and son, rather than brothers.

My aunt pointed at your father and said to me with a smile, "That is your future husband." Knowing nothing, I asked, "What is a husband?" My aunt replied, "He is the man you will marry, your reliance for life."

Your eldest uncle overheard this and shrugged, reminding your father, "Sixth Brother, your future wife is here."

Your father turned and saw me. Oh, how adorable he was then! He held a bamboo pole in one hand and a cluster of loquats in the other. His face was streaked with gray soot, like a cat that had just crawled out of a chimney. He stared at me for a moment, looked down at your eldest uncle and asked, "Is she Ximiao?" Then he slid down from your uncle’s shoulders, shoved all the loquats into my hands, and said with an air of mock-seriousness, "My lady, eat a loquat."

Thinking back, it is truly amusing, but at the time, my heart was deeply stirred. The loquats in his hands were damp, still covered in the morning dew, and the faint fragrance of the fruit mixed with the fresh, leaf-like scent of his own presence enveloped me, leaving me at a loss. My heart felt both dazed and flustered; in short, I stood frozen in place for a moment.

In the end, your father peeled a loquat himself and handed it to me, smiling as he said, "It’s very sweet!" I instinctively took a bite. My aunt and your eldest uncle burst into laughter, but I truly felt that it was one of the sweetest moments of my life.

From then on, your father often came to our house to see me—sometimes boldly, sometimes sneaking in. He was very daring even at a young age. As he grew older, reaching your age, he learned to ride and became an excellent archer. He would often leave the palace with a few guards to hunt in the eastern suburbs, usually returning with a full bounty. Every time he returned, he would pretend to pass by our house "by chance" and offer me gifts.

Compared to the gifts from the adults, his were quite humble—sometimes a squirrel the size of my palm, sometimes a wreath woven from apricot blossoms. Once, he shot a pheasant and, on a whim, plucked all its feathers to make me a fan. These gifts were not of great monetary value, but I understood the sentiment behind them: it meant he liked me and wanted to spend his life with me. For a woman whose husband had already been chosen, this was the greatest possible happiness.

By the second year of the Jingyao era, when I was thirteen and your father was fifteen, he underwent the capping ceremony and was enfeoffed as the Prince of Xinxing. In that same year, we held our wedding.

That day was truly joyful. Your father came to collect me in a black carriage. I wore a wedding dress adorned with gold, my face veiled by a silk fan, and I walked out of the estate led by my father. When I let go of my father’s hand and stepped into your father’s carriage, it signified that I was officially married—no longer a daughter of the Zhang family, but one of your Liu family.

Once inside the carriage, I lowered my fan. The carriage was covered with dark fabric, making it impossible to see the surroundings. I could only see the silhouette of your father in front and the dim glow of the carriage lamps. Yet I felt neither lonely nor afraid, for the air was filled with the sound of gongs, drums, and blessings. The maids scattered acacia flowers over the carriage, and children chased after us, singing. It made me feel quiet and content, and I thought that if life could continue this way until we grew old, that would be happiness enough.

What followed were the tedious rituals—the washing of hands, the shared meal, the ritual offerings—which you will experience yourself in time, so I shall not elaborate here. But Piji, you must remember: a wedding is the most important moment in a woman's life. Though tedious, it is deeply tied to the fate of the marriage.

I hope that when you marry, you will be diligent and not complain about the trouble, so as not to leave regrets. For me, because your father gave me a wedding without regrets—he was radiant and full of smiles that day—that was enough. No matter what he does now, I will not hold it against him.

After we were married, our days were even more tranquil. Truth be told, it was not much different from now. We had a six-hundred-mu estate in the western suburbs of Chengdu, where your father and I built a small home. This was normal; your father was the sixth among the brothers, and the position of Crown Prince had long belonged to your eldest uncle. By the customs of the Great Han, the other princes were not allowed to participate in politics. This brought fewer troubles, and we only needed to manage our own household.

It was not just your father; your current uncles were much the same. If there was any dissatisfaction, it was perhaps that six hundred mu of land was a bit meager. Great clans in Eastern Wu or Cao Wei often held thousands of mu and had nearly a thousand servants. But we knew the country was in difficulty and that we should not be extravagant. Even a famous general like Zhang Yi was often troubled by the inability to afford medical care. Since we were well-clothed and fed, what was there to complain about?

Among your father's brothers, your father was truly a virtuous prince. After we married, he was the one who managed the household.

He would mingle with the tenant farmers, working the fields, digging irrigation channels, and hunting together. Among the hundred households in the village, there was not one who did not admire him. Whenever a family encountered hardship, he would be the first to help. As for the taxes collected from the estate, he would often keep only half of what was rightfully his, sending the rest to the Minor Treasury to be used for military supplies. Both inside and outside the court, he was praised for his diligence and virtue, a model for all imperial princes.

Back then, your father treated me very well. He did not take concubines, nor did he drink. Although he was unrestrained in his speech—which often startled me—he was an honest and open man. I never had to guess his thoughts. I could cry when I wanted, laugh when I wanted; no matter how great the trouble, a good cry and a tantrum would pass by the next day. Time was as simple as the words of Laozi: men plowed, women wove; we worked at sunrise and rested at sunset.

At that time, my mother would come to visit me periodically, and seeing our harmony, she was very pleased. The only regret was that I had not yet conceived a child. She would often inquire about folk remedies, prepare them, and bring them to me, urging, "No matter how happy a woman is, she is not complete without a child. Only with a child is life truly fulfilled."

Her persistence made me take it to heart, and for a time, my greatest concern was to conceive. Unfortunately, it never happened. But I was young, and your father was young; there was still time to wait.

Yet some things cannot wait—like spring plowing; if delayed, famine follows. Or state affairs; if delayed, catastrophe follows.

Just as your father and I were living our lives, believing it would always be so, disaster arrived silently. And when the crisis truly arrived, you realized that many things you thought would last forever were, in fact, too fragile to be worth mentioning.

In the fifth year of Jingyao, the third year after your father and I were married, a great event occurred in the court: Great General Jiang Wei fled to Tazhong to avoid disaster, and thus, the catastrophe of the fall of our nation began.