Dawn of the Empire

Chapter 2: Heheli

The 6th of early September, Year 30 of the Republic Once past the Green Pass, the farther west one traveled, the earlier the snow fell. It was barely September, yet snow had already blanketed the land, falling every few days and growing heavier with each passing day. Heheli, a commoner from the 8th Jia of Anxi Garrison, was struggling along the village road, shouldering a large bundle of firewood. He wore a coat and hat patched together from small pieces of leather and rags of unknown origin, both stuffed tightly with thatch and tied at the waist with a thin hemp rope, from which hung a long axe. Heheli was strong and robust, hailing from the Liaodong Yi tribes where the cold was even more severe than here, so he was naturally quite resilient to the cold. But today he had eaten only a bowl of thin porridge and half a multigrain cake; with nothing substantial in his stomach, he was now frozen to the point where snot was streaming down his nose. Several slave attendants from his unit followed close behind. They all wore garments of the same material, but the thatch stuffed inside the others’ clothes was not as densely packed as Heheli’s; by comparison, it looked as though it had been haphazardly stuffed in, and the stitching was not tight enough—their clothes were already in tatters. The slave who walked closest to Heheli was Wukeshan, a Tatar. Although he was merely a slave, since they all suffered hunger and cold together, Heheli did not consider himself superior to him. Besides, Wukeshan was a warrior in his own right, an exceptionally skilled archer. Heheli had once witnessed him shoot a crude bone arrow straight into a fox’s eye; that perfect silver fox pelt earned Wukeshan—whose earnings were barely enough to feed himself—enough grain to sustain his entire family for half a year. For commoners and slaves like them, stationed to guard the frontier, a warrior was always more trustworthy than a coward. But now, even a sharpshooter like Wukeshan found life hard to bear. With a grim expression, he said to Heheli, “The snow has fallen early again this year. Old Man Guan Nong says next year is bound to be a severe drought. The grain we harvested this season isn’t even enough to feed us this year—how are we supposed to get through next year?” Heheli casually wiped his nose with his sleeve and replied in a deep, booming voice, “You’re on your own—chop more firewood and hunt some small game to sell to Old Farm Manager Guan. You’ll manage to survive. But I’ve got a wife and kids to support, and I’m not as good with a bow as you are. If we don’t go out hunting this winter, things will really get tough.” Wukeshan spat contemptuously and said, “That old man Guan Nong does nothing but talk. Every year, he demands a dou of grain from every household. He claims that following his methods will yield high harvests, but how much grain can we barbarians possibly grow, no matter how hard we try? We still end up starving every year. Even borrowing his axe to chop firewood is charged by the day. After paying for the axe with the firewood we chop in a day, there’s not much left—just enough to keep the fire going. How could we possibly have any extra to sell him? That old scoundrel—if the Great Khan’s realm were still standing, I’d have beheaded him long ago!” “Stop it! He’s a Han Chinese!” another companion beside him urged, sounding slightly alarmed. “If he finds out you’re talking about him like that, even if he doesn’t have the strength to draw his sword and cut you down, he’ll stop lending you grain and axes—and you’ll starve or freeze to death!” Non-Han people aren’t good at farming—especially those like Heheli and Wukeshan, who came from Liaodong and the Tatars. They’re skilled at herding and hunting, but asking them to tend the fields seems harder than fighting to the death with bows and swords. Imperial regulations stipulated that villages with more than one hundred farming households must appoint a minor official to oversee agriculture and sericulture. Since their village didn’t have that many people, they had joined forces with a neighboring baojia village to appoint a single agricultural official. Although this official, tasked with teaching farming techniques, hadn’t managed to increase grain yields by much, he was absolutely ruthless when it came to extorting payments. He claimed that imperial regulations required each household to give him one dou of grain as compensation; these non-Han people didn’t know if it was true or not, but they didn’t dare refuse. Simply because he was Han. Come to think of it, the old man who taught their village how to farm was also a commoner exiled here for committing a crime—his political status was the same as Heheli’s. But the Empire was a Han Empire; the Han called them “barbarians” and said they were no different from beasts, and the people here had no choice but to accept it. In a remote frontier region like theirs, the fact that the Han were inherently a class above was an open “unwritten rule.” “Our village was only established this past spring, but it’s been nearly a year now and no village head has been assigned yet,” said Wukeshan. Not daring to continue berating the agricultural official, he could only add resignedly, “Our place isn’t like other areas—just a short distance from here lies uncharted territory. Without the village head’s permission, how could we dare to hunt on our own?” Currently, the able-bodied men in their village were all commoners and slaves, and the village was situated on the Empire’s vague northwestern border. It didn’t take long to head west from the village and enter the territory of the wild Di Yi tribes, which lay outside the Empire’s jurisdiction. Without a village head to lead them, venturing out to hunt on their own and encountering a hunting party led by a village head or the Empire’s regular army would likely result in them being treated as fugitives or attacked as Sheng Yi invaders. They didn’t dare fight back—for commoners and slaves to attack a military officer was an act of insubordination, a capital offense by any standard. If they encountered a hot-tempered officer, the execution of their entire family would be the norm. As a result, the few of them dared only to hunt small, unsuspecting game near the village; they didn’t even dare venture too far to gather firewood, and their lives grew increasingly difficult. “I just hope the higher-ups will send us a Plate-Armor master soon,” Heheli sighed, replying blankly, “As long as a Plate-Armor master leads us out on a hunt, with skills like ours, we could raid a bear’s den and make next year a better one.” “Heheli, you’re a commoner—you don’t have to call the Pai Jia ‘master’ when he arrives,” Wukeshan said, glancing at him with a hint of displeasure. “Besides, it depends on the Pai Jia’s background. If he’s a scholar, we won’t stand a chance.” The Jia-chiefs dispatched by the Empire to the frontier to serve as village administrators were privately referred to as “Pai-jia.” They included both military veterans and scholars who had failed to advance in their studies. Wukeshan and his group preferred the former, because such men always held in high regard Tatar men like Heheli and Wukeshan, who possessed considerable physical strength, and were willing to go hunting frequently. The latter, however, were deeply disliked. Most Han scholars preferred a quiet life to an active one; if the “Pai Jia” themselves didn’t go out, how were these men any different from those who hunted on their own? There were even instances where Yi Ding and Nu Ding, having been ordered to go hunting on their own, were ambushed and killed by other “Pai Jia” leading their men, while the “Pai Jia” from their own village—who had a scholarly background—would simply dismiss the incident with a remark like “Di Yi and beasts” and wash their hands of the matter. “So what if I’m a commoner? As long as I’m not Han, the village head is my master,” Heheli replied gloomily, then said nothing more and returned home in silence. At home, Heheli’s wife had already lit the fire and cooked half a pot of thin porridge. This porridge, made from wild vegetables, grass seeds, wild fruits, acorn flour, and a small amount of millet, was their family’s staple food. As for the multigrain flatbreads, they were a special treat reserved for able-bodied men like him only when they went out to work in the morning—that was simply how everyone got by. Heheli’s wife helped him stack the firewood around the perimeter of the hut. Their small dwelling was built with a few stones, some wood, and plenty of branches and thatch; it was more like a livestock shed than a house. Stacking the firewood around the drafty hut helped keep out the cold to some extent. The hut did indeed serve as a livestock shed. Heheli’s two young children were huddled around the hearth, where a pot hung over the fire, hugging their family’s ewe for warmth. Heheli drew the axe hanging from his waist and carefully hid it beneath the thick layer of dry grass that served as their bed. He had his own sheep, his own iron pot, and his own axe. By the standards of this small border village, Heheli was no longer considered poor. That’s why Heheli didn’t really sympathize with Wukeshan’s complaints. He was a Jurchen; even back when the Tatars’ Golden Horde still existed, the Jurchens had been the Tatars’ servants. Heheli didn’t see much difference between being a slave to the Han Chinese and being a slave to the Tatars. Besides, even in the Jurchen’s own villages in Liaodong, there were mukhu masters. After all, a mukhu governed a village of registered laborers—just like a pai-jia. Since his mafa and ama had addressed the mukhu as “master” for generations, Heheli didn’t see anything wrong with calling the pai-jia “master” himself. In fact, Heheli now very much hoped to have a master. He believed that as long as he had a good master to take him out hunting, with the skills he’d honed since childhood fighting giant bears alongside his father and brothers, he would sooner or later be able to earn a decent fortune. Heheli’s wife served him a bowl brimming with thin porridge, then pulled out a bone needle and hemp thread and sat down beside him to mend the several tears in his clothes caused by tree branches that day. Her stitches were very fine and tight; Heheli believed only Han women possessed such skill. His wife was indeed a Han woman—the only Han wife in the village whom everyone, including Old Man Guan Nong, envied. Come to think of it, Heheli himself believed that the reason he was a commoner, while Wukeshan—who was a better archer—remained a slave, was precisely because he had a Han wife. Since his wife was Han, his son naturally had half Han blood. Under imperial law (Heheli’s understanding of the law was that it took precedence over village rules—rules must be followed, but the law must be obeyed even more strictly), enslaving a Han person was a capital offense set in stone; therefore, his son could not be a slave. Given the Han people’s constant harping on filial piety, if his son wasn’t a slave, would he, as the father, really have to call his own child “master”? Therefore, Heheli couldn’t be a slave either. Consequently, because he had a Han wife, Heheli’s clothes were stitched more tightly than others’, and the straw padding inside was finer than others’. Moreover, as a commoner, he paid one-sixth of the taxes. So even without a noble master taking him out on hunting expeditions, he, along with his wife and child—a family of four—had managed to get by, half-starved and half-fed, for the past year. What else was there to be dissatisfied with? Nothing. As long as he had a good master who enjoyed hunting, Heheli felt he lacked nothing. His wife was still diligently mending Heheli’s clothes. He lifted his rice bowl with one hand and, without caring that the thin porridge was scalding, slurped it down in big gulps. The two little ones watched him longingly, waiting for their mother to finish her work so she could serve them their meals. Suddenly, a sharp whistle sounded from outside the door. His wife paused her work and looked out the door in confusion. In the border villages where military and civil laws coexisted, the village head used a whistle as a signal; all able-bodied men in the village were required to gather at their doorsteps to receive orders—that was military law. But their village had no village head, so the bamboo whistle had been entrusted to Old Man Guan Nong for safekeeping, and no one had blown it at all in the past year. Still, now that the whistle had sounded, she couldn’t pretend not to have heard it. Heheli hurriedly pulled out the axe and hunting bow he’d hidden beneath his straw mattress. These items served as both tools for farming and weapons; no matter how poor a able-bodied man was, he had to borrow a set—otherwise, survival in this remote wilderness would be impossible. His wife handed him a homemade quiver containing ten bone arrows and two iron arrows. The iron arrows were precious possessions even for commoners and serfs like them, and Heheli knew that Wukeshan had long coveted a few of them. “You and the kids eat first. Keep a close watch on the house—don’t open the door until I get back.” Heheli habitually gave his wife a few instructions, then hurried off to Old Man Guan Nong’s house. Although most wild Di Yi didn’t have the guts to attack the Empire’s villages, in this dreadful weather, a wild beast driven mad by hunger might just burst into the village and harm people or livestock. His wife and children were Heheli’s most precious treasures; he couldn’t bear to imagine how he would go on living without them.