Chapter Sixty-Four: Values Across the Ages

The weather in Xiangyang was gloomy. It was early winter, the tenth month, and by afternoon a light rain began to fall.

The gentle patter of raindrops on the eaves rang out in a rhythmic clinking. After everyone was seated, they began to converse. Wang Can took the initiative to ask Pang Tong, “Pang Tong, you recently traveled north to Yingchuan in search of Master Sima Decao. What did you gain from the visit?”

Pang Tong replied, “Master Decao is a man of profound learning. I debated with him for a long time, even building a thatched hut near his residence to speak with him often. I’ve gained much and resolved many doubts regarding my studies.”

“And how does he view the state of the realm?” Wang Can asked.

Pang Tong was puzzled. “Why has Master Zhongxuan become interested in the affairs of the world?”

“My family is all in the north, so I cannot help but worry,” Wang Can replied, providing an excuse.

In truth, he did not care much for Jingzhou. Historically, he had written several poems expressing his helplessness at being a guest in Jingzhou and his longing for his homeland and the north. Thus, upon hearing that Liu Xie had returned to Luoyang, he was eager to know if peace would soon return to the land, and when he himself might return north.

Before Pang Tong could answer, Shen Chen shook his head, saying, “Brother Zhongxuan, you should not hope to return north. For at least the next ten years, there will be no peace there.”

“But the Son of Heaven is already in Xuchang,” Wang Can argued. “If the Emperor governs with diligence, perhaps order will soon be restored in Henan. Governor Liu submitted a memorial recently; perhaps a decree will come, and our lord’s army will march north to aid the Emperor in pacifying the land.”

Liu Biao himself was a rebellious subject—would he really help Liu Xie?

Shen Chen sneered inwardly but knew better than to say such things aloud. Instead, he said, “Do you really believe the Son of Heaven has real power? Cao Cao is a cunning hero in troubled times. This so-called ‘welcoming of the Emperor’ is nothing but holding the Emperor hostage to command the nobles. What Zhang Yi failed to achieve in the Warring States, Cao Cao has accomplished.”

Holding the Emperor hostage to command the lords? Everyone exchanged glances. In fact, this was not Cao Cao’s invention—it was conceived by Zhang Yi in the Warring States era.

According to the Zuo Commentary, Zhang Yi once advised King Hui of Qin to send troops from Guanzhong to Luoyang, seize the Zhou king, and use the king’s authority to command all the nobles under heaven. This was “holding the Emperor hostage to command the nobles.”

However, another minister, Sima Cuo, opposed him, arguing that kidnapping the king would provoke the wrath of the other lords, who would unite against Qin. He suggested it was unnecessary to bear such infamy; better to first conquer Shu, strengthen Qin, and then seek hegemony over the world.

King Hui ultimately chose Sima Cuo’s strategy, attacked Shu, seized the land of Ba and Shu, and later, after Li Bing and his son built the Dujiangyan irrigation system, Sichuan gained its vast plains. Qin gradually grew powerful, and by the time of the First Emperor, swept across the six kingdoms and unified the realm.

Thus, Zhang Yi’s stratagem ultimately failed. But as times change, so do the effects of such schemes. Under certain circumstances, the same strategy can succeed brilliantly—witness Cao Cao’s current use of it.

Yet Wang Can remained unconvinced. Shaking his head, he said, “Cao Cao is of an official family and has long served the Han. How could he so defy the will of the people? Does he not fear the judgment of the world?”

“That is why he must disguise his intent,” Shen Chen replied. “Cao Cao claims to be acting in the Emperor’s name, but think: the Emperor is in Xuchang, all troops are under Cao Cao’s control, and those surrounding him are all Cao’s men. Though he speaks of supporting the Emperor, in truth he seeks only to control him. Can you not see it?”

“That is merely your speculation, Chen,” Wang Can objected. “At least I have not seen Cao Cao directly coercing the Emperor. Does the fact that he commands the troops necessarily mean the Emperor is also under his control?”

Shen Chen considered for a moment and said, “Of course not. But now the Emperor has no outside support, no soldiers of his own, no power; how, then, can he assert his will? Is it not as Cao Cao dictates? Is this not ‘holding the Emperor hostage to command the lords’?”

Wang Can smiled. “In the past, the Duke of Zhou held power for King Cheng and returned it when he came of age. Marquis Bolu governed when Emperor Xuan was young, and relinquished authority upon his maturity. Is it not natural for powerful ministers to assist a young sovereign? There is nothing remarkable about this.”

During the Han, the Duke of Zhou and Huo Guang held lofty positions. Though Huo Guang’s family was later exterminated, it was not because Emperor Xuan resented his power, but because his wife and children brought disaster upon themselves.

Even Emperor Xun and all Han rulers respected Huo Guang. Emperor Xuan ranked him first among the heroes of the Qilin Pavilion. Under Emperors Cheng and Ping, he was honored with sacrifices and rewards.

Thus, those praised as virtuous though powerful were often compared to the Duke of Zhou and Huo Guang.

Of course, their opposites were Wang Mang and Dong Zhuo; later, Cao Cao would be added to this list.

Shen Chen laughed as well. “I believe one should judge by deeds, not motives. You regard Cao Cao as akin to the Duke of Zhou or Huo Guang, but do you not see he is more like Wang Mang or Dong Zhuo? Were the Duke of Zhou or Huo Guang known for slaughtering tens of thousands of their own subjects? Did they massacre the gentry and drive the powerful of Yanzhou to rebellion? A virtuous man may harbor cruelty, but a cruel man cannot be virtuous.”

Wang Can fell silent—not because he was persuaded, but perhaps considering that Shen Chen, having come from Xuzhou, had seen too many horrors and thus viewed Cao Cao with bias. He did not wish to argue further.

Sensing the awkwardness, Xu Shu interjected, “If we are to judge by deeds, then let us wait and see. There’s no need to be hasty in our conclusions.”

“Do you all not think Cao Cao’s atrocities already speak for themselves?” Shen Chen asked in bewilderment.

Wang Can replied softly, “People may be cruel, but they may also change. Who can say what he truly is? Perhaps, for Cao Cao, the massacre at Xuzhou was a last resort.”

Xu Shu agreed, “Indeed, whether it is holding the Emperor hostage or supporting him to punish rebels, time will tell. Let us leave this matter for now.”

“Well… very well,” Shen Chen conceded, frustrated. In all his time with Wang Can, he had never seen him so obstinate.

He turned to the others, only to find, Pang Tong included, that all wore calm expressions; not one person supported Shen Chen’s view.

In that instant, Shen Chen’s mind raced with thoughts. He could not understand why these men could turn a blind eye to such naked slaughter.

He pondered for a long while, then suddenly recalled a poem Wang Can had written—“The Seven Sorrows”—whose verses depicted the chaos of the age and contained, line by line, the answers he sought.

Shen Chen finally understood, and a wave of sorrow washed over him. He sighed quietly in his heart.

So this is how it is, he thought.

This is the gulf between ancient and modern values.

When Wang Can came from Chang’an to Jingzhou, he once saw a woman abandon her infant in the grass. Such a scene would move any onlooker to tears.

But what did Wang Can do?

He turned his head away, then rode off in his carriage without a second thought.

Bear in mind, Wang Can was not just any refugee—his grandfather and great-grandfather had both held the highest offices, his family was illustrious and immensely wealthy.

Such a man, with the slightest spark of compassion, could have given the woman a little money or food and perhaps saved the child.

But he had no intention of helping her. Upon arriving in Jingzhou, he simply wrote “The Seven Sorrows,” lamenting the state of the country.

It is much like a scion of a wealthy family in later times, flying his private jet to a war-torn Middle Eastern land, seeing untold suffering, and rather than offering aid, taking many photos and posting them online: “Look, the children of this country are so pitiful.”

It sounds ironic.

But to people of that time, it was unremarkable.

Because they belonged to the upper class.

They thought only that war was bitter.

As for the common people suffering in the flames and torrents—well, what did it matter to them?

So it was with Cao Cao’s massacres.

Those born in later, peaceful eras, raised to abhor the atrocities of invaders, look back and condemn Cao Cao’s slaughter, seeing it as indefensible.

But to those of the time, it was nothing extraordinary.

Even after such killings, they did not think too ill of Cao Cao—at most, they thought him excessively ruthless.

Even the likes of Xun Yu, the model gentleman, merely advised Cao Cao not to attack Xuzhou, without much comment on the slaughter of the populace.

Ultimately, in the eyes of Han scholars, the common people were worth less than grass.

Countless powerful ministers emerged before the Tang and Song dynasties.

But after the Tang and Song? How many were there?

This was because, before those times, government was dominated by the great aristocratic families.

Without the imperial examination, commoners had no hope of rising.

From the Han through the Three Kingdoms and the Southern and Northern Dynasties, it was always a struggle between emperors and the aristocratic clans—only those great families could contend with the throne.

Even Emperor Wu of Jin, Sima Yan, though a founding emperor, was once filled with anticipation and asked his ministers what sort of ruler he was. He was immediately rebuked, told he was inferior even to the worthless Emperors Huan and Ling of Han. Sima Yan dared not utter a word in protest.

If this had happened in the Qing dynasty, the emperor would have had them executed on the spot.

Thus, what these so-called noble families lamented was not the chaos, nor the suffering of the people.

What they grieved was the decline of their own power in troubled times.

What Wang Can longed for was the glory of his family in its heyday, when his grandfather and great-grandfather held high office.

He yearned for the court to suppress the rebellion, so that under the shade of his ancestors’ achievements, he might return to serve, restoring his family’s prestige.

As for the woes of the common people—well, as ever, what did they matter to him?