The Gold Silkworm Dynasties: Book One

By Bradley Marques

581 CE: Yang Jian assumes the Tiānmìng, the Mandate of Heaven, and ascends the jade stair of The Dragon Throne. His nation has been divided for over three centuries, and is beset by enemies from outside, and within. Warring nations, insidious plots, feints, deceptions, and power struggles between peasantry and social elites make the end of the Northern and Southern Dynasties one of the most chaotic periods in the history of China. With his loving wife, the Empress Dugu Qieluo, by his side will he have the strength to forge an empire between the four seas, or will he be trampled to dust to be washed away in the waters of the Huáng Hé?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bradley Marques
• Release date: Dec 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005398323

Bradley Marques

I am a writer, historian, software engineer, game designer, husband, and father to two furry babies. I have a keen interest in history, particularly the middle ages, and explore history through writing.

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The Gold Silkworm Dynasties

Book One

Bradley Marques

Copyright © 2021 Bradley Marques

All rights reserved.

Published by Bradley Marques at Smashwords.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art designed by Bradley Marques. Background image obtained from Wikimedia Commons and is in the Public Domain.

ISBN-13: 9781005398323

This version compiled on:

Tuesday, 05 January 2021 13:17:50 SAST

To Natasia

It was the fifth day of the fifth month,

and there was the solar eclipse.

In the south, the mighty winds picked up on the mountains,

and blew down the trees.

In the north, the rains moulded the millet,

and it flew away.

In the vessel made of gold we placed the centipedes,

and they devoured one another.

In the vessel we placed the scorpions and snakes,

and they stung each other to death.

With each generation, the chong's venom concentrated,

and became more deadly.

Until there was only one chong left,

and we named this chong the gold silkworm.

Neither the fire, the water, the weapons nor the swords

could do any harm to it.

The gold silkworm and its ordure was poisonous,

and with it one could rule

the three rivers,

and the five mountains,

as Emperor.

Or Empress.

Spring 581

CHAPTER ONE

Chai: A Northern Family Shares News

一二三。 Yī, èr, sān. One, two, three. Every morning, Chai Shao counted the legs on the small wooden stool on which he sat. There were always one, two, three. The air was getting warmer, foretelling a hot spring in the farming village of Lijin. Chai Shao swung his short legs to and fro and held his hands against the rough underside of the stool: frogs just beneath the water. He pivoted one thin finger and touched the stool’s legs as he counted them again: one, two, three. It was his mother, Chai Shu, who had taught him to count a few years ago. He was now six years old, and, since last winter, he had found it soothing to count things. The subject of tallying was irrelevant: the number of dogs he saw on his way to help his mother in the millet fields; the number of cranes nesting in the willows beside the Huáng Hé¹; the number of times in a day his brother teased him; or the number of times his mother told him I love you. He knew that the other children in the village did not count things as much as he did. He knew this because he had asked his older brother, Chai Gang, whom he idolised. When Chai Shao had asked Chai Gang if he counted things, it seemed like he had never even thought of doing so unless he needed to. Chai Shao had also asked the other boys and girls in the village – he knew there were eighteen children, in all – posing the question very carefully, cautious not to let anyone suspect that he did this embarrassing act. Because nobody else in the whole village did it, he thought that maybe he was mad. Embarrassed, he didn’t tell anyone that he counted things, and tried to do so either in silence or out loud when only the pigs and dogs were in earshot.

Lijin village, nestled beside the Huáng Hé,

wherein lives the little monkey, Chai Shao.

Empires are built on roadways and waterways.

Chai Shao builds them in his mind.

Li Daiyu, Lijin Village, The Hundred Poems

Chai Shao was a slight boy, even for his age, but he had a round face, big eyes and flushed cheeks. His hair grew in a black tuft perched atop his head, like a crane’s nest, and was similarly unkempt. His arms and legs were thin; a diet of millet with only the occasional fish or pork was not very nutritious. He had his father’s nose: short, fat and upward-facing: a pig’s snout. It was as if after all these years of working with the animals, his father had slowly started to turn into a pig. Chai Shao wore simple brown cloth attire and shoes made of two pieces of pig hide sewn together by the village clothier. His clothes and shoes had holes in them – they were hand-me-downs from Chai Gang. They were patched, had torn, and had been patched again. The nine-year-old Chai Gang was more muscular and taller than his brother. His eyes were smaller, and slightly downward slanting. His face was long, and he didn’t have his father’s nose, but his mother’s: petite and delicate.

Two brothers, opposites both,

One the monkey and the other the bull.

At Xiapi did Cao Cao defeat Lü Bu²,

Upon what fields shall monkey and bull battle?

Li Daiyu, Two Brothers, The Hundred Poems

The bowl of boiled millet steamed as it lay on the dark wooden table before Chai Shao. In the freezing cold of winter, he would have scoffed down the breakfast, but in the rising heat of a spring day, he was in no rush. Instead, he pivoted his finger again and counted the number of legs on the stool. As always, there were three. A few weeks before, he had tried counting the number of grains of millet in his little breakfast bowl. He had reached two-hundred, but that was as far as mother had taught him. Maybe one day when I am as old and as clever as papa is, he thought, I will be able to count to a thousand!

Eat your breakfast, Chai Shao, his father said brusquely from across the table. Chai Shao’s father’s name was Chai Yong, and his pig-nose moved up and down as he spoke.

What comes after two-hundred? Chai Shao asked.

"Two-hundred-and-one, chǔn zhū³!" blurted the scornful voice of his brother, who sat next to him.

Let your brother ask his questions, Chai Gang! disciplined the boys’ mother. Unlike her husband and two sons, Chai Shu was not seated at the table. She was already getting ready for a day in the fields and tied a piece of olive-green cloth around her head to stop the sweat running down her forehead and into her eyes while she worked.

You’re all making a lot of noise, moaned her father, Zhang Tao, from a bottom bunk in their small, humid, single-roomed house. Zhang Tao swung his thin old legs off the bunk and slowly rose to his feet. With a wide smile, showing only three yellowed teeth (Chai Shao counted them every morning) he beamed at his family. Don’t you know a decrepit ox is trying to sleep in here? he joked.

Good morning father, said Chai Shu, as she approached him. She took his forearm, and led him, shuffling, to the breakfast table.

Good morning my child, good morning my boys, said Zhang Tao.

Chai Shao and Chai Gang chimed their greeting in unison.

Zhang Tao groaned, out of breath, as Chai Shu helped lower him onto a wooden stool at the table. Tell me, he asked Chai Yong, managing to catch his breath, what news of my son?

Chai Yong replied, I have heard nothing of Zhang Heng, nor Chai Ping. Last they sent word, they were both in the capital of Chang’an. Zhang Heng was Zhang Tao’s son and Chai Shu’s older brother. Chai Yong’s twin brother was Chai Ping, and though they were twins, the two brothers were as different as the pig and the leopard. Whereas Chai Yong wanted to live the quiet life of a stockman, with his wife, father-in-law and two sons by his side, Chai Ping could think of nothing worse. The latter had never married, didn’t have children, and hated what he considered to be the sedentary and boring life of a rural farmer. Under the fǔbīng zhì⁴, about two years prior, both Chai Ping and Zhang Heng had been conscripted as peasant soldiers to deal with Göktürk⁵ raids in these northern regions. For other families, this was a huge detriment as the head of the house was not only away from their fields and animals for months – if not years – at a time, but often didn’t return. For Chai Ping, tired of living in a small village in the northern plains, and without much in the way of commitments, the conscription was a blessing. He had eagerly joined the ranks of some three hundred thousand other peasant conscripts. As far as Chai Yong could tell, Zhang Heng was much less keen to dedicate his life to soldiery.

And is your brother still happy with the soldier’s life, or does he long for the life of the pig farmer? asked Zhang Tao of Chai Yong, with a yellow-toothed smirk on his face – he knew Chai Ping well and already knew the answer.

Spring was the season for harvesting millet, and Chai Shu picked up her woven reed basket for this purpose. It was she who answered her father’s question. Oh, you know him; he likes pig farming as much as a pig likes writing poetry! she answered. Chai Shao didn’t understand the joke, but the others laughed heartily.

I’ve never seen a pig write poetry! Chai Shao exclaimed.

They laughed again. The jollity of the joke wore off quickly though, and more sobering thoughts entered the minds of the three adults. Life was treacherous for a soldier, and they all feared for the lives of Zhang Heng and Chai Ping. Their empire was surrounded by enemies: the huge Chen Empire to the south; the small independent nation of Western Liang to the southeast; the Goguryeo Empire to the northeast; the Tuyuhun empire to the west; and of course, probably the most real threat for the northern village of Lijin, the fearsome Göktürk Khaganate of the northern steppes⁶. Only last winter, the village had been raided by these nomadic horsemen. Several villagers had been killed, a few houses razed, and nearly half the pigs stolen. The thought of pigs reminded Chai Yong of the work that lay ahead of him that day. Eager to start, he again told Chai Shao to eat his breakfast. Reluctantly, the boy picked up his chopsticks and began eating the hot meal. As Chai Shu was about to bid her family farewell, a figure approached the house and emerged from the hazy pale yellow light outside.

Good morning, Chai Shu. The man’s polite voice entered the room, and shortly afterwards, the man himself. Like many folk in the north, Kwan Mergen was not fully of the ethnicity of the old Han⁷ Empire. He had narrow, down-turned eyes, and thick bronzed skin. He’s likely got Xianbei⁸ or even Göktürk blood in him, Chai Yong had often thought.

Chai Shu excused herself. Forgive me husband, but I have to leave. The other women are waiting for me. It was good to see you, Kwan Mergen, you’re looking well.

And you, Chai Shu. Your and your husband’s hard work puts the rest of us to shame, replied Kwan Mergen, politely. They smiled at each other for a moment, but then Chai Shu left the house, stepping into the mugginess outside.

With the familiarity of an old family friend, Kwan Mergen pulled out a stool and sat at the Chai family’s breakfast table. Little Chai Shao still battled to force down the hot food in the swelling heat of the day. How are you, young horse-master? asked Kwan Mergen of him. Horse-master was what Kwan Mergen called Chai Shao, even though the boy was much too young to have ever ridden a horse: he was not a Göktürk child, who would have practically been born into the saddle. Behind a mouthful of steaming millet, came an incomprehensible reply, yellow grains sputtering on the table. Chai Yong frowned and looked offended. Good! Kwan Mergen said, even though neither he nor anyone else present understood a word Chai Shao had said. He glanced at Chai Gang – who was staring at his own feet – and didn’t offer any greeting. Kwan Mergen did not have a nickname for Chai Gang. After a moment, he swung his gaze to the other side of the table. Good morning Zhang Tao! How’s the hip today?

Oh, getting better now that spring is finally here!

So glad to hear it! Now we just have to deal with this damnable heat! Finally, Kwan Mergen looked at Chai Yong.

Did you hear about the Duke of Sui? Chai Yong asked of his friend, excited to share in the news that he had recently heard.

The Duke of Sui? Do you mean our regent, Yang Jian? What of him?

As you know, I like to keep informed of news from the cities, so I was talking to a pedlar visiting here from the city of Luoyang. Chai Shao was listening and had no idea where Luoyang was, or what a city might even look like. He wondered what kinds of things one could count in cities. Were there pigs in cities? Were there cranes? Chai Yong continued, "The child-emperor Jing has granted the nine bestowments⁹ on Yang Jian. The Tiānmìng¹⁰ has been granted to him! Yang Jian is no longer our regent, but our new emperor!"

Great news! rejoiced Kwan Mergen.

Zhang Tao looked equally happy and rapped the table with two frail, wrinkled hands. The Duke of Sui is a fair and just person. This is a boon for us all! he said behind his three yellowed teeth. Although I shouldn’t call him by his old title; what is he calling himself?

Emperor Wen, replied Chai Yong, proudly.

Emperor Wen of Sui, beamed Kwan Mergen, testing the name of his – of everyone’s – new emperor.

Chai Shao was listening intently with a mouthful of yellow grain but didn’t understand all the words the adults used. After a hard swallow, he asked: Father, what’s a regent?

Quiet hissed his brother, kicking him under the table.

The adults didn’t seem to hear the children. Kwan Mergen looked thoughtful, and mused So the Empire of Northern Zhou is no longer… our lands are now called Sui.

That’s not even the half of it, continued Chai Yong. Emperor Wen has decreed that not only is Northern Zhou now Sui but that all lands under heaven, including Chen, rightfully fall under the Sui banner!

Both Zhang Tao and Kwan Mergen looked incredulous at this news. "He’s planning to unite all lands under heaven? One empire?" asked Zhang Tao.

That’s impossible! added Kwan Mergen, simply. Our lands have been divided into The Northern and Southern Dynasties for over three centuries. To imagine a land united as the Han of old is... he searched for the words, and lowered his voice as he spoke them, suddenly realising that what he was saying could be construed as treasonous, woefully misguided.

Chai Yong nodded. Perhaps. But if any man can do such a thing, Yang Jian is he.

Papa, where is Chen? piped up little Chai Shao.

Again, the adults were absorbed in their conversation and did not hear Chai Shao’s question. After a few minutes of further discussion, Chai Yong said, It’s getting late, and these pigs won’t feed themselves. He nodded to Kwan Mergen, who was a fellow stockman. Let’s get to it then. The two younger men stood up from the table and made their way outside. Chai Shao still had so many questions.

Chai Yong and Kwan Mergen left the house talking about the work needed for the day – which pigs needed castration, and which ones were looking underfed.

Chai Shao turned his attention to his grandfather. Grandpapa, what’s an emperor?

An emperor? asked Zhang Tao, partly rhetorically, and partly to make sure his old ears had heard correctly. Why, an emperor is the Son of Heaven itself!

CHAPTER TWO

Yang: The Son of Heaven

Carved figures of dragons swirled around his head. The dark wooden eyes glinted in pink dawn light. Two jade lions, each as tall as a man’s waist, stood patiently at either of his flanks, his elbows resting atop their heads. The one of his left wore a scowl of retribution: the one on his right, a smile of promised rewards. The Son of Heaven sat on The Dragon Throne, with straight back, sharp eyes, keen ears, and tented fingers.

The room before him was filled with court officials, who knelt on the floor, their heads bowed and hands resting in their laps. Wan-sui! Wan-sui! Wan-sui! Thrice they wished him a long life. They were in the imperial audience chamber in Weiyang Palace, in the capital city of Chang’an. It was a mild spring morning, but the breeze was cool – a gentle reminder of the winter that had just passed. Along the edge of the room stood twelve members of the Imperial Guard, six on each side, all armed with ji¹, long staffs at the end of which was an iron spike and curved blade.

Yang Jian’s beard was light, the hair thin, and it moved with the breeze. He wore a black gown not of silk, but of cloth, long and loose. Red sashes made of crude braided rope crisscrossed his front and waist. The ends of his skirt were hemmed with red stitching, which was not ornate, but pragmatic. On his head, he wore a mianguan², a headdress consisting of a black board, longer than it was wide, with strings of jewels dangling at the ends. His dress was rather simple, at least, for the Emperor of All Under Heaven. His face was beautiful and radiant, and his eyes were deep with wisdom and intelligence beyond his mere forty years. And yet in those eyes, there was something else...

Yang Jian, the Emperor of Sui, dismissed the others in the chamber, save for the Imperial Guards and but four men who sat closest to him; his four most senior advisors. They knelt on the floor before low tables set in a semi-circle, two on either side of The Dragon Throne. Yang Jian appraised them.

First, he looked at Gao Jiong. He wore a full-length blue robe, with a green flower embroidered on the chest, a red sash as a belt, and a zhan chi fu tou³, with wings of black material behind his head. In his hands, in the pockets of his robe, and in front of him on a small wooden table, were various books, scrolls and papers. Gao Jiong was not only a mighty general, but also the head advisor for civil administration, and was tasked with ensuring that the cogs of Emperor Wen’s newly-formed bureaucracy turned smoothly and quickly.

Second, his eyes met those of Li Delin, his religious advisor. He was an old man, already in his sixties, with thin white hair, white beard, and white tufts sticking out his large fleshy ears and equally large and equally fleshy nose. He wore a simple light-green robe fastened with a frayed brown cord, without any adornment or decoration, as the teachings of Kǒng Fūzǐ⁴ proffered.

Third, he looked at his military advisor, the tiger of a man, Yang Su (although Yang Su shared a family name with Yang Jian, the two were not related). The dawn light danced and glinted over Yang Su’s suit of lamellar armour – small squares of polished steel bound together with cord. The red cloth garments he wore under the armour were simple – a warrior’s garb for an unostentatious man. He shifted this way and that in his seat, more used to being on horseback and leading a march than sitting in protracted civil meetings. What struck most people about Yang Su was two-fold. The first was his eyes – they were constantly moving, scanning for threats and looking for weaknesses. The second was the large scar that ran down the right side of his face, from forehead to jawline – red and angry, it was a recent wound from a battle with the Göktürks. Emperor Wen had often thought that when Yang Su got impatient, it seemed the scar on the right of his face grew hotter and angrier. It did so now, he noted. The man’s impatience was probably, he thought, due to the prolonged meeting, that had begun at dawn.

Last, he met the level gaze of egotistical, young Su Wei. In contrast to the simplicity of the others’ clothes (including his own), Su Wei wore an expensive yellow-and-gold silk robe and carried himself with the haughtiness of one used to the life of the aristocracy. He is just like his father, Emperor Wen thought, but his name lends great weight to my claim on the throne. Emperor Wen noticed something curious: his two more impetuous and brash advisors, Yang Su and Su Wei were sitting to the left of the throne, next to the scowling jade lion. The two more temperate and restrained advisors – Li Delin and Gao Jiong – sat to the right, under the gaze of the smiling lion. He wondered if they had planned that. They probably did. Different though all were, all four had a level of meticulousness and detail-oriented thinking that he had never seen in anyone else. That’s exactly why I chose them, thought the equally meticulous administrator, Yang Jian, and it is why I only trust them – and my wife, of course – for counsel.

Only four men sit beside the Son of Heaven,

Forty-five million lives under their governance.

The tiger should not play among the sheep.

What decisions will these tigers make?

Zhang Heng, Poems

As agreed upon before the meeting, after the remaining lesser officials had shuffled out of the hall’s huge wooden doors, Yang Jian’s wife, Dugu Qieluo entered the audience chamber. Most would say that she was not beautiful, but in the Emperor’s eyes, she was the most gorgeous creature between the four seas. Her face, though harsh of feature (as typical of one of Xianbei descent), was warm, and she was smiling as she approached her husband. Despite it being improper to do so during a council meeting, he stood from The