Before long, the time it takes to brew a cup of tea had passed, yet the group of officials still hadn’t settled on Zhu Ping’an’s reward.
“Gentlemen, if anyone’s got a bright idea, don’t hold back—spit it out! If we can’t decide on Zhu Ping’an’s reward soon, we’ll have no way to face His Majesty. If he asks again, we’ll catch the blame for sure.”
Wang, the Left Vice Minister of Personnel, was getting antsy.
“If just dropping the ‘acting’ bit feels too stingy, why not tack on some extra perks?” one official suggested.
Wang’s eyes lit up—he’d found a lifeline. “Oh, good point, good point! But what else could we add?”
The official who’d spoken piped up again. “How about a noble title? Zhu Ping’an isn’t your typical civil official—he’s earned military merit. Couldn’t we treat him as a martial official and grant him a title based on the ‘major merit’ or ‘accumulated minor merits’ system, tied to his sea sacrifice achievements? Is that doable?”
“Major merit” and “accumulated minor merits” were the two main frameworks for granting titles in the Ming Dynasty.
“Major merit” titles were awarded for battlefield feats that propped up the empire itself, while “accumulated minor merits” applied to generals like Governors who, after years of guarding a region, earned a countship—and could climb higher with more deeds. These two modes covered wartime and peacetime, complementing each other.
“Zhu Ping’an’s feat in the sea sacrifice was just taking down two hundred ninety pirate heads and saving a few thousand civilians—it’s nowhere near the ‘major merit’ level of saving the realm! As for ‘accumulated minor merits,’ that’s a stretch too. He’s not a Governor-tier general, and this was one feat, not a tally of long-term service. If chopping two hundred-odd pirates in one go gets you a countship, with all the pirates plaguing Jiangnan, generals racking up that many heads wouldn’t be dime-a-dozen, but they’d hardly be rare either. If we handed out countships like that, titles would be two-a-penny!”
An official mulled it over, then stood to object, unconvinced a title was warranted.
No sooner had he finished than another chimed in. “Exactly. Back in the Zhengde era, they threw titles at a load of relatives, eunuch spawn, and sycophantic martial officials, mucking up the whole system. It wasn’t until His Majesty took the throne that he sorted the mess, stripping titles from Zhengde-era freeloaders and fake nobles. He’s dead serious about titles. Take old Lord Zhou Shangwen, who passed twenty-seven years into this reign—everyone knows him. He served as Datong’s Commander-in-Chief for ages, fending off the northern barbarian Ögedei time and again. Stellar record, rose to Left Governor—the highest martial rank—and got tagged with grand posts like Grand Guardian and Tutor to the Crown Prince, the first martial official to hit that trifecta. Yet he never got a title.”
Another picked up the thread. “Spot on. I remember—after Zhou died, Shen Shu from the Censorate’s Ritual Section petitioned to posthumously grant him a title. His Majesty flew into a rage, saying Zhou had begged for rewards too often and harboured grudges, and he’d only been spared punishment out of leniency. Then he handed Shen over to the Jinyiwei for questioning. Shows how careful His Majesty is with titles.”
Hearing the trio, Wang rubbed his chin, nodded, and thought it over. True, the Emperor was stingy and cautious with titles—best not to poke that bear and invite trouble.
But then how to settle Zhu Ping’an’s reward? Keep pushing him up the ranks? No way. Zhu had crossed Elder Yan’s son, Yan Xiaoge, who’d blacklisted him. Promoting him further would be like tugging Yan Xiaoge’s tail—and Wang couldn’t handle that temper.
As Wang and the others stewed, one official suddenly had a lightbulb moment, jumping up eagerly.
“No title, but we can grant hereditary honours or posthumous ranks! Our dynasty’s strict on those too—only merit, years of top evaluations, good governance, or battlefield wins qualify. Zhu Ping’an’s sea sacrifice feat—two hundred ninety pirate heads—fits the bill. We could honour his parents with ranks and extend hereditary benefits to his kids. I hear he’s married, and his wife’s about to pop. Granting honours to his unborn child rewards his merit and shows the court cares for his family. Win-win—why not?”
The official laid it out for the room.
“Blimey, how’d we miss that? Brilliant, brilliant! Lord Liu’s onto something—honours and hereditary perks!”
Wang couldn’t help but slap his thigh in excitement, wincing and grinning as he spoke.
No real promotion—just drop the ‘acting’ from his title—and pad it with honorary ranks and hereditary fluff.
It’s a sly way to keep Zhu Ping’an down.
That’d square things with Elder Yan and Yan Xiaoge. Elder Yan might even chalk up a favour for me—smooth sailing ahead!
The more Wang thought, the happier he got.
“Solid, solid—honours and hereditary perks sort Zhu Ping’an’s reward right out.”
The others nodded along.
“Right, let’s hash out the specifics of these honours and perks.”
“Zhu Ping’an’s mum’s already got an imperial citation—let’s bump her to a Lady of the Imperial Mandate. His wife can get one too.”
“Last time, Zhu got a hereditary perk for a son—a hundred-household rank. This time, grant another son a hereditary stipend, up one rank from the old system, at seventh rank.”
“Throw in some gold, silver, and silk to sweeten the deal.”
With a clear path, Wang and the officials quickly nailed down Zhu’s reward, putting it to paper.
“Gentlemen, I’ll run this by Elder Yan first. If he’s fine with it, we’ll hand it to Eunuch Wang.”
Wang picked up the final draft and stood, addressing the group.
“Off you go, Lord Wang,” they agreed without fuss.
Soon, Wang took the document to Yan Song. Yan glanced at it and set it aside.
“Fine, I trust you lot to handle it. My one rule: reward merit, don’t shortchange anyone who’s earned it. These are troubled times—northern barbarians, southern pirates popping up left and right. We need people now more than ever. Reward the worthy generously, set a shining example to boost morale and spur service to the realm.”
Yan Song stressed to Wang.
“Yes, yes, Elder’s wisdom is etched in my mind. I’ll not stint a single deserving soul.”
Wang exhaled in relief, bowing and nodding.
“The sea sacrifice rewards have dragged on long enough—everyone’s antsy. Get it to His Majesty quick and wrap it up,” Yan waved him off.
“As you command,” Wang nodded repeatedly.
