Zhu Ping’an hadn’t taken the rumor seriously before, but today’s events forced him to reconsider.
If Prefect Zhao had surrendered to the pirates, his recent baffling actions made sense:
– Leading 3,000 rabble to attack a city held by over 10,000 pirates.
– Camping fearlessly within range of the city’s crossbows and cannons.
– A frail scholar charging first, leading the assault.
– The pirates fleeing just before his attack, timing so precise he retook an empty city.
And so on.
With pirate collusion, these weren’t issues.
Other possibilities? None held up.
Don’t say his 3,000 scared off the pirates. When Jiaxing fell, Zhao had a fortified city and elite troops, yet 400 ragged pirates took it. Now they had over 10,000.
Coincidence? Zhu Ping’an didn’t buy it. Pirates fleeing right before Zhao’s heroic charge? Too neat.
Normally, pirates would’ve crushed Zhao’s exposed camp before leaving. Set within crossbow and cannon range, undefended—no palisades, chevaux-de-frise, watchtowers, or gates—it was a sitting duck.
Why didn’t they? The answer was obvious.
These were inferences, not proof.
But in such times, a potential traitor like Zhao warranted close watch. Zhu Ping’an’s gut told him: keep an eye on him, and surprises would follow.
While Zhao “retook” Jiaxing, thousands of miles away in the capital, the prisoner presentation at the Meridian Gate began.
Jinyiwei in ornate Flying Fish uniforms, hands on embroidered sabers, jogged down the Imperial Way to the Meridian Gate, splitting into two rows as honor guards.
Next, the Music Bureau entered.
Beyond managing folk music and registered performers, they handled court banquets, ceremonial dances, and plays. Today, they played to set the mood.
Skilled musicians, like the Jinyiwei, jogged down the Imperial Way with instruments, splitting into rows beside the guards, extending backward.
Officials followed.
The Honglu Temple and Ministry of Rites oversaw the ceremony. Two imposing officials, as ritual sponsors, stood facing each other before the gate.
Hundreds of key officials—Six Ministries, capital-based, and some foreign envoys—lined up south of the Imperial Way, east for civil, west for military, like at court.
Behind them, soldiers presented the captives.
Over 5,000 Jinyiwei, Factory Guards, and elite Capital Garrison troops secured the area from the Meridian Gate to the East Flower Gate.
Invited locals—village heads, gentry, elders—stood farther at the East Flower Way, barely glimpsing the Meridian Tower.
Common spectators were even farther, unable to see the gate, confined to West Market Street. Beyond, Factory Guards and Garrison troops set barricades, barring advance.
As dawn’s first light broke, the ceremony began.
Liu Mu and Zhejiang troops escorted 400+ pirate captives to the East Flower Gate, handing them to the Garrison for further escort.
The ceremony’s curtain rose.
Garrison soldiers led the 400+ captives from the East Flower Gate, each in chains, stretching hundreds of meters.
Crowds lined the streets, layers deep, countless.
Seeing the captives, the masses erupted.
The pirates wore reddish-brown prisoner garb—not white, as in plays—and red hats. White was too good for them.
Post-Sui and Tang, clothing colors tied to status. Wear the wrong color, you risked breaking sumptuary laws. Five-rank officials wore purple, six and below red or green, clerks blue, commoners white—hence “plain white.”
Prisoners, lower than commoners, got the cheapest garb: reddish-brown, dyed with ochre, easy to dye, dirt-resistant, reusable.
Street-side Factory Guards and Garrison troops maintained order, shouting sternly:
“No throwing rotten vegetables or eggs during the escort to the Meridian Gate! Violators will be punished!”
“After the ceremony, when they’re led out, throw all you want!”
These rules had been drilled into the crowd beforehand.
The people knew better, saving their rotten goods for after the ceremony.
But no rule banned cursing.
The crowd unleashed torrents of abuse, venting fury, tearing into the pirates.
“Damned cutthroats! Foreign pirates are bad enough, but you, Ming folk, turning traitor, selling out ancestors, harming people—shame on your eight generations!”
“Filthy pirates, curse your eighteen ancestors! Hell awaits—no whole corpse for you, no rebirth!”
“Die, die, die…”
The sheer mass of people, soldiers, and venomous curses left the battered pirates trembling in fear.
The biting wind didn’t dampen the crowd’s fervor. Relentless jeers thundered, chilling the thinly clad, barefoot captives further.
To torment them, they got only single-layer prisoner garb, no shoes.
The journey—wind, curses, shoves—wrecked their bodies and minds.
By the Meridian Gate, they were breaking.
“Kneel!”
The ritual officer barked.
Escorting soldiers mercilessly kicked their knees, forcing them down.
