Unlike the idyllic countryside life romanticized by many city dwellers, ancient rural life was far from leisurely.
Similarly, life on the ancient steppe was not simply about drinking, feasting on meat, or galloping freely across the grasslands.
Just think about it: if a person needed two jin (roughly one kilogram) of lamb a day to feel full, then they would consume at least one sheep per month, amounting to twelve sheep a year.
Most nomadic tribes on the northern steppe had populations ranging from one to two million.
Using the lower end of one million as a baseline, that means the steppe would have to supply twelve million sheep per year.
And to maintain a sustainable breeding population, they would need to keep at least forty million sheep.
But could the ancient steppe actually support that many animals? The answer is a clear no.
Even in modern times, the Inner Mongolian grasslands raise only about sixty million meat sheep, with the entire Mongolian steppe contributing roughly another hundred million.
These figures are with the benefit of modern agricultural technology and fully developed grasslands.
Given those limits, how could the ancient steppe—with none of that infrastructure—possibly raise forty million sheep? In reality, it could support at most five to six million.
According to the Book of Han, “The next year, Qing again emerged from Yunzhong, traveled west to Gaque, and reached Longxi, capturing several thousand enemies and over a million livestock, then pursued the Baiyang and Loufan kings.”
This describes General Wei Qing’s campaign to reclaim the area south of the Yellow River’s Great Bend during Emperor Wu of Han’s reign.
This region—known as “Henan” at the time—was the most prosperous section of the steppe.
And yet, even in this richest part of the grasslands, after expelling the Baiyang and Loufan tribes, Wei Qing captured only about a million head of livestock total—cattle, sheep, and horses combined.
If this was the livestock count in the most prosperous region, the rest of the steppe would have had far fewer.
If a nomad wanted to eat meat daily, they would need to personally own over a hundred head of cattle and sheep just to meet their needs.
A single family would need two to three hundred.
But how much livestock did people on the steppe actually have per person?
In reality, ten animals per person was already considered quite good.
A later historical source, Yan Pu Za Ji: Mongol Diets of Fermented Milk, records: [Among the Mongols, the staples are mutton and fermented milk, yet even so, not all can eat meat. When I was in Mulan, one Mongol soldier who spoke Chinese explained, ‘Only nobles and lords can eat meat regularly. For people like us, the poor and lowborn, we only slaughter a sheep during festivals. Even then, several households must take turns being hosts and share the meat. That’s our one chance to eat meat in a year.’]
In short, only the aristocrats could eat meat frequently on the steppe.
For ordinary herders, eating meat two or three times a year was already a luxury.
Their daily diet mostly consisted of wild grass seeds and dairy products.
During times of shortage, some even resorted to drinking the blood of their cattle and sheep.
***
As for what Liu Bei once mentioned—manure—it’s not hard to imagine.
Given the sanitation standards of ancient nomadic societies, and the sheer number of livestock they kept, animal droppings were naturally everywhere.
In such conditions, food being contaminated with dung was unfortunately quite common.
In the Eastern Studio Chronicles from the Northern Song dynasty, there’s a passage that reads: “I once visited the Khitan. My companion, Xiao Qing, told me, ‘The Dadan people do not eat grain. Each household keeps one or two milking cows. They drink the milk, but do not eat meat. They even drink cow dung water. Their intestines are like rope—so strong that even an arrow wound won’t kill them.’”
The Tatars didn’t eat grain.
On most days, they kept only one or two cows at home.
They drank milk from those cows, but never ate the cows themselves.
Even if the milk was mixed with animal dung, they could still drink it.
Because of this unique lifestyle, their intestines became tough like tendons.
Even if they were struck by arrows, they could survive.
The commoners among the ancient nomads were practically legendary rats—legendary hunger survivors too.
They could eat just about anything and usually ate very little.
If they had grain on hand, they would cook millet porridge and drink a bowl each morning.
That was enough to keep them full for the entire day.
If they didn’t have any grain, they drank goat’s milk and cow’s milk or ate some cheese.
If even that wasn’t available, they’d go hunting.
Even rats were fair game.
And if they truly couldn’t find anything to eat, they could go two or three days without food and still endure.
When they did get the rare chance to eat meat, they would save the animal’s bones afterward and hang them from their waists.
Later, when hunger struck, they would lick the bones and suck the marrow until there was no taste left.
Only then would they throw the bones away.
In truth, the reason the Mongols were able to campaign all the way into Europe was precisely because of their incredible endurance.
Mongol cavalry could sleep on horseback while galloping, and go two or three days without eating anything at all.
If they felt hungry, they would slice open a vein in their horse and drink a bit of its blood.
With that, they could continue fighting for ten days straight.
Their enemies would often collapse from exhaustion, unable to withstand the prolonged pursuit.
So even though the lives of nomadic tribes were harsh, their combat abilities were far from weak.
These people, in modern terms, were basically armed refugees.
***
After hearing Liu Bei describe the miserable lives of nomadic commoners, some of those present began to feel sympathy for them.
One noble youth standing behind Yuan Shao sighed and said, “Now that I think about it, maybe those Xianbei raiders who come in autumn and winter aren’t entirely unforgivable…”
Mengde turned sharply to glare at him and snapped, “The Xianbei are pitiful? Yes, they’re pitiful—but does that mean our Han people deserve to be slaughtered and robbed just because they’re poor?”
“Well… I didn’t mean—”
“Shut your mouth!”
Yuan Shao barked at the man behind him.
The young noble realized he had misspoken and immediately shrank back behind Yuan Shao, not daring to say another word.
Mengde turned back to Liu Bei and continued, “It’s exactly because these nomads are so poor that waging war against them is always a bad investment for the Han court. Even in the most successful campaigns against the Xiongnu, like those led by Huo Qubing, every battle ended in a net loss.”
“Take the decisive Battle of Mobei, for example. Huo Qubing captured hundreds of thousands of livestock from the Left Wise Prince’s forces—many of which were horses. At a glance, it seems like the Han gained more than they lost. Yes, we lost about 100,000 warhorses, but captured at least 150,000 horses from the Xiongnu. But if you look closer, you’ll see the problem: Xiongnu horses are short-legged grass-eaters. Han horses, on the other hand, are tall, grain-fed, and even need to be fed eggs during wartime!”
“Trading 100,000 carefully raised Han warhorses for the same number of Xiongnu nags? The court didn’t just lose—they lost big time! And the most frustrating part? Even after the Han put in all that effort to wipe out the Xiongnu, within a hundred years, the Xianbei rose up on the very same land.”
“These nomadic tribes are like rats. No matter how harsh the environment, no matter how many you kill, they always come back. Now you still want the court to raise taxes and send troops to campaign against the Xianbei?”
“Then… maybe not.
Even if a military campaign would give the border people some relief, how many innocent civilians in the interior would lose their homes and families because of it?”
Liu Bei gave a sheepish smile as he spoke.