Everyone chatted as they walked, and before long, they arrived at the outskirts of Luoyang City.
At this time, many wealthy families had come out to stroll in the countryside.
Yuan Shu was racing horses in the suburbs with a group of playful younger followers, while Mengde led Dahuang and Collie along the path, continuing the conversation about the Xiongnu.
Yuan Shao and several other young noblemen, curious about the border regions, sat nearby listening to Mengde and Liu Bei talk.
“So after giving up on costly expeditions, does the Han court have any other ways to solve the northern border problems?” Mengde asked Liu Bei, raising another possibility.
“Perhaps the Han could establish commanderies and counties in the north and bring the nomads under the governance of Han administration?”
“But if you think about it even a little, you’ll realize that this is just as much a losing proposition. The vast grasslands hold only around one to two million people in total—less than the population of a single Han commandery—yet the northern steppe covers an area comparable to the entirety of the Han heartlands.”
“That means if the Han wants to establish effective rule over the steppe, it would have to spend twice as much on administrative costs as it does now—building a bureaucratic system with about the same number of officials as it already has, just to govern a population smaller than one commandery.”
“And the taxes those nomads could pay wouldn’t even match what a single commandery brings in. A nomadic household might only be able to contribute one cow or sheep per year at most, whereas a farming household in the Han can pay twenty to thirty shi of grain annually. So you tell me—which one is more valuable?”
Liu Bei thought for a moment before replying.
“Currently, a draft ox costs about 10,000 coins, but a beef cow only goes for two or three thousand… roughly the same value as a farmer’s grain tax. But in terms of actual utility… twenty shi of grain can feed a soldier for an entire year. A single beef cow? A month, maybe. And it’s far less convenient to preserve than grain.”
“So, in terms of value to the court, grain is much more practical than cattle.”
“Very good.”
Mengde nodded approvingly.
“I didn’t expect you to see past the market price of an ox and recognize that a beef cow, when used as tax, is worth far less than grain.”
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, the conclusion is obvious. If the Han truly wanted to maintain rule over the grasslands, the state would have to spend billions more coins each year.Tell me—do you think that’s money well spent?”
“That… maybe not,” Liu Bei admitted with a shake of his head.
***
It was then that Yuan Shao suddenly had a realization and spoke up.
“So that’s why Emperor Guangwu relocated the Southern Xiongnu and the Wuhuan into the frontier commanderies?”
“Since it’s hard to administer the nomads out on the steppe, wouldn’t it be easier to govern them once they’ve been moved inside the borders?”
“You’re exactly right. That was probably Guangwu Emperor’s reasoning,” Mengde agreed.
“But he failed to consider one thing—when he relocated the nomads from the steppe, the people left behind would continue to reproduce.”
“By moving the Southern Xiongnu and Wuhuan into the frontier, he created a power vacuum on the steppe. That vacuum allowed the Xianbei to rise later on.”
“So does that mean the Han truly has no way to rule the grasslands? But even the steppe tribes have their own royal courts. How do they manage to govern all their various tribes?”
“Through war,” Mengde said grimly, her voice tinged with cold honesty.
“In the past, Modu Chanyu killed his own father, Touman Chanyu, without hesitation to claim the Xiongnu throne. Yizhixie Chanyu, the brother of Junchen Chanyu, attacked and killed Junchen’s son Yudan to seize power for himself.”
“The nomadic tribes are like wolves of the steppe. Their rules are simple: if you’re strong, you rule; if you’re weak, the subordinate tribes will rebel. During the reigns of Emperor Zhao and Emperor Xuan, the Southern Xiongnu were loyal to the Han. But what about now?”
“On paper, they still pledge allegiance to the Han. But in secret, they’ve already started raiding our border people.”
***
At this point, the girl’s tone took on a playful edge as she gave Liu Bei a sidelong glance.
“If you want the Han to rule the nomads as effectively as the Xiongnu royal court does, there is a way—just make imperial succession as brutal as theirs.”
“It might not guarantee that every emperor is as capable as Emperor Wen or Emperor Wu, but at least you’ll end up with someone like Emperor Jing as a minimum standard.”
“But would you dare suggest that to His Majesty?”
“Let’s… not,” Liu Bei replied, shaking his head once more.
Liu Bei’s scalp tingled with unease.
Suggesting to His Majesty that the succession be decided by spilling the blood of the Xiongnu’s own kin? The moment the emperor hears such a proposal, he’d probably have Liu Bei—the Han imperial clansman—killed on the spot.
“So under the current circumstances,” Mengde said, “it’s simply impossible for the Han dynasty to rule the northern grasslands for an extended period.”
As she spoke, she waved at Collie, motioning for the dog to come into her arms.
Then she gently turned its head toward Liu Bei.
“For the Han dynasty to have a lasting hold on the grasslands, the most basic requirement is to make the grasslands prosperous. They don’t need to reach the level of the Central Plains, but at the very least, Han officials stationed here shouldn’t need to rely on the inland treasury just to get paid. Our great Han army, when riding across the grasslands, shouldn’t have to rely on grain shipments from the heartland.”
“And to achieve that, the first step is to allow each herder to raise more livestock. A person’s energy is limited. Right now, a typical grassland herder can manage, at most, ten animals. With that, there’s no way for them to become wealthy. But what if each herder could raise a hundred sheep? Wouldn’t that lead to prosperity?”
“Raising sheep… herding sheep… sheepdogs!”
Liu Bei’s eyes lit up as he looked at Collie in Mengde’s arms—a border collie—and he couldn’t resist reaching out to vigorously ruffle its furry head.
“So dogs like Collie can help the herders manage their flocks?”
“Of course they can.”
Mengde answered with certainty.
“Collie is a breed developed by Roman commoners specifically for herding. The Roman Empire’s environment is quite different from ours. It has abundant rainfall and a mildly cold climate, but it’s not as harsh as the northern grasslands. Over there, farmers can both farm and raise livestock.”
“In contrast, the nomadic tribes of the northern grasslands have to constantly worry about how to fill their bellies due to the harsh conditions. As for our Han commoners, they may have time to think about improving crop yields, but because we don’t herd livestock, we’ve never thought about how to improve animal husbandry or how to help grassland herders raise more animals.”
“But the Roman commoners—because they could both eat well and had the free time—put real thought into this. And with so many of them raising livestock, someone eventually came up with the idea of using herding dogs.”
“Even a single Collie can easily manage several dozen sheep. If you had a few of them working together, handling over a hundred sheep would be no problem. That means a family of five, with a few dogs, could effortlessly manage two or three hundred sheep on a fixed pasture. In that case, wouldn’t the herders of the grasslands become wealthy?”
“What a strange and wonderful world we live in…”
Liu Bei shook his head in amazement.
Then he looked up and asked, “If herding dogs are this useful, then what about that other dog, Dahuang? What’s it good for?”
“Dahuang is a hunting dog,” Mengde explained.
“It’s used for tracking. Its skill lies in being able to follow a person’s scent from over a hundred li away. With that, officials can easily find where the herders have gone.”
“And with that, we wouldn’t need to worry about getting lost on the grasslands anymore.”
“That amazing? Even Zhang Qian once got lost on the grasslands!”
“Zhang Qian may have been brilliant,” Mengde said, rolling her eyes, “but he wasn’t a dog. He couldn’t sniff out a trail left behind days earlier!”
***
At that moment, Yuan Shao suddenly stood up and cupped his hands toward Mengde.
“Miss Mengde is so wise. Surely, in the future, she will become a virtuous minister like Lady Ban!”
[Ban Dajia, or Ban Zhao, was a respected scholar and official. In this alternate version of the late Han dynasty, women with a special destiny—called ‘fated women’—exist, and the status of ordinary women has improved significantly. Women are now allowed to become officials.]
[However, just like in Mengde’s previous life, most female officials still only serve at the grassroots level. Ban Zhao was one of the few women to reach the upper echelons of power—and she wasn’t even a fated woman.]
Mengde had always kept a low profile and never revealed that she was a fated woman.
Even her father, Cao Song, believed she was just an exceptionally intelligent ordinary girl.
The biggest difference between a fated woman and an ordinary one is that a fated woman doesn’t age until after the age of fifty.
So as long as Mengde kept her current appearance, she could maintain her disguise until she turned thirty.
But once she reached thirty and still looked the same, even a fool would start to suspect the truth—that Mengde was, in fact, a fated woman.
By then, though, the Ling Emperor would already be dead, and Dong Zhuo would have entered the capital.
So even if her identity was exposed at that point, no one would be able to do anything to her.