Chapter Fifteen: An Acre of Sugarcane (Please Vote and Add to Favorites)

The Zheng family owned an estate of nearly a thousand acres on the outskirts of Luoyang. The villagers in the surrounding hamlets almost all relied on tenant farming the Zheng lands for their livelihood. With the farming season approaching, the tenants began to feel anxious. Although Emperor Wen of Sui had, since the founding of the Kaihuang era, continually promoted the equal-field system, the vast tracts of land occupied by the great clans were not so easily relinquished. Most of these lands were the Zhengs’ hereditary holdings, and even those considered “public fields” were not easily returned. In the family’s prime, the Zhengs had owned tens of thousands of acres in Luoyang alone. Now reduced to a mere thousand acres, it was, in a sense, a symbol of the decline of the eastern aristocratic families. Yet even a dying camel is larger than a horse: though the Zhengs were not what they once had been, they remained a decisive force in the region of the Luo River. Their standing did not lie in official rank, but in family reputation and prestige—qualities that the families of the east far surpassed the military aristocrats of Guanlong.

In early spring, the fields were already brimming with new life. Dozens of geomancers, led by the estate stewards, surveyed the land’s energies among the ridges. These geomancers were a specialized profession, distinct from the feng shui masters. Their chief duty was to inspect the fields each spring: deciding how to divide the land, which plots to leave fallow, which to sow. Without the geomancers’ assessment, no one would dare begin work lightly.

Watching the busy geomancers, Zheng Yanqing could not help but feel a surge of emotion. In these times, it truly seemed there were three hundred and sixty trades, and each could produce its own master. Who would have thought that surveying the land’s energies would become a profession? If ever there was a definition of expertise, this was it. In later ages, Yanqing had never seen such meticulous division of labor.

Several stewards trailed behind Zheng Shian, answering his questions and sometimes breaking into heated arguments. Yanqing, by contrast, was quite at leisure, wandering idly among the fields. Xu Shiji had not come; to him, such matters held no interest. In his own words, he would rather be at home reading or practicing boxing than wandering the estate. Yanqing, however, was instinctively drawn to observe—after all, he had participated in such events often enough in his previous life.

According to Zheng Shian, when the “Dragon Raises Its Head” festival arrived, the tenants would offer sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, praying for favorable weather and a good harvest. Perhaps that was why Yanqing had come along.

Seeing Zheng Shian busy, Yanqing borrowed a young donkey and rode around the estate. The early spring wind still held a trace of chill, but it was not biting. Brushing gently against him, it felt refreshing. The air was suffused with the scent of earth stored through a long winter; a deep breath left one feeling invigorated. Each autumn, after the harvest, the farmers would leave the stubble in the fields to nourish the land. After a winter’s fermentation, this natural fertilizer was transformed into life-giving energy for the soil. Breathing it in brought an indescribable sense of satisfaction—pleasant and uplifting.

“Hm?”

As he wandered aimlessly, Yanqing suddenly pulled the donkey to a halt.

“Little Eight?”

“Yes, Young Master Zheng!”

A boy of eleven or twelve ran up from behind the donkey. Though dressed as a farmhand, he was rather handsome. His surname was Mao, eighth in his family, a tenant’s son. In the countryside, children often had no given names, so everyone called him Mao Xiaoba—Little Eight. Over time, Little Eight became his name. Though Yanqing was merely the steward’s grandson, to the tenants, he was as distant as the heavens. After all, neither Master Zheng nor Renji would concern themselves with farming matters; it was stewards like Zheng Shian who truly held authority.

How much seed to distribute, how to divide the fields, the allocation of tools, oxen, and even the amount of rent—all were decided by the steward. A word from Zheng Shian could send a tenant to paradise or plunge him into hell. So, during this inspection, the stewards dared not neglect Yanqing, either.

Little Eight’s eldest sister was a concubine of the estate’s steward. Thus, the task of accompanying Yanqing fell to him.

Yanqing pointed with his riding whip toward a distant riverbank. “What’s planted over there?”

Little Eight replied, “Young Master, last year Steward Zheng brought sugarcane from Lingnan, hoping to make brown sugar for household use. But after planting, it didn’t grow well. Later, he heard that sugarcane requires special timing and methods and must be planted in sandy soil to yield sugar. The process seemed troublesome, so he abandoned the idea. That land was poor to begin with, so once the busy season started, the matter was forgotten. Steward said after the season, he’d clear the canes and let the field rest for a year before sowing again… Honestly, it’s not worth the trouble; the soil’s barren.”

The cultivation of sugarcane indeed differed from other crops. It had to be cut and buried in the earth as winter approached and frost threatened, avoiding low, wet ground. Then, five or six days before the spring rains, it was dug up, peeled, cut into segments, and laid out like fish scales, covered lightly with soil. It needed sprouting, transplanting, and sandy loam by the river for best results.

Clearly, Steward Zheng only knew to plant near the river, but not the full method. In later times, as regional differences diminished, sugarcane—once a southern crop—was grown widely in the north. In his previous life, Yanqing had overseen such matters, so the methods were not unfamiliar to him.

Yet the process was cumbersome, and at this time, the limitations were many. Widespread cultivation in the north would not be easy. Besides, apart from sugar, there seemed little use for it.

Yanqing shook his head, abandoning the idea of planting sugarcane. When he first found the patch, he had considered it, but reflecting on its feasibility, he quickly gave it up. The benefits did not outweigh the effort.

He took hold of the donkey’s bridle, preparing to leave.

Wait—Little Eight just said… making sugar from cane?

The art of sugar-making in China dated back to the Western Zhou, but at that time, it was mostly maltose, made from grains. Sugarcane cultivation was mentioned in the Songs of Chu; in “Summoning the Soul” there was the line: “Turtle cooked with cakes, with cane juice to drink.” The “cane” was sugarcane, the juice its liquid. In Zhang Heng’s “Seven Arguments” from the Eastern Han, there is mention of “sandy malt and stone honey”—the former referring to crystallized sugar, a primitive form of what would become granulated sugar.

By the reign of Renshou, people consumed a great deal of brown sugar, cloudy in color, often with molasses, but widely used. People loved sweets; some even added sugar to their tea. Sugar was not expensive, so even ordinary families could afford it. Unlike salt, it was not subject to strict government control or heavy taxes. Its low cost and vast potential market meant that, if the refining process could be improved, one could dominate the market.

Of course, with Yanqing’s current abilities, it was impossible to monopolize the sugar trade. Yet he knew how to refine white sugar and even knew the method for making rock candy—advanced for this era, though not particularly complex.

“Young Master Zheng, Steward Zheng is calling you,” Little Eight’s voice interrupted Yanqing’s thoughts.

Looking up, he saw Zheng Shian waving from afar, urging him over.

“Oh, let’s go,” Yanqing said, shelving his ideas as he urged the donkey along.

Yet in his heart, he was trying to recall the process for making white sugar. If he could truly produce it, the profit would be immense. There was, however, the matter of a partner—a question that required careful thought.

He didn’t know many wealthy merchants, only Xu Gai and Zhang Zhongjian. Given Yanqing’s influence over Xu Shiji, convincing Xu Gai to handle the matter should not be difficult, but Xu Gai’s ties to the Zhengs were too close. If he told the Zhengs, Yanqing himself might face calamity. Exclude Xu Gai, and only Zhang Zhongjian remained.

In fact, Zhang Zhongjian was a suitable choice. First, his father was the richest man in Yangzhou, and the Zhangs of Wu County were a powerful backing. The main sugarcane-growing regions were in the south, giving the Zhangs a natural advantage far beyond what Xu Gai could offer. Second, though Yanqing had little contact with Zhang Zhongjian, it was clear the man was straightforward, and both Sun Simiao and Du Ruhui spoke well of him.

The question was whether Zhang Zhongjian could persuade his father. Moreover, Yanqing had no idea how to contact him—a significant problem. Until he could find a proper way, Yanqing decided to keep it to himself for now.

At the same time, another thought lingered in his mind: how could he tie Xu Shiji firmly to his own cause?

“Yanqing, things are more or less settled…” Zheng Shian said with a smile. “It’s getting late, we should head back. If we delay, we may not be able to enter the city.”

Yanqing nodded and prepared to board the carriage with Zheng Shian.

Strangely, the donkey followed Yanqing step for step, resisting anyone else’s attempts to lead it.

“Do you want to come home with me?” Yanqing laughed, embracing the donkey’s head.

“Shall we take it, Grandpa?”

Zheng Shian smiled kindly. “If the creature wants to follow you, then take it home.”

And so, the donkey’s bridle was tied to the carriage, and Zheng Shian and Yanqing left the estate together.

“Grandfather, if—just if—the eldest son has other intentions, what would you do?” Yanqing asked suddenly on the road.

Zheng Shian, shrewd as he was, understood at once. He had once told Yanqing that Zheng Renji would likely not let Yanqing serve as Zheng Hongyi’s page, and in truth, there was a deeper meaning—whether Zheng Renji valued Zheng Shian himself was also in doubt.

At the question, Zheng Shian’s face grew somber. After a moment’s silence, he said softly, “If that’s the case, we’ll leave Luoyang and return to serve the old master.”