Chapter Seventeen: On the System of the Military

Pei Min’s remarks were a fusion of ancient and modern knowledge, inspired by a paper on the Tang dynasty’s fubing system that he recalled from memory. Who the author was, he could no longer remember, but fragments of the argument had stuck with him; he had found it sensible at the time, and now, having returned to the Tang era, the practical circumstances only deepened his conviction.

Men as honest and straightforward as Li Yide refused to serve as fubing soldiers—how could anyone with a bit of sense willingly enlist? The reason the fubing system was so revered in the early Tang was due to its unique context: the chaos unleashed by Yang Guang at the end of the Sui dynasty had resulted in tens of millions perishing from war, forced labor, and disaster, reducing the population by three-quarters. For a nation, such a loss was calamitous, for in the ancient world, manpower was the very backbone of productivity—human labor was beyond price.

Yet the fubing system flourished precisely because of this environment. In essence, it was a fusion of soldier and farmer: men farmed during peace, fought during war, worked the fields during the busy seasons, and trained when idle. With the population so diminished, vast tracts of land lay fallow, and the state had ample land to allocate to fubing soldiers. Their treatment almost rivaled that of officials, especially those who distinguished themselves in battle, who received special honors—and if they died in combat, their families were granted benefits and exempted from land taxes.

Naturally, in such circumstances, the populace eagerly joined up, and the supply of soldiers seemed inexhaustible. Commanders responsible for training the fubing could afford to be selective, choosing only the best to train, and so the fubing’s fighting strength was formidable indeed. Whether facing the Turks, Tuyuhun, Tibetans, or Goguryeo, in single combat none could match the Tang soldiers.

But as the population grew, internal unrest took hold, land became increasingly concentrated in the hands of a few, wars became more frequent, and military service more burdensome—the quality of the fubing declined precipitously. By now, their abilities had sunk to alarming lows; without a reform of the military system to improve the quality of the troops, the Tang, no matter how prosperous its economy, would become nothing more than a soft persimmon for all to squeeze.

He Zhizhang gazed at Pei Min, visibly moved, and even Zhang Xu was left dumbfounded. Never had they expected Pei Min to speak so boldly, to propose reforming a military system that had been the foundation of the Tang state for over a century. The fubing system was the bedrock upon which Tang military might was built—yet Pei Min was suggesting it be uprooted. It was audacious, indeed. The key was that his arguments were so logical and well-founded that there was no room for rebuttal.

He Zhizhang was stunned into silence. A lover of wine, he actually forgot to drink for a moment as he asked, “Then, young friend, what do you propose?”

Pei Min pondered for a moment before replying, “Abolish the fubing system and adopt a recruitment-based military.” In truth, he had hesitated for some time before voicing this; he’d weighed which historical model would best suit the Tang, which era’s military system was superior, and in the end decided on recruitment. Every era has its own trends and patterns, and institutions must adapt. The fubing system was the backbone of Tang’s early power, but now it had become a cancer. It was not that the fubing system was inherently flawed, only that it no longer suited the times.

Every dynasty’s military system has its strengths and weaknesses; no matter how excellent a system, if it does not fit the era and is met with universal rejection, it becomes worthless.

“Recruitment? What does that entail?” He Zhizhang asked, frowning.

Pei Min smiled. “If the fubing system merges soldier and farmer, then the recruitment system separates them. In fact, the seeds of this system have already appeared. For instance, Emperor Taizong’s Xuanjia Army—he selected the finest men from his troops to form this elite unit, who trained day and night and lived by war, becoming an unstoppable force. That’s just one example. In times of chaos, many great clans and nobles have maintained private armies, choosing the strongest and training them carefully—their fighting prowess often surpassed that of ordinary peasants, who had to farm and train as well. The recruitment system would mean selecting the brave from across the land to form a standing army, always prepared for battle, whether for attack or defense, without the need to hastily conscript farmers when war breaks out.”

He Zhizhang asked, “Wouldn’t that only increase the burden on the people? If all the strong men become soldiers, who’s left to till the fields?”

Pei Min replied, “Every coin has two sides. At first glance, it does seem to increase the people’s burden. But on the other hand, doesn’t it lighten their military obligations? The state would provide the soldiers’ pay, saving the cost and disruption of fubing traveling back and forth, and allowing for a stable, powerful army to be established. A nation cannot stand without a strong army.”

He Zhizhang was at a loss for words, and Zhang Xu was even more bewildered.

The two of them were both men of immense talent and erudition, but their gifts lay in the arts and letters, not in political or military strategy. They were suited for roles in the Imperial Academy, the Secretariat, or the Ministry of Rites—handling documents, education, or ceremonial duties. In affairs of state, they had only a superficial understanding, and could not compare to renowned ministers like Di Renjie, or even to later talents like Yan Gaoqing.

What Pei Min spoke of was simply beyond their comprehension. He Zhizhang, being an old hand in officialdom, could at least grasp a few things; though his work was mainly in education and literature, he was occasionally privy to the currents of court politics. Zhang Xu, however, was left utterly at sea, unable even to follow Pei Min’s meaning, though he felt it all made sense in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

He Zhizhang struggled to digest Pei Min’s argument. If it had been a question of civil administration, his own intellect would have allowed him to judge its merits, even without prior experience. But the military system was outside his expertise.

He could not tell whether Pei Min’s recruitment model would work, but of one thing he was certain: the youth before him, discoursing with such confidence, possessed an extraordinary mind.

“Your insights are truly astonishing, young friend,” He Zhizhang declared, raising his cup to Pei Min as an equal. “I am not learned enough to judge the merits of the recruitment system, but your critique of the fubing’s decline strikes right at the heart of the matter. I am deeply impressed. Come, let me drink to you!”

Pei Min was equally admiring. He Zhizhang was refreshingly candid—he admitted what he did not know and never pretended otherwise. For someone of his rank, seniority, and years, such honesty was rare indeed.

“Cheers!” Pei Min raised his cup and drained it in one gulp.

From then on, the three ceased discussing affairs of state, and instead, like old friends, talked of whatever crossed their minds, letting the conversation roam far and wide.

He Zhizhang even ordered two rooms to be prepared for them in his residence, insisting they stay with him while they remained in Chang’an.

Pei Min, his stomach bloated with wine, watched He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu drinking cup after cup in high spirits, and a sudden uneasy thought struck him: Had he perhaps made the wrong choice in friends? If he kept company with them like this, would the Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup soon become the Nine?