At noon, Old Zhao struck the bronze bell—it was the signal for a shift change. The sound was dull and didn't carry far in the dry winter air, but it was enough for the few men on duty around the gate to hear.
Zhang Si rubbed his fingers, numb from the cold, and looked up from the register. Since morning he had logged seventy-three entries, collected over two hundred cash in gate taxes, and the wooden box under the table held some forty-odd cash in "tea money." He closed the book and scraped his brush along the edge of the inkstone—the ink was half frozen now, the strokes coming out sticky and uneven.
The guards drifted together one by one. Wang Wu jogged back from the south passage, his nose red with cold. Chen San stomped his feet in the gate tunnel, boots caked with mud. Two younger men—Liu Shun and Ma Liu—had both taken over their fathers' posts in the past couple of years. Old Zhao, the senior man among them, counted heads. All five were there. He waved a hand.
"Eat. Back in half an hour."
They scattered to find places out of the wind. Around the gate there were a few sheltered spots they'd learned over the years—the space under the gate tower stairs, behind a jutting crenelation in the wall, or right up against the thick gate doors themselves. Anywhere that blocked a bit of the cutting north wind.
Zhang Si went to his usual place, at the base of the east wall just inside the gate. A broken stretch of steps jutted out there, and the overhanging eaves above blocked the wind from the northwest. He squatted, pulled out the cloth bundle his wife had packed. It had been made from old clothes—blue with white flowers, washed pale, the edges worn fuzzy. He untied the cloth strips. Inside were two fist-sized vegetable buns, wrapped in a steaming cloth, still faintly warm.
The buns were made from mixed grain flour with just a little white flour, stuffed with chopped cabbage and a few flecks of salted greens. There wasn't a hint of oil. Zhang Si picked one up, split it carefully in half, and ate slowly. The taste was thin, light on salt, but filling. He washed it down with small sips from a bamboo tube of warm water he'd brought from home—now cold—and let his eyes wander over the gate, inside and out.
Everyone had something different to eat. Wang Wu's family ran a small tofu shop and was better off; he had two white-flour buns with pickled vegetables, soft and fluffy. Chen San, young and always hungry, usually bought food from nearby stalls—today he had a meat-stuffed flatbread, still steaming. Liu Shun gnawed on a rock-hard pancake, while Ma Liu ate a vegetable bun much like Zhang Si's.
Old Zhao didn't eat right away. He made a round of the gate, checking the bolts, then looked up at the soldiers on duty atop the gate tower—men from the garrison. They weren't part of the prefectural staff like the gate guards, but gate security was a shared responsibility. Satisfied, he returned and pulled an oiled-paper packet from his robe: a few griddle cakes and some pickled vegetables.
"You hear the news?" Chen San said around a mouthful of flatbread. He was the best-informed of the bunch; his father worked as a clerk in the prefectural tax office and picked up rumors from passing paperwork.
"Hear what?" Liu Shun looked up. He was only nineteen and had taken his late father's post less than a year ago. Official matters were still a blur to him. "Which official, and what about him?"
"The Governor," Chen San said after swallowing. "The one stationed in Nanjing. Surname Mu. He got to Suzhou yesterday."
"The Governor?" Old Zhao snorted, chewing slowly. "So what? You think things get better when a 'capable official' shows up? I doubt it. Taxes in Jiangnan keep going up. Last year they added a 'pacification levy'—said it was to deal with bandits in Fujian and Zhejiang. Year before that, a 'training levy' for border defense. And this year? I hear they're talking about raising the silk tax again."
At the mention of the silk tax, everyone went quiet. Suzhou was a major silk center, and the court's levies on silk had always been heavy. Since the Hongxi reign, demand from the palace and the eunuchs had only grown. Quotas from the Weaving Bureau kept climbing, and many households were already barely hanging on. Another increase would ruin people.
"My dad was sorting files the other day," Chen San said in a low voice. "There was a dispatch from the Ministry of Revenue in Nanjing. It hinted at exactly that. Fighting up north is expensive—Liaodong, Xuanfu, all bleeding money. And the palace overspent again this year on construction and rituals. The Ministry's got no choice. They're squeezing Jiangnan. The silk tax's going up—it's just a question of how much."
Wang Wu spat. "Always taxes. Where's that leave ordinary folks? Look at our pay. Last year they said grain prices were unstable and converted thirty percent to silver. Sounds fine, right? But market price was eight mace a shi, and the yamen fixed it at six. We lost another twenty percent right there. In the end, we didn't even get seventy percent of what we were owed. And even that got delayed—last winter's pay didn't come till February."
Everyone nodded, faces tight with frustration. Zhang Si listened without speaking, chewing the other half of his bun. It tasted like sawdust.
Low pay for Ming clerks was nothing new. The founding emperor had meant it to curb corruption, but now it barely covered food. For a gate guard like Zhang Si: six dou of grain a month, three and a half mace of silver. On paper it sounded decent. In reality, it was often "converted"—grain turned into silver, cloth, paper money. And the conversion rate was always set below market. By the time it trickled down, the value was gone.
Last year's conversion meant Zhang Si ended up with enough silver to buy just over four dou of grain. His wife stretched it with coarse grains and wild greens to keep the family fed. The job was meager, humiliating—but it was steady. Quit? At thirty-five, with nothing but gate duty to his name, what else could he do? Haul cargo? His back had been injured years ago. Peddle goods? No capital, no face for hawking. This faded blue-gray uniform was shabby, but it was his lifeline. It let him move through the city without being chased off. It meant a monthly ration that kept his family alive.
"Be grateful," Old Zhao sighed. "At least we eat the emperor's grain. Drought or flood, it still comes—just not much of it. The laborers and farmers out there? One bad year, one rich landlord leaning on them, and they're done. I heard over in Wujiang, floods wrecked a lot of fields. But the autumn tax didn't budge. One family couldn't pay. The tax runners pushed them so hard that… hell, they jumped into the river."
Silence again. The cold wind howled over the wall, lifting dust and dead grass. From the canal docks came a distant din—masts like a forest, the prosperous face of Suzhou. Beneath it, countless small lives struggled to hold on, crushed by taxes, corvée, and endless levies.
Zhang Si finished his bun, folded the cloth carefully, and tucked it away. Two mouthfuls of cold water remained in the bamboo tube. He tipped it back. The icy water made him shiver. He stood and stretched his numb legs, ready to head back to duty.
Just then, a commotion broke out beyond the gate—hoofbeats, shouting, people scrambling aside.
Zhang Si looked up. At the far end of the road, a mounted party was racing toward the gate. At the front rode an official in a green robe, his rank badge embroidered with mandarin ducks—the mark of a sixth-rank post. Behind him came more than a dozen yamen runners and soldiers. The runners wore black, carrying batons; the soldiers wore worn battle jackets and swords at their hips. Dust billowed behind them.
People inside and outside the gate parted automatically. Porters, carters, travelers—all stopped, turned aside, heads lowered. Habit.
"Prefectural office," Old Zhao muttered. Any trace of ease vanished from his face. He shoved the rest of his flatbread into his robe, brushed crumbs from his uniform, and straightened up—though there was only so much dignity a faded uniform could manage. He strode to the center of the gate.
The others followed suit. Zhang Si tied his bamboo tube back at his waist and wiped his hands on his clothes—nothing to wipe, really, just reflex. He returned to his table and stood straight, eyes forward. Wang Wu, Chen San, Liu Shun, Ma Liu all took their posts. North passage, south passage, gate tunnel—five men set like nails, their lunchtime looseness gone in an instant.
The group arrived in moments. The lead official reined in his horse; it snorted white breath and stamped. The man was in his forties, pale-faced, with three long strands of beard and sharp eyes. He didn't dismount. He looked down over the gate, then fixed his gaze on the guards.
Zhang Si recognized him at once: Magistrate Zhou Jun, the prefecture's vice magistrate. The vice magistrate handled grain transport, waterworks, security, bandit suppression—real authority. Zhou had been in Suzhou three years and was known for being sharp and relentless, especially on crime. The clerks feared him.
"Anything out of order today?" Zhou asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it was crisp and cold.
Old Zhao stepped forward and bowed. "Reporting to Your Excellency. From opening at dawn to now, all has been normal. Roughly four hundred crossings, over seventy carts. All inspected and recorded per regulations. No irregularities."
Zhou's eyes moved from face to face, paused on the register and tax box on Zhang Si's table. Zhang Si felt the weight of that gaze and straightened even more, palms damp. He thought of the tea money from that morning. It felt hot, even hidden away.
"Any suspicious persons? Any contraband?" Zhou asked.
"None," Old Zhao replied. "The largest shipment was raw silk bound for the Weaving Bureau, with proper authorization from the Ministry of Revenue in Nanjing. The rest were ordinary merchants and farmers—cloth, sundries, farm goods—all within normal limits."
Zhou nodded slightly, expression unreadable. He glanced up at the gate tower, where the garrison soldiers stood rigid. After a moment, he said, "The canal's been unstable lately. Grain shipments have been intercepted in the north. While you're on duty, be extra careful. Check travel permits closely. Inspect cargo thoroughly. If anything looks off, detain it and report to the prefectural office immediately. Do nothing on your own."
"Yes, sir," Old Zhao said, bowing again.
Zhou said no more. He flicked the reins and rode into the city. Hooves rang sharp on the stone. The runners and soldiers followed in tight formation, footsteps even, carrying a chill edge. The group passed through the gate and vanished into the streets beyond.
Only then did the air seem to move again. Merchants and travelers let out breaths and resumed their way. The guards' shoulders loosened.
Old Zhao came back, wiping his brow—though there was no sweat. "You saw that. Stay sharp. These next few days won't be quiet."
Wang Wu leaned in. "Think there really are censors doing inspections? Even Magistrate Zhou's out here himself."
"Maybe not censors," Old Zhao said, shaking his head. "But there's pressure from above. Zhou's in charge of security. If he's checking the gates himself, the prefecture's taking this seriously. Being careful won't hurt."
"My dad says the Governor's arrival has everyone on edge," Chen San added. "Tax collections are behind in a bunch of counties. The prefect's under pressure. If anything goes wrong at the gates now and someone files a complaint, it'll be a disaster."
Zhang Si went back to his table and sat down. He pulled out the half bun he'd stuffed away when Zhou arrived. It had gone soft from his body heat, bits of lint stuck to the coarse dough. He looked at it and suddenly had no appetite.