Two

by Atsushi Nakajima

In September, five thousand Han soldiers marched north, and by November, they arrived at the frontier fortress as a defeated force of just over four hundred exhausted, wounded, and leaderless men. News of the defeat was immediately sent to the capital, Chang'an, via post relay.

Emperor Wu, surprisingly, did not show anger. Since Li Guangli's large army had suffered a crushing defeat, there was no reason to place hope in Li Ling's detachment. Furthermore, he believed that Li Ling must have died in battle. Only Chen Bule, who had recently returned from Mobei as Li Ling's messenger with a report of "no change on the front, morale extremely high," absolutely had to commit suicide. Though pitiful, this was an unavoidable fate.

The following year, in the spring of Tianhan 3, confirmed news arrived that Li Ling had not died in battle but had been captured and taken prisoner. Emperor Wu was furious for the first time. More than forty years had passed since his enthronement, and he was already nearing sixty, but his temperament was more intense than in his youth. Fond of the teachings of immortals and believing in alchemists and shamans, he had been deceived many times by alchemists he had absolutely trusted. This great emperor, who had reigned for over fifty years since the Han's power reached its peak, had been plagued by an uneasy interest in the spirit world since middle age. For that reason, this disappointment was a great blow to him. This blow planted dark suspicions towards his courtiers in his originally open mind as he aged. Chancellors like Li Cai, Qing Huo, and Zhao Zhou were successively sentenced to death, and the current chancellor, Gongsun He, was so afraid of his own fate when he received his appointment that he broke down crying before the emperor. After the upright Ji An retired, those surrounding the emperor were either sycophants or ruthless officials.

Emperor Wu summoned his high-ranking officials to discuss Li Ling's fate. Although Li Ling himself was not in the capital, the decision regarding his crime would lead to the disposition of his wife, children, and property. The Court Commandant, known as a cruel official, always watched the emperor's expression and was skilled at legally bending the law to suit the emperor's will. When someone criticized him, citing the authority of the law, the Court Commandant replied, "Following the will of the former ruler becomes a ritsu (law), and following the will of the current ruler becomes a rei (ordinance). What law could there be other than the will of the present monarch?" All the officials were like this Court Commandant. Chancellor Gongsun He, Grand Censor Du Zhou, Grand Minister of Ceremonies Zhao Di, and others—not a single one dared to risk the emperor's wrath to defend Li Ling. They unanimously condemned Li Ling's treasonous actions. They claimed to be ashamed to have served in the same court as a traitor like Li Ling. They agreed that Li Ling's actions had always been suspicious. Even the arrogance of Li Ling's cousin, Li Gan, who relied on the crown prince's favor, became material for slandering Li Ling. Among those who did not voice their opinions, only a handful held the greatest goodwill towards Li Ling.

Amidst all this, there was one man who watched the scene with a bitter expression. Weren't those who were now slandering Li Ling the same people who had exchanged cups with him and praised his actions a few months earlier when he left the capital? And weren't they the same people who had lauded Li Ling's valiant solo effort as the grandson of the renowned general Li Guang when an envoy from Mobei arrived to report that Li Ling's army was still intact? The man found it strange how they pretended to forget their past, and how the sovereign, wise enough to see through their flattery, yet refused to listen to the truth. No, it wasn't strange. It was because he had known for too long that humans were like that, but still, the unpleasantness remained. As one of the lower-ranking officials, he also served in the court and was questioned. At that time, this man clearly praised Li Ling. "Li Ling, who served his parents with filial piety, kept faith with his comrades, and always strived without regard for himself, sacrificing himself for the nation's urgent needs, truly possesses the spirit of a national hero. Now, unfortunately, he suffered one defeat, but it is truly regrettable that those who merely wish to preserve their lives and protect their wives and children, flattering the ruler, are taking Li Ling's single mistake, exaggerating it, and attempting to obscure the emperor's wisdom. Originally, Li Ling's army, with fewer than five thousand infantry, deeply penetrated enemy territory, exhausted tens of thousands of Xiongnu troops, fought across a thousand li, and continued to fight until their arrows and paths were exhausted. To win the hearts of his subordinates and make them fight with all their might is something even ancient renowned generals could not surpass. Although the army was defeated, the traces of his valiant fight are worthy of being celebrated throughout the land. Did he not surrender to the captives instead of dying, secretly hoping to repay Han from that land?"

The surrounding ministers were astonished. They had never imagined that there would be a man who could say such a thing. They cautiously looked up at Emperor Wu's face, whose temples were throbbing. Then, they smirked, wondering what fate awaited this man who had called them ministers who protected their wives and children with all their might.

As soon as that man—Grand Astrologer Sima Qian—withdrew from the emperor's presence, one of the "ministers who would protect their wives and children with all their heart and soul" immediately whispered to Emperor Wu about Qian's close relationship with Li Ling. Some even claimed that the Grand Astrologer was at odds with General Ershi for some reason, and that Qian's praise of Li Ling was an attempt to undermine General Ershi, who had previously gone out to the frontier before Li Ling and failed to achieve merit. In any case, the unanimous opinion was that the Grand Astrologer's attitude, as someone who merely oversaw stars and calendars, was far too arrogant. Curiously, Sima Qian was accused of a crime even before Li Ling's family. The next day, he was handed over to the Minister of Justice, and his punishment was decided to be castration.

Among the corporal punishments practiced in ancient China, the four most famous were tattooing (qing), foot amputation, and castration. During the reign of Emperor Wen, Emperor Wu's grandfather, three of these were abolished, but castration alone remained. This castration was a peculiar punishment that rendered a man no longer a man. This punishment was also called "rotten punishment," and it is said that its name comes from the putrid smell it emitted. It is also said to refer to a man who has lost his function as a man, like a rotten fruit. Those who received this punishment were called eunuchs, and it goes without saying that many of the court eunuchs were created by this punishment. Among them, it is particularly noteworthy that Sima Qian suffered this punishment. However, the Sima Qian we know in later generations is a great historian, but at that time, he was merely a literary official. He was certainly brilliant, but he was known as an overconfident man who was not good at socializing, and a stubborn and obstinate person who would never lose in an argument. It was not particularly surprising that he suffered the rotten punishment.

The Sima clan was originally an official historian of the Zhou Dynasty, later serving the Jin and Qin Dynasties. In the Han Dynasty, the fourth-generation Sima Tan served Emperor Wu as the Grand Astrologer. This Sima Tan was Qian's father. He was well-versed in laws, calendars, and the I Ching, knowledgeable in Taoist teachings, and familiar with various schools of thought such as Confucianism, Mohism, Legalism, and the School of Names, synthesizing all of them into his own views. His confidence in his intellect and mental strength was directly inherited by his son, Qian. The greatest education he provided his son was, after teaching him various disciplines, to let him travel the wide world. This was an unusual educational method for its time, but it goes without saying that it had a profound impact on the future historian Sima Qian.

In the first year of Yuanfeng, when Emperor Wu ascended Mount Tai in the east to offer sacrifices to Heaven, Sima Tan, a passionate man who was then ill in Zhounan, lamented and was indignant that he alone could not be present at such an auspicious time when the Son of Heaven was establishing the Han dynasty's enfeoffment, and he passed away. His lifelong aspiration was to compile a comprehensive history spanning ancient and modern times, but ultimately, it ended with the collection of materials. The scene of his death is vividly depicted by his son, Qian, in the final chapter of the "Records of the Grand Historian." It describes Sima Tan, realizing his impending death, summoning Qian, taking his hand, and earnestly explaining the necessity of compiling history. He regretted not having undertaken this important task despite being the Grand Astrologer, and he shed tears lamenting that the deeds of wise rulers and loyal ministers would be needlessly buried. He said, "When I die, you must become the Grand Astrologer. And when you become the Grand Astrologer, do not forget my writings," repeating that this would be the greatest act of filial piety towards him. At that moment, Qian bowed his head and swore not to disobey his father's command.

Two years after his father's death, Sima Qian finally inherited the position of Grand Historian. He wanted to immediately begin the hereditary calling of father and son, using the materials his father had collected and the secret books stored in the palace, but the first task assigned to him after his appointment was the revision of the calendar. He immersed himself in this work for four years. In the first year of the Taichu era, he finally completed the revision, and immediately began compiling the "Records of the Grand Historian." Sima Qian was forty-two years old at the time.

A concept had already formed in his mind. The format of the history book based on this concept was unlike any traditional history book. He recommended "Chunqiu" as a standard for moral criticism, but he felt it was insufficient as a history book that conveyed facts. He believed that more facts were needed. Facts, rather than lessons. "Zuozhuan" and "Guoyu" certainly contained facts. While he couldn't help but admire the narrative skill of "Zuozhuan," Sima Qian was dissatisfied with its lack of exploration into the individual people who created those facts. Traditional history books primarily aimed to inform contemporary people about the past, and seemed to lack preparation for future generations to understand the present. In short, what Sima Qian sought did not exist in traditional history books. He believed that only by writing what he himself desired would the reasons for the inadequacy of traditional history books become clear. The demand to express the vague ideas in his mind took precedence over criticism of traditional history books. No, his criticism only manifested in the form of creating something new. He was unsure if the concept he had long envisioned in his mind could truly be called history, but he was confident that regardless of whether it could be called history, such a thing was what most needed to be written (for the people of the world, for future generations, and especially for himself). He, too, followed Confucius's policy of "transmitting but not creating," but its content was vastly different from that of Confucius. For Sima Qian, a mere chronological listing of events was not included in "transmitting," and overly moralistic judgments that hindered future generations from knowing the facts seemed rather to belong to "creating."such overly moralistic judgments seemed rather to belong to "creating."

Five generations and a hundred years had already passed since the Han dynasty began to rule the world. Books that had been buried or hidden due to Emperor Qin Shi Huang's anti-cultural policies finally began to emerge, and the momentum for the flourishing of literature grew. Not only the Han court, but the era itself demanded the appearance of history. As for Sima Qian personally, he was moved by his father's dying wish, and his scholarship, observational skills, and writing ability had matured, finally preparing him to produce a cohesive work. His work progressed remarkably smoothly. In fact, it was almost too smooth, to the point of being problematic. This is because, from the initial "Annals of the Five Emperors" through the "Annals of Xia, Yin, Zhou, and Qin," he was merely an engineer organizing materials and striving for accuracy in his descriptions. However, by the time he moved past Emperor Qin Shi Huang and into the "Annals of Xiang Yu," his composure as an engineer began to waver. At times, it seemed as if Xiang Yu might possess him, or he might possess Xiang Yu.

King Xiang awoke in the middle of the night and drank wine in his tent. A beautiful woman was there. Her name was Yu. She was always by his side, bringing him happiness. King Xiang always rode his swift horse, Zhui, with her.

At that moment, King Xiang hummed a sorrowful tune and composed a poem: "My strength can move mountains and cover the world, but if the times are against me, Zhui will depart. If Zhui departs, what can I do, Yu? What can I do?" He sang it repeatedly, and Yu harmonized with his song. King Xiang shed tears, and those around him also wept, echoing his sorrow. No one could bring themselves to look up at him.

Watching this, Sima Qian had a question. "Is this alright? Is it really okay to use such feverish expressions?" He was very wary of "creating," believing his role was solely to "narrate." Indeed, he merely narrated. However, his narration was vivid, a description impossible without extraordinary imagination. Fearing "creating" too much, he reread what he had already written and cut out expressions that depicted historical figures as if they were real people, full of life. As a result, the figures lost their vitality. This removed his worry about "creating." But Sima Qian thought, "This way, Xiang Yu won't be Xiang Yu anymore. Xiang Yu, Qin Shi Huang, King Zhuang of Chu—they'll all become the same person. Is depicting different people in the same way truly 'narrating'?" Thinking this, he had no choice but to revive the expressions he had cut. When he restored them and reread, he finally felt at peace. No, not just him. The historical figures depicted there—Xiang Yu, Fan Kuai, and Fan Zeng—also seemed to finally settle into their respective places.

When Emperor Wu was in good spirits, he was truly a noble and understanding patron of culture and education. The position of Grand Historian was unassuming and required specialized skills, which allowed him to be free from the factions and intrigues of officialdom.

For several years, Sima Qian lived fulfilling and happy days. (The happiness people conceived of back then was vastly different from that of modern people, but the desire for happiness remained unchanged.) He was uncompromising, always cheerful, often debated, often got angry, often laughed, and excelled at thoroughly refuting his opponents.

However, after a few such years, disaster suddenly struck.

In the dimly lit silkworm chamber—after undergoing castration, to avoid exposure to the wind for a period and to keep warm, a sealed, dark room with a fire was created, where the condemned was kept for several days to recover. This warm, dark place resembled a room for raising silkworms, hence it was called a silkworm chamber—he leaned against the wall in a state of confusion so profound that he was speechless. Surprise, rather than anger, was the first emotion to strike him. He had been prepared for decapitation, for being granted death. When he had praised Li Ling against Emperor Wu's will, he had even felt the danger of death. But among the many punishments, to suffer the most hideous palace punishment of all! It was careless, if one could call it that, but if one anticipated the death penalty, it was natural to anticipate all other punishments as well. He had considered that an unforeseen death might await him in his fate, but he had never imagined such a hideous thing appearing so suddenly. He had always held the conviction that only events appropriate to each person occur. This was an idea naturally cultivated over a long period of dealing with history. Even in the same adversity, a valiant scholar would be given intense suffering, while a weak person would be given slow and ugly suffering. Even if it initially seemed unfitting, how one dealt with it afterward would make fate appropriate to that person. Sima Qian believed himself to be a man. Even as a writer, he was convinced that he was more of a man than any warrior of his time. Not only he, but even those who did not favor him had to admit this. Therefore, according to his own theory, he could have imagined the punishment of being torn apart by chariots in his future. But to suffer this humiliation at nearly fifty years old! He now felt as if being inside the silkworm chamber was a dream. He wanted to believe it was a dream. However, when he opened his eyes, trapped against the wall, he saw three or four men with lifeless, soulless faces lying or sitting sloppily in the dim light. The moment he realized that their appearance was his own current state, a cry that was neither a sob nor a roar was squeezed from his throat.

Amidst the days of pain and distress, he occasionally indulged in contemplation, a habit from his scholarly life. This involved pondering what, who, and how things had gone wrong in the recent events. Since the relationship between ruler and subject in his country fundamentally differed from that in Japan, he first resented Emperor Wu. For a time, this resentment was so overwhelming that he had no room to think of anything else. However, after a period of confusion passed, the historian in him awoke. Unlike a Confucian scholar, he held a historical perspective even when evaluating past kings, and he did not allow personal grudges to influence his assessment of Emperor Wu, a later king. After all, Emperor Wu was a great monarch, and as long as he existed, the Han empire would remain unshaken. Setting aside Emperor Gaozu for a moment, even the benevolent Emperor Wen and the wise Emperor Jing were still lesser compared to this ruler. It is inevitable that great things also have their flaws appear great. Sima Qian did not forget this fact even in his extreme indignation. He could only conclude that this incident was ultimately like a storm brought by heaven, and while it drove him into even more desperate anger, it also, conversely, pushed him towards resignation.</S30>

When resentment cannot be directed at the monarch for long, it naturally turns towards the treacherous officials at the monarch's side. It is true that they are wicked. However, their wickedness is very secondary. To him, with his high self-esteem, those petty individuals felt insufficient even as objects of resentment. He had never felt such exasperation towards such a good-natured person. This was worse than treacherous officials or cruel bureaucrats. At least, from an outsider's perspective, it was infuriating. These individuals, cheaply content in their conscience, became even more outrageous by reassuring others. They offered no defense or rebuttal, nor did they harbor any remorse or self-reproach in their hearts. Prime Minister Gongsun He was a prime example of such a person. Even when engaging in the same flattery and subservience, unlike Du Zhou (the man who recently ousted his predecessor, Minister Wang, to become Grandee Secretary), this good-natured Prime Minister was not even aware of it. Even if he were called a minister who sacrificed everything to protect his wife and children, such a person would probably not even get angry. Such people are not even worth directing resentment towards.

Sima Qian ultimately sought to direct his anger towards himself. Indeed, if he had to be angry at something, it could only be at himself in the end. But what was wrong with him? No matter how he thought about it, defending Li Ling didn't seem wrong. He didn't think his method was particularly clumsy either. Unless he was willing to stoop to flattery, there was nothing he could have done differently. If he had no shame when reflecting on himself, then as a scholar, he should have been prepared to accept whatever consequences such an unashamed act brought. That was certainly true, to some extent. So he had been prepared to accept dismemberment or being cut in half at the waist, if that was what it came to. But this palace punishment—the state he was in as a result—that was a different story. Even though it was a disability, it was completely different from having one's feet or nose cut off. It was not a punishment a scholar should receive. This alone, as a physical condition, was utterly evil from every angle. There was no room for euphemism. The wounds of the heart might heal with time, but this hideous reality of his body would last until his death. Whatever the motive, anything that led to such a result ultimately had to be called "bad." But what was bad? What about him? Nothing was bad. He had only done what was right. If anything, only the fact "that he existed" was bad.

One moment he was sitting in a dazed state of exhaustion, the next he suddenly stood up and paced around the dark, warm room, groaning like a wounded beast. As he unconsciously repeated these actions, his thoughts also circled endlessly around the same point, never reaching a conclusion.

Except for a few times when he forgot himself and hit his head against the wall, bleeding, he did not attempt to kill himself. He wanted to die. How wonderful it would be if he could die. More than that, a shame several times more terrifying was driving him, so he had no fear of death at all. Why couldn't he die? It might have been because there were no tools to kill himself in the prison cell. But besides that, something inside was stopping him. At first, he didn't realize what it was. He just vaguely felt that amidst the frenzy and anger, while constantly feeling the temptation of death in spasms, there was something that prevented him from heading towards suicide. He wasn't sure what he had forgotten, but he felt as if he had forgotten something anyway. It was precisely like that.

After being pardoned and returning home to be confined there, he realized for the first time that for the past month, caught up in madness, he had completely forgotten about his life's work, the compilation of history. However, he also realized that despite outwardly forgetting it, his unconscious interest in that work had secretly played a role in preventing him from committing suicide.

Ten years ago, his father, on his deathbed, clutched his hand and, with tears streaming down his face, left a will whose words still echoed in his ears. However, now, in his heart filled with pain and sorrow, it was not only his father's words that prevented him from giving up his work as a historian. It was, above all, the work itself. It was not the sweet allure or passion of the work, but the realization of his mission as a historian that held fundamental meaning for him. Yet, he was acutely aware of how powerless he was. Even with ideals, he was ultimately no more than a worm by the roadside. His "self" was miserably crushed, but the significance of his work as a historian was beyond doubt. To continue engaging in this work even after having become such a wretched person, having lost all confidence and pride, was by no means a joyful thing. It felt to him as if they were people bound by an inseparable, fated connection. At any rate, he clearly understood only this: he could not kill himself for this work (and not out of a sense of duty, but rather due to a more physical connection to the work).

Instead of the initial blind, beast-like suffering, a more conscious human suffering began. To his dismay, as it became clear that he could not commit suicide, it became increasingly evident that there was no other means to escape his anguish and shame. Sima Qian, the sturdy Grand Astrologer, died in the spring of the third year of Tianhan. And he had no choice but to convince himself that the one who would continue the history he had left behind was merely a copying machine, devoid of perception or consciousness. He tried to think that way, even if he had to force himself. The work of compiling history absolutely had to be continued. This was an absolute for him. In order for the work of compiling history to continue, he had to survive, no matter how unbearable. To survive, he absolutely had to consider himself completely dead.

After May, Sima Qian took up his brush again. Without joy or excitement, driven only by the will to complete his work, like a traveler dragging a wounded leg towards his destination, he calmly continued his manuscript. He had already been relieved of his post as Grand Astrologer. Emperor Wu, regretting his decision somewhat, appointed him as Zhongshu Ling (Prefect of the Palace Writers) a little later, but promotions or demotions in office held no meaning for him. The former Sima Qian, the debater, no longer spoke a word. He neither laughed nor got angry. However, his demeanor was by no means gloomy. Rather, people saw a terrifying intensity in his quiet appearance, as if he were possessed by some evil spirit. He continued his work, begrudging the time spent sleeping at night. His family thought he seemed anxious to complete his work as quickly as possible and then gain the freedom to commit suicide.

After about a year of gruesome effort, and even after he had finally lost all joy in living, he discovered that only the joy of expression remained. However, by that time, his complete silence remained unbroken, and the ferocity in his appearance did not soften at all. As he continued with his manuscript, whenever he came to a point where he had to write the words "eunuch" or "castrated slave," he would involuntarily let out a groan. Even when he was alone in his room, or when he lay in bed at night, whenever this feeling of humiliation arose, a hot pain, as if a branding iron had been applied, would instantly course through his entire body. He would involuntarily jump up, let out a strange cry, and pace around groaning for a while, before gritting his teeth and trying to calm himself down.