Rallying the Militia and a Joy of New Life
As soon as my eldest brother agreed to immediately raise a militia, I stood up from my seat. To calm my complicated thoughts, I headed to the room where my wife was.
"What's the matter?"
As I opened the door, my wife was embroidering on a piece of fabric. I'd watched her embroider before and marveled at how quickly she could outline a design with her needle.
"Pardon the intrusion."
I dove into her arms like I was collapsing, and she hurriedly set aside the fabric lest she prick me. Looking at me with startled eyes, she patted my shoulders lightly.
"What if the needle had been stuck in the fabric? What then?"
There'd been no sewing kit on the fabric, and I'd confirmed no needle was in her hand before embracing her, but it had been careless all the same. As I pulled back from her embrace, I said,
"I'll be busy for a while. Not sure yet, but I might have to step out briefly."
"Can't you just stay home?"
Her eyes dropped sadly at my words.
"Does being alone make you lonely?"
"There's a reason they say 'empty nest, lonely bird.'"
Her bitter expression made the corners of my mouth stiffen. If she were pregnant, she wouldn't have said "empty nest." How could she be alone with a child on the way? We'd been married for over half a year with no news of a baby. It wasn't good. Our marriage was harmonious, and we shared our bed often, but the stork hadn't brought its bundle yet.
She's probably suffering more than I am.
Unfortunately, the pain of no pregnancy news weighed heavier on her than on me. Some of our household servants had gossiped about her behind her back, mocking her as the second son-bearer for our family. That spring, a servant unaware of my presence had called her a "sick hen."
I really lost it then.
If I hadn't heard it because I was late coming out of the room, the rumors would have snowballed uncontrollably by now. I'd personally whipped that servant until the switch broke and tightly gagged the others' mouths, keeping things quiet since. But no matter how much fear sealed their lips, idle talk would resurface eventually.
"I'm sorry. I'm a lacking husband."
I lowered my gaze and apologized. If I were a good-for-nothing idler, I could comfort her, but the duties I bore were too heavy for that. If our marriage had come just a year earlier, I could have consoled her. The world didn't accommodate such trifles. Must I turn from today's misfortunes to survive tomorrow? It was a hard question for me.
Recruiting for the militia went smoothly. Most refugees were starving, and sifting people with a daily ration of one do was easy. A servant with one cart of grain would draw dozens automatically.
The Yellow Turbans make for damn good painkillers.
The cause—the great justice against the Yellow Turbans—stood tall, so no issues there. A little bribe to the Langya Commandery governor eliminated any nitpicking worries.
"This time, go thirty ri south and recruit."
"Understood."
Gathering too close to the family estate might attract flies. Among refugee bands, two in ten had turned bandit for survival. So we picked up a few from scattered groups here and there. For militiamen, we selected only sturdy builds with no connections. Refugees were as plentiful as beach sand, so even strict standards filled five hundred easily. Incidentally, final selections were mine. When servants brought groups, I'd inspect each one.
"Name."
"Ha Ping."
"Family?"
"...None."
The man before me was gaunt but had lively eyes. He hesitated, then continued.
"Lost my wife and child to plague last year, parents starved this spring. Just this body left."
Resignation outweighed sorrow in his voice. But after hundreds of tales already and more to come, it stirred little in me.
"Why join here?"
"Don't want to die. Better to eat full and die human than like a dog in the street."
I eyed him a moment, then nodded. He fit my ideal profile.
"Fine. I'll let you live human—and die human."
Unbound by past ties, nothing to lose, craving only survival. Such men could swing a blade without hesitation on the battlefield.
"I have family—does that disqualify me?"
"It does. Go home."
I'd originally eyed only physique, but after weighing pros and cons, added family status. Losing discipline tools was a drawback. No family meant no hostage for desertion deterrence, harder to instill zeal against Yellow Turbans. They could flee, eat well, and vanish unscathed. Anxiety relief was tough too—if a man broke without kin, no easy fix to rearm him. Folks this era claimed the mind could be steeled anytime. But modern knowledge said otherwise—a non-negligible issue.
Still, reasons to pick the rootless.
Pros outweighed cons, so I chose it. First, rations fed soldiers only. Families would share, diluting to rabble if stretched thin. Boosting allotments was unaffordable. Crucially, I could hurl them into battle unhesitatingly. Desertion risk was tolerable against the backlash of lost families.
When half of Zhongping 3 (186 AD) remained, I began the first muster. Five hundred gathered on fields emptied by Yellow Turbans sweeping our estate. Gaunt skeletons of men, but eyes burned with will to live. I mounted the platform and scanned them.
"I ask little of you. I'll feed, house, and clothe you. In return, obey my orders."
I kept it concise. Long speeches would whistle past their ears.
"Training will be harsh. Endure it, and no starvation. Want free of hunger and bandit blades? Grit your teeth."
As I finished, Wang Jun—my appointed drill instructor, best among guards hired so far—stepped forward.
"Align with the man beside you! You're one body now! He's you, you're him!"
First drill: formation. Crooked lines slowly shaped under bellows. Far from smooth—directionless fools, foot-stompers, wobblers who couldn't stand straight. Utter rabble.
"You! Straw man? Even scarecrows stand straighter!"
Wang Jun thundered, but farmers knew naught of military order. I swallowed a sigh watching. The road to soldiers was long and rough. Confirming rough alignment, I turned away. Militia and supplies had melted assets like snow on a boiling lid. Not shaking the house yet, but downward wealth trend wasn't good. I balanced ledgers, studying tactics in spare time. Like it or not, till joining the anti-Dong Zhuo coalition, I'd lead this militia—and keep them from dog death needed strategy knowledge. Lucky prior life's war games covered much. Supply from trade ledgers filled gaps; focus was formations, stratagems. No grand strategist or quartermaster yet, but staff officer seemed feasible.
"I lost."
"No bitterness in defeat?"
"Just husband-wife time. Happy to lose to you—why resent?"
I didn't neglect amusing my wife. Days in her room for tasks, inseparable in rest. Nights late to bed together—ample for two to tumble. Turns out she had Go talent. Taught for idle fun; she learned freakishly fast. Layouts unknown this era? Memorized at a glance. Reading, valuation leaped per game. She grew on my knowledge like fertilizer—while I plateaued adapting to 17x17 board. Handicaps dropped from nine to four points in three months.
"Soon three stones suffice."
"You're overpraising."
Should've taught last winter—might be even or two-point now. I cleared the two-stone loss board. Meant to review, but tasks nagged. Last white stone in pot, servant brought tea and persimmons. Herbal brew reeked bitter, but good for vigor—must drink. Ripe fruit helped.
"Urp."
Till her dry heave. Turned: wife glaring at cup, nose and mouth covered.
I handed my tea to the servant, shooing him out.
"Dear, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Tea smells off suddenly."
Lightning struck my brain.
"Morning sickness, maybe?"
No reason yesterday's fine tea turned foul—except one.
"Missed your monthly for that reason too?"
She realized at my words.
Just plausible guess, not certain.
"I'll call a physician. No—I'll go. Wait here."
My husband grabbed two horses and left at once. I waved from the gate, seeing him off. A servant could do it, but anything involving me made him overeager.
Political marriages rarely match this devotion, they say.
Sisters and friends wrote: arranged unions often stayed distant. None matched our harmony outside legends. He showed fresh affection before a dageon passed—heedless of stares.
So foolish last winter.
Winter, I muttered craving citrus. He overheard.
'I'll fetch some.'
Confirmed, bolted out—returned overnight with oranges. Frost-bit hands offering them made his vitality seem foolishly endearing. Blushing nose, feeding each other's peels, I asked why so good. Pure answer:
'Love at first sight. What more needs saying?'
Straight gaze, calm recitation—pure romance. Father'd found a gem; unaware then, but truly fine husband.