Chapter 102: Not a Word, Even Under Death Threat

What Xue Rui referred to as the periodic规律 of solar and lunar eclipses was not his own discovery but one first identified by the Chaldeans several centuries before the Common Era. This cycle later became known as the Saros cycle.

Although the Saros cycle cannot pinpoint eclipses down to the minute, it provides a convenient method to verify whether an eclipse will occur. Given records of past eclipses, one can count back a fixed number of days to determine if such a celestial anomaly is expected on a given date.

Hu Zhong, however, remained skeptical. Casting a sideways glance at Xue Rui, he chuckled and said, “The sun and moon are symbols of the ruler. A solar eclipse signals heavenly warning, urging the emperor to cultivate virtue and reflect on himself. Throughout history, these ominous celestial events have occurred on varying dates—how can there be a fixed pattern?”

In ancient times, eclipses were regarded as ill omens. To decipher their patterns, every dynasty established official institutions dedicated to astronomical research.

Through long-term observation and calculation, astronomers had grasped some basic laws regarding eclipses:

Solar eclipses always occur on the new moon (the first day of the lunar month), while lunar eclipses coincide with the full moon (the fifteenth or sixteenth day of the lunar calendar).

It must be noted, however, that not every new moon results in a solar eclipse, nor does every full moon bring a lunar eclipse. This irregularity required the astronomers’ close attention.

Given the crudeness of ancient computational methods, errors in eclipse predictions were common. Records across dynasties mention instances of “predicted eclipses that did not occur” or “eclipses that were invisible locally.”

Such discrepancies arose either from miscalculations or from eclipses that, though occurring, were not visible in that region.

To cover these errors, astronomers often provided ingenious explanations. For example, when an eclipse was predicted but did not manifest, they would claim it was due to the emperor’s virtue and diligence, which moved Heaven to withhold the ominous sign, sometimes even petitioning the emperor to accept official congratulations on this auspicious outcome.

From these examples, it is clear that eclipses were regarded as chance events in antiquity. Thus, when Xue Rui claimed to have discovered a pattern, Hu Zhong was naturally incredulous.

To prove his point, Xue Rui opened a volume in his hand and said, “Master, I have already checked. The most recent solar eclipse occurred on the first day of the eighth lunar month in the twelfth year of the Zhengtong era. Counting back 19,756 days by my calculations, that brings us to the first day of the seventh lunar month in the twenty-sixth year of the Hongwu reign. See this record from Hongwu’s twenty-sixth year? It clearly states: ‘On the first day of the seventh month, a solar eclipse occurred!’”

“Really?” Hu Zhong’s eyes widened as he hurriedly took the record to examine it.

“I must calculate it myself; it could be a coincidence,” he muttered.

After reviewing the documents, Hu Zhong’s face was filled with astonishment. Having spent his lifetime studying astronomy, he had always believed no discernible pattern to eclipses existed. Now, Xue Rui’s assertion that solar eclipses repeat on a fixed cycle profoundly challenged his understanding.

Seeing Hu Zhong pick up his brush to perform calculations, Xue Rui quickly prepared ink for him.

Hu Zhong clearly recalled several eclipses during the Zhengtong reign; he chose the eclipse on the first day of the tenth lunar month in the ninth year of Zhengtong. Counting backward, that date corresponded to the first day of the ninth lunar month in the twenty-third year of Hongwu.

Since it was so long ago, Hu Zhong could not remember if an eclipse had occurred then and urged, “Quick, go to the archives and bring all the eclipse records from the Hongwu years.”

The Hongwu-era records were voluminous, nearly half a person’s height tall. Xue Rui carried the hefty pile to Hu Zhong’s study, nearly breathless upon arrival.

Inside, Hu Zhong had already applied Xue Rui’s method to calculate the corresponding dates of all eclipses during the Zhengtong years.

Among the piles of records, Hu Zhong found the volume for the eighth month of Hongwu’s twenty-third year. It stated: “On the first day of the ninth month, a new moon, a solar eclipse occurred!”

“How can this be?!” Hu Zhong’s face was struck with disbelief. He hurriedly checked the other eclipse dates and, indeed, each matched with annotations confirming eclipse occurrences.

After finishing, Hu Zhong slowly sank into his chair, his gaze blank.

“Master, are you alright?” Xue Rui was startled and quickly brought a cup of tea.

After some time, Hu Zhong recovered and pushed the tea aside, smiling wryly. “I have studied celestial phenomena all my life and never imagined solar eclipses could repeat on fixed dates. Does this mean the Imperial Astronomical Bureau will no longer need to calculate eclipses?”

Xue Rui added, “Not just solar eclipses—lunar eclipses can be predicted this way as well. I believe all these ominous celestial events known to us might follow similar patterns…”

“Speak carefully!” Hu Zhong suddenly interrupted, lowering his voice sharply.

“Master, what’s the matter?” Xue Rui asked, puzzled. His discovery could greatly reduce the officials’ workload at the Bureau, so why was Hu Zhong acting so secretive?

After glancing outside the study, Hu Zhong closed the door and sternly instructed, “This discovery must not be revealed to anyone outside our closest circle—not a word, even under threat of death!”

“Do you think this will cause trouble?” Xue Rui sensed there was more to this, though he could not yet understand.

Hu Zhong pondered for a moment before sighing, “Our Bureau has hundreds of officials who rely on astronomical computations for their livelihood. If you disclose this discovery, what purpose will their work have?”

“Moreover, these celestial anomalies are important tools for court officials to balance imperial power. If the emperor learns these events recur on fixed dates and are not divine warnings of his failings, how can the ministers restrain him? That would be disastrous for the realm. Do you understand?”

Since Dong Zhongshu established the doctrine of ‘Heaven and Man’s Correspondence,’ by the Ming dynasty, the idea of the emperor’s heavenly mandate was deeply ingrained. Even the founding emperor Zhu Yuanzhang firmly believed that the emperor’s loss of virtue would be met with celestial warnings. Whenever ominous celestial phenomena occurred, he would reflect, repent, and seek to appease Heaven’s wrath.

For example, in the thirteenth year of Hongwu, the Jinshen Hall in the imperial palace was struck by lightning. Zhu Yuanzhang summoned the Bureau’s director, who explained that this was due to the emperor having executed too harshly against Hu Weiyong’s faction, incurring Heaven’s anger.

Zhu Yuanzhang found this explanation reasonable and told his ministers, “My foolishness has offended both men and gods. From now on, I shall reform myself.”

After this incident, the emperor ceased his purges and declared amnesty for the remaining faction members, saving countless lives.

This illustrates how strongly these celestial omens constrained rulers in ancient times.

If, as Xue Rui suggested, the lightning strike on Jinshen Hall was merely due to its tall structure and lack of proper lightning protection, how could that have stopped Zhu Yuanzhang’s killings?

Thus, celestial phenomena not only symbolize imperial authority but also serve to restrain it. To ensure the emperor’s belief, officials would embellish these anomalies with political overtones and mystique to intimidate the ruler.

The Imperial Astronomical Bureau’s role was to craft and maintain this narrative. If Xue Rui were to reveal his discovery, ignoring the number of officials who would lose their jobs, the court ministers themselves would do everything to eliminate him.

Hu Zhong was blunt in his explanation. Xue Rui, no fool, understood the gravity of the situation.

At the same time, he felt a measure of relief—thankfully, he had consulted his master first, or he might have unleashed an unprecedented catastrophe.

“Then I suppose I’ll keep this secret buried inside me,” Xue Rui sighed.

Abandoning any hopes of acclaim, he exhaled deeply.

Such a monumental astronomical law, if known to contemporary scholars, could greatly advance the era’s scientific progress. Alas, trapped in this feudal age, he possessed theory but no place to apply it—a frustration indeed.

Regarding his apprentice’s dedication, Hu Zhong was highly approving. Chinese astronomers had studied solar and lunar eclipses for thousands of years without uncovering such a cycle. Yet, after barely more than a month at the Bureau, Xue Rui’s discovery demonstrated remarkable talent, convincing Hu Zhong that his legacy was secure.

“Enough now. Though you cannot disclose this finding, it can still be useful. From now on, when the Bureau calculates eclipses, you can use this method to verify predictions. Since the Bureau’s founding, almost no one has predicted solar eclipses accurately every time. With your skill, you need not worry about your career.”

Accepting this revolutionary truth, Hu Zhong comforted his disheartened apprentice.

“That’s true,” Xue Rui brightened again. His father was about to assume the position of chief of the Five Officials Section. Although not responsible for eclipse calculations, he could still correct errors when they occurred—this was a significant merit, surely ensuring future promotions.

...

In fact, without Xue Rui’s method, the Bureau’s officials, working day and night, still ruled out the possibility of any ominous celestial events in the near future.

As for the weather, they tentatively predicted clear skies on the second day of the ninth lunar month, while the sixth day required further observation.

After submitting these results to the Ministry of Rites, officials began urgent preparations for the grand ceremony. Courtiers’ attention focused keenly on the Prince of Cheng’s residence.

Since the Empress Dowager’s edict, officials had twice visited Prince Zhu Qiyu to urge him to ascend the throne, but both attempts were refused.

At midday today, led by Yu Qian, officials made a third appeal. As expected, Prince Zhu Qiyu finally agreed to ascend the throne.

They also agreed to hold the enthronement ceremony on the second day of the ninth lunar month.

News of this spread, and the city erupted in celebration.

Zhu Qiyu’s ascension meant the Zhengtong Emperor Zhu Qizhen would become a thing of the past—a disgrace abandoned by countless subjects.

Upon hearing this, Xue Rui was somewhat surprised. He vaguely recalled that historical records described the Empress Dowager’s edict as unwelcome to Zhu Qiyu. Despite repeated urging, he had resisted and only reluctantly agreed after being cornered.

At that time, the ninth lunar month was already several days underway, so the enthronement was scheduled for the sixth day. Unexpectedly, now it was advanced by four days.

After analysis, Xue Rui suspected this major change stemmed from Cheng Jing’s late-night visit and the positive attitudes of his father and master, which dispelled Zhu Qiyu’s doubts, prompting his swift acceptance.

Thus far, this alteration seemed beneficial to the capital’s defense. The earlier enthronement gave the court more time to prepare and bolstered the citizens’ confidence.

On the second day of the ninth lunar month, the enthronement ceremony of Emperor Zhu Qiyu proceeded as planned.

On that day, the Imperial Astronomical Bureau’s officials all participated, accompanying Ministry of Rites officers to oversee the grand event.

As an indispensable member, Xue Rui was assigned a vital role: to remain at the Bureau!

There was no alternative. The newly admitted junior scholars were not yet government officials and thus lacked the qualifications to attend such an important ceremony, so they had to stay behind and study.

As the archives keeper, Xue Rui earnestly requested to join the ceremony but was refused by senior officials like Xu Dun. They explained that the Bureau was a place of great secrecy, holding many confidential matters. To handle any sudden incidents, mature and steady personnel were needed to maintain order. Xue Rui fit this description, so the responsibility was entrusted to him.

This was no mere excuse. The Bureau was short-staffed; even seventy-year-old Hu Zhong had to preside over rituals at the Temple of Heaven. Among the astronomical scholars, only Xue Rui was truly capable.

Reluctantly, Xue Rui accepted his duty, brought a stool, and sat by the front door, acting as gatekeeper.

The enthronement lasted until afternoon, after which officials gradually returned.

Though the ceremony was dull and required standing for hours, the junior scholars who attended appeared lively and unwearied. Hearing Liu Jin and others describe the magnificent spectacle, Xue Rui longed to have been part of it and bitterly regretted his role as mere gatekeeper.

The returning officials brought with them a copy of Zhu Qiyu’s enthronement edict, which largely matched the version Xue Rui had read in his previous life:

“By Heaven’s mandate, the Emperor decrees: My late father, Emperor Xuanzong, once defended the capital. Recently, the barbarians invaded... The Empress Dowager, considering the Crown Prince’s youth and inexperience, has appointed me to govern the realm. A returning envoy from captivity bears the late Emperor’s words: ‘Rituals for the ancestral temple cannot be delayed. My younger brother, the Prince of Cheng, mature and virtuous, shall succeed to perform these rites.’ Though I resent this, I dare not refuse such weighty trust. On the second day of the ninth month, I shall duly announce my accession to Heaven, the ancestral temple, and the realm, dispatch envoys to the barbarians to pay respects, honor the late Emperor as Retired Emperor, and plan for restoration. The new era shall be named Jingtai from next year, with a general amnesty for the people. All matters conforming to propriety are detailed thereafter.”

With the edict’s proclamation, the Ming dynasty’s succession was secured. While the people celebrated, they also hoped that under the new emperor, the dynasty might reverse its decline, drive out the invaders, and avoid national ruin.