At 6:20 a.m., before the sky beyond Chang Gate had even begun to pale, Zhang Si was already awake.
He lay on his wooden bed, covered with an old reed mat, listening to the sound of early boatmen sculling along the canal outside—push after push, steady and unhurried, as if urging him to get up. Early winter in Jiangnan was cold and damp; the chill crept in through the cracks in the walls, and no amount of bedding could keep it out. He reached over to the small table beside the bed and touched the half bowl of tea left from the night before. It was ice-cold now, a thin film of frost sealed across the surface.
Slowly, he sat up and fumbled into his gray-blue padded jacket. The cloth had been washed so often it had faded almost white, the elbows reinforced with patches of the same fabric. In the kitchen next door, his wife, Madam Wang, was moving quietly about. The ladle struck the iron pot with a dull, muffled sound. He knew exactly what she was doing—warming the half pot of thin porridge left from last night, adding a little water, tossing in a small pinch of salt. That would be breakfast for the whole family.
Zhang Si was a gate guard at Chang Gate in Suzhou Prefecture, thirty-five years old. The position had been handed down from his father, Old Zhang Laoshuan. His father had held the post for thirty years, and when he finally stepped down, a bit of silver had been spent to smooth the way so that Zhang Si could take over.
Under the Great Ming, minor officials in government offices were divided into three ranks: clerks, assistants, and runners. Zhang Si belonged to the very bottom tier—the runners. He did not even count as a proper clerk, just a lowly errand hand assigned to watch the city gate. His monthly pay was six dou of grain and three qian and five fen of silver, barely enough to keep a family of four fed.
"Daddy, you're up?"
The door curtain lifted, and his ten-year-old daughter, Qiao'er, peeked in, holding a bowl of steaming porridge. It was so thin you could see your reflection in it, a few wilted greens floating on top.
Zhang Si took the bowl, blew on it, and sipped. The grain was coarse, mixed with plenty of millet, but once it went down hot, a bit of warmth spread through his body.
"Where's your mother?" he asked.
"She's helping little brother get dressed," Qiao'er said. She raised her own small bowl and drank in careful sips.
Zhang Si's son was seven this year, named Wensheng—a name chosen in the hope that the boy might one day study, pass the examinations, and change the family's fortunes. But Zhang Si knew better. With their circumstances, even hiring someone to teach basic literacy was difficult, let alone preparing for the civil service exams. The sons of petty functionaries faced restrictions on eligibility anyway. It was almost a road with no exit.
After finishing his porridge, Zhang Si handed the bowl back to Qiao'er and stepped into the courtyard. A thin layer of ice had formed on the surface of the water jar. He cracked it with the dipper, scooped up half a ladle, and splashed his face. The water stung with cold, and he shivered.
Madam Wang came out of the room holding his waist token and a small cloth bundle. The token was made of elm wood, with the words "Suzhou Prefecture, Chang Gate Guard, Zhang Si" written in ink, stamped beside with the prefectural office's vermilion seal. The characters had faded with age. Inside the cloth bundle were two vegetable dumplings for his midday meal.
"It's cold today," she said. "Wear more."
As she spoke, she tucked a hand warmer into his coat—a clay one, filled with ash and embers raked from the stove, still holding a trace of warmth.
Zhang Si nodded. He tied the token at his waist and slipped the bundle into his coat. The warmth from the hand warmer seeped through the padding to his chest, stirring a memory from twenty years earlier, when he had first taken over the post from his father. Back then, he had been young and full of confidence. Guarding a city gate might have been a minor job, but it was still imperial pay—respectable, or so he had believed.
Twenty years on, respectability had long since been ground down into numb routine. All that remained was the same repetition, day after day: opening the gate, checking passes, closing the gate.
He pushed open the courtyard door. The alley was pitch-dark, lit only by the dim yellow glow of a lantern hanging outside a distant tofu shop. The Zhang family lived three li beyond Chang Gate, in a cramped outer quarter crowded with minor officials, craftsmen, and small vendors like himself. The houses were low, the roads muddy—nothing like the neat stone-paved streets inside the city walls.
Zhang Si picked his way along the slick dirt road toward the gate. The sky was still dark, but from within the city came the sound of drums—it was nearly seven o'clock. He had to be at his post before the gates opened at seven.