The Emperor's Prey

by Jeremy Han

  The next day, back at the imperial palace, as the sun rose, Zhu Di, the usurper, felt a sense of elation rise with the coming day. He had won. All under heaven was his by virtue of power. Nothing felt better than taking something by force. He entered the empty throne room, the place where he had always stood as a prince second to someone. First, it was before his father, and then before the young upstart his nephew. Till today, he could not accept the fact that his father handed the throne to his nephew, but all that no longer mattered. The grand chamber was empty save his presence. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his father sitting on the throne, listening to his princes; his ministers and his generals decide the fate of millions and of empires.

  This power is mine now!

  There was no court session today as the emperor was gone and the usurper was not enthroned yet. Memories flooded him as he strode slowly, almost in a dreamlike state, to the Dragon Throne. Golden sunlight streamed in, shinning on the throne like a beam from heaven, an anointing. He laid a hand onto the gold seat, slowly caressing it. He choked with emotion. He was emperor of the Ming Empire from today onwards. But until some loose ends were tied, he could not rest securely on his laurels. He sat and waited for the report that would ensure his undisputed coronation. Meanwhile, he had a lot to do.

  Even though he had had a productive day, he was unhappy. Until he knew for sure his men had succeeded, his claim to the throne was not secure. He had planned his coronation and had decided on his imperial title – Yong Le. It meant Eternal Happiness. Yes, there had been too much blood. Even he, the man known as the Tiger of Yan, had grown tired of war. Zhu Di looked at the darkening sky. Night was coming and there was no word from his assassins. He sat at his desk and brooded over the matter with his chin resting on his knuckles. Then he heard footsteps. He turned, and saw his squad of killers returning with empty hands. His gut tightened at that sight, and his countenance darkened at their apparent failure. They knelt before him, as he was the emperor now. The silence of the men added to the tension.

  “Well?” He asked impatiently.

  “Jian Wen had escaped.” The leader of his men replied. Then he hesitantly added, “We await your punishment, Majesty.”

  They bowed their heads low as the usurper thought of what to do. He knew that as long as word remained that Jian Wen was alive, he would never be the legitimate ruler of the empire.

  Legitimacy.

  Suddenly, the night seemed very silent. Only the cicadas and his own heartbeat could be heard. He had come too far to lose everything he had taken by risking his life for something as trivial as ‘legitimacy’. He took a sidelong glance at his men with narrow, strained eyes. Loyal, faithful warriors who had carved the empire for him, yet they were the only ones tonight who knew that Jian Wen escaped. There was no choice. These were his battle hounds, but after tonight there were no more battles to be fought. No one, except him, must know that Jian Wen lived. He took his sword and looked at the warrior closest to him. The man did not dare look back, but his Adam’s apple bobbed visibly. He knew.

  What do you do with the hounds when the hunting season is over?

  You cook them.

  ONE

  1420 the reign of Emperor Yong Le

  Emperor Yong Le felt the shadow cast over him as the thousands of arrows blotted out the sun for a split second before they landed amidst his proud army and bodyguard detachment. His experienced veterans, well-organised and superbly trained, were standing in battle ready formation only moments ago but now, were now lying still. Tough soldiers who shouted battle cries before this onslaught were now moaning in pain on the ground. To the emperor, the casualties were a small price to pay for victory in the greatest war of his life. His men rallied and prepared to meet the wave of attackers that charged behind the devastating volley that had decimated his guard. Undaunted by the aerial attack, his remaining men shouted and lifted his banner, the flag of the Prince of Yan and the Ming as they met the enemy head on.

  This act of bravery and spirit lifted Yong Le’s morale as the initial cloud of despair faded. His men, every one of them a veteran, had followed him to crushed the Mongols in the northern campaigns. He had handpicked them for their loyalty and skill. They would not disappoint him. He craned his neck from the window of his imperial carriage to see how the cream of his crop was doing against the vile ambushers. Even though they were reduced by the aerial attack, every one of them was worth a hundred men. He strained his neck to observe how his men were doing, trying to pick out details of the combat. His voice roared in encouragement every time he spotted a soldier he knew. A warrior himself, Yong Le knew what it took to face another man bent on your destruction. It took skill, but more so spirit.

  His eyes widened. He tried to focus again to make sure he saw correctly. Despite witnessing many of his enemies cut down, their numbers did not dwindle. Somehow, there appeared to be more of them despite his army’s onslaught. Yong Le was aware of the deception of battle; how immense action can alter a man’s ability to see and perceive. He tried to catch the oddity again and this time thought that he saw it. One of his men, he remembered his name, Ti Long, a warrior from Shaanxi, a tough soldier who survived many campaigns because of his skill in combat managed to dodge an attack before he skilfully slashed his enemy across the chest. Yong Le saw the man go down and lifted a cheer but his voice was stifled by the impossible: the dead man got up and attacked Ti Long again and this time Yong Le’s warrior was pushed back. The emperor’s eye twitched again and his hand wiped his forehead. A spasm of fear shot through his body.

  “I must have seen wrongly,” he thought. “Ti Long didn’t kill him. My eyes are not as sharp as they used to be and I must have mistaken.” Frustration built in him as he realised that one of his best men did not win. Cold fear filled him as he thought he witnesses another instance of the fallen enemy rising.

  “What is happening?” He wondered nervously. Something was wrong.

  He screamed. His fears were confirmed when the unthinkable happened before his eyes. He saw the commander of his guard, Commander Sui, a fearless and superb horseman swing his sword. Taking off the head of not one, but two of the attackers, but then to his horror, the two beheaded men got up onto their feet and rejoined the battle. The two headless soldiers grabbed Sui, and dragged him off his steed and stabbed him to death. Yong Le’s terror increased as it dawned upon him that this was not a flesh and blood army fighting him. As the enemy closed in, he had no choice but to run before he fell into their unearthly hands. He leaped off the carriage onto the ground as the last of his men desperately tried to fend off the enemy to give their master a chance to escape.

  He glanced one last time at his soldiers before he absconded. His heart was saddened to see so many of his trusted warriors fall, yet they faithfully fought on. Yong Le ran. He was not prepared for this. His realm was secure; therefore he did not expect such a vigorous attempt on his life. He was dressed in court attire and his shoes were not made for a dash into the dense bamboo growth surrounding him. He stumbled but managed to catch and hold on to a bamboo stalk. He felt a sharp pain in his fingers as the splinters drew blood, but he was so frightened he continued to run. His court shoes slipped against the moist soil. If only he had worn his soldier’s boots with metal studs for traction. His breath soon became ragged and his hand ached as he fought to stop the copious perspiration flowing into his eyes. He gripped the bamboo stalk tightly as he tried to steady his breath.

  A whistling hiss caught his ear. It was a familiar sound to anyone who fought the fearsome Mongol archer before. He tried to dodge but it was too late. The arrow struck him and he rolled. Strangely he felt no agony, only overwhelming fear. His hand reached for the spot he was hit and even stranger still, there was no blood. Yet a horror spread like a ripple from the wound until it engulfed him. It was not the cold oblivion of death that overwhelmed him but a gripping dread that paralysed him from within. His body became like water.

  “Uncle.” The voice was calm
, unnaturally cool. It echoed like a voice from faraway. It sounded as though it came from another world.

  His body twitched and panic shot up his brain and his temples felt as though they were going to implode. As he sat on the forest floor holding on to the bamboo, he reluctantly turned towards the voice.

  “You! Why aren’t you dead?” Yong Le screamed!

  His nephew, the disposed emperor Jian Wen, stepped out from the trees with a bow in his hand and looked sadly at his uncle. The former emperor’s face was deathly pale.

  “When did you learn to shoot? You’ve always been weak, not fit to sit on my father’s throne. It was a mistake to give you the dragon throne. You are unworthy!”

  His nephew ignored his venomous insults and aimed the arrow at the fallen emperor. Then he smiled, curling his pale lips to reveal red, bloodstained teeth. But the emperor would not die without a fight. He whipped out a dagger from his tunic and hurled it at his nephew. The younger man stepped aside a little too late and the blade cut his face. Blood oozed. Jian Wen wiped it off his cheek without emotion.

  “Wait. You bleed. You are alive! But those soldiers of yours…”

  “They’re all dead men.” Jian Wen interrupted and completed the sentence for him. “Yes Uncle, they cannot be killed because they were all killed by you before. I’m the only one you did not manage to kill, remember? I am the emperor now of all those who want you dead.”

  Yong Le arched his back in horror. His teeth clenched so tight that it sent a bolt of agony to his brain. His hands gripped his head as he curled into a ball.

  The ethereal voice continued, “Yes Uncle. Both the living and the dead want you dead. I am the emperor and these,” he paused, motioning toward the ethereal shapes that were gathering behind him like an evil mist, “are those loyal to me. They will follow me from their graves to destroy you for usurping my throne, slaughtering my followers and murdering my family”.

  Pushed into a corner, the emperor instinctively reacted. He sprang like a tiger at his nephew before the younger man could release the bow. He grabbed Jian Wen’s throat with a great roar and clamped it like an iron vice. Yong Le was a warrior, and he knew how to kill. He applied pressure at those points that would kill a man but instead of crying out in pain, Jian Wen burst into laughter.

  “No! Mercy!”

  Yong Le opened his eyes and stared into the glassy, unmoving eye of his eunuch as the man died with Yong Le’s hands wrapped around his throat. The poor man’s hands were raised in defence instinctively but restraint by habit, as he could not touch the emperor even as his existence was slowly and painfully squeezed out of him. The emperor quickly released his grip and the man collapsed like a cut puppet before its master, no longer useful. Other eunuchs gathered and they bowed with their foreheads touching the ground fearfully. He pulled the silk blanket tight over his shoulders. The dark room, the dead eunuch, the gathering of servants in his room, his own heavy panting and his sweat soaked night clothes: The emperor shivered as he tried to make sense of what happened. His first words made no sense to the attendants,

  “Where is my nephew Jian Wen? Speak!”

  He shouted. In his dishevelled state, shouting and screaming, he looked like a mad man. No one responded because they did not know what he was talking about.

  The eunuchs quivered at the booming voice. They knew his temper and were greatly familiar with his violent ways. No one dared to reply because the question was ridiculous. His nephew was dead. Didn’t Yong Le himself say so and had it recorded in the Ming Shi ‘Ming official histories’? As his heartbeat slowed, he could hear the cicadas chirping from the beautifully designed garden outside his room. Even the tension could not stop these creatures from singing. Everything seemed peaceful here in his palace: The Great Purple Forbidden City, where there were nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine rooms. There were no rebels, no vengeful relatives and no ghosts. All was well.

  The emperor composed himself. He stood up and was himself again except for the slight quiver in his voice. “Summon the Head of Internal Security, the director of the Dong Chang ‘Eastern Depot’, immediately to my office.”

  He stepped over the corpse of the man he strangled with as much emotion as a man striding over a fallen tree trunk.

  TWO

  Clip-clop, clip-clop. The man in the carriage stifled a yawn. As it receded, he wondered if he should nap awhile but decided against it. The rhythmic clip-clop of the horses could easily lull anyone to sleep. He finally decided not to sleep during the long journey into the heart of the Forbidden City, because it was not wise to appear sleepy before an angry emperor. And how does he know that the emperor would be angry? Why else would an emperor need the head of his secret service reporting to his office in the dead of night unless the emperor needed something unpleasant done? Ji Gang laughed to himself. No…it was better not to sleep even though he felt like it. A tall, bald headed man of forty-two, Ji was recently appointed the head of the Eastern Depot, the secret service of the Yong Le emperor. For years, he had served faithfully as an imperial guard rising up the ranks. Still fit from a rigorous martial arts regime, Ji was muscular even for a northerner. Ji Gang was known as a ruthless man who destroyed the enemies of his master, though he prided himself to be a discerning man who was able to judge who deserved to die and who did not. Though not educated like the scholar class, the man possessed innate intelligence. He could read and write but was not someone who bothered with the classics. He knew just enough for him to report to the emperor and read orders. His intelligence was a more practical type. He knew when to threaten and when to bribe, when to flatter, when to insult and most importantly, when to be loyal. Every bit of his fibre was devoted to Yong Le; he was the perfect servant of the state.

  To stave off the weight on his eyelids, he opened the window to distract himself as the carriage clattered toward the heart of the empire. He had been summoned into the Nei Ting ‘Inner Hall’, a place where even officials higher ranked than him could not gain access to, so tonight something big must be up. The cool air refreshed him as he contemplated the surreal scene of a city asleep. He had passed these roads numerous times during the day when people thronged the streets with all kinds of activities that kept a city alive. Now it was dead quiet and he could hear the clatter of his horse and the creaking of the carriage wheels echo off the empty streets. Occasionally, he would hear the faint gong from some corner of the city where the time keepers were patrolling and shouting out the time of the night to whoever was awake to hear. The carriage passed by buildings with large lanterns with words painted on them. These were the homes of the rich. The lanterns illuminate the wide gates of the wealthy and the words painted on them proudly proclaimed the clan who lived within the walls, sleeping securely in their wealth and power. Ji sneered as he contemplated them. What do these people, the gentry, know about real power? Only the emperor, and him, had real power. As the director of the secret police of the Ming Empire, he had his own rules that superseded the code of law. Woe betided the man who fell into Ji’s hands. Clad in the attire of the Jinyi wei, ‘the Brocade Guard’ that differentiated them from the regular military service, Ji looked fearsome. Serving the emperor faithfully through the years, he was promoted to head this fearsome organisation with the power to investigate, torture and execute all enemies, real or imagined, of the emperor. He was Yong Le’s mastiff. So it was indeed no surprise that the emperor would summon him at an odd hour like this, because he handled odd things for the emperor.

  The carriage continued down the main thoroughfare of the slumbering city, past the area known as Wangfujing, where a well with sweet water had attracted the princes to build their residences there, until it reached the South gate of the Forbidden City known as the Gate of Heavenly Peace, then it turned right. He would enter through the East Gate. The South Gate was reserved only for the emperor and his family’s grand entrance. Officials reporting for duty entered through the east. Soon the immense presence of the city within the city loomed
and from the lanterns and gold braziers illuminating the palace, Ji Gang could feel the power emanating from it, and also the menace. He knew that the beautiful palace hid evil within. He knew, as head of the secret service, the slaughter of the concubines over an imperial slight. Girls as young as fourteen, forced into imperial servitude, slaughtered for a crime they had no idea, or no way to conceive of. The virgins brought to satisfy an old man’s lust were strangled even before they rendered their service. Even he, Ji Gang, a man who had seen much blood and death, did not approve of his master’s excesses sometimes. He heard the number of deaths was in the thousands. His sense of awe toward the palace turned into dread as he wondered tentatively if his master’s summon was not one of duty but one of interrogation. Had he done anything wrong? No. Then why did he worry, he thought? He reasoned that one could not work with a tiger without worrying about the day the beast became hungry. The carriage entered the East Gate and its clattering sound echoed across the Forbidden City. He wondered if he would be carried out of the Forbidden City headless or he would leave in his carriage just as he had come.