Empress

by Shan Sa

  Outside the day was dawning. A continuous stream of light flooded the audience hall, and the sun opened its arms to me. I disguised my anger and smiled.

  “Lord Pei, I helped the previous sovereign for almost twenty years without making a single mistake. Heaven and Earth demonstrated their satisfaction during the Great Sanctification, and the Chinese people have recognized the value of my advice by giving me the title of Celestial Empress. My regency is now the only guarantee of imperial stability after all the troubles that have afflicted the land of China. That is why the previous sovereign and the sovereign heir both confided the dynasty to me. It would not be difficult to hand power to my son, but this small gesture would be an unconditional surrender on my part. In the eyes of the people, it would be as if I recognized these unfounded accusations and encouraged every lawless creature to disrespect our authority. Even though I have for some time fostered the desire to withdraw gently from the affairs of this world, it will not be possible in the immediate future. The imperial order has been flouted. The prestige of ancestral sovereigns has been called into question. In such a situation, no prince by blood thrust into the forefront of the political scene would be respected by his vassals. He would simply be manipulated. Lord Pei Yan, you who once demonstrated such extraordinary perceptiveness, why are you now so blind?”

  BACK IN THE gynaeceum, it took me a long time to recover from Pei Yan’s insolence, and I was weighed down by a dark feeling of foreboding. I gave orders for the guard around Future’s residence in exile to be reinforced, then I sent spies to listen to Miracle’s conversations with officials.

  The overseeing magistrate Cui Cha asked for a secret audience.

  “On his death bed,” he whispered, “the previous emperor asked Pei Yan to watch over the government. This bequeathed power must have nurtured some unspeakable ambition in him. That is why, instead of defending your Supreme Majesty, he is now asking you to abandon your regency. Everyone knows that the sovereign heir has no political experience and that he would not be a firm ruler. Calling the sovereign back to the throne would be to entrust power to Pei Yan. Your Supreme Majesty should be wary of this.”

  This comment complied with my own investigations. I delayed sending an imperial army out against the rioters and increased the number of guards protecting the Inner City. Within a few days, secret enquiries into Pei Yan’s activities revealed that one of the principal organizers of the revolt was his nephew. Apart from this relationship, there was nothing to prove the Great Secretary’s guilt.

  I had made my decision, even if there were still doubts that should have worked in Pei Yan’s favor. It no longer mattered to me whether he was guilty or innocent. The riot led by Li Jing Yei, grandson of the Great General who was a veteran of the dynasty, had sown the seeds of unease in the Outer Court. Men who had obeyed me blindly were beginning to doubt my legitimacy. Pei Yan’s position served only to reinforce this destructive tendency. Pei Yan had been made Great Secretary on my husband’s wishes, and with my support, he had dethroned my son Future. His power had become a danger that I had to suppress quickly.

  One wintry morning during the salutation, I ordered Pei Yan’s arrest. The generals of the Forest of Plumes Guard led their troops into the Palace. Taken by surprise, a number of ministers pleaded his innocence, but the Great Secretary submitted without protest or tears as he was stripped of his cap of lacquered black linen, his ivory tablet, and his leather belt sewn with jade discs.

  During that same ceremony, I sent orders for Great General Li Ji’s grave to be destroyed because he had begat an insurgent grandson. “Let the name Li, presented to him by the Emperor Eternal Ancestor17, be withdrawn. Scatter his bones over the countryside!” By persecuting this dead minister who had been so close to me, I was warning any living person who might dare betray me. That day the imperial divisions received orders to set out. Three hundred thousand armored soldiers hastened to the occupied cities. Soon news of victories was sent back to me. The so-called rebel army was nothing but a horde of beggars who fled when they saw our banners. A revolt had broken out within their own ranks. Forty days after their dramatic declaration, the insurgent soldiers were asking to surrender by offering me the severed heads of Xu Jing Yei18 and his followers. I had them paraded on pikes through the centre of Luoyang where they soon streamed with spittle from my people.

  My imperial officers executed every last survivor of the rebel chiefs. When Cheng Wu Ting, Great General of the regiment of Eagles of the Right, was denounced to me for having secret meetings with the rioters, I asked for no further proof, and, despite his reputation as the conqueror of the Turks and the Koreans, I sent the Great General of the regiment of Eagles of the Left to behead him in his barracks.

  After Pei Yan was arrested and his quarters had been searched, the examining magistrate informed me that the Great Secretary had lived in a state of destitution. His furniture was rudimentary and his rooms quite without ornamentation. In his six-year term of office as a Great Minister, he had managed to save up a few bags of rice and a dozen rolls of silk, gifts given to him by my late husband and myself.

  I was moved by the man’s honesty. In prison he would not admit to the crime of which he was accused and never proclaimed his innocence. In mid-autumn he was decapitated in the middle of a public crossroads. Before dying he allegedly asked for forgiveness from his banished brothers: “When I was in power, I never let you benefit from my position; now, because of me, you have been exiled to the ends of Earth. I am so sorry!”

  I chose to ignore whether he deserved to die. His condemnation had been a deciding factor in the fight against the insurgents. I secretly ordered for his head and body to be collected and given a decent burial in the countryside near Luoyang. Occasionally, on the anniversary of his death, I would send a few offerings and prayers to his grave.

  Within the Forbidden City, my voice echoed solemnly around the Palace of Virtuous Authority: “Gentlemen, I have never disappointed Heaven, you know that well! I served the previous sovereign for more than twenty years, and the Empire’s affairs have caused me much concern! I have watched over the stability and happiness of this world. I have offered wealth and nobility to all of you. Since the previous sovereign abandoned you and entrusted me with command, I have never troubled with my own health; my every thought has been for the happiness of the people. These rebels were ministers, generals, and Court officials. Where, then, is loyalty, and where is honor? Shame on you! I am not afraid of treacherous, rebellious men. I ask of you: Who among you would be more powerful, more sour-tempered, and more stubborn than hereditary minister Pei Yan? Who would be more violent, more reckless, and more inflamed than Xu Jing Yei descended from one of the dynasty’s Veterans? Who would be more experienced, more adroit, and more tactical than Cheng Wu Ting who never suffered military defeat? Those three men were believed to be indomitable! When they tried to betray me, I cut off their heads. If you consider yourself better than them, then you must revolt straight away. If not, work together and save all your energies for helping me in affairs of State. Prove yourselves worthy of posterity!”

  IN THE FIRST month of the first year in the era of the Residence of Sunlight, I begat a new world. The imperial banners of ancient times disappeared from the city’s ramparts, and my golden standards edged with mauve now flapped in the wind. At Court I distributed new colors to the dignitary’s clothes: mauve to scholars and generals above the third rank, crimson to the fourth rank, and vermilion to the fifth rank. The sixth rank had to make do with dark emerald green, while the seventh rank wore light green. The eighth and ninth ranks, at the very bottom of the grading system, were given consolation for their humility; I attributed the color of blossoming springtime to them. In government, I did away with the age-old names given to ministers of state. Inspired by the venerable Zhou dynasty from which our Wu clan descended, I wanted politics to be a celebration of life from now on. I published an edict renaming the Great Chancellery the Terrace of Divine Birds; the Great Secre
tariat became the Pavilion of the Phoenix; and the Ministry of Supreme Affairs became the Lodge of Prosperous Letters. The six ministers responsible for the administration of the Inner City, human affairs, religious rites, armaments, punishments, and major works became Officers of the Heavens, the Earth, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, respectively.

  When stars move across the sky, they transcribe a mathematical perfection. When flowers open, they reveal a universe of harmonious architecture. The seasons unfold in keeping with the order of creation—Germinating, flourishing, ripening, wilting, because where there is death, there is also harvesting. The pinnacle of poetry is silence; a painter’s crowning achievement is the white of a virgin sheet of paper; sages meditate with a vacant mind; the illumination of Buddha is the extinction of the world. A sovereign’s ultimate power is the abstinence of his authority. The sovereign’s will is motionless, highly concentrated, serving as a vehicle for Nature’s intelligence in maintaining the balance between light and darkness of the shades. The sovereign’s command is calm, steady and determined, transcending the universal evolution of perpetual motion. The sovereign’s hand is infinitely powerful and infinitely gentle, applying the invisible laws that fertilize the fields, shift the stars, and call forth migrating birds.

  Four months after the era of the Residence of Sunlight was inaugurated, I was ready to pass to the higher phase of my policies.

  The era of Lowered Arms and Joined Hands announced my resolve to govern the world without recourse to violence but in a posture of prayer. Before me I would have the gods who had stepped down from the heavens, leading us to happiness, and behind me, a whole country prostrate on the ground. From now on, there would be no arms raised, brandishing the lance of repression. There would be no fruitless struggle and pointless agitation. The demons had been driven out; I would dominate the turmoil of this world with immutable strength.

  NINE

  My periods had stopped.

  The moon waxed and waned in vain. The crimson tide had run dry.

  In this lowly world, women are the ocean’s pearls, their brilliance derived from the stain of their flesh. The blood had been the thread linking me to an underground world where a grim labyrinth twisted around a perpetual furnace. It had been the source of all my energy.

  As Supreme Empress I had to conceal my failing, but the changes in my mood did not escape my old servant Emerald. One evening she forced me to accept a visit from a woman doctor, an austere creature who wore a man’s hat. After a brief examination the doctor prostrated herself and congratulated me: My divine body had returned to its original state. The serenity accorded me by my resting senses would allow me to achieve immortality at last. I did not like the term “resting,” and I interrupted her croaking pronouncements with a desultory wave. None of these women who officiated in the palace had known the violence of a phallus or the seismic upheavals of childbirth; virginity had made diaphanous creatures of them. A tree emptied of its sap loses its leaves and dries out. Stripped of my womanly barbarity, it was as if I were dead. The gods were imposing a virtuous widowhood on me, and I accepted their censure. The pleasures of the flesh no longer interested me. Carnal gratification would be the sacrifice I made to the heavens.

  My duties running the Empire came to the fore again. Once again I was the weaver before her loom, unraveling inextricable threads. During the day, surrounded by ministers and generals, I forgot my age, my weariness, and the absence of a man to listen to me and support me. In the evening, sitting before my mirror in the Inner Court, I watched as my women dismantled my topknot, my pride, and my deceptive youth. Servants smoothed little squares of dampened silk over my face, and the white powders and red makeup melted away. I had to contemplate my bare skin and the wrinkles that had begun to knit their mesh in the corners of my eyes and lips. There in the candlelight, the mirror invited me to step into the abyss. I pictured Little Phoenix young and beautiful, his eyes brimming with desire. Then an aloof young woman appeared behind him, laughing, teasing him, and then drawing him up onto her horse. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, they disappeared into the dark night of my memory.

  Without Little Phoenix, his migraines, and his turbulent emotions, the Inner Court felt empty. In that huge garden that seemed to have been deserted by human beings, every tree whispered, every piece of furniture spoke, every window exhaled a perfume that reawakened snatches of the past. I slept alone and was tormented by insomnia. I would wake Gentleness and order her to walk before me, carrying a lantern. As I arrived in each successive pavilion, the women who kept watch at night prostrated themselves and held open the doors. The rooms I dared not venture into by day were fully lit. Here a zither he had caressed; over there, in front of the aquarium, I could still hear his childlike laugh; here, beneath this window, we once argued; over there, his calligraphy brushes and inkpots—his books still lying open. Sometimes Little Phoenix seemed to walk so close to me, whispering words of love; sometimes I would lose him behind a painted balustrade, as I turned along one of the galleries. He always eventually disappeared into the bushes, into infinity. Sometimes I would even ask for the door to the stables to be opened. When they saw me, his horses would stamp and snort with joy. I would put my arms around his favorite mount, Song of Snow, who would stare at me with sad, steady eyes. I would bury my head in that fine mane and weep.

  The shadows had taken Little Phoenix, my father, my mother, my sisters, my niece, and my rivals. For the time being, I had learned to forget my body, which was “resting.” I grew accustomed to the lofty height of the throne on which I now sat alone. Alone, I manipulated the pawns on the vast chessboard of an empire orphaned by its master. I was nothing more than a mind, a mind contemplating the world below with chilled compassion.

  POLITICAL AFFAIRS KEPT me breathing. I extended the time I dedicated to my work on into the evening to avoid my palace, my prison, my tomb.

  The transition in reigns was an opportunity for plots to be revealed, for hidden ambitions to betray themselves. These little problems that needed resolving distracted me and occupied my solitude.

  One night, a strange dream disturbed me. Someone was scratching at the door to my pavilion. As there seemed to be no servant on duty, I went to open the door myself. It was dark outside, and there was a little boy standing on the steps. A man! Who had let him into the gynaeceum where all males were forbidden? The child held up both his hands, holding a tiny box. “Could you give me some salt? Please?” Behind me, the room was deserted. In front of me, beyond the threshold, the dark rooftops of the Imperial City spread out to infinity. The wind blew, and I was gripped by an uncontrollable fear. Was he a professional killer, a hired assassin? And yet I could not find the resolve to close the door on him. Perhaps he needed my help? How could I refuse him a few grains of salt? I shook with fear, but in that agonizing moment of hesitation, I decided, in spite of myself, to let him in. As the stranger stepped over the threshold, my fear suddenly dissolved, and I woke feeling amazed and happy.

  I confided this dream to the Princess of Gold, the youngest daughter of Emperor Lordly Ancestor, and my friend for thirty years. The princess thought for a while and then smiled at me mischievously: “Does your Supreme Majesty not think that salt gives food its taste? When there is no salt, life is bland and flavorless!”

  I could not help myself sighing. In my dream, it had not in fact been a little boy asking for salt, but I, Supreme Empress, begging for the savor of life! The previous sovereign had given me back my freedom. Whatever I wished was now granted. In all of China, I had no other master but myself; I had become my own jailor, and I was my own prisoner.

  My distress did not go unnoticed by the princess. She went on: “For a year now, Your Supreme Majesty has worked day and night. She receives me little, but I know she is hiding her sorrow from me, and only keeps going because she has a will of iron. Has she considered that every human body is a fragile organism and that, by accumulating too much melancholy, by neglecting the need for relaxation, it will
eventually be exhausted and may suddenly succumb to some fatal illness? It seems that Your Majesty’s body has entered into the age of rest. I can, therefore, offer a remedy that will disperse your sadness and fortify your health!”

  Intrigued, I asked her what it was.

  “Supreme Majesty,” she said, blinking slowly, “the yin element must be mixed with the yang element, and the combined force of these two primordial energies creates the seasons, makes the flowers bloom, raises up the wind, and brings forth the rain. Even though Your Supreme Majesty’s soul is as virile as a warrior’s, your body remains that of a woman. Since our Celestial Sovereign was called to the heavens, the dark exhalations of yin have accumulated in your organs. The weight of them darkens your mood, causes gloominess, diminishes your strength, and beckons old age! Majesty, your servant has in her possession a remedy full of the power of the sun, the remedy you so need. It will recapture forever the freshness of your features, the suppleness in your limbs, and the elation in your spirit!”

  Her charlatanism made me smile: the Princess of Gold—a great bulky woman who was impossible to age—was a constant whirlwind of celebrations and pleasure. Born into a jade cradle, raised in the closed universe of the Imperial Court, she maintained a constant battle against the extinction of desire that threatens all such high-born creatures. Strangely, I who loved sobriety, exactitude, and profundity, had become fond of her guileless eagerness, her desperate frivolity, and her debauched escapades that overflowed with joy and tears.