The maids came quickly and knelt before me, their heads lowered. They all wore splendid silk gowns and fragrant sachets, and their elaborate hair was adorned with silver and jade hairpins, gifts from me. If any of them walked out on the street, people would have mistaken them for high-ranking Ladies. Had I been too kind to them and spoiled them with jewelry and fine clothing? Had they become lazy and lax with all the riches?
“I ask you, who do you serve?” I demanded.
“You, Luminous Lady.” They spoke as one.
“And yet what have you all been doing? You have failed your duty. You let my enemy kill my daughter!” Their heads bowed so low I could not see their faces. I fixed my eyes on Apricot. My chief maid. Anger shot up from my stomach again. “Apricot. What do you have to say before I punish you?”
“Luminous Lady, let me explain.” She trembled. I remembered the first time I saw her, a bashful young girl who had a tendency to wring her hands when I asked her a question. The brief strength she had possessed these years had disappeared, and she was her old nervous self again. “I have told you, I was with Hong. I took him to see the physicians. They could tell you, I was not here when the Empress came. For that, I am truly sorry. Please forgive me.”
I would not forgive her. It was her negligence that cost my daughter’s life. I had to punish her, and I had to use her to set an example so the people who served me would remain loyal to me. I remembered the polo match many years ago when Emperor Taizong ordered a slave to be trampled by horses to frighten his vassals. I must do the same. “You have been derelict, Apricot, and you must be punished for that.”
“Yes, Luminous Lady.” She was weeping.
“Guards,” I ordered, and several men ran to the courtyard, more quickly than I had expected. They must have been waiting close by, watching me. Some eunuchs were peering from behind the moon-shaped gate too, and as I raised my head toward them, they shrank back to hide.
“Ten lashes!” I ordered.
Apricot squealed in fright. But she did not resist as the guards took her arms and pushed her to the ground.
The rod fell. “One!”
Apricot shrieked. Her voice shot up to the sky and shook the garden. The maids around me trembled, their hands on their mouths.
“Two!”
I heard a crack, as though the rod had hit her hip bone, followed by Apricot’s heart-wrenching scream.
“Three!”
A pool of redness bloomed on her white gown. I did not look away. I continued to stare at her twisted face, and I listened to her agonizing cries. I wanted to remember this moment, remember her pain, for this beating had to mean something. It had to be worthwhile. My maids perhaps did not understand this now, but one day, they would.
Finally, the rods ceased falling, my inner robe was drenched with perspiration, and Apricot’s screams were reduced to whimpering. I stood beside her and waited. She did not rise, and I did not give her my hand.
AD 655
The Sixth Year of Emperor Gaozong’s Reign of Eternal Glory
EARLY SPRING
32
An urgent message reached my ears. Minister Xu Jingzong and other ministers had been ambushed by a group of armed men after they left the palace. Two ministers were beaten to death, others were seriously maimed, and Minister Xu Jingzong was badly beaten. He was punished because he had mentioned the Empress’s murder, he was told. If he dared to speak on my behalf again and challenge the Empress’s authority, the armed men threatened the minister, he would face a worse fate, and his family would suffer a similar fate as well.
Pheasant was disturbed. For days he did not speak, trying to think of a solution. But a few days later, another alarming message shook him up.
The Regent had secretively gathered some five hundred Gold Bird Guards in his ward. Standing on a high platform, with torches burning at his sides, he informed the crowd that the Emperor, bewitched by me, had threatened to kill him, the ministers, the Empress, and all of his trusted men. The threat was real, he warned them, for they must not forget how reckless Pheasant had been in the Audience Hall and how he had threatened to chop off everyone’s head. The time had come! He thrust his fist in the air. The guards must hold their swords and nock their arrows, for the Emperor would have them killed next.
The heir, Zhong, was said to have been there. He had slipped out of the palace soon after I had threatened the ministers, I heard, and was now standing beside the Regent. He nodded in agreement and told the crowd that I had attempted to poison him, and two of his personal attendants had consequently died.
Pheasant was shocked at the Regent’s instigation. That was rebellion, he warned him in a letter, demanding him to disarm immediately. The Regent refused, claiming Pheasant had defied Emperor Taizong’s will. “It is a shame,” he said in the message that returned to Pheasant, “that the kingdom your father and grandfather have built would be ruined in your hands!”
I wanted to laugh when I heard that, but his words also reminded me of the prophecy that had haunted Emperor Taizong when he was alive. The Li family’s reign had a foe who would end their rule, it said. Was it possible the Regent was the enemy described in the prophecy? After all, his given name was Wuji, and the enemy was described as being named Wu.
No one seemed to realize the connection, however, and if it were true, it would be ironic. Emperor Taizong would certain fly into a rage in his grave, knowing his most trusted friend was the foe he had tried to eliminate.
• • •
What hurt me the most was not the potential arrows released from the Regent’s army, rather the other invisible and dangerous arrow unleashed from the Empress’s mouth. She spread these words all over the kingdom: “Luminous Lady has viciously accused me of a most pernicious crime that I would never have the heart to commit,” she said. “It bears not a thread of truth, and it is most condemnable that she would vilify me so. I did not murder her child. As to who smothered the infant, Luminous Lady herself knows very well.”
So the vicious rumor arose and circled throughout the city. I had murdered my own child and blamed it on the Empress, people said. The details were vivid. I had watched the Empress approach the bedchamber, and I had waited in a corner, and when the Empress left, I entered the bedchamber, dismissed all the maids, and smothered my Oriole. I then pretended nothing had happened and went about my chores, and when Pheasant came to the bedchamber, I pretended to know nothing. When Pheasant discovered Oriole was not breathing, I pretended to be shocked and screamed in grief. I had put on a good show, they said, a very good show.
People in every ward were outraged. When they went to the markets to sell firewood or fruits, they appeared red-faced in anger, repeating the morbid details of my child’s death. What kind of woman was Luminous Lady, to murder her own blood? people asked. She was the most malicious woman who had ever lived. More people shook their heads. Very soon, everyone in the city learned that I, Luminous Lady, the heartless, ruthless woman from the Wu Clan, had smothered my own daughter in order to become the Empress.
I heard that some monks and nuns doubted the stories. But when they tried to speak for me, they were reminded that I, after all, was a court woman with a deep desire for indulgence and fame, and for devout men and women like them, it would be very hard to understand.
The Regent seized the opportunity to fan the people’s hatred of me. That sort of woman was a shame to the kingdom and must be punished, he demanded. He then ordered his two dogs, Han Yuan and Lai Ji, and their men, to paste bulletin after bulletin on the markets’ gates and the wards’ walls. One day, the bulletin said such a vicious woman must be hunted down and stoned. The next day, the bulletin stated that two more dutiful ministers in the palace, who had questioned me, had been prosecuted under my order.
The kingdom was no longer safe, the Regent announced, and he even hired bands of ruffians and mercenaries to surround his ward, claiming
he had to protect himself.
And finally, the Regent warned the kingdom to watch the skies. The heavenly signs, the signs that would give any man permission to rise against Pheasant, the signs that showed Heaven would rescind its mission to Pheasant, the signs that would affirm the Regent’s desire to remove Pheasant, would soon come.
• • •
I hardly slept at night anymore, and, like those days after Princess Gaoyang died, I spent much time on the bench in the garden.
Each time I thought of the Empress and the rumor she had spread, I felt powerless and angry. I imagined people in the city, those faces I had seen in the market, spitting my name in spite, and I shuddered with anger. How sly that woman was to spin vicious rumors to ruin me.
Could I fight against rumor? I did not think so, for rumor had no grave and only bore seeds. It germinated in the air, thrived in the sun, and ripened in the shadows. It would not die in the rain and fly only higher in the wind.
For the first time since my daughter’s death, I was afraid, but I did not want to be afraid. The rumor would not harm me or change me—I would not allow it. But it would change the perceptions of me and, perhaps, even my future.
I did not know what to think. I did not know what to do. I had lost my child, and in the midst of revenge, I would lose my reputation, my name, and my father’s good name. Father. He would have been so angry with me…
I began to drink more. Plum wine. Ginger wine. Wine produced from millet, rice, and barley. Wine made of rare black grapes. There were so many to choose from in the imperial cellars. But the wine made of millet, unadulterated with fruit or spice, became my favorite. It was bitter and strong. It lit up my head like a fire and knocked me out. I would sleep well for a night without feeling anger or fear.
I always drank alone. Pheasant had not come to the garden since I bit him. He had gone to visit the three Ladies, I heard. They were ecstatic, and they had put on their finest clothes, applied white powder and fragrances, and painted bright beauty marks. They spent the night playing lutes and zithers. I did not envy them. Let them have him. Let him have them.
He visited the Pure Lady too, whose mind was still caught in the web of terror woven by her imprisonment. She had lost a lot of weight and had a tendency to sleepwalk at night, muttering and weeping. When Pheasant visited, she appeared startled and threw vases at him. Somehow she stepped on the shards and cut herself. Unable to understand what was happening, she screamed and released a vitriol speech of how the Empress had imprisoned her. “Empress Wang, Empress Wang,” she screamed, pointing at Pheasant. “I shall curse you until my death!”
Sujie seemed to have adjusted to his new, calm life, they said, but he had become reticent. He could not remember any poems, and he was interested only in his pet crickets and weiqi.
Pheasant watched him play for long hours, I heard, and when he left the Quarters, Pheasant was in tears.
I wanted to know why he cried. Was he worried about the boy’s future? Was he worried about the Regent’s attack? But I tried not to think of Pheasant. He had disappointed me, and I would not forgive him.
I thought of Mother. I had not told her of the murder of my daughter yet, but perhaps she had already heard it, and the rumor that I had killed her. She would be heartbroken, but she would not believe it. Any woman who was a mother, who had loved someone, would not believe I had strangled my child with my own hands. But the world was not made up of mothers; instead, it was manned and manipulated by vile, barren women and, worse, by men. Heartless men.
Someday, when I felt better, I would write to her, and it would be the day I asked for her strength, not her tears.
• • •
In the dark, I heard guards whispering outside the garden, and I leaned close to listen.
A dozen Gold Bird Guards had abandoned their posts inside the palace, claiming they would not serve a woman who would kill her own child. They had turned rogue, following the Regent, Guard Cao said, his voice echoing in the night.
“That’s because they hate our Luminous Lady,” a young voice said. “Do you think she did it?”
“That’s a rumor. Do not believe it.” Guard Cao’s voice was sharp. “I was here when the Empress came. Ask Old Chan. He was here too. We let that woman in, and she smothered the baby.”
There was a pause. “But you didn’t see her do it, did you? And now everyone in the city believes Luminous Lady killed the baby after the Empress left the garden. Smothering her own child.” There was a morbid fascination in that young voice. I heard the sound of a slap. “Ouch! What did you do that for? I’m just telling you what people are saying, that’s all! Do you know people are throwing horse dung at the palace walls, and the front gates too, shouting how evil Luminous Lady is—ouch!”
“They are the Regent’s ruffians, blockhead. Watch your mouth, or you’ll be thrown out of the palace walls yourself!”
“Hey, don’t shout at me, old man. You stay here all day; you don’t know what’s happening outside. Captain Pei said there was a skirmish last night, did you hear? He’s not going to make it up.”
“Captain Pei! That man would sell his wife for a jug of wine.”
“All I want to say is people in the city are listening to the Regent, old man. Our Emperor is in trouble—ouch!”
I leaned against the wall. The Regent had succeeded. He had fanned people’s hatred of me, taken advantage of their uncertainty, and used their fear to attack Pheasant. Now, like me, Pheasant was facing the sharpened edge of the people’s wrath.
• • •
From my bed, I looked out the window. The night was dark and mute. There was no wind, no birds chattering from the trees, no animals rustling in the garden.
It was dark in the chamber too. The candles had long burned out. I pressed my cheek to Hong’s head, stroking his hair, fine as silkworms’ filaments, and his skin was pale like Pheasant’s. My right side, where little Oriole should have slept, remained empty, cold, and silent.
An ache, throbbing and persistent, pricked my skin and spread to my veins. I remembered this feeling, years ago, when I was confined in the monastery. It seemed that loneliness and pain, like migrating wild geese, had returned to land near me.
This time, however, the silence had more teeth to it, and I could feel its raw edge saw at my heart. I wanted to resist it, to drive it away, but I did not know how. I did not know what to do.
I could not remember the last time Pheasant had come to my garden. Perhaps he was spending the night with the three Ladies or some concubine who was lying with him now.
I kissed Hong’s cheek, tucked the cover under his chin, and got out of the bed. Near the brazier, Chunlu, Xiayu, Qiushuang, and Dongxue snored softly, and Apricot, lying on her stomach, moaned in her sleep. I could see the muscles on her back contracting now and then. It had been at least a month since I’d beaten her. The bleeding on her back had stopped, but the scabs hurt her each time she turned, and she had a hard time falling asleep. Still, she insisted on tending to Hong at night with the other maids.
I stood beside her. It would take her at least another month to be able to sleep normally. I should not have lashed her and used her to set an example. She was a victim of my wrath.
What had I become? Had I been so blind in grief I had forgotten what I valued most? I had always been kind to my maids. I had always believed kindness was an essential attribute of being a human. But with the tragedy of my daughter’s death, I had not seen clearly. I had not thought clearly, and I did not know if I could ever again think or see as clearly as I had before.
I turned around, took a fur blanket, carefully placed it on Apricot, and tucked it around her. She stirred, and I quickly withdrew.
I put on a fur coat and leather boots, unhooked a lantern hanging at the corner, and opened the door, closing it behind me.
Cold air plunged down my throat. I shivered. Heading dow
n a trail, I walked slowly, my footsteps echoing in the garden like an old man’s groans.
It was my nightly routine to take a stroll to the back of my garden. Sometimes I walked until the palace night watcher hit his gong three times—the hour of chou—or five times—the hour of mao—when the dawn’s light began to creep at the edge of the darkness. I did not know how long I would walk tonight.
It had snowed all day, and a thick layer of snow had covered the path. The garden looked like the inside of a dark cave, which the lantern’s light failed to illuminate. The trees, their branches thin and skeletal, stretched in the distance like black webs; the rocks, large and tall, stood silently like armless, weeping statues; and somewhere the animals cried, their sound sharp and desperate, floating on the top of the pavilion like a secret spell.
I reached the back of the garden where a creek snaked down a hill and turned around. I would walk through the bamboo grove and reach the front of my garden for another two rounds, and then I would cut through an arboretum, cross the wooden bridge—Hope’s Bridge—and stop at my usual destination: my child’s burial ground.
Near the bridge, I stopped dead.
Someone was already there. A lean figure, standing near the nameless tombstone covered by shards of light from a lantern. His back was lit by the lantern as well, and he bent over as though to cover his eyes. Pheasant.
I wanted to turn around. I did not want to see him or talk to him. But then I could not move, remembering a long time ago when we had stood on either side of a bridge. He had tried to talk to me, but I had turned my back on him.
Those memories, sweet and scented, had lingered in my mind like fragrant summer blossoms, but now they had withered. Was this life? How bitter it was. We spent our whole lives seeking the fruit of happiness, trying to feed our hearts’ desire, and when we finally found the fruit and cupped it in our hands, it took us only a moment to savor its sweet taste, and then it turned sour.
Empress of Bright Moon Page 29