Mandarin

by Elegant, Robert;

  The portly Prince Yee, Lord Protector of the Nation and Chief of the Council of Regency created by the Farewell Edict, had been striding with self-aware dignity from his own palanquin toward the marquee. As Prince Kung rose before kneeling for the final prostration, the Lord Protector broke into an awkward trot in his clumsy riding boots. Determined to assert his primacy, he stood before the open doors of the Imperial Palanquin between Prince Kung and the child-Emperor.

  Prince Kung reached behind him to take the yellow-silk-encased scroll of a Humble Memorial from an attendant Mandarin. Though the Lord Protector flicked his fingers in dismissal, the Emperor’s uncle stepped forward unperturbed.

  “Prince Yee, it is not for any man to interfere between the Son of Heaven and the least of his subjects.” Yehenala’s voice was hard. “To stand between the Son of Heaven and his Imperial uncle is a heinous crime.”

  Prince Kung advanced toward the Imperial Palanquin, the silk-cased Memorial extended before him. The Lord Protector’s head swiveled nervously toward the regulars of the Metropolitan Army standing all around. His own troops were blocked by the Baronet Jung Lu’s cavalrymen of the Peking Field Force. The Lord Protector was, however, no more a coward than he was, by his lights, a usurper.

  “I do not seek to interfere between His Majesty and the Imperial uncle,” he asserted. “But I hold the Empress Dowagers to their word. They swore to give audience to no man not a member of the Council of Regency.”

  “Under duress,” Yehenala said. “A promise made with a knife at our throats.”

  The Lord Protector held his ground as the muscular Prince Kung advanced upon him. He heard a low command, and the regulars lowered their halberds. Only when it appeared the younger man would walk over him did Prince Yee step aside.

  “Go, dotard!” Prince Kung finally commanded. “Be thankful that I do not arrest you for usurpation and other crimes.”

  Prince Kung presented the Memorial to the Emperor, who playfully rolled the scroll between his palms before handing it to his mother, who negligently tucked it behind the cushions of the Imperial Palanquin. The Memorial she and Prince Kung had drafted in Jehol would play an important part in the drama, but not just yet. She smiled and placed her arm around the child’s narrow shoulders as the waves of sound broke over them again: “Huang-ti wan sui! Wan-wan sui! … Imperial Majesty, live ten thousand years! Ten thousand times ten thousand years!”

  After the chief men of the realm had kowtowed to her son, Yehenala took a second scroll from the small gilt-and-scarlet casket at her feet.

  “On behalf of the Emperor, the Empress Dowagers express gratification at the welcome offered by His Majesty’s loyal counselors.” She emphasized the word loyal. “The Empress Dowagers, further, convey to their loyal commanders an Imperial Edict.”

  Prince Kung bowed to receive the scroll from her hands. Like the protracted Peking operas Yehenala loved, the drama had been drawn out for months. It was now moving rapidly toward its climax.

  The first scene of the final act had just proceeded exactly as they had rehearsed it in Jehol. Only Prince Yee’s intervention was unexpected, but it had made that scene more effective. Yehenala frowned, half-regretting the role assigned the self-anointed Lord Protector in the next scene. She smiled grimly when she recalled the role the Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun was destined to play.

  He was, Prince Kung mused, the sixth son of the Tao Kwang Emperor, whose reign had ended a decade earlier, as well as the half-brother of the Hsien Feng Emperor, whose reign had ended three months ago, and the uncle of the child who was now hailed as the Chi Hsiang Emperor. The Imperial succession continued unbroken, though the new Emperor faced a wholly different world. Even his immediate predecessors had lived in a world little altered since the reign of the Founding Emperor of the Great Pure Dynasty.

  His own education, Prince Kung knew, had really begun the preceding year. At twenty-eight, he was just attaining comprehension of the new forces working in the Great Empire. The old ways had suited the old days, which were ended forever. The new era created by the barbarians’ intrusion required Princes and Mandarins to learn new ways, though, of course, not to change fundamentally.

  The brute force of guns appeared more powerful than the word, which was the foundation of Confucian civilization. Ultimately, however, the word controlled even the most formidable weapons, as the barbarians’ behavior proved. Having compelled the Dynasty to accept the treaties by force, the barbarians had—to the astonishment of the Mandarinate and his own surprise—withdrawn their troops from Tientsin and Canton. True to their word, they were not seeking to conquer the Empire, but only to trade on relatively equitable terms.

  Despite the radical changes of the past two years, the word remained preeminent. Having given their word, the barbarians were keeping their word. The internal difficulties of the Empire, too, must be composed by new words that were in harmony with traditional Dynastic Law.

  He read again the Edict Yehenala had handed him after accepting his Humble Memorial. Although he recognized the style of his younger brother, Prince Chun, the inspiration undoubtedly derived from Yehenala, who could not quite write the elided formal Chinese with the grace necessary to sway grand chancellors and ministers. The Edict was a forceful indictment of the eight-member Council of Regency.

  The names of Prince Yee, the Lord Protector, and his henchman Prince Cheng stood first, followed by that of the Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun. The charges were devastating: arrogating Imperial authority to themselves by issuing the counterfeit Farewell Edict; systematically deceiving the former Emperor for their own benefit; offering fallacious counsel regarding the barbarians, in particular advising the detention of the British envoys, which had led to the destruction of the Summer Palaces; encouraging the former Emperor’s catastrophic flight to Jehol; insulting Their Imperial Majesties the Empress Dowagers; and attempting to usurp supreme power by hoodwinking the young Emperor.

  The irate junior Empress Dowager had subsequently sent him an addendum in her own hand in her own crude but vigorous style: “The conspirators’ audacity in questioning the Empress Dowagers’ right to give audience to Prince Kung this morning showed a depth of wickedness almost inconceivable to normal human beings. They stand convicted by their own actions of the most heinous designs. The punishments previously contemplated for their innumerable crimes are wholly inadequate to the abominations they have committed.”

  The stubble on Prince Kung’s cheeks prickled, and he scratched it nervously. She was not only formidable, this young sister-in-law of his. She was implacable. Some day he too might have difficulties with her imperious temper. But, he assured himself, he could cope with her. She was, after all, a woman—and no woman, however resolute, could prevail unless supported by a man.

  Though clothed in far more elegant language by the Grand Chancellor, assisted by the Ministers of Finance and Justice, the Humble Memorial he had that morning submitted was even more pointed than the Edict. It forth-rightly implored the Empress Mothers to take the course upon which they were already determined. The petitioners begged the Empress Dowagers to assume responsibility for state affairs until the child-Emperor came of age eleven years hence. As Empress Dowagers Regent they would “listen behind the screen and administer the government.”

  The future, Prince Kung reflected wryly, would be interesting—and arduous, though he was confident that he could manage the self-willed Yehenala. Meanwhile, all was proceeding as they had planned at their clandestine meetings in Jehol. He tapped a small gong with a padded mallet, and the Baronet Jung Lu entered.

  “We can wait no longer, Colonel,” Prince Kung said. “Bring the former Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun to me. His presence at the catafalque of my brother, the previous Emperor, is a profanation, an abomination. Bring Su Shun immediately. And, Colonel, you need not be too gentle.”

  November 7–8, 1861

  THE FORBIDDEN CITY

  The Imperial Clan Court assembled on November 7, 1
861, in the Hall of Earnest Diligence, where emperors reviewed sentences of death. The white marble balustrades, which had glistened so cruelly when the Hsien Feng Emperor reprieved Aisek Lee, were lusterless in the gray dawn. The Dragon Throne was unoccupied, for the child-Emperor still slept in his mother’s palace.

  Attired in full Court regalia, Prince Kung sat at the center of the long table before the dais. As Chief Justice of the Imperial Clan Court, he normally presided over the eight Manchu Princes who tried their peers. Since the prisoners were charged with treason against the state as well as violation of Clan Law, the tribunal had been enlarged. The three Grand Chancellors were flanked by the six Ministers and the nine Presidents of Boards, who directed the chief organs of government. Four Senior Censors wearing the unicorns of their extraordinary rank on their dark surcoats ensured the propriety of the proceedings.

  Wearing short tunics of coarse white cotton, the eight conspirators knelt before their judges. The blunt features of Prince Yee, so briefly Lord Protector of the Nation, were expressionless in his fleshy face. His dupe Prince Cheng was a bewildered and fearful youth again, all his illusory assurance vanished. The Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun glared defiantly, his lean body rigid.

  “We shall deal with the most heinous offender first,” Prince Kung declared. “Former Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun, your towering crimes offend Heaven. Not even at the ultimate moment did your sins cease. When the troops found you in the camp beside the Imperial Catafalque, you were in bed with your youngest concubine. For that crime alone, you deserve death by slicing. You know it is forbidden for any man to lie with any woman during the period of high mourning for the departed Emperor. But to fornicate in the presence of the Emperor’s spirit …”

  “Prince Kung, how many men obey that stricture?” Su Shun’s knife-blade lips sliced his words. “If you kill me for that, you must kill half the men in the Empire.”

  “Half the men in the Empire were not charged with the sacred mission of conveying the earthly remains of the former Emperor to their final resting place, Su Shun!” Prince Kung said softly. “Half the men in the Empire did not conspire to usurp the Imperial Authority. You, you above all, plotted to …”

  “Not I alone … and not I above all.” The archconspirator’s beaked nose was arrogant in his shrunken face. “I could tell you …”

  “No need for accusations. You may only confess. Confession will ease your spirit.”

  “What am I to confess?” Su Shun demanded. “What imaginary crimes?”

  “Not crimes, Su Shun!” A Grand Chancellor spoke for the first time. “Not crimes, but abominations! Virtually every one of the ten abominations! Usurping Imperial authority and deceiving the Emperor, those are great abominations. Impugning the Empress Dowagers’ majesty by attempting to turn them against each other is a great abomination. Actually seating yourself on the Dragon Throne is a blasphemous abomination. The most heinous abomination is your brazen flouting of the laws of filial piety. The Emperor is the father of all, and your every act grossly insulted the Emperor. For all we know, you hastened his death.”

  “Not I, certainly not I,” Su Shun shouted. “Not I, but …”

  “The accused will be silent,” Prince Kung directed hastily. “He may not bandy words with the Court. I recommend death by slicing, the most extreme penalty prescribed by the Criminal Code. You must suffer as you have made the nation suffer.”

  “Not I, but …” Su Shun ranted, and a guard clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Remove him!” Prince Kung directed. “We shall now deal with the other accused.”

  Prince Yee, the former Lord Protector, and his dupe Prince Cheng accepted the sentence of the Imperial Clan Court with Manchu dignity, stolidly grateful that they were to be allowed to hang themselves rather than suffering decapitation. Since the remaining five conspirators had been the pawns of the archconspirators, they were only to be dismissed from their offices and placed under a perpetual interdiction. Never again would any of the five be permitted to serve the Dynasty in any capacity. They were disgraced, and they were impoverished, all their goods confiscated. But they were to live—and the turning wheel of fate might yet restore them to power.

  Prince Yee and Prince Cheng preferred to go quickly. Expecting the death sentence, they had bade their final farewells to their families when they were arrested. Two hours after the Imperial Clan Court rendered its verdict, Prince Yee helped Prince Cheng hook the silken ropes due their rank over the beams set conveniently low in the Empty Chamber of the Imperial Clan Prison. He then adjusted his own noose precisely, and, when his junior did not falter, he kicked away the low stool under his own feet.

  The wardens came for the former Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun just before dawn of the following day. They hauled him, squirming and screaming, from a cell in the Forbidden City normally reserved for erring eunuchs, where he had been confined alone to prevent his spreading slanderous allegations against personages of high standing. The unspeaking warders forced his trembling limbs into the rough gray tunic and short trousers of a condemned criminal. The unspeaking warders thrust a gag into his mouth before they trundled him on a wheelbarrow through the morning bustle of Peking. When they approached the public execution ground through a narrow hutung, the condemned man quivered at the reek of blood.

  “By the mercy of the judges, you are not to endure death by slicing.” The chief warder finally spoke. “You will not suffer hours of agony while the executioners slice the flesh from your body bit by bit. The mercy of the judges, in response to the Empress Dowagers’ request, directs that you are to be decapitated. You will, of course, not speak.”

  Su Shun nodded acquiescence, and the warder removed the gag. Barefoot on the half-frozen ground, the former Assistant Grand Chancellor stumbled on a round object, which rolled away. He looked down at the severed head, and bile choked his throat. He trembled and almost fell when he saw the bodies of four decapitated felons still lying on the iron-hard ground.

  The condemned man saw little else except a blur of movement on the edges of the execution ground. He did not see the workmen, servants, and beggars who had congregated in a holiday spirit to watch him die. He did not see the food hawkers or hear them calling their wares. He did not see the four judicial Mandarins assigned to certify his death standing aloof from the throng, their perfumed fans held fastidiously before their noses.

  A calloused hand thrust the former Assistant Grand Chancellor to his knees. Sodden with blood, the ground yielded beneath him. The executioner’s apprentice grasped his queue and pulled his head forward to bare his neck to the two-handed scimitar. Su Shun again struggled desperately. Though his hands were pinioned behind his back, he shook his head and body so violently the apprentice’s grasp slipped.

  “I told them,” he shouted. “I told them we should kill the bitch in Jehol. Before she killed us, I said, the murdering bitch. I told them …”

  The apprentice grasped the queue with both hands and jerked with all his strength. The scimitar fell, and Su Shun’s head tumbled among the stones. His mouth was still stretched open in protest.

  November 11, 1861

  THE FORBIDDEN CITY

  The gales that had stormed through the mountain passes of Manchuria and across the Great Wall two weeks earlier swept northwest to pelt the grasslands of Mongolia before veering abruptly and returning to harry Peking again on the evening of November 10, 1861. The following morning, the sun reappeared to sanctify the new reign with its auspicious rays, but translucent arrows of rain still fell.

  Crystalline streams poured from the gaping mouths of the thousand dragon-head spouts on the edges of the three jade terraces that rose seventy-five feet to the Hall of Supreme Harmony at the precise center of the Forbidden City. Between the marble-balustraded stairways, torrents cascaded down the broad marble plaque carved with Imperial dragons and phoenixes. Iridescent in the light, the cascades portended the bounty of sun and water Heaven must shower on the fields of the
agrarian Empire during the reign of the new Emperor.

  The floor of the great hall was hidden by the multitude of Princes, grand Chancellors, Ministers, Censors, and Senior Mandarins assembled for the enthronement. The flames of ten thousand candles gleamed on eighty-four cedar pillars embossed with gold and vermilion. The tracery of gilt beams supporting the vaulted roof framed an octagonal panel with a circular plaque, on which was carved an enormous golden Imperial Dragon. Since an immense ball of pale gold encircled by six smaller golden globes like planets hung from that plaque, the common people called the largest wooden structure in the world the Palace of Golden Bells—as the Tang and the Sung dynasties had called their throne halls a millennium earlier.

  The five-year-old Emperor appeared minuscule on the broad Dragon Throne, which stood on a gilded platform reached by arched scarlet and gold stairs. The small figure in the brocaded Imperial-yellow gown scrolled with gold Imperial Dragons faded almost into invisibility amid the aureate glow cast by the candles on the cloth-of-gold hangings. He was minute beside the great cerulean porcelain urns shaped like the sacred bronze vessels of the Shang Dynasty, which had ruled three and a half millennia earlier. He was dwarfed by the silver cranes that towered slender and graceful around the Dragon Throne to symbolize longevity. His splendid regalia, meant to enhance his majesty, actually diminished the child-Emperor.

  Two men stood beside the Dragon Throne. On the right, Prince Chun displayed his new dignity as adjutant general, chief equerry to the new monarch. In the place of honor on the left, Prince Kung beamed in triumph. He would dominate the new reign as Senior Grand Chancellor, Minister of the Imperial Household, and Chief Justice of the Imperial Clan Court. His unique preeminence was attested by a title that had not been bestowed since the childhood of the magnificent Chien Lung Emperor a century earlier. The favorite brother of the previous Emperor was hailed as Yi-cheng Wang, Prince Counselor of the Great Pure Dynasty.