Empress Orchid (39 page)

When a convict was brought to prison, he would be treated miserably if his family failed to properly bribe the right people. For example, invisible, undetectable injury could be done to bones and joints, leaving the prisoner handicapped for life. If the prisoner was sentenced to a lingering death by dismemberment, the executioner might take as long as nine days to carve him into a skeleton while keeping him breathing. If the executioner was satisfied with the bribe, his knife would go straight to the heart, ending the suffering before it began.

I learned that when it came to a beheading, there were levels of service. The condemned’s family and the executioner would actually sit down and negotiate. If the executioner was dissatisfied, he would chop the head off and let it roll away. With the help of his apprentices, who would hide among the crowd, the head would “disappear.” Until the family delivered the money, the head would not be “found.” Afterward the family would have to pay a leather worker to sew the head back onto the body. If paid enough, the executioner would make sure that the head and the body stayed attached by a flap of skin. This goal was difficult to achieve, and One-Cough was considered greatly talented in this area.

I asked Yung Lu to interview One-Cough for me. I wanted to hear with my own ears how he prepared himself to perform the beheading of Su Shun. I wanted to speak to One-Cough myself, but the law forbade this. So I observed One-Cough from behind a folded panel.

“The word ‘hack’ or ‘slaughter’ is incorrect in describing my job,” One-Cough began in a surprisingly soft tone. He was a small-headed, stocky-framed man with short, thick arms. “The correct word is ‘slice.’ That’s what I do. Slice. I’ll hold the knife backwards by the handle—that is, with the dull edge near my elbow and the blade facing out. When I receive the action order, I’ll push the knife right in from behind Su Shun’s neck. Most people awaiting death aren’t able to stand on their feet by the time they are brought to me. Nine out of ten have problems kneeling straight. So my assistant will keep the guy’s shoulders up by grabbing his queue. I’ll be standing behind Su Shun, a little bit to the left so he won’t see me. In fact, I will begin observing him the moment he is escorted onto the stage. I’ll study his neck in order to locate a spot where I can cut in.

“When I start, I’ll first tap his right shoulder with my left hand. I only have to tap lightly—he’s jumpy enough. The point is to alarm him so his neck will stick up, and I will immediately push my elbow. The blade will go right in between his spinal knuckles. And I will shove my knife to the left all the way, and before the edge comes out, I’ll raise my leg and give a kick to the body so it falls forward. I have to kick fast, otherwise my clothes will get drenched in blood, which my profession considers bad luck.”

The day of Su Shun’s execution came. Yung Lu told me later that he had never witnessed so many people at a beheading in his life. The streets were packed, as were the rooftops and trees. Children had filled their pockets with rocks. They sang songs of celebration. People spat on Su Shun as his cage went by. When he arrived at the place of execution, his face was covered with saliva and his skin was torn by rocks.

One-Cough emptied a bottle of liquor before he got on the stage. He could hardly believe that he was beheading Su Shun, for in the past he had taken orders from Su Shun to behead others.

As for Su Shun, he called his own failure “a boat turned upside down in sewage.” He shouted to the laughing crowd that “there is a salacious affair going on between the Empresses and the Imperial brother-in-law Prince Kung.” In no time Su Shun’s head rolled like a common felon’s.

I was haunted by the execution. The images Yung Lu described were vivid in my head. An-te-hai told me that I cried loudly in my dreams and said that all I wanted was to give birth to a dozen children and live the life of a peasant woman. An-te-hai said that in my sleep my neck wouldn’t stop twisting from side to side as if I were dodging the blade.

Su Shun’s immense fortune was divided among the royals as compensation for the abuse they had suffered. Overnight Nuharoo and I became wealthy. She purchased jewelry and clothes, and I paid for spies. The attempted assassination on me had shattered my sense of security. With what money was left I bought Su Shun’s opera troupe. In my lonely life as an Imperial widow, the opera became my solace.

The court voted and passed a proposal I submitted in the name of Tung Chih granting the promotion of Yung Lu and An-te-hai. From that moment forward Yung Lu held the highest position in China’s military. He was responsible for protecting not only the Forbidden City and the capital but also the entire country. His new title was Commander in Chief of Imperial Forces and Minister of the Imperial Household. As for An-te-hai, he was given Chief Eunuch Shim’s job. He earned a second rank, that of court minister, which was the highest a eunuch was allowed to achieve.

After all the tumult, I needed a few days of quiet. I invited Nuharoo and Tung Chih to join me at the Summer Palace, where we floated on Kunming Lake, away from the wreckage caused by the invaders. Surrounded by weeping willows, the lake surface was covered with flowering lotus. After the summer the fertile fields resembled the countryside south of the Yangtze River, the region of my hometown of Wuhu.

Tung Chih insisted on staying in Nuharoo’s large boat, which was filled with guests and entertainers. I floated by myself, with An-te-hai and Li Lien-ying in charge of the oars. The complete beauty of the place washed over me. I was so relieved that my troubles seemed finally to be over. I had visited the Summer Palace many times before, but always with the Grand Empress Lady Jin. She had so gotten under my skin that I had no idea of what the palace really looked like.

It had originally been the capital of the Northern Sung Dynasty in the twelfth century. Over the years, emperors of different dynasties added numerous pavilions, towers, pagodas and temples to the grounds. In the Yuan Dynasty the lake was expanded to become part of the Imperial water supply. In 1488, the emperors of the Ming Dynasty,
who were fond of natural beauty, began building the Imperial residence by the lake. In 1750, Emperor Chien Lung decided to duplicate the scenery he admired around West Lake in Hangchow and in Soochow to the south. It took him fifteen years to build what he called a “town of poetic charm.” The southern architectural style was faithfully copied. When it was finished, the palace was transformed into a long living scroll painting of unrivaled beauty.

I loved walking the Long Promenade, a covered corridor divided into two hundred sections. I began at the Invite-the-Moon Gate in the east and ended at the Ten-Foot Stone Pavilion. One day when I stopped to rest at the Gate of Dispelling Clouds, I thought of Lady Yun and her daughter, Princess Jung. Lady Yun had forbidden me to speak with her daughter when she was alive. I had seen the girl only at performances and birthday parties. I remembered her as having a slim nose, a thin mouth and a slightly pointed chin. Her expression was absent and dreamy. I wondered if she was well and if she had been told about her father’s death.

The girl was brought to me. She had not inherited her mother’s beauty. She was wearing a gray satin robe and looked pitiful. Her features had not changed and her body was stick-thin. She reminded me of a frosted eggplant stopped in the middle of its growing. She dared not sit when invited to. Her mother’s death must have cast a permanent shadow on her character. She was a princess, Emperor Hsien Feng’s only daughter, but she looked like a child of misfortune.

But it was not just that she had Hsien Feng’s blood, or that I had any guilt about her mother’s ill fate. I wished to give this girl a chance. I must have already sensed that Tung Chih would turn out to be a disappointment, and I wanted to raise a child myself to see if I could make a difference. In a way, Princess Jung offered me consolation after my loss of Tung Chih.

Even though Princess Jung was Tung Chih’s half-sister, the court wouldn’t allow her to live with me unless I officially adopted her, so I did. She proved to be worthy. Scared and timid as she was at the beginning, she gradually healed. I nurtured her as much as I could. In my palace she was free to run around, although she barely took advantage of her freedom. She was the opposite of Tung Chih, who thrived on adventure. Nevertheless, she got along with my son and served as a form of stability for him. The only discipline I requested of her was that she attend school. Unlike Tung Chih she loved to learn and was an excellent student. The tutors could not stop praising her. She bloomed in her
teens and wanted to reach out. I not only encouraged her but also provided her with opportunities.

Princess Jung grew into quite a beauty when she turned fifteen. One of my ministers suggested that I arrange a marriage for her to a Tibetan tribal chief—“as intended by her father, Emperor Hsien Feng,” the minister reminded me.

I discarded the proposal. Although Lady Yun and I had never been friends, I wanted to do her justice. She had spoken of her fear that her daughter would be married to a “savage.” I told the court that Princess Jung was my daughter, and it was up to me, not the court, to decide her future. Instead of marrying her off in Tibet, I sent her to Prince Kung. I wanted Jung to have a private education and learn English. When she was done, I intended for her to be my secretary and translator. After all, the day might come when I would personally speak to the Queen of England.

THE PREPARATIONS for my husband’s burial were finally complete. It had taken three months and nine thousand laborers to build a special road to carry the coffin to the Imperial tomb. The bearers, all of the same height and weight, practiced day and night to perfect their steps. The tomb was located in Chihli province, not far from Peking. Each morning a table and chair were placed on top of a thick board weighing the same as the coffin. A bowl of water was placed on the table. An official climbed over the shoulders of the bearers to sit on the chair. His duty was to watch the water in the bowl. The bearers practiced marching until the water no longer spilled from the bowl.

Escorted by Yung Lu, Nuharoo and I took a trip to inspect the tomb. Officially it was called the Blessed Ground of Eternity. The earth was rock hard and covered with frost. After the long ride, I stepped down from the palanquin with stiff arms and frozen legs. There was no sun. Nuharoo and I were dressed in the customary white mourning clothes. Our necks were exposed to the cold air. Wind-blown dust beat at our skin. Nuharoo couldn’t wait to turn back.

The view moved me. Hsien Feng would be resting with his ancestors. His tomb was in one of two burial complexes, one to the east and the other to the west of Peking. It nestled in the mountains, surrounded by tall pines. The broad ceremonial way was paved with marble and flanked by enormous carved stone elephants, camels, griffins, horses and warriors. About a hundred yards along the marble road Nuharoo and I approached a pavilion in which Hsien Feng’s gold satin thrones and yellow dragon robes were kept. These would be displayed
on the annual day of sacrifice. Like the mausoleum of his ancestors, Hsien Feng’s would also have its attendants and guardian troops. The governor of Chihli had been appointed to take care of the holy site and maintain its seclusion by restricting access.

We entered the tomb. The upper part, which was dome-shaped, was called the City of Treasuries. It was carved out of solid rock. The lower part was the tomb itself. The two levels were connected by staircases.

With the help of a torch we were able to see the interior. It was a large sphere about sixty feet in diameter. All was made of white marble. In the middle stood a stone bed set against a carved tablet eighteen feet in width. Emperor Hsien Feng’s coffin, on the day of the burial ceremony, would be placed on top of this bed.

There were six smaller coffins on either side of Emperor Hsien Feng’s stone bed. They were rose-colored and carved with phoenixes. Nuharoo and I glanced at each other and realized that two of them were meant for us. Our names and titles were carved on the panels:
Here lies Her Motherly and Auspicious Empress Yehonala
and
Here lies Her Motherly and Restful Empress Nuharoo.

The cold air seeped through my bones. My lungs were filled with the smell of deep earth.

Yung Lu brought in the chief architect. He was a man in his late fifties, thin and small, almost a child in size. His eyes showed intelligence, and his kowtows and bows were performed in a style only Chief Eunuch Shim could have matched. I turned to Nuharoo to see if she had anything to say. She shook her head. I told the man to rise and then asked what had guided him to select this spot.

“I chose the site based on
feng shui
and the calculations of the twenty-four directions of mountains,” he replied. His voice was clear, with a slight southern accent.

“What tools did you use?”

“A compass, Your Majesty.”

“What is unique about this place?”

“Well, according to my calculations and those of others, including the court astrologers, this is where the breath of the earth has traveled. The center point gathers the vitality of the universe. It is supposed to be the proper spot to dig the Golden Well. Right here in the middle—”

“What is to accompany His Majesty?” Nuharoo interrupted.

“Besides His Majesty’s favorite gold and silver sutras, books and manuscripts, there are luminary lanterns.” The architect pointed at two giant jars standing on either side of the bed.

“What’s inside?” I asked.

“Plant oil with cotton thread.”

“Will it light?” Nuharoo took a closer look at the jars.

“Of course.”

“I mean, for how long?”

“Forever, Your Majesty.”

“Forever?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“It is damp in here,” I said. “Will water seep in and flood the space?”

“Wouldn’t that be awful!” Nuharoo said.

“I have designed a drainage system.” The architect showed us that the bed was slightly off level, which made the head a little higher than the foot. “Water will drip into the chiseled canal underneath and flow outside.”

“What about security?” I asked.

“There are three large stone doors, Your Majesty. Each door has two marble panels and is framed with copper. As you can see here, underneath the door, where the two panels come together, there is a chiseled half-watermelon-shaped pit. Facing the pit, about three feet away, I have placed a stone ball. A track for the ball to travel has been dug. When the burial ceremony is completed, a long-handled hook will be inserted in a slit and it will pull the stone ball toward the pit. When the ball falls into the pit, the door will shut permanently.”

We rewarded the chief architect a scroll with calligraphy by Emperor Hsien Feng, and the man retreated. Nuharoo was impatient to leave. She didn’t want to honor the architect with the dinner we had promised. I convinced her that it was important to keep our word. “If we make him feel good, he will in turn make sure Hsien Feng rests in peace,” I said. “Besides, we have to come here again on the burial day, and our bodies will be buried here when we die.”

“No! I’ll never come here again!” Nuharoo cried. “I can’t bear the sight of my own coffin.”

I took her hand in mine. “I can’t either.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Just stay for dinner and no more, my dear sister.”

“Why do you have to force me, Yehonala?”

“We need to gain the architect’s full loyalty. We need to help him drive out his fear.”

“Fear? What fear?”

“In the past, the architect of an Imperial tomb was often shut in
with the coffin. The royal family considered him of no further use after he had finished his job. The living Emperor and Empress feared that the man might be bribed by tomb robbers. Our architect may fear for his life, so we should make him feel trusted and secure. We must let him know that he will be honored and not harmed. If we don’t, he might dig a secret tunnel to quell his fear.”

Reluctantly Nuharoo stayed, and the architect was pleased.

When Nuharoo and I returned to Peking, Prince Kung suggested that we announce the new government immediately. I didn’t think we were ready. The beheading of Su Shun had aroused sympathy in certain quarters. The fact that we had received fewer letters of congratulation than expected concerned me.

People needed time to develop confidence in us. I told Prince Kung that our rule should be the desire of the majority. We had to achieve at least the appearance of it in order to make us morally legitimate.

Although Prince Kung was impatient, he agreed to test the political waters one last time. We took a summary of a proposal written by General Sheng Pao to the governors of all the provinces which suggested a “three-legged stool,” with Nuharoo and me as coregents and Prince Kung as the Emperor’s chief advisor in administration and government.

Prince Kung suggested that we adopt a method of voting. The idea was clearly Western-influenced. He persuaded us to comply because it was the main way that European nations assured the legitimacy of their governments. We would allow the votes to be anonymous, which no ruler in China’s history had done before. I agreed, although unsure of the outcome. The proposal was printed and distributed along with the ballots.

We nervously awaited the results. To our disappointment, half of the governors didn’t respond, and a quarter expressed a desire to reelect Tung Chih’s regents. No one mentioned any support for Prince Kung’s role in the government. Kung realized that he had underestimated Su Shun’s influence.

The silence and rejection not only put us in an embarrassing situation, but also ruined the timing—our victory over Su Shun had turned sour. People felt sorry for the underdog. Sympathetic comments began to arrive from every corner of China, which could very well lead to a revolt.

I knew we would need to act. We must reposition ourselves and move decisively. My suggestion was that Nuharoo and I issue an affi-
davit claiming that before his death our late husband had privately appointed Prince Kung the senior advisor for Tung Chih. In exchange for this invention, Kung would propose to the court that Nuharoo and I rule alongside him. His influence should encourage people to vote for us.

Prince Kung agreed to the plan.

To speed the results, I visited a person whom I had wanted to contact since Su Shun’s downfall, the sixty-five-year-old scholar Chiang Tai, a well-connected social figure and a fervent critic of Su Shun’s. Su Shun had hated the scholar so much that he had the venerable man stripped of all his court titles.

On a pleasant day Chiang Tai and I met at his shabby
hootong
apartment. I invited him to come to the Forbidden City to be Tung Chih’s master tutor. Surprised and flattered, the man and his family threw themselves at my feet.

The next day Chiang Tai began campaigning for me. While he told everyone about his appointment as Emperor Tung Chih’s master tutor, he also said how wise and capable I was for recognizing true talent. He stressed how sincere and eager I had been to recruit men like him to serve the new government. After that, it took only a few weeks for the political wind to become favorable.

The court counted the votes, and we won.

On November 30, a hundred days after Hsien Feng’s death, the title of Tung Chih’s reign was changed from Well-Omened Happiness to Return to Order. It was Chiang Tai who gave Tung Chih’s reign the new epithet. The word “order” would be seen and pronounced every time a countryman looked at his calendar.

In our announcement, which was drafted by me and polished by Chiang Tai, we emphasized that it was not the choice of Nuharoo and me to rule. As regents, we were committed to helping Tung Chih, but we looked forward with enthusiasm to the day of our retirement. We asked for the nation’s understanding, support and forgiveness.

The change generated great excitement. Everyone in the Forbidden City had been waiting to discard their mourning costumes. For the entire hundred-day period of mourning, no one had worn anything but white. Since men hadn’t been allowed to shave, they looked like grizzled hermits, with scraggly beards and hair sticking out of their noses and ears.

In the period of a week, the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing was cleaned
to a glossy shine. A three-by-nine-foot redwood desk was placed in the middle of the hall, covered with a yellow silk tablecloth embroidered with spring flowers. Behind the desk sat a pair of upholstered golden chairs, which were for Nuharoo and me. In front of where we would be sitting was a translucent yellow silk screen hanging from the ceiling. It was a symbolic gesture saying that it was not we who ruled, but Tung Chih. Tung Chih’s throne was placed in the center, in front of us.

On the morning of the ascension ceremony most of the senior ministers were awarded the right to ride either in palanquins or on horses when entering the Forbidden City. Ministers and officials were dressed in gorgeous fur robes draped with jewels. Necklaces and the peacock-feathered hats sparkled with diamonds and precious stones.

At a quarter to ten, Tung Chih, Nuharoo and I left our palaces. We rode in our palanquins to the Palace of Supreme Harmony. The crisp sound of a whip announced our arrival. The courtyard, although filled with thousands of people, was quiet—only the steps of the bearers could be heard. The memory of my first entry into the Forbidden City rushed back to me and I had to hold back my tears.

With his uncle Prince Ch’un as a guide, Tung Chih entered the hall for the first time as the Emperor of China. In unison, the crowd fell on their knees and kowtowed.

An-te-hai, who was in his green pine-tree-patterned robe, walked beside me. He was carrying my pipe—smoking was a new hobby that helped me relax. I remembered asking him a few days earlier what he most desired; I wanted to reward him. He shyly replied that he would like to get married and adopt children. He believed that his position and wealth would attract ladies of his choosing, and he would not totally miss out on his manhood.

I didn’t know whether I should encourage him. I understood his thwarted passion. If I hadn’t lived in the Forbidden City, I would have found myself a lover. Like him, I fantasized about intimacies and pleasures. I resented my widowhood and had been driven nearly mad by loneliness. Only the fear of being caught, and jeopardizing Tung Chih’s future, had halted me.

I sat down next to Nuharoo and behind my son. Holding my chin up, I received kowtows from members of the court, the government and the royal families led by Prince Kung. The prince looked handsome and youthful when standing next to the gray-haired and white-bearded senior officials. He had just turned twenty-eight.

I stole a glance at Nuharoo and was once more struck by her beauti-
ful profile. She was in her new golden phoenix robe with matching hairpiece and earrings. She gracefully nodded and tilted her chin, smiling to everyone who came up to her. Her sensuous lips formed a muted sound: “Rise.”

I wasn’t enjoying this as much as Nuharoo was. My mind flew back to the lake in Wuhu where I swam as a young girl. I remembered the water’s smooth coolness and how utterly free I had felt chasing wild ducks. I was now the most powerful woman in China, yet my spirit was stuck with that empty coffin with my name and title carved in cold stone.

My sentiment was shared by another soul. I noticed Yung Lu observing me from a corner of the hall. Recently I had been too occupied with the shadow of Su Shun to allow my thoughts to drift to Yung Lu. Now, as I sat on my throne, I saw the expression on his face and sensed his desire. I felt guilty, yet I couldn’t stop myself from wanting his attention. My heart flirted with him while I sat straight-faced.