Chapter Twenty-Two: The Arrogant Empress

After a few days of recuperation, Qin Qiong’s health improved rapidly—he grew stronger by the day. In stark contrast, Yun Hao’s condition was steadily declining. A single medicinal pill had nearly claimed Yun Hao’s life; for several days, he could only lie motionless in bed, not daring to stir. There was nothing to be done—whenever he so much as moved his nose, blood would start pouring from it. Zhao had stuffed his nostrils with coarse linen, but even then, blood found its way out through his mouth. Yun Hao desperately wished for a sanitary pad—preferably the overnight kind.

Each time Zhao saw Yun Hao’s nosebleed, she looked as though he had one foot in the grave. She would glance his way, wipe her tears, then curse that scoundrel Qi Guoyuan for bringing such calamity upon them. If she happened to brush Yun Hao’s injured leg, he would let out a wail of agony. Zhao would then gather him into her arms, as if she meant to nurse him at her breast.

Yun Hao found this all deeply gratifying—he relished the attention. Maslow once said that human needs are hierarchical, and to be cared for by others is among the most important. To be coddled like a child, soothed by a woman’s sobs, was a pleasure he had never known to be so sweet.

Zhao would often puff her cheeks and blow gently over Yun Hao’s wounded leg, sometimes continuing until she grew dizzy. It was as though her breath could dispel his pain; when she stopped, she would wipe away more tears—tears that seemed inexhaustible. Attempts to comfort her only made her weep harder. “My son is so sensible!” she would declare, pulling Yun Hao into her embrace, her motherly instincts as fierce as ever.

So Yun Hao was in pain, but joyful all the same.

He could not lie abed any longer, though; he feared Zhao would cry herself blind if he did. Reluctantly, Yun Hao left the comfort of his brocade couch and began, like any normal child, to wander and explore.

Erxian Manor was indeed a fine place: mountains rose behind, clear water flowed before. The moat, some two fathoms wide, gleamed with crystalline clarity; lazy fish drifted in the sunlit current. Beneath drooping willows, stacks of firewood stood, and a flock of speckled hens leapt and fluttered atop them. The only pity was that the estate seemed full of burly men—if only he had a few mischievous friends to complete the picture.

As if on cue, mischief arrived. A steward came to announce that several children—claiming to be Yun Hao’s friends—had appeared at the gate. Hurrying to the entrance, Yun Hao immediately spotted Hou Junji, leading Qi Biao and Lai Shun in an exploratory patrol. Upon seeing Yun Hao, the three waved their arms like windmills. What were these rascals doing here?

The heat was oppressive; cicadas droned tirelessly in the trees. In the dappled shade, Dan Xiongxin, Wang Bodang, Qin Qiong, and Li Mi sat together, drinking wine. On the small table lay a few dishes of meat and some seasonal fruits to accompany their cups.

“Brother Li, you’re the hereditary Duke of Pushan and once served in the Imperial Stables. Why did you resign your post to wander the land?” Dan Xiongxin filled Li Mi’s cup, his tone puzzled.

“The court now belongs to petty men,” Li Mi sighed, tossing back his wine with a forlorn air. “The Sage has heard a single poem and now believes that any man surnamed Li will seize the empire. If I lingered, I’d soon be a lamb laid on the butcher’s block.”

“Wasn’t it because the Sage dreamt of eighteen children tugging at his dragon robe?” Wang Bodang, though not in the capital, kept a close ear to court intrigues. He had thought it mere gossip, but now saw it was true.

“Yes, all because of a dream—but worse was that flatterer Zhang Heng, currying favor with the Prince of Jin. He insisted that eighteen children meant ‘wood,’ and ‘child’ is ‘zi’; together, ‘wood’ and ‘zi’ spell ‘Li.’ First, Lord Li Hun and his son were executed, then Duke Li Yuan came under scrutiny. I’m but a minor duke—if the Sage’s suspicions fell on me, a single word could doom my entire family. After much deliberation, and with Lord Yang Su’s advice, I resolved to resign my post and travel—though in truth, I am fleeing for my life.” Li Mi sighed again, draining his newly filled cup.

“Hmph! The court is full of flatterers and sycophants—where can true talent endure?” Wang Bodang said bitterly. “When the Crown Prince was deposed in favor of the Prince of Jin, was it not the Empress’s doing? If I hadn’t slipped away in time, I’d be a ghost beneath the Prince of Jin’s sword by now!”

Wang Bodang had once been the top martial scholar of the Great Sui, and it was the then Crown Prince, Yang Yong, who had presided over his investiture. Thus, Wang Bodang and Yang Yong shared a cordial relationship.

But the Empress, Dugu Jialuo, favored her younger son, Yang Guang, and disliked her eldest, Yang Yong. Had she been a woman like Empress Dou, it would have been one thing—but the Empress Dugu was no ordinary woman.

First, she was a devout follower of the Church of the East (Christianity). While others recited Buddhist prayers, she invoked the protection of the Lord. Emperor Wen, Yang Jian, was famously henpecked—Dugu Jialuo forbade him any concubines, and the emperor dared not defy her.

Once, when Empress Dugu had fallen gravely ill, fatefully, Emperor Wen, in high spirits, took a stroll through the palace and arrived at the Hall of Longevity. There, he encountered a beauty so striking she seemed otherworldly—her name was Lady Yuchi, granddaughter of Yuchi Hui. She was fair as a spring morning, skin like snow, her gaze serene as autumn water, her frame slender as pear blossoms in the clouds. Her beauty needed no artifice, nor did she dress as the common court ladies did.

An ordinary rogue would have whistled and ogled such a beauty, but the emperor was no ordinary rogue. He needed no assignations, no cinema outings, no flirtations over WeChat. Still, even an emperor finds conversation over a meal indispensable.

As the saying goes, wine is the matchmaker of desire. After three cups, Lady Yuchi was flushed and tipsy, her skin glowing rose-red beneath the collar. The emperor’s restraint snapped, and the inevitable transpired. (Let us skip twenty thousand words of sordid detail.)

The next day, as the emperor attended to affairs of state in the front hall, disaster struck the rear quarters. If the palace was a vast web, then Dugu Jialuo was the fiercest spider at its center. What? I’ve been sick a few days and you, you decrepit old fool, dare bring a concubine into my house? Outrageous! Without delay, she mustered her retainers and, surrounded by her supporters, stormed into the Hall of Longevity. Poor Lady Yuchi, so recently ravished by the emperor, now found herself beset by the empress.

A true empress needs no theatrics—no stripping, no video-recording, just a cudgel and righteous fury. By the time Emperor Wen got wind and rushed back, the lovely Lady Yuchi had been beaten to a pulp. Nor did Empress Dugu spare the emperor—hands on hips, she berated him with all the eloquence of a fishwife in the marketplace. So fierce was her tongue that the emperor nearly mounted a fast horse and rode off to become a hermit.

The ministers pleaded and persuaded until Emperor Wen relented. He swore he’d depose the empress, but when the time came, he lacked the courage even to utter a word.

With such an empress reigning supreme in the inner palace, boredom soon drove her to meddle in affairs of state—and so the Crown Prince Yang Yong’s tragedy began. He had inadvertently offended his mother, and Yang Guang fanned the flames. In her wrath, Empress Dugu taught him the meaning of a mother’s cruelty.

Wang Bodang, forewarned that the empress meant to deal with the crown prince, hastily resigned his post, saving his own life. And the one who had passed him the warning was none other than Li Mi, then captain of the Imperial Guards.

Qin Qiong, a constable by profession, had little interest in court intrigue, content to listen in silence. Dan Xiongxin, ever attentive, poured wine for Li Mi, his ears pricked for news from the capital—his eager eyes betrayed his fascination with such tales.