Chapter Nine: Lord Jian

Chapter Nine: Lord Jian

The nation mourned for a hundred days. The Son of Heaven, in accordance with custom, observed filial piety for twenty-seven days, substituting days for months in his mourning. Even though Zhu Qizhen was now emperor, his duty was not to govern but to fulfill the filial obligations of a son, keeping vigil beside the imperial coffin alongside Zhu Qiyu for those twenty-seven days.

Of course, it was not required that every day be spent in mourning vigil.

For the most part, Zhu Qizhen simply stayed close to the Empress Dowager—or rather, the Grand Empress Dowager now—who, with gentle admonition and wise instruction, imparted to him all manner of statecraft.

Zhu Qizhen, his small hand resting on the Grand Empress Dowager’s, strolled leisurely with her through the gardens of the Palace of Compassion and Tranquility, trailed by Wang Zhen and the palace maids who served the Grand Empress Dowager.

“The matter of the imperial mausoleum was rather rushed,” the Grand Empress Dowager remarked. “But it could not be helped—who could have foreseen such urgency? Still, the orders must be given: do not let haste overtake caution. Both Emperor Renzong and the late Emperor loved the people as their own children. It is better to take more time than to risk calamity through recklessness. Should the late Emperor’s benevolence be marred, I should not know how to face Emperor Renzong in the afterlife.”

Wang Zhen replied respectfully, “This servant understands. The Grand Secretariat proposes to conscript more laborers, with Marquis of Fengcheng Li Xian, Eunuch Mu Jing, Minister of Works Wu Zhong, and Vice Minister Cai Xin jointly overseeing the workforce of a hundred thousand. It is expected that the mausoleum will be completed in a few months.”

The Grand Empress Dowager sighed and said to Zhu Qizhen, “Such ceremonial matters cannot be neglected, yet they place a heavy burden on the people and the treasury. Remember this—when your time comes, make preparations early, lest the people suffer for it.”

“I understand, Grandmother,” Zhu Qizhen answered.

At present, the most important affair of state was the period of national mourning, and of all its duties, the construction of the imperial mausoleum was the weightiest. Zhu Qizhen had seen the plans submitted for the mausoleum.

He calculated that the scale of the project was equivalent to building a new Forbidden City within the Longevity Hills. Ordinarily, with ten thousand workers, such a task would require several or even dozens of years—slow and steady.

But this time, the work was to be finished within a few months, demanding breakneck speed. Given the construction methods of the era, the loss of several lives was almost inevitable.

Yet, neither the Grand Empress Dowager nor any mother could bear to see her son’s body remain unburied for long.

The Grand Empress Dowager continued, “Is there anything else from the Grand Secretariat?” she asked Wang Zhen.

In the current system, Wang Zhen’s authority had grown considerably.

The Grand Empress Dowager had no intention of ruling directly, and thus could not frequently receive ministers. All state matters were presented in memorials, organized by the Grand Secretariat with their recommendations, and delivered to the palace.

Wang Zhen would review these memorials again. Major affairs were, of course, reported to the Grand Empress Dowager, but for minor matters or those with clear precedents, Wang Zhen could decide them himself.

If the Grand Empress Dowager were to handle every memorial, she would become like Zhu Yuanzhang himself.

Thus, an important power fell into Wang Zhen’s hands: determining the order in which matters were reported, and whether something was to be treated as major or minor.

This was no trivial matter.

The Grand Empress Dowager, after all, was a seasoned veteran of court intrigue, widely respected by ministers such as the Three Yangs and Zhang Fu. Though she did not handle every memorial, no great affair could be kept from her.

But with another emperor, things might be different.

Eunuchs could decide what the emperor would or would not know—this was what ministers most hated: misleading the sovereign.

At this time, though, Wang Zhen dared not conceal anything, anxious and careful. He said at once, “The Imperial Medical Institute has reported that Lord Jian, Minister of Personnel and Grand Preceptor to the Crown Prince, is beyond saving.”

The Grand Empress Dowager halted in her steps. “Jian Yi has grown old.”

Zhu Qizhen could feel the sorrow emanating from her. “Grandmother, do not grieve. Surely, Heaven protects the righteous—Lord Jian will recover.”

“It is his time,” she replied, “not even the immortals could save him now. You should go and visit Lord Jian. He served your grandfather and father, laboring untold hardships, and is a kinsman of the imperial house—a loyal and upright elder. He deserves this honor.”

It was an unwritten rule: the emperor did not lightly visit his ministers. If he did, it was a tacit acknowledgment that the minister’s end was near; otherwise, it was an ill omen.

“As you command, Grandmother,” said Zhu Qizhen.

“There are things you may ask him as well,” she added, “for a dying man’s words are wise and true.”

“I understand,” Zhu Qizhen replied.

For an emperor to leave the palace was never a trivial matter—especially for Zhu Qizhen, still a child in need of protection in many eyes.

Thus, whenever he went out, the Imperial Guards, Han generals, and honor guards accompanied him, numbering in the thousands.

Zhu Qizhen did not leave by the main gate of the palace, but through the East Prosperity Gate. The Imperial Guards closed the streets, stopping all passersby. Guards stood every five or ten paces, and the commoners made haste to avoid them.

If unable to get away in time, the people knelt on the ground, heads lowered, daring not to look up until the procession had passed.

Zhu Qizhen traveled by carriage, though not the imperial jade carriage—such was reserved for grand ceremonies. Even so, his carriage was exquisitely crafted, like a small room on wheels.

He lifted the curtain over the window and gazed outside.

Dust swirled in the air, filling Zhu Qizhen with a familiar feeling.

It was the feeling of grand construction.

From the Yongle through the Hongxi and Xuande reigns, the great project of Beijing’s city walls was still unfinished, and the work continued. Though the methods could not compare to those of later times, the sensation was much like the feverish construction booms he remembered from the 1980s, right up to the moment he crossed over.

Such undertakings were always the mark of a nation ascending in power.

Zhu Qizhen could see, in the faces of the laborers, something he recognized.

From the palace to Lord Jian’s residence was not far, and this part of the city was already largely complete. Soon, he arrived at the gates of Lord Jian’s mansion.

It was but a modest three-courtyard residence.

As the Grand Empress Dowager had said, Lord Jian was a servant of the state, devoted to the nation and not to his own comfort. Compared to his status, the house was humble indeed.

At the gate, several people knelt to greet Zhu Qizhen. They were Lord Jian’s descendants. Zhu Qizhen bade them rise, saying, “Our families are kin. Today, I come as a younger relative to visit Lord Jian.”

Lord Jian’s son had married a princess, making him Zhu Qizhen’s uncle by marriage, though both the princess and her husband had passed away—fortune rarely favors the virtuous. Yet the two families remained closely bound. After a few words of greeting, Zhu Qizhen quickly made his way to the inner chambers.

Within, the sharp scent of medicine filled the air. An old man lay deep in layers of bedding, his figure lost in the folds, face and hands gaunt beyond measure.

“An oil lamp guttering in its socket,” thought Zhu Qizhen as he approached quietly. “Lord Jian, Lord Jian,” he called softly.

The old man opened his eyes at the sound, his gaze searching for Zhu Qizhen’s face. Suddenly roused, he struggled to rise, and in a thick Sichuan-accented official tongue, said, “Your Majesty.”

Zhu Qizhen quickly pressed him down. “Please, Lord Jian, remain lying. I have come only to see you. I ascended the throne as a child, with no one to rely on but loyal elders like yourself. May you recover and continue to guide me.”

These were words of courtesy.

But in Lord Jian’s ears, they sounded otherwise.

He had served through five reigns. Though not at the center of power during the Hongwu and Jianwen eras, he had been highly valued by Yongle, and through the reigns of Hongxi and Xuande, ruler and minister had been as father and son—even marrying his youngest daughter to the imperial family. Their bond was extraordinary. Now, seeing young Zhu Qizhen ascend at nine, the nation still unsettled, in need of a seasoned statesman, he could not help but feel his own death was ill-timed. If only he could have lingered another year, or even a little longer, perhaps he could have accomplished more.

Sending his children and grandchildren from the room, he gathered his strength and said, “Your Majesty, I know my own body—I am beyond saving. At my age, death comes not untimely, but I cannot set my mind at ease for Your Majesty’s sake. I beg you, listen to my words…”