Chapter Eight: The Coronation Ceremony

Chapter Eight: The Enthronement Ceremony

After this incident, Zhu Qizhen’s position was firmly established, and there would be no more twists or turns. However, this did not mean that Zhu Qizhen could now enjoy leisure and ease.

On the contrary, he became even busier.

Because of the enthronement ceremony.

This was a matter of true national significance, not to be taken lightly in the least. Although there were still several days until the ninth day of the first lunar month, the enthronement was such a grand and solemn affair that even a few days felt too short for its preparation.

Naturally, the responsibility for organizing the ceremony fell upon Hu Ying, the Minister of Rites.

Nevertheless, there were some things which no one could do in Zhu Qizhen’s stead.

Thus, in these days, Zhu Qizhen practiced the ceremonial protocols ceaselessly. At the enthronement, countless eyes would be upon him; any slight misstep would be glaringly obvious to the assembled officials of the realm.

He was, after all, a child-emperor. If he lost composure at such a moment, he would become an object of ridicule throughout the empire.

So, over these days, Zhu Qizhen practiced the rituals day and night to ensure everything would be flawless.

The tenth year of Xuande, the ninth day of the first lunar month, a day marked by the cyclical signs of You and Gui.

The morning sunlight had just begun to shine upon the Tower of Fengtian.

Perhaps few know the Tower of Fengtian, but in later ages, it would become known by its illustrious name: Tiananmen.

Before dawn, the Ministry of Rites dispatched officials to the Temple of Heaven to worship, then to the ancestral temple to pay respects to the forebears. The spirit tablets of the ancestors were then brought into the Tower of Fengtian.

Within the tower, Zhu Qizhen, clad in mourning robes, knelt before the ancestral tablets—those of the Grand Founder, the Grand Ancestor, the Enlightened Emperor, and his own father, the late emperor. Behind the tablets hung portraits of the forefathers.

On the scarlet altar were sacrificial offerings, and the atmosphere was one of utmost solemnity.

Zhu Qizhen felt as though the Grand Founder, Grand Ancestor, Enlightened Emperor, and his father were all watching him.

Outside, the voices of officials urging him to ascend the throne could be heard.

This ritual of "thrice invited, thrice declined" was purely ceremonial. The officials, divided into groups of meritorious nobles, civil and military officials, and imperial kinsmen, each selected representatives to stand below the Tower and solemnly declare: “The nation is in misfortune, the realm is without a sovereign; you should inherit your ancestors' legacy and ascend as emperor.”

Then, someone from the Hanlin Academy would read a prepared imperial response, declining the throne on grounds of filial piety and inability to bear great responsibility.

This was a highly formalized performance, almost theatrical in its nature.

Yet Yang Shiqi, mindful of Zhu Qizhen’s health, simplified the process. Zhu Qizhen did not need to appear in person; he simply sat within the tower as the Hanlin Academy read the decree.

It was merely a matter of observing the forms.

After the three ritual invitations, Wang Zhen and others ascended the tower, each carrying a lacquered tray of red wood bearing the ceremonial crown, imperial robes, jade belt, and the like.

Wang Zhen stepped forward to remove Zhu Qizhen’s mourning garb and dress him in the imperial robes.

These robes, the celebrated dragon robes, were ochre-yellow, adorned with coiled dragon emblems on the chest, arms, and elsewhere, and embroidered with the Twelve Ornaments.

The Twelve Ornaments included the sun, moon, stars, and other symbols. The sun, moon, and stars were on the shoulders, signifying the emperor bearing the cosmos upon them.

This attire was woven as a single piece, with no visible seams—directly produced on the loom, a true ‘seamless garment’ as the saying goes.

The golden dragons were embroidered with gold thread and seemed to move as one viewed them from different angles—exquisitely beautiful. Each robe required a dedicated loom and took over a year to complete. Its value matched its weight in gold.

Wang Zhen and another eunuch opened the robe wide, and Zhu Qizhen slipped his arms into it. With his arms outstretched, the eunuchs dressed him with meticulous care.

Once all was arranged, drums and music resounded; the bells and chimes rang out.

Though Zhu Yuanzhang had once sought to revive ancient court music, the true melodies had been lost to time. What now played was grand and solemn, yet not quite the same as the ancient harmonies.

But Zhu Qizhen could not tell the difference.

He followed the sound of the ceremonial music, descending the Tower of Fengtian step by step. Looking down, he saw the civil and military officials standing neatly divided in the plaza within the Gate of Fengtian. The Imperial Guard, resplendent and imposing, stood in formation, three steps apart at each post, five steps to each patrol, clad in armor and bearing ritual weapons—more symbolic than practical, such as the notched sword or gilded mace.

Every official was in full regalia, the scene solemn and dignified. Apart from the music, not a sound could be heard throughout the plaza.

Zhu Qizhen was momentarily stunned by the sight.

Wang Zhen whispered at his side, “Your Majesty, the auspicious hour has come.”

“Let us go,” Zhu Qizhen replied.

Dressed in the ceremonial dragon robes and crowned, Zhu Qizhen descended from the Gate of Fengtian onto the central imperial path. Wang Zhen, bent in a respectful bow, lightly supported Zhu Qizhen’s hand and led the way. At just nine years old, Zhu Qizhen’s small frame made Wang Zhen’s posture awkward, but he dared not complain—it was a rare honor for him to take part in such a ceremony.

On both sides, the officials knelt with heads bowed, not daring to look up. Only the stately music filled the air, enveloping the entire plaza in solemnity.

Zhu Qizhen walked slowly toward the Hall of Supreme Harmony.

He ought to have taken his seat upon the throne in the Hall of Supreme Harmony to receive the officials’ homage and thus become sovereign in full.

But during the Yongle era, the three great halls, newly constructed, had burned to the ground and had yet to be rebuilt. Thus, Zhu Qizhen received the homage in the Palace of Heavenly Purity.

He walked the long imperial path and took his seat upon the throne beneath the Gate of Heavenly Purity.

The throne itself was once a simple folding chair adorned with gold and silver, but since the days of the Grand Founder, the court’s lifestyle had grown ever more lavish.

Now, the throne resembled a wide couch, large enough for three; its backrest was in three sections, the center highest, flanked by two lower, mountain-shaped wings. The armrests were carved into writhing dragons, their heads at the ends clutching pearls.

Yet Zhu Qizhen, so small, sat upon it and seemed to be swallowed by its vastness. Wang Zhen had anticipated this and added two hand-cushions on either side—a pair of small pillows—for him to rest his hands and not feel quite so alone.

As Zhu Qizhen settled into the throne amid the court music, eunuchs with fans of peacock feathers shielded him from behind.

Stepping forward, Wang Zhen stood beneath the eaves of the Gate of Heavenly Purity and proclaimed in a resounding voice to the assembled officials:

“Recalling the achievements of our ancestors in founding the state and establishing its enduring order, their far-reaching vision shines through the ages. Our late emperor, with utmost benevolence, inherited and perpetuated their legacy, expanding the realm’s governance and seeking everlasting peace and prosperity. Yet misfortune has struck, and I, in humble obedience to the late emperor’s will, this day—the ninth of the first month, tenth year of Xuande—ascend the throne as emperor…”

The lengthy proclamation, composed by the Hanlin Academy, went on at great length—hundreds of words, Zhu Qizhen did not listen closely, but its meaning was clear. First, the era name would change: today was still the tenth year of Xuande, but next year would become the first year of Zhengtong.

Then came various promotions: Lady Sun became the Empress Dowager; the Empress Dowager became the Grand Empress Dowager; and certain princesses were raised to the rank of senior princess.

There were also political implications, but all were determined by the Grand Secretariat. Zhu Qizhen had no power to alter anything; essentially, all policies from the Xuande era would continue as before.

After the imperial edict was read, the officials hailed the emperor with cries of “Long live the Emperor!” Then, all came forward to pay homage.

Zhu Qizhen did not need to speak—he simply sat in place. As each official performed their obeisance, Wang Zhen responded on his behalf, thus formalizing the relationship of ruler and minister.

It sounds simple enough, but the entire process lasted from morning until late afternoon.

From this day forth, though the regnal year remained Xuande Ten, the Emperor of the Ming was now the nearly nine-year-old Zhu Qizhen.

Though emperor in name, Zhu Qizhen knew well that it would be a long, long road before he truly reigned over the realm.