The Retired Emperor’s illness this time had come on like a fierce tide. Ming Huashang attended the sickbed for several consecutive days and was completely worn out. She was finally forcibly sent back by Li Huazhang to rest. She slept from the evening straight through to noon the following day. When she woke, the palace quarters were hushed and still. Upon asking, she learned that the Emperor had come with the imperial sons, daughters, and members of the imperial clan. All the palace maids and eunuchs had gone to the main hall to wait upon them.
When the Emperor and Empress arrived in state, Ming Huashang had been sleeping so deeply that Li Huazhang would not let anyone wake her.
Since she had already missed them, Ming Huashang was unbothered — having no sense of urgency about the matter, she bathed and changed her clothes at her leisure before going to attend the Emperor. The Retired Emperor’s bedchamber was by now crowded with people. As Ming Huashang entered, everyone turned to look.
Ming Huashang was perfectly composed. She moved through the crowd with unhurried ease and made her salutations to those seated above: “Ten thousand years to the Holy One. May the Empress enjoy boundless fortune. I greet Prince Xiang and Princess Imperial Taiping.”
Empress Wei was in the middle of listening to an Imperial Physician’s report on the Retired Emperor’s condition. Seeing that Ming Huashang had only just arrived, she gave her a glance and frowned slightly: “Why has Princess Yong come so late?”
Li Huazhang had already quietly moved to stand beside Ming Huashang. He replied with cool composure: “These past several days the Retired Emperor’s condition has been unstable. The second young lady was at the Retired Emperor’s bedside for a full day and night, and only retired to rest in the early morning hours. I would not allow anyone to wake her. If the Empress has any grievance, please direct it at me.”
Empress Wei had dominated the court unchallenged for some time, and had long grown unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. Her expression soured slightly, but bearing Li Huazhang’s status in mind, she ultimately chose not to make a scene in public. She smiled and said: “Princess Yong has come to be filial on our behalf and on the Emperor’s behalf. I should be thankful for her — how could I possibly be displeased? The poor dear — a girl in full bloom like a flower at the time of the wedding, and after just a few days she has grown this thin. An’le, come over here. You truly ought to take your Princess Yong sister-in-law as your example.”
Princess An’le sauntered up with evident reluctance. Even here to visit the sick, she still wore her elaborately fashioned hundred-bird skirt, though this time the hem had been changed to white bird feathers — considerably more subdued in color, yet no less lavish in its extravagance.
Princess An’le gave a perfunctory bow and said: “Second older brother, second sister-in-law, you’ve worked hard. We, mother and I, will remember your efforts.”
Princess An’le’s tone was breezy and self-evident, as though other people’s ability to do things on her behalf was the highest of honors. Li Huazhang looked at Princess An’le steadily and said: “I came to the Shanyang Palace to attend the sickbed — first, because I wished to show filial respect on behalf of my father, and second, because I revere the Retired Emperor’s achievements and wished to offer what humble service I could. Everything I have done has come from my own heart, and was done for no one else — so naturally I would not presume to speak of merit or reward.”
Princess An’le was left with nothing to say. Princess Imperial Taiping glanced over at that beautiful but truly shallow and foolish decorative piece, and said: “Mother is gravely ill. As her children, we should by all rights have stayed awake at her side day and night. That we now need a younger relative like Second Young Master to perform our filial duty in our stead is something we should all be ashamed of.”
Princess Imperial Taiping’s words were loaded with barbs, making her dissatisfaction with the Empress Wei and her daughter abundantly plain. Prince Xiang, playing the role of a peacemaker without a temper, saw the tension and stepped in to smooth things over: “Mother is still recuperating inside. Let’s not quarrel here. If there is anything to say, go outside and say it.”
No one objected, and everyone filed outward in turn. As Crown Prince Li Zhongjun was leaving, he stepped aside and let Princess An’le go first. Princess An’le gave a disdainful little sniff, lifted her chin, and walked around Li Zhongjun in a wide arc — taking the opposite door out — as though something dirty were on Li Zhongjun and she could not keep far enough away from him.
Li Zhongjun had offered a conciliatory gesture, only to be rebuffed in this way, and in full view of the imperial clan and palace attendants at that — it was deeply humiliating. The palace maids quietly lowered their heads. Several princes maintained bland expressions as they walked out, as though they had witnessed nothing. The Emperor and Empress Wei were ahead, talking and laughing with Princess An’le; the Emperor called her his precious daughter one moment after another, completely oblivious that he had another child.
The crowd filed past Li Zhongjun one by one, and by unspoken agreement, everyone maintained their silence and allowed Li Zhongjun’s humiliation to pass as though it had never happened. Yet this very silence made Li Zhongjun feel all the more disgraced. He kept his composure as Crown Prince required — but in a place no one could see, his fingers curled into a tight, furious fist.
Ming Huashang slipped quietly to the edge of the crowd. When no one was watching, she leaned close and asked Li Huazhang softly: “The elders have come — why didn’t you have someone wake me?”
Li Huazhang held her hand and said plainly: “There was no need.”
No need to see them? These people who shared his blood and his surname — or perhaps they were not family at all.
Ming Huashang asked no further. Li Huazhang clearly had no desire to continue on that subject either.
There had been a time when Li Huazhang could not bear the sight of the female Emperor’s favoritism toward her own kin, of the Wu family’s arrogance and their wreaking havoc on the governance of the realm. He had set his heart on restoring justice, reviving the Tang dynasty, and was willing to sacrifice everything for it. Now that those in power had changed back to the imperial family of the Li clan, he found that his own kinsmen were no better than the Wu family had been.
In some ways, even crueler, more foolish, and more willing to exploit the common people.
The Emperor and Empress Wei led the imperial clan to the side hall, inquired perfunctorily about the Retired Emperor’s condition, said a few pleasantries that amounted to nothing, and then returned to the palace.
They had not even waited for the Retired Emperor to wake. Ming Huashang strongly suspected it had been deliberate — that they had chosen to come precisely while the Retired Emperor was unconscious, so that they could perform a show of filial devotion without any of the actual trouble of caring for a patient.
The Shanyang Palace soon returned to its usual rhythm. The days of tending to the sick were monotonous and exhausting. Ming Huashang gradually found a balance and could no longer push herself to the point of dizziness. Even so, she only handled a small portion of the burden — the majority of the time, it was Li Huazhang who kept watch at the sickbed.
In this way, some indeterminate amount of time passed. One evening at dusk, the Retired Emperor woke from sleep to find herself catching the scent of something clean and delicate. She struggled to lift her eyelids and saw a branch of osmanthus blossoms placed at the head of the bed. Behind the folding screen, the outline of a figure — indistinct but unmistakably upright — was working through calculations of some sort. Hearing the sound, he quietly set down his brush and rose, walking toward the inner chamber: “Retired Emperor — you’ve woken. Is there anywhere on your body causing you discomfort?”
The Retired Emperor looked at that shadow beyond the screen. He was very mindful of her preferences, knowing she did not wish to see them, and so he never stepped forward without being called. Yet every time she emerged from sickness and pain, she would find him — or that woman — keeping watch nearby.
The feeling was a strange one. The Retired Emperor undoubtedly held this pair of traitors in contempt, and yet over such a long stretch of time — during which even she herself had grown to loathe this decaying body that emanated its peculiar smell — these two had continued, quietly and patiently, to administer her medicine, keep her nightly vigil, and attend to her most unpleasant necessities, without a trace of any unusual expression on their faces. If it were all an act, then their patience was quite extraordinary.
The Retired Emperor let out a sigh and, breaking her usual pattern, asked: “What are you looking at?”
Li Huazhang’s eyes moved slightly — he was visibly surprised. But that flicker of emotion quickly settled, and he half-lowered his gaze, replying in an unhurried and respectful manner: “In response to the Retired Emperor: it is the Guanglu Court’s accounts ledger from last season. This official was in the process of reviewing grain and meat prices.”
“The Guanglu Court.” The Retired Emperor murmured, her tone neither approving nor dismissive. “So you have been transferred from the Chang’an Prefecture to the Guanglu Court.”
Li Huazhang said nothing. The Retired Emperor had spent so many years holding the reins of power — she was an expert at reading people’s hearts, and of course she understood the meaning behind that transfer. Whatever he might say in protest would be meaningless. Indeed, the Retired Emperor gave a light laugh and asked: “Well then. What have you concluded from your calculations?”
“During the Wude reign years, when the Tang dynasty was newly founded, the Sui copper coins were abolished and the Tongbao coins established, and a general amnesty was declared throughout the realm. But due to the unceasing wars and the incursions of the northern Turks, the people’s means of survival were strained to the breaking point, and those who starved to death numbered two or three in ten. By the time Emperor Taizong ascended the throne, the price of grain had remained stubbornly high — a single bolt of silk would buy only a single dou of rice. Emperor Taizong was devoted to frugality and broadly spread benevolence to the people. The people, though still moving from place to place in search of food, remained wholeheartedly devoted to the Emperor and harbored no resentment toward the court. In the third year of Zhenguan, the harvest across the Guanzhong region was good, and grain prices gradually fell. Until the third year of Linde, during Emperor Gaozong’s reign, the price of rice in Chang’an remained steady at three to four coins per dou. However, in the latter half of Emperor Gaozong’s reign, the Guanzhong region suffered repeated harvest failures for many years in a row. In the fourth month of the first year of Yongchun, rice in the Guanzhong region reached four hundred coins per dou, and combined with an epidemic, the death toll was enormous. Because of the famine in the Guanzhong region, Emperor Gaozong relocated to the Eastern Capital and thereafter seldom returned to Chang’an. Now — do you know what the price of rice is in the common markets today?”
The Retired Emperor did not answer. Li Huazhang voluntarily supplied the answer: “Rice in Chang’an is one hundred coins per dou. Theft and robbery are rampant. Among those stationed as palace guards, there are some who have gone without food for as many as three days.”
The Retired Emperor listened without changing her expression, and said lightly: “Before the first year of Linde, Emperor Gaozong held power. After the Linde years, I listened behind the curtain, and the two of us governed together as the Two Holy Rulers. It is indeed a fact that by the third year of Linde a great drought had broken out and the rice price had climbed to four hundred coins per dou. You are saying that because a woman ruled, her abilities fell short of governing the realm, her conduct violated the moral order, and thus heaven sent down its warnings in the form of rising rice prices year after year — is that your argument?”
“Not at all,” Li Huazhang said. “Four hundred coins per dou was the peak price, and it was caused by the Guanzhong region first suffering floods, then drought and locust plagues, followed by an epidemic. It subsequently fell back down. The reason rice prices could fall — rather than being driven up without limit by merchants profiteering from the national crisis — was the intervention of the Changping granary system. The Changping system was first established by Emperor Gaozong. In ordinary times, it purchased grain at above-market prices to build reserves; when grain was scarce, it sold at below-market prices — at one point even exchanging grain for coin — to regulate the market. It was thanks to this that, even during the high-price years of Emperor Gaozong’s reign, the price remained within the range that most commoners could still afford, and a great catastrophe was narrowly averted. By that time you were already participating in governance, and all matters great and small in the court were issued from within the palace. These measures would surely be better known to you than to me — you may well have been among those who devised them. The high rice prices after the establishment of the joint rule were largely due to consecutive years of poor harvests. Those who claim that a hen crowing at dawn is a harbinger of national ruin are bitter, incompetent men — unable to change the situation themselves, they shift all the blame onto women. During all my years in the Eastern Capital, living as an ordinary person, I watched the rice price rise and fall, but it generally stayed stable, and thought nothing particularly of it. Only after I entered government service and became an official did I understand how much painstaking effort goes into maintaining such a policy at such a finely calibrated level of stability. I say this not to flatter you, but out of genuine conviction: you did the best it was possible to do. Another emperor, placed in the same position, might not have done as well. But the ongoing rise in rice prices year after year in recent times is a reality — have you considered why?”
The Retired Emperor believed Li Huazhang was not offering flattery. Had he been the kind of person who offered flattery, he would hardly be only coming to offer it now, this late. Since losing power, the Retired Emperor had rarely spoken of affairs of state anymore. Today, for the first time in a long while, her interest was kindled. She let out a slow breath and said: “Heaven does not cooperate — year after year, it is either drought or flood. What can human beings do about that?”
When Li Huazhang had spoken of the Changping system just a moment ago, his tone had been admiring. Now he was blunt and exacting: “The Tang dynasty’s territory is so vast that it is difficult to have favorable weather year-round throughout, without incident. Disasters occur every year — so why was it that, during the Zhenguan years, the realm could withstand natural and man-made calamities and still maintain low grain prices and a stable, prosperous people?”
The Retired Emperor was silent for a rare moment. Li Huazhang paused for a few beats and then offered his own answer: “Because the Zhenguan political order was stable. The Emperor listened to remonstrance, appointed outspoken officials, entrusted power to those of genuine talent — the chief ministers were mutually acquainted and held their posts for substantial periods, which allowed policies to be implemented steadily and consistently. Your Retired Majesty opened broad channels for the expression of opinions, promoted the imperial examination system, and gave the sons of common families throughout the realm a path to advancement — freeing the court from being monopolized by the five great surnames and seven noble families. That was a good thing. Those in your service were not lacking in talent; in terms of the ability of individual officials, they may not have been inferior to those of the Zhenguan era. But your court’s internal struggles were too fierce, and changes in personnel were too frequent. The first thing a newly appointed chief minister did upon taking office was not to address the problems of the people’s livelihood, but to ensure that the ruthless investigators could find no handle to use against him. Those above guarded against those below, and those below viewed those above as enemies. People could not even speak their minds honestly — how could they possibly cooperate in governing the realm?”
The Retired Emperor was quiet for some time, then asked: “Is that why you betrayed me?”
“I remember that when I joined the Xuan Xiaowei, I swore an oath: not to seek recognition, not to question death or life, to serve as the people’s guardian in the darkness of night. I may have betrayed you, but I never betrayed the realm.” Li Huazhang said: “In the beginning, you feared that your officials would betray you, so you established the Xuan Xiaowei to monitor them in the shadows. Later you feared that the Xuan Xiaowei would betray you, so you set up monitors to watch the monitors. Those who play with fire will eventually be consumed by it. Ruling others through fear only breeds greater disasters. First came ruthless investigators like Lai Junchen, then the manipulation of the Zhang brothers. You had already lost control of the flames you yourself had lit. To preserve the state, the only path was a coup.”
The Retired Emperor laughed very faintly — whether mocking Li Huazhang or herself was unclear. Then she suddenly shifted direction: “You launched the Shenlong Coup and were the foremost contributor to restoring the Tang dynasty’s rule. And yet now you are pushed to the margins of power, reduced to calculating rice prices and food accounts, your wife even dragged along with you into this cold treatment. If you had known it would come to this, would you regret having helped Li Xian contend for the throne?”
It would be a lie to say Li Huazhang bore no resentment. To be cast aside before even crossing the river — it was too disheartening a thing to do to anyone. But Li Huazhang fell into silence for a moment, then slowly, firmly, shook his head: “No. Even if I could do it again, I would do the same.”
The Retired Emperor raised an eyebrow and asked: “You truly have no regrets? As you yourself know — Li Xian is not suited to be Emperor. After all these years, his conduct on the throne is exactly what it was the first time he ruled — still devoted to pleasure and indulgence, still pushing out the old ministers, still promoting his in-laws, as though the only thing needed to control the court and secure the throne was to replace every chief minister with men from the Empress’s family. All those years in exile, and he has not grown in the slightest. I was young and rash in those days, determined to execute Li Xian — who could have known that every son that followed would be worse than the last? Still, it is not too late to make amends now. Rather than relying on others, it is better to hold power in one’s own hands. Have you ever thought about becoming Emperor?”
Li Huazhang’s expression was still as water. He looked at the Retired Emperor calmly and said: “You are trying to bring me over to your side. You want to drive a wedge between me and the Li family.”
The Retired Emperor let out a contemptuous sniff. The dignity of an empress settled over her brows — and even in her extreme old age, it in no way diminished the imperial bearing of the female ruler: “I am the sovereign of all under heaven. Whoever I bequeath the throne to, that person is the legitimate ruler — do I need to bring anyone over to my side?”
Li Huazhang’s gaze was clear and rational: “But you don’t truly intend to pass the throne to me. You only wish to reclaim power. If you truly came back to power, you would certainly kill me. If I agreed, I would have fallen straight into your trap. I am not that foolish. If the current Emperor remains on the throne, the worst I, Prince Xiang, and Princess Imperial Taiping face is the loss of power and influence. But if you were to restore your rule, every one of us would die without a proper burial. As for your earlier question — I can tell you clearly: before I acted, I had already foreseen that as the bloodline of Crown Prince Zhanghuai, I would inevitably be regarded with suspicion and rejected by the new imperial house. But I still have no regrets. Because at the time, the only way to make the coup succeed was to advocate for the Crown Prince’s succession to the throne. Sacrificing my own personal glory to allow the Tang imperial house to smoothly assume power was something I accepted gladly, without resentment.”
The Retired Emperor lightly raised one eyebrow, shook her head, and laughed: “Since you understand everything, why do you still do foolish things?”
“Because it is what I should do.” Li Huazhang said with candor. “Moral principles are there to constrain oneself, not to demand that others adhere to the same principles. As long as I myself act in accordance with my knowledge and my conscience, that is enough.”
“Even if those who disregard moral principles step over you and climb ever higher, while you sink further into defeat and destitution — and still no regrets?”
Li Huazhang shook his head. Thinking of a certain person, his voice was tinged with warmth despite himself: “No. I have already obtained the most precious thing there is. I have no other desires in this life.”
“You are truly a rigid, single-minded person,” the Retired Emperor remarked frankly. “The Ming family taught you too many books of the sages, and in doing so turned you into someone naive and idealistic, without the ability to adapt. A character like that might be fine for a man of letters, but in the world of officialdom, you are bound to suffer greatly for it.”
Li Huazhang was unbothered, and said mildly: “What does it matter? If I cannot serve as an official, the worst case is I become a wandering cloud and idle crane, and travel the world together with her.”
The Retired Emperor was somewhat surprised: “Are you certain your wife doesn’t care about titles and imperial honors?”
Li Huazhang’s gaze lowered slightly, and warmth spilled naturally from his expression: “She doesn’t care. As long as the one she loves is by her side, she has never cared about the height of official rank or the extent of one’s wealth.”
The Retired Emperor had witnessed many loving couples, and naturally knew that many couples who claimed they would share hardship together would, when hardship truly arrived, scatter each in their own direction. She had been about to pierce through Li Huazhang’s illusions and tell him these were merely sweet words — but when she touched the soft glow at the bottom of Li Huazhang’s eyes, the Retired Emperor was struck by a sudden absurd thought: perhaps he was telling the truth?
Perhaps in this world, a love still existed that was sincere, pure, and untainted by any interest or calculation.
The Retired Emperor was silent for a long while, then let out a long, slow sigh. It was as though only now had she truly relaxed. She said: “Do you know — when I deposed the Li family all those years ago and established myself as Emperor, how was I able to succeed?”
Li Huazhang sensed that the Retired Emperor was now speaking from the heart. He composed his expression with gravity and slowly shook his head.
“You may think it was because I struck first and used ruthless investigators to kill off every member of the Li imperial clan who would not submit to me — or perhaps because my eyes and ears were spread throughout the court and in the world, and no movement could escape my sight. That is indeed part of it, but it is only technique, not principle.”
“The true reason I was able to sit securely on the throne was that I went with the current of the times. I killed many officials, wiped out nearly the entire imperial clan, and great rebellions erupted in various regions — yet none of them gathered any real momentum. This was not because my soldiers were stronger and the rebel armies weaker, but because none of them won a response from the common people. The realm had long suffered under the great aristocratic families, and the examination system I promoted gave the common people the hope of a path to change their own fate. This realm belongs to the people, not to one family or one emperor. As long as one governs in accordance with the people’s will, it ultimately matters very little who sits at the top or what surname the emperor bears — Li or Wu.”
Li Huazhang listened, and he could not but feel a profound shock. He, who had grown up hiding his true identity as a member of the Li family, had for the whole of his life seen only the female Emperor’s cruelty, the darkness of the ruthless investigators — and had never once thought to consider from another angle: why had the female Emperor been able to succeed? Why was it Wu Zetian, specifically, who rewrote history, and not some other regent empress?
Even as Wu Zetian was rewriting history, was not history in its own way choosing her?
Li Huazhang was long silent, his gaze lowered in thought. The Retired Emperor had spoken for so long that she was growing tired. She slowly lay back against her pillow, and looked in a daze at the osmanthus blossoms placed at the head of her bed.
So, it was already autumn, it seemed. Her memory had been frozen at that winter night. Without her realizing, half a year had passed.
Truly, the world was unpredictable. All those years ago, when she had ruthlessly forced Li Xian to his death — who could have imagined that years later, when her power was gone and she was beset by illness on all sides, it would be Li Xian’s own son and daughter-in-law who accompanied her through the final stretch of her life?
The Retired Emperor found herself wondering: if she had known how it would end, would she have spared Li Xian?
She had no answer. For in the matter of fate, there was no such thing as “what if.”