Chapter Four: A Thousand Changes in a Single Day

The funeral arrangements for Xue Shao were handled at Princess Taiping’s residence. Whether or not he was guilty was another matter, but his title as Imperial Consort was not stripped away. Eunuchs and officials from the Palace Service and the Ministry of Rites oversaw the burial rites, all proceeding in an orderly fashion.

There was a constant stream of guests, the residence thronged with visitors, though most paid their respects swiftly and departed, mindful of the unspoken taboo overshadowing the occasion.

By the time Quan Ce arrived, the line of mourners had already taken on a pattern—entering from the left, exiting from the right, voices filling the air, yet an undercurrent of coldness persisted. Though the imperial Li clan was extensive, Princess Taiping had only two full-blood brothers—Li Xian, Prince of Luling, and Li Dan, the future Emperor Ruizong. Both had children late in life: Li Xian’s eldest son, Li Chongrun, was only five, Li Dan’s eldest, Li Chengqi, a little older at nine, while the famed Tang Minghuang, Li Dan’s third son, was but three years old—one year younger than Quan Zhu. The rest, half-brothers, were far from the capital. Quan Ce, thus, was the first close younger relative to arrive.

A steward from the princess’s residence led Quan Ce to the mourning hall. Some recognized him as the “blessed survivor” of the thunderbolt incident and whispered among themselves. Quan Ce paid his respects as custom demanded. Xue Shao’s eldest son, Xue Chongyin, just seven, and his younger son, Xue Chongjian, only two, were clad in mourning garb, returning bows in thanks.

Xue Chongyin was quiet, distant even to his cousin Quan Ce. Xue Chongjian, plump and cherubic, was all innocent delight, gurgling joyfully in his nurse’s arms. Quan Ce reached out to hold him; the boy did not fuss, and when Quan Ce pinched his cheek, he let out a clear, ringing laugh. Startled, Quan Ce quickly handed him back; such laughter in the mourning hall was out of place, though the child was too young to know sorrow from mirth.

After about half an hour’s silent contemplation before the bier, Quan Ce deemed the time right, borrowed a quiet room to change into a green robe embroidered with a fighting bull, enduring the discomfort as he affixed an ornamental floral diadem to his forehead—an official requirement, more for appearance than use.

He then rode swiftly to the headquarters of the Imperial Guards. With all his credentials in order, the process was smooth; the clerks bustled about, showering him with compliments: “General, your post is unique in the entire Imperial Guard!”

“My thanks to you all,” Quan Ce replied with a smile and a bow. His appointment as Left Yulin Commander in the Left Imperial Guard was certainly odd. By regulation, only the Princely Wings of the Sixteen Guards of the Southern Palace had Yulin Commanders. He had been transferred from the Left Princely Wing to the Imperial Guard, yet still held the title of Yulin Commander—a curious and inexplicable arrangement.

His superior was Zhao Liu, the stern and handsome Middle Commander of the Left Imperial Guard, who handed him a register and assigned his duties: “By Her Majesty’s command, you are Yulin Commander. The security of the imperial presence is your charge. According to the register, you are responsible for six Imperial Guards, six Left and Right Guards, and fifty Bodyguards.”

“Sixty-two men?” Quan Ce was taken aback, but bowed to accept.

With a faint smile, Zhao Liu explained, “The Imperial Guard does not command palace troops. The full complement for security is one hundred and twenty-four—divided between us, rotating shifts. The rest, more than five hundred ceremonial guards, though nominally under the Imperial Guard, have nothing to do with our duties.”

A realization dawned on Quan Ce: the Imperial Guard was but a shell. The generals and grand commanders attached to its name were little more than sinecures, their titles for rank rather than real command.

Zhao Liu continued, “Bear in mind: the men under the Imperial Guard are all sons of high-ranking officials. Do not act on youthful impulse, lest you bring disaster upon yourself.”

Quan Ce bowed in gratitude. “Thank you, Commander, for your guidance.” He mustered his assigned guards and entered the palace for duty.

The layout of Daming Palace was particularly focused on defense. Danfeng Gate was the southern entrance. Heading north, the first palace wall ran crosswise, leading to the Outer Court and the Hall of Han Yuan, flanked by bell and drum towers and the east and west audience halls. The Hall of Han Yuan, with its wings, formed the second wall, leading to the Central Court and the Hall of Xuan Zheng, with various government offices—Chancellery, Secretariat, and Academy—between the two grand halls. The wings of Xuan Zheng Hall formed the third wall, opening at the rear through the Purple Perfection Gate to the Inner Court and the Hall of Purple Perfection. Only after passing this third wall did one reach the heart of the palace—the inner courtyards, pavilions, gardens, temples, and polo grounds, where the emperor lived, governed, and found amusement. The north gate had two walls and two gates—Chongxuan and Xuanwu—separated by a hundred-foot-wide passage, surrounded by towering ramparts and formidable defenses.

Upon entering the Purple Perfection Gate, Quan Ce’s men dispersed to their posts: the Palace Service, the Left Treasury, the Inner Armory—all under the Imperial Guard’s protection. By the time he reached the Hall of Golden Glory, he had only thirteen men left: the Imperial Guard, Left and Right Guards.

The Hall of Golden Glory in Daming Palace was not like its namesake in Ming and Qing times. It was not the main audience hall but one of Empress Wu’s private chambers, where she summoned scholars, conducted daily affairs, and held literary gatherings.

They lined up at the entrance, waiting. Scholars and literati summoned for audience had arrived early. Empress Wu, rising from her residence of Obedience and Joy, was carried by sedan to the Hall of Golden Glory. All present knelt on one knee to greet her arrival.

As footsteps approached, Quan Ce clearly felt a gaze fall upon him. He bent lower, head bowed deep.

“Raise your head,” came the voice of Shangguan Wan’er.

Quan Ce obeyed, lifting his head to see a stately and commanding figure, standing head and shoulders above all attendants, crowned in purple and gold, radiating brilliance, the chest adorned with dazzling white. The gaze, cold and piercing, struck him like a blow. Trembling, he quickly lowered his eyes. Empress Wu did not stop or speak.

“A handsome countenance, indeed.” After a long look, Empress Wu tossed off this remark, her wide sleeves swirling as she ascended the steps, the silvery phoenix embroidery on her gown trailing four or five yards behind, her attendant ladies and maids a cloud of color in her wake.

The doors shut with a thunderous crash. Quan Ce let out a long breath, lips dry, palms clammy with cold sweat. It was not cowardice; the woman’s reputation for ruthlessness was notorious—she had even killed her own children.

The acoustics of the Hall of Golden Glory were poor; now and again, bursts of laughter and song drifted out. Though it had naught to do with affairs of state, Quan Ce had no wish to linger. He descended the nine steps, moving away from the door at last, and found some peace for his ears.

A group of nobles entered from the Right Silver Terrace Gate, polo mallets in hand, clad in tight riding gear—clearly fresh from a polo match at the Hanguang Palace field. Arrogant and brash, they ordered the palace eunuchs about like family servants, all of them the very embodiment of “martial spirit.” Fortunately, judging by their course, they were heading for the Guangshun Gate to leave the palace and would not cross his path; Quan Ce kept his eyes straight ahead. As one of Empress Wu’s personal guards, no one would dare challenge him.

Suddenly, a series of sharp footsteps—a powerful force struck from the side. Quan Ce’s footing gave way; he was flung sideways, rolling hard across the ground, pain shooting through his body, especially his knees, sharp as needles.

“So this is the so-called Thunder God my grandaunt praised?” The youth who’d struck him was about his age, dressed in dark riding garb, looking down at him with undisguised contempt.

“Sanlang, mind your manners—he is of the Imperial Guard,” a middle-aged man interceded, pulling him away.

“Imperial Guard? Even if there were a thousand such cattle, I’d fear none,” the youth retorted, and without warning, lifted a boot and stomped down—his deerskin boot landing squarely on Quan Ce’s face.

“By order of Her Majesty, the Left Imperial Guard Yulin Commander, Quan Ce, is summoned to attend!” The doors to the Hall of Golden Glory opened; a eunuch announced the command. By then, Quan Ce’s face had been stomped several times, blood flowing from nose and mouth.

“Sanlang!” The middle-aged man yanked the youth away. Quan Ce picked himself off the ground, wiped his face, and turned to receive the summons.

“General Quan, Sanlang is fond of wrestling and was merely eager to test your famed skills—no malice intended. Please, do not speak of this,” the man said, his tone dark.

“I dare not—my martial skills are lacking,” Quan Ce replied humbly, having tasted the arrogance of these noble sons. He tidied his face with a silk handkerchief and entered the hall.

Shangguan Wan’er, disregarding protocol, came forward and pulled him before Empress Wu. “Come, Dalang, Her Majesty wishes to see your painting. The one you did for Erlang the other day—paint one for me.”

Quan Ce was startled, glancing around. It wasn’t just Shangguan Wan’er flouting decorum; scholars and literati alike were drinking, singing, and painting with abandon. Whenever a fine work was produced, they’d present it to the Empress for her judgment, unrestrained by etiquette.

Glancing towards the dais, he saw Empress Wu reclining, her right hand propping her brow, left holding a scroll for appraisal. One leg bent, the other stretched out, her posture was both relaxed and commanding. Catching her sharp gaze, Quan Ce hastily lowered his head. “Your servant obeys. There is no need to trouble the attendant; I can paint from memory.”

There was no charcoal, no easel—using Shangguan Wan’er as a model was impractical, and making Empress Wu wait nearly an hour was unthinkable. He made do with brush and ink, intending to produce a traditional painting.

Bending over his small desk, Quan Ce swiftly sketched—a lotus blossom at the center, roots trailing below, entangling countless beings. A mass of flames enwrapped it, forming a lotus-shaped pedestal. At the edge of the paper, a Buddha’s profile appeared, brows knit, gaze fierce. The whole painting was a seamless flow of expressive brushwork.

Within the space of half an incense stick, it was done. He lifted it overhead. “A humble work, Your Majesty’s judgment is requested.”

The painting was taken from his hands; a flash of purple entered his vision, and Quan Ce bowed lower.

“What is the title of this piece?” The voice was clear, its authority undeniable.

“Buddha’s Wrath—Fire Lotus,” Quan Ce replied. It was a skill from a game popular among the young, later adopted as a tattoo motif. He had once followed the trend and painted it often.

“May I ask, young general, why is the Buddha wrathful?” An elderly scholar among the Hanlin stepped forward, abruptly challenging him.

“Because there are demons in this world.”

“And do you know what demons there are?”

“I do not.”

“Ignorant and presumptuous—daring to paint the Buddha thus! Is this not blasphemy? Should another thunderbolt strike, would you escape again?” The old man’s face was thunderous, his words sharp as blades.

Quan Ce was tongue-tied, cold sweat soaking his inner garments. Where his injuries had been doused with sweat, the pain and itch were near unbearable.

“Buddha embodies the highest truth,” Empress Wu said, her tone shifting to imperial self-reference. “I grant you leave to explain yourself. If you cannot, the executioner awaits.”

The hall fell silent; all straightened, faces taut with deference.

Quan Ce swallowed, veins throbbing on his brow. His knowledge of the classics was scant, his reading shallow. He knew only stray verses, perhaps distorted in the telling. If he misspoke again, his life would be forfeit.

After a long, heavy silence, Quan Ce gathered his courage, raised his face to Empress Wu, and spoke: “The Vajra’s angry glare subdues the Four Demons; the Bodhisattva’s lowered gaze shows compassion to the Six Realms.”

Empress Wu’s gaze was on him—complex, unreadable. Noticing the bruises on his face, her fierce brows softened a touch, a hint of pity flickering.

The hair on Quan Ce’s neck stood on end; a chill ran through him.

“You have some insight, albeit shallow.” Empress Wu turned away with a flick of her sleeve, her tone of admonition gentler. “You are granted a day of leave and a steed from the imperial stables. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!” Quan Ce retreated from the hall in haste, not even feeling his wounds.