Chapter 2009: The Twenty-Ninth Year of Kaibao

As if fleeing from something, from the Beginning of Autumn in the twenty-eighth year of Kaibao, the old Emperor had taken up residence in Shangyang Palace in the western gardens of Luoyang, and had stayed there for over half a year, unwilling to return to the palace, unwilling to move.

Consorts and even high ministers who wished to pay their respects could only rush to Shangyang Palace. Even on major festivals like Mid-Autumn and the Winter Solstice, he refused to appear, letting only the Crown Prince preside over the ceremonies according to protocol.

The old Emperor seemed to have returned to his youth, somewhat withdrawn.

The Shangyang Palace of the Tang dynasty had long since fallen into ruin through the destruction of war and the erosion of time, abandoned for nearly two hundred years. When Luoyang was being extensively rebuilt back then, it had been repaired as a matter of course. Of course, in terms of overall scale, the restored Shangyang Palace could not compare to the grandeur of the Tang era—it was merely a name remaining.

The old Emperor's choice of Shangyang Palace for "quiet recuperation" was perhaps precisely to seek peace and solitude. The main structure of Shangyang Palace remained the Guānfēng Hall, also the most thoroughly restored building, facing east from the west—each day it could directly face the rising sun in the east, and it also allowed the old Emperor to silently gaze upon Ziwei City.

It was already the twenty-ninth year of Kaibao. The spring wind was still cold, and the green grass had only just sprouted buds; verdure was gradually dyeing the earth. The old Emperor, who had made a brief appearance at the Lantern Festival celebration, had not stayed in Ziwei City for even a few days before returning to hole up in Shangyang Palace. His temperament and behavior grew ever more bizarre.

On the imperial steps before Guānfēng Hall was set a dragon couch, and the old Emperor, wrapped in a brocade quilt, huddled upon it. The warm spring sun released its gentle warmth, illuminating a hasty and ugly old face. His graying hair and beard looked as though they had not been groomed for days.

Nowadays, the greatest trouble for the attending palace attendants in serving the old Emperor was helping him groom his hair, because he had begun to lose it. His hairline was receding steadily, and the crown of his head was nearly bald—this made the old Emperor very unhappy. An old and ugly face he could barely accept, but a balding, bald head would truly be shameful to show anyone.

And for the attending palace maids, though they would not lose their heads for pulling out a few strands of the old Emperor's hair, the gloomy expression he wore each time was truly terrifying.

By now, the old Emperor's condition could no longer be described in terms of a normal person. In earlier years, one might have said he was aged, declining, desolate; now, there was more of a sense of dejection and degeneration—a feeling that even his will was being ground smooth by the years.

The old Emperor of today could no longer drink wine freely, could not enjoy his meals fully, had no strength for women, and lacked the stamina for horseback riding and hunting. As for family and friends, his feelings grew ever more indifferent. His energy was failing all day long, and he was drowsy and muddled.

The only thing he still cherished and persisted in was desperately guarding the power in his hands. He was no longer like a true dragon, but more like an old dog, pitifully guarding it.

And this stubborn guardianship, worn down by the years, was gradually becoming unstable. An emperor who had neglected governance for years, an old emperor in poor health—being able to firmly grasp power was itself an unrealistic thing.

It was only because the old Emperor's prestige as the founder of the dynasty was too high, and his "tyrannical might" grew daily, that there was sufficient balance among the upper echelons of power, that the system which had operated for decades was stable enough, and that the Crown Prince displayed sufficient patience. Otherwise, if even one element were missing, a drastic upheaval would likely have erupted in an instant.

The old Emperor of today was probably left with nothing but an aging shell. Even his ambitions had gradually become an incomprehensible stubbornness. As for any concern for the state and the people, it had been forgotten somewhere—he had little interest even in mentioning it.

The decay of the body was not frightening; what was frightening was that the soul had degenerated along with it. For a despotic emperor, this was somewhat tragic and cruel. And what was even more tragic was that the old Emperor could not even satisfy his own private desires.

"Your Majesty, the Crown Prince requests an audience!" From a distance of over three yards, Hu De bowed at the waist and reported cautiously, afraid of disturbing the old Emperor's "spring slumber."

No reply came. The old Emperor seemed to have truly fallen asleep, without the slightest movement. No one felt worse about this than Hu De—at least give some response! The Crown Prince was still waiting. Only when his waist had grown sore and there was still no movement, and Hu De was hesitating whether to speak again, did the old Emperor's slow voice finally come: "Admit him."

Suddenly opening his eyes, like a waking monster, the old Emperor looked at the sky. The sunlight was not blinding. With his eyesight, he could dimly make out that beneath the blue sky and white clouds, several paper kites were drifting in the southeast direction. Those who could fly kites within the palace gardens must be noble ladies of the court.

While the old Emperor was wondering who it was, Crown Prince Liu Yang approached and bowed humbly. The old Emperor reacted somewhat sluggishly, waited a moment, then withdrew his gaze and gestured for him to be seated.

"You've disturbed my sleep! What is it? Speak!" said the old Emperor.

Upon hearing this, Liu Yang's expression did not change. He first offered an apology, then calmly began to report. This was Liu Yang's daily routine—every few days, he would always select some military or state affairs to personally report to the old Emperor.

This was also experience Liu Yang had gleaned from long-term communication with the aging emperor: regardless of whether the old Emperor was willing to listen, he had to show his attitude and give sufficient respect. Even if he annoyed the old Emperor, he still had to come—the more annoyed the Emperor was, the more he had to persist. Moreover, Liu Yang had a vague premonition that the hard days should soon be coming to an end.

"Third Brother has submitted a memorial saying he is unwell and finds it difficult to bear the heavy responsibility. He hopes the court can appoint another minister to go to the Tibetans and take command at Lhasa!"

This piece of news made the old Emperor's eyes widen. He turned his head and stared straight at Liu Yang: "What happened? Is it serious?"

"The memorial says it is only a minor illness!" Liu Yang reported in a low voice. "However, in major matters, Third Brother has never been one to shirk or slack off. Since he has submitted a memorial requesting to leave, it must be that his health truly cannot bear the burden. The Tibetan lands are remote on the snowy plateau, with geography and climate utterly different from the Central Plains, and the environment is harsh. It is said that among the officers and men who entered Tibet, even those who were strong and robust, many fell ill, and some even died of illness.

For the sake of Third Brother's health, I humbly believe the court should issue an edict summoning him to leave Tibet and first go to Chengdu to recuperate. Once he recovers, he can then return to the capital."

There was a hint of sincerity in Liu Yang's tone. Listening to him, the old Emperor carefully watched the Crown Prince, as if assessing whether the emotions he displayed were genuine or false.

Unfortunately, Liu Yang's performance was watertight—even his breathing rhythm remained steady, revealing not the slightest abnormality. After a long while, the old Emperor gave up and raised his hand to indicate: "Do as you suggest! Liu Xi has been in Tibet for nearly two years now, hasn't he?"

Liu Yang nodded: "Since the 'Great Tibetan Assembly' the year before last, Third Brother has been stationed at Lhasa. Over the past year or so, Tibetan unrest has been frequent, and only now has the situation begun to stabilize. The court's control over Lhasa and southern Tibet has been further strengthened—all thanks to Third Brother's strategic planning. His contributions are truly great and his toils numerous."

The Crown Prince was not at all stingy in praising the Prince of Jin's achievements in Tibet. Hearing this, the old Emperor's mood also became much more relieved. After pondering for a moment, he said with a sigh: "When the Noble Consort passed, Liu Xi was unable to return to the capital. Over half a year has passed, and the grave is probably overgrown with weeds. He must come back and sweep his mother's grave!"

"Yes!" Liu Yang replied, and then took the opportunity to ask: "When Third Brother leaves his post, who should succeed him? I beg Your Majesty for instruction!"

"What does the Hall of State Affairs think?" the old Emperor asked.

Liu Yang clasped his hands: "We ministers believe that Yin Jilun can be given authority over Tibetan affairs!"

"Yin Jilun." The old Emperor chewed over the name.

Liu Yang said: "In the Tibetan situation, suppression weighs heavier than pacification; stern measures are needed to rectify it. Yin Jilun has courage and strategy, has insight and knowledge, and has led troops in western Sichuan for many years, familiar with local conditions. Since leading troops into Tibet, he has performed outstandingly, putting down thirteen rebellions large and small, with distinguished merit. Use the familiar, not the unfamiliar—if Third Brother leaves his post, at present there is no minister more suitable than Yin Jilun to take command at Lhasa!"

Silently listening to Liu Yang's introduction, the old Emperor tried hard to recall—after the Tibetan unrest back then, who had made the decision to have Yin Jilun lead troops into Tibet to support? The Crown Prince? He strained to retrieve the memory, but it was too blurry; he simply could not remember.

However, just as with most situations over the past few years, the old Emperor did not veto it. He said: "Since the Hall of State Affairs has already reached a decision, issue the edict!"

"Yes!"

"Are Song Zhun and that lot still making a fuss?" the old Emperor suddenly raised a matter.

The word "fuss" coming from the old Emperor's mouth clearly made the matter serious—it could even be regarded as a political incident. And indeed, that was exactly what it was.

What Song Zhun was making a fuss about was naturally the reform plan for Anxi. Just as Liu Min and Xiang Deming had anticipated in advance, when the intention was reported upward, even with some embellishment and concealment, it still caused a huge uproar when it reached the Luoyang court—one could say it caused an outcry.

The chancellors in high positions, possessing political wisdom, did not easily enter the fray, but the surging public sentiment could not be stopped by their silence. And the one who jumped the highest, used the harshest words, and took the strongest stance was none other than Song Zhun, the Governor of Luoyang, who had presented the memorial that day.

In the view of Song Zhun and his group, Liu Min's plan to carry out reforms in Anxi violated laws and disrupted the system, even completely departing from the Great Han's fundamental political principles—as detestable as heresy.

Simply put, it violated ancestral institutions and absolutely could not be tolerated. Although it was rather surreal and even somewhat absurd to loudly discuss ancestral institutions while the old Emperor—the Great Han's most authoritative "ancestor"—was still alive, a group of court officials led by Song Zhun, in order to uphold the Great Han's dignity, also showed their colors and directly targeted Prince Wei Liu Min with fierce criticism.

The fuss was very loud. When it reached the old Emperor's ears, his first reaction was not about the matter itself, but rather questioning what Song Zhun's intentions were! The old Emperor immediately thought of Lü Mengzheng—these two successive Governors of Luoyang, separated by only half a year, had both stirred up incidents without prior coordination.

One targeted his minion, the Palace City Office; the other went so far as to target his own son. Truly reckless and daring, knowing no fear or reverence. What did the majesty of the imperial house count for in these people's eyes!

To be sure, Song Zhun and his group's position had some merit—struggles on the "ideological" front were more serious and more dangerous than institutional disagreements. But in the old Emperor's view, this was merely a political wave stirred up by Song Zhun for his own benefit; the Anxi reforms were just an excuse.

Under such circumstances, the old Emperor naturally developed some disgust toward Song Zhun. Indeed, it was easy to think of Liu Yang—after all, Song Zhun's position as Governor of Luoyang had been elevated by the Crown Prince himself.

Thus, when he now took the initiative to ask, the old Emperor's tone was quite hostile: "You've been making a fuss for over half a year and still won't let it go. The Hall of State Affairs hasn't reached a decision either—just dragging it out like this? Others have no ideas, but you, the Crown Prince, don't have a clear stance either?"

Facing the interrogation, Liu Yang's heart sank slightly. He raised his eyes to glance at the old Emperor before speaking slowly: "To answer Your Majesty, Song Zhun has already gone west."