Chapter 2060: Taizong Chronicles 2: Emperor Shizu

Whoever it was, being wrenched from a deep sleep in the dead of night and forcibly roused—no matter the reason—would not be in a good mood. Even the Crown Prince, always gentle and refined, was no exception.

But when Liu Yang appeared at Hongde Hall, clad in nothing more than a simple single-layer robe, his stride unhurried, his expression calm, as steady and composed as ever, the sight of him was enough to set hearts at ease.

Liu Yang was not particularly familiar with Li Jihe, but he did have some impression of the Inner Palace generals who guarded the palace, and he also knew full well that unless the matter were of the utmost urgency, Li Jihe would never dare be so rash and reckless as to breach the palace gates without authorization.

Something has gone wrong at the field headquarters! Liu Yang made this judgment silently in his heart, yet when he saw Li Jihe, travel-worn and weary, eyes shot through with blood, his heart still gave an involuntary lurch. The eyes are the windows to the soul, and in the instant of their meeting, Liu Yang caught a hint of ill omen in Li Jihe's gaze—and perhaps, behind that ill omen, something of great fortune.

"Has any edict come from the field headquarters?" Liu Yang suppressed his emotions and fixed his gaze on Li Jihe.

Upon seeing the Crown Prince, Li Jihe could no longer hold himself together. Under Liu Yang's gaze, he took out the letter tube he had kept pressed against his person at all times, held it up with both hands, and knelt weeping: "By order of Duke Shou, I report urgently to Your Highness!"

The palace eunuch Wang Yue, seeing this, immediately stepped forward to receive it on the prince's behalf. But just as he was about to touch the letter tube, Li Jihe swiftly thrust him aside. Then Li Jihe gripped the tube even more tightly, repeating the same words.

Seeing this, Liu Yang slowly descended the steps, walked up to Li Jihe, and with a single reach of his hand, easily took from him the thing he had guarded as his very life to deliver.

Taking the sealed tube, feeling the dampness of sweat that had soaked into its surface, Liu Yang swept his eyes over it in a quick glance, confirming the seal was intact and that the edge of the seal bore three golden lines signifying utmost urgency. Without a word, he took a small knife from Wang Yue's hands, personally broke the seal and opened the cap, and drew out a single thin sheet of paper from within.

The words were few, but the content they conveyed—one could well imagine the shock it dealt Liu Yang. Hot blood surged upward, nearly rushing straight to his head. His mind went blank, and his body involuntarily reeled backward, collapsing to sit on the ground.

Wang Yue, startled by the sight, hurried forward to support him, crying out in alarm: "Your Highness!"

After a few breaths, Liu Yang recovered, striving to keep himself calm, but his eyes had already turned utterly terrifying. Looking at Li Jihe, who knelt there somewhat numbly, Liu Yang roughly shook off Wang Yue's supporting hand, walked over to Li Jihe, crouched before him, gripped his arms tightly with both hands, and stared at him as he demanded: "What exactly happened?"

Feeling the pain transmitted through both his arms, meeting the Crown Prince's fierce gaze, Li Jihe burst into loud weeping, yet kept his voice low as he spoke: "His Majesty has ascended to heaven!"

Watching Li Jihe's every move with deadly intensity, Liu Yang's mind was in utter turmoil for a moment, but all his thoughts ultimately converged on a single point: neither Li Shaoyou nor Li Jihe would dare jest with a matter of this magnitude!

With that judgment in place, Liu Yang slowly released Li Jihe and sat back heavily on the ground. The confirmation was also a process of calming himself; reason once again reclaimed the high ground of his mind, but Liu Yang's eyes still could not help but begin to redden.

Seeing this, Li Jihe, after his extreme emotional outburst, also recovered some capacity for thought. Li Shaoyou's parting instructions—or warnings—surfaced in his mind. Li Jihe kept his duty firmly in mind, but after a moment's hesitation, he still could not help kowtowing and adding a few extra words: "Heaven and earth have been shaken, Your Highness. You now bear the weight of the realm upon your shoulders. I beg you to rouse yourself and not betray His Majesty's trust."

At these words, Liu Yang looked at Li Jihe again, noting his reverent demeanor, and gave him a long, deep stare, as if to etch him into memory. After a moment's deliberation, Liu Yang said: "I have my own arrangements. You have ridden day and night to bring word to the capital—you must be exhausted. Go and rest for now!"

"Yes!"

"How many of you came?" Liu Yang seemed to think of something and asked with furrowed brows.

Li Jihe: "Counting this humble officer, thirteen in all!"

Liu Yang turned to Wang Yue and said: "Instruct someone to free up a few rooms and temporarily house them within the Eastern Palace!"

Wang Yue understood and immediately had arrangements made. Though it was called housing, it was in truth house arrest. Li Jihe seemed to have caught on as well, but he recognized the gravity of the situation, and so after giving thanks, he followed along obediently as he withdrew.

As for Liu Yang, he remained sitting there, even hugging his knees with both arms in a somewhat insecure manner, his face heavy with solemnity. Before long, Wang Yue hurried back and stood at attention with a bow. This eunuch, at this very moment, wore a calm expression, but the turmoil within him was surely no less than Liu Yang's. After all these years, even he, a mere servant, had felt anxious on the Crown Prince's behalf. Now, at last, the wait was over—they, the chickens and dogs, could finally ascend to heaven along with their master.

Of course, Wang Yue dared not show the slightest trace of such thoughts on his face. As a qualified personal eunuch, he knew all too well the proper measure of restraint before his master.

Lifting his head to glance at Wang Yue, Liu Yang issued orders from where he sat on the ground: "Place the palace attendants serving in this hall under guard as well!"

"Yes!"

"Send word to Duke Lu (Liu Ai), the three chancellors Lü, Xin, and Han (Lü Duan, Xin Zhongfu, Han Hui), Commissioner Pan of the Bureau of Military Affairs, Minister Gao (Pan Mei, Gao Qiong), and Commander Yang (Yang Ye)—in half an hour, we convene at Guangzheng Hall for deliberation!" Liu Yang gave the orders in a composed tone: "Also summon Li Jilong and Yang Yanzhao; have the two of them enter the palace with me!"

Wang Yue rapidly noted everything down. These men the Crown Prince had named were equally familiar to him—these were the figures closest to the core of power in the Great Han Empire at present.

"Once that is arranged, pack yourself as well and set out immediately, heading east to the field headquarters to deliver a message to Duke Shou. All matters of the field headquarters are to be decided entirely by him!" Liu Yang said gravely.

"Yes!" Wang Yue bowed again, a surge of emotion rushing through his heart. Though this task was not difficult, it held extraordinary significance for him. In this moment of utmost urgency, he was the one the Crown Prince trusted most—for that alone, he would serve with his very life.

Of course Liu Yang trusted Wang Yue. He knew well that in times of such upheaval, no one would be more devoted or more loyal in matters concerning him than these attendants of the Eastern Palace.

As all the arrangements were swiftly put into motion, Hongde Hall quickly fell quiet. Liu Yang finally rose slowly and paced out to the veranda. Standing beneath the eaves, he reached out to lean lightly against the pillar that took both arms to encircle, gazing into the east. In the deep of night, at the very edge of his vision, all was pitch black—nothing could be made out clearly. His gaze gradually grew distant, his eyes increasingly unfocused.

If Liu Yang claimed to bear not a shred of resentment toward the old Emperor, that would certainly be a lie. From the moment Liu Yang had begun maneuvering against the old Emperor in various matters through various means, the most basic trust between sovereign and subject, father and son, had been lost. Liu Yang no longer held absolute reverence for the old Emperor either.

Since the passing of Empress Fu, the only reason the relationship between the two had been maintained was that both sides had enormous sunk costs. There were certainly conflicts and contradictions, but neither dared lightly speak of breaking things off.

When a man dies, his way dies with him. At this moment, Liu Yang could not quite say or articulate what exactly he was feeling. Aside from the momentary surge of hot blood, his heart was filled with nothing but emptiness. Tears that he had scarcely shed in his entire life slipped silently, involuntarily, from Liu Yang's eyes.

As for the feelings of the Great Han's powerful and noble toward the old Emperor at this time, one could generally find a common thread—not much different from Crown Prince Liu Yang's. It was equally complex.

Half an hour meant half an hour. In an atmosphere of pressing urgency, the central power-holders of the Great Han whom Liu Yang had summoned all gathered at Guangzheng Hall in the deep, dark hours of the night.

These ministers and lords—which of them was not a shrewd old fox? From the Crown Prince's urgent and forceful summons in the middle of the night, they all sensed something amiss. This was absolutely out of the ordinary.

But no matter how strong their mental fortitude or how deep their scheming, hearing from the Crown Prince's own lips the news of the old Emperor's death still shook them to the core. Yang Ye, for one, went so far as to directly voice his doubts, disregarding all propriety of rank to question Liu Yang.

Though the others' attitudes were not as intense as Yang Ye's, after the initial shock, they too all wanted to confirm the truth of the old Emperor's passing. Once confirmed, the deliberation hall of Guangzheng Hall was instantly filled with a sea of kneeling figures and waves of weeping. The ministers and lords of the Great Han Empire mourned as if they had lost their own parents, their grief beyond measure. Among them, those who wept the hardest were Yang Ye, Pan Mei, and Han Hui; the one who wept the most severely was Commissioner of Military Affairs Pan Mei, who wept until he fainted, throwing the deliberation hall into utter chaos.

As for these power-holders who now commanded the highest authority of the Great Han Empire after the old Emperor—if one were to say their weeping upon first hearing the dire news was entirely performance, that would be unfair. There was a measure of genuine feeling in it. Decades of sovereign-subject bond, with all its tangled complexities of gratitude and grievance, was often beyond easy description.

No matter how much resentment, fear, reverence, or even hatred they had harbored on ordinary days, when this moment truly arrived, weeping was the only fitting response. Any other way or words to express such a situation seemed somehow inadequate.

Moreover, what they wept for was not only the late Emperor, but also decades of sovereign-subject fellowship—and even more, for an era that was about to pass away completely. The ministers present were all advanced in years; even looking across the entire empire, there were few whose seniority and prestige could match theirs.

Even if, in past years, they had felt fear and dissatisfaction toward the old Emperor's obstinacy and brutality, they would never have thought of opposing him, nor of more directly hoping for his death.

At the root of it all, their current positions were inextricably tied to the old Emperor. Their interests were fundamentally aligned; they were the old Emperor's political bodyguard. Even Crown Prince Liu Yang—though all acknowledged his wisdom and capability—was ultimately separated from them by a layer.

They wept not only for the late Emperor, but for themselves!

And so, amid their grief, everyone's feelings were a tangled mix of emotions. It was only after all present had vented and digested the news that Liu Yang finally spoke, discussing with the assembled ministers the matters that came next.

No need for lengthy explanation—there were only two core issues: first, receiving the imperial coffin and conducting the national mourning; second, the question of succession to the throne.

The former needed no elaboration. Under the guiding principle of filial piety and loyalty, no one dared cut corners on this matter or voice any inappropriate remarks, lest they be attacked from all sides.

As for the latter, Liu Yang maintained a reserved demeanor, but with Liu Ai, Lü Duan, and Xin Zhongfu helping to raise the matter, it was pointed out that this concerned the very safety of the state and could not be neglected—someone had to step forward and take a stand. In such moments of regime transition, problems were most likely to arise; even with power and position as firmly established as Crown Prince Liu Yang's, nothing could be called completely secure.

Both matters clearly required stability at court and calm among the people, and that had to begin with the Crown Prince and the assembled ministers.

Of course, if things were made too tense, it would fail to reflect the influence and control of a Crown Prince who had wielded real power for over thirty years. In fact, aside from receiving the coffin and preparing the mourning rites, there was little that truly required their extra effort.

Liu Yang had summoned the ministers to Guangzheng Hall not only to announce the news, but also to reach a consensus. With that consensus as a foundation, the court situation was something they could steady and suppress, and the army was entirely within their grasp. As for the rest, it was only a matter of proclaiming it to the world at the appropriate time.

The deliberation at Guangzheng Hall concluded in an atmosphere of grief and composure. The Crown Prince and the assembled ministers quickly reached agreement on the matters of the late Emperor's funeral and the succession, and also resolved to send Zhao Kuangyi—Director of the Chancellery, Chief Minister, head of the Eastern Capital's remaining administration, and Duke of Guangyang, still in Kaifeng—to the field headquarters to receive the imperial hearse.

It was not that they distrusted Li Shaoyou and the others; rather, they represented the late Emperor's dying wishes, and the central court also needed to make its own voice heard. As for Zhao Kuangyi being chosen as the representative, the reason was simple: his status was sufficient, and the Eastern Capital was closest to the field headquarters. That was all.

Though summer had passed, the autumn tiger still made its presence strongly felt. On the official road ten-odd li west of Juancheng, Puzhou, Henan Circuit. Under the blazing sun, before the field headquarters, at the imperial encampment where the imperial coffin rested, two groups of people faced off against each other.

On one side was naturally Li Shaoyou's party escorting the imperial coffin back to the capital. They had traveled west from Mount Tai, taking the Heyin route, passing through Yun and Pu prefectures. Many secrets were not so easy to keep, especially with many mouths and many eyes about, and everyone's noses still working fine. So even though Li Shaoyou and the others had taken strict measures, over the course of several days, the entire field headquarters had more or less sensed that something was amiss.

Though unable to confirm it, many guessed that something had likely happened to His Majesty the Emperor. Many came prying, and quite a few were severely punished—which, precisely because of that, only sparked even more widespread speculation. The field headquarters, after all, was not like the deep palace with its high walls, which naturally served to block the flow of information. And whether the Emperor was present or not made for two completely different atmospheres, two completely different environments.

On the other side was Zhao Kuangyi. After receiving the central government's resolution from Luoyang, Zhao Kuangyi, beyond his astonishment, had moved swiftly into action. He brought only a few staff officers and yamen runners from the Kaifeng prefectural office—and, of course, Ma Huaiyu, Duke of Fufeng, who served as Chief Commander of the Capital Circuit, leading troops to accompany them.

One can well imagine the complex emotions Zhao Kuangyi felt when he heard of the old Emperor's passing.

Grief was hardly the word, nor was joy—the most fitting description would be relief. Looking back, for at least fifteen years, Zhao Kuangyi had felt suppressed, and five years ago he had clearly sensed that this suppression came from the old emperor. Therefore, the old emperor's passing was, to Zhao Kuangyi, like the sky clearing after rain, the clouds parting to reveal the sun.

In private, he would not go so far as to dance for joy, but he felt comfortable and at ease; before others, however, he wept bitterly, as if his heart were being torn apart.

As for why Zhao Kuangyi had come, it was naturally to escort the late emperor's coffin safely and smoothly back to Luoyang. His purpose was the same as Li Shaoyou's and the others', except that Zhao Kuangyi clearly wanted to take command of this weighty responsibility—and therein lay the conflict.

The two sides confronted each other before the imperial carriage. Zhao Kuangyi knitted his brows and said angrily to Li Shaoyou and Li Jian, who were leading the men blocking his way: "I hold the resolution of Guangzheng Hall and act on the Crown Prince's orders to welcome the late emperor back to the capital. How dare you obstruct me—what exactly are you plotting?"

"I too hold the Crown Prince's handwritten decree, and moreover the late emperor's testament. My mission is beyond question! Chancellor Zhao, in seeking to interfere, what are you plotting?" Li Shaoyou immediately rebutted.

Hearing this, Zhao Kuangyi narrowed his eyes slightly and said coldly: "Is Duke Shou intending to defy the court's decision?"

Li Shaoyou's expression was equally cold, his bearing even more imposing. His gaze swept from Zhao Kuangyi to Ma Huaiyu at his side, and he said in a deep voice: "Do you intend to seize the imperial carriage?"

Seeing Li Shaoyou pin such a label on him, Zhao Kuangyi's momentum immediately weakened, but his mouth still refused to yield: "How would I dare commit such an offense? I merely fear the coffin may be damaged, or that someone may take advantage!"

"If there are traitors, this old man will cut them down on the spot!" At this moment, Li Jian, who had remained silent all along, spoke up, and his opening words charged fiercely at Zhao Kuangyi.

Facing Li Jian's gaze devoid of any emotion, and noticing his hand already resting on the sword hilt at his waist, Zhao Kuangyi knew the coffin was not to be contested. Setting aside the impossibility of seizing it by force, even if it came to blows, how could he match these Inner Palace guards?

Stepping back further, Ma Huaiyu at his side, though the Crown Prince's confidant and accompanying him, would absolutely never risk himself for Zhao Kuangyi's sake. Moreover, the old emperor had treated Ma Huaiyu like a son, and Ma Huaiyu would never permit anyone to collide with or offend the coffin—one could tell just from the gradually ugly expression on Ma Huaiyu's face at this moment.

Taking a deep breath, just as he was about to find an excuse to back down, he saw Ma Huaiyu step forward, kneel on both knees, prostrate himself on the ground, and facing the direction of the coffin, weep as he paid his respects: "Ma Huaiyu, Chief Commander of the Capital Region, humbly requests to clear the way for the late emperor!"

Li Shaoyou silently examined Ma Huaiyu for a few moments before saying in a deep voice: "Granted!"

Hearing this, Ma Huaiyu bowed again, and after rising, without even greeting Zhao Kuangyi, turned and went straight to arrange his men. Though Zhao Kuangyi felt rather embarrassed, he took the opportunity to back down as well, turning and leaving to lead the way up front.

Still, he could not help glancing toward the imperial carriage. The two imperial grandsons sat side by side on the carriage shafts, their expressions solemn, and inside the carriage was the coffin.

"What a pity!" Zhao Kuangyi thought to himself.

"His Majesty has only just departed, and already some people cannot sit still!" Behind him, looking at Zhao Kuangyi's retreating figure, Li Jian said through suppressed anger.

Hearing this, Li Shaoyou was silent for a long while before sighing wistfully: "You and I—let us stand this last post for His Majesty!"

It was pitiable, really. No matter how forceful the old emperor had been in life, how great, how he had spoken with heaven's authority and his word was law—once a man dies, his body becomes, in some people's eyes, nothing more than a valuable political resource.

Of course, this was unavoidable. When a man dies, his policies die with him; when a man leaves, the tea grows cold. It was all too ordinary. In the long river of history, even emperors and kings who stood tall between heaven and earth could not escape this desolation.

From Juancheng westward, there was no longer any need for concealment. Li Shaoyou ordered the field headquarters to change to white banners, raise white funeral pennants, and for all ranks to wear plain mourning clothes and white headbands. At the same time, news of the emperor's passing spread completely—from the Central Plains to all directions, all borders, and even overseas.

The strongest reaction was unquestionably in the two capitals. Not only because these two places were the political and economic centers of the Great Han, but also because the old emperor's supreme prestige was at work.

Though most of the scholars and commoners of the two capitals had been far from the old emperor, equally, most of them had lived the finest years of their lives under his rule. Compared to the rest of the world, they were closest to the old emperor, and his sanctification among the scholars and commoners was a genuine reality.

Even when Li Longji returned to the capital in his later years, scholars and commoners had wept to welcome him—let alone the impact that Emperor Liu, who had died at such an "opportune moment," had on the scholars and commoners of the capital region.

On the twenty-first day of the seventh month of the thirtieth year of Kaibao, the coffin arrived at the Western Capital. Upon hearing the news, the people of Luoyang rushed to pay their respects, kowtowing without cease. For a time, the entire city was draped in white mourning, weeping shook the heavens, and sobbing did not cease for days.

With the coffin returning to the capital, managing the national mourning became the foremost matter of the Great Han court. The mourning hall was established in Qianqiu Hall of Ziwei City. As with the old emperor in his early years, amid the support of the assembled ministers, the Crown Prince Liu Yang succeeded to the throne before the coffin.

Compared to forty-five years earlier, though there was some scheming and maneuvering, Liu Yang's ascension was far smoother. This was extremely important for the Great Han Empire at present—during the power transition, stability outweighed everything.

But perhaps it was precisely during this transition period that certain restraints and confrontations Liu Yang had never deeply experienced before now pressed down upon him.

First of all, there was the question of the late emperor's temple name and posthumous title. No one had expected that this would provoke enormous controversy within the court.

Many people cited classics and precedents, speaking at length, arguing that it was appropriate to give the late emperor the temple name Taizong. Around this point, many entered the debate. Supporters could find countless arguments from canonical histories and old institutions, while opponents held that the late emperor's merits surpassed those of the Former Han and Tang Taizong, and that he deserved a more honored temple name.

Such debate was, for Liu Yang who had just ascended the throne, nothing short of vexing. He was no weak Son of Heaven to be bullied—he understood perfectly well the real reason behind those ministers' arguments.

The old emperor had suppressed them too harshly in the past, and now the backlash was beginning. But for Liu Yang, such "confrontation" was absolutely intolerable. To dare scheme over the late emperor's honorific title—had they considered his feelings as the new sovereign? Had they placed him, the new sovereign, in their eyes at all? Or was this a test, or even a declaration of war?

In Chuigong Hall, after succeeding to the throne before the coffin, the new sovereign Liu Yang moved in. Of course, his main place of activity was still over at Qianqiu Hall; here, it was only for brief rest and meals—and the food was plain and watery at that.

At the same time, he reviewed official memorials. Though the national mourning was a major matter, the most basic functioning of the court still had to be maintained. In this regard, for Liu Yang it was merely a matter of completing a change of identity—the name on his approvals changing from Crown Prince to Emperor.

After just a few days, Liu Yang was visibly thinner and exhausted. While drinking thin congee and flipping through memorials, he came upon one that made him slap the table hard, startling the two ministers attending him.

The two at his side were Xu Shilian and Wang Dan, both temporarily appointed as Inner Cabinet Academicians to attend the emperor. Xu Shilian needed no introduction; Wang Dan was the son of the late Chancellor Wang You.

"Your Majesty, calm your anger!" Seeing Liu Yang lose his composure, the two immediately clasped their hands and urged.

The memorials Liu Yang was reviewing were all about bestowing the honorific title on the late emperor, and clearly some content had aroused the new sovereign's intense displeasure.

Shizong? How dare some people even propose that!

Liu Yang's face was grim. He rose and paced, thinking for a long while, then calmly asked the two ministers Xu and Wang: "Is the late emperor's merit not enough to be called Zu?"

Hearing this, Xu Shilian seemed to have read Liu Yang's mind, and immediately clasped his hands and said with righteous severity: "Your Majesty, forgive your minister for speaking bluntly—allowing ministers to debate the honorific title is a great disrespect to the late emperor. I beg Your Majesty to make the decision alone, settle it with one stroke, and put an end to the controversy!"

Liu Yang glanced at Xu Shilian without a word, then turned to Wang Dan. Seeing this, Wang Dan also bowed calmly: "Your minister also believes that Your Majesty must issue an edict!"

Liu Yang returned behind the imperial desk and continued flipping through the memorials, but this time quickly, only fixing his eyes on the identities of those who had submitted them, committing to memory the names of all those who displeased him—especially those with harsh words.

That very day, Li Fang, who had returned to the capital to serve as Chief of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices and Director of the Imperial Mausoleum, submitted a memorial proposing the honorific title "Zhaoji Qiyun Liji Shengsheng Gongsu Wenwu Yingde Xiao Emperor," with the temple name Shizu.

The new sovereign Liu Yang approved by edict, and the controversy ceased at once!

Beginning with the late emperor's honorific title, Liu Yang formally entered a brand-new role and identity. Between Crown Prince and Emperor there was only half a step, but from the moment of his succession, he felt the vast difference within that half step.