Chapter 21: The Emperor's Daily Life

The imperial harem belonged to him alone; thunder and rain alike depended on the emperor’s favor. Thus, the myriad splendid consorts, eager for lasting honor, kept their eyes ever fixed upon the Son of Heaven. Yesterday at noon, His Majesty summoned the Empress to Qianyuan Hall. Whether this was fortune or misfortune remained to be seen, but one fact alone was enough to set tongues wagging—the Empress entered and, like a meat bun thrown to a dog, did not return for half a day and a night.

By dawn today, the emperor had promoted a beauty from the inner court, granting her a title, a residence, and abundant favor. The palace was abuzz, for was it not Lady Liu who had served at yesterday’s midday meal? She, too, had not left Qianyuan Hall for half a day and a night. So, what truly transpired during that interval? The Empress, Lady Liu, and His Majesty were together in Qianyuan Hall for half a day and a night—when the palace began to speculate, the conclusions drawn were as varied as they were wild.

Strict palace rules were a reality, yet where women gathered, gossip, scheming, and troublemaking were never far behind. Rank forbade them from speaking recklessly in public, but in private, nothing was off-limits.

Anyone versed in history knew well that the inner court had never lacked for tales of debauchery and scandal: Duke Huan of Wey who lay with both his father’s consort and his son’s wife; Emperor Ai of Han with his sworn bonds with ministers; Emperor Cheng of Han who died from overindulgence in aphrodisiacs; Liu Chang of Southern Han, obsessed with viewing carnal pleasures; and Lady Jia, wife of Emperor Hui of Western Jin, who brought ruin upon the harem and kept male favorites.

Those examples might seem distant from Great Yan, but closer to home, even Emperor Huang of this very dynasty, after five years on the throne, had confined a minister’s wife in the harem for his own pleasure.

Given all this, even if the present emperor truly engaged in a nightlong carnal revel with two women, both consorts and ministers would find themselves not entirely unprepared.

But that did not mean they could accept it.

To upright men like Yu Junshi and his peers, His Majesty was a rare seedling of a wise ruler. They could not bear to watch him stray from the path.

Nevertheless, compared to affairs of state, such shadowy rumors of the inner court were set aside for now. However fierce the coming remonstrations might be, the great machine of state must first be set in motion.

Morning court was delayed by a full half hour. The ministers waiting outside the Hall of Enlightened Governance were already abuzz with speculation. Yet as the piercing voice of the chief eunuch announced the court’s commencement, the officials straightened their robes and, as custom dictated, filed in according to rank with measured composure.

The great hall was as imposing and solemn as ever, not even the crane-shaped palace lanterns were out of place, but today an unspoken strangeness lingered in the air.

The Minister of Revenue and Vice Chancellor, Yu Junshi, wore a face of iron. Among all the officials, he had the highest hopes for Ji Ye and was a man strict with himself and others, revering the sages. Now that Ji Ye bore this stain, Yu’s disappointment matched his former expectations; his current anger was as great as his previous hope.

Yet he had to restrain himself. The drought in southern Shaanxi demanded urgent discussion and swift disaster relief.

By contrast, the Minister of the Right and Secretary of the Central Secretariat, Prime Minister Liu Chengyan, was more composed. His manner was unchanged, respectfully briefing Ji Ye on the morning’s agenda. Liu was Ji Ye’s own appointee, placed to balance court factions. In many ways, he was the emperor’s mouthpiece, often voicing proposals Ji Ye preferred not to state openly. In discerning the sovereign’s will, none in court surpassed him, and thus his prime minister’s seat was secure.

The Minister of Rites and Vice Chancellor, father to the imperial consort, Lord Lü, drooped his eyes and feigned indifference. Compared to his peers, his political talents were mediocre—neither meritorious nor lacking, barely clinging to his position. Yet he knew his own limitations and was skilled at managing his subordinates, with capable advisers in his household. Thus, he had made no grave errors in office.

The Minister of War, the Empress’s uncle, had held his post for ten years. There was nothing in military affairs he did not know. The position had passed from his father, and over generations, the post had become the exclusive preserve of the You family. Any attempt by outsiders to claim it met with fierce opposition. Over time, the Ministry of War was filled with You kinsmen.

One of the six ministries had almost been rechristened “You.” This was a thorn in Ji Ye’s side, one he meant to remove in time.

The You family was well aware. Thus, aside from guarding the Ministry of War, they refrained from placing their own in other offices or vying for posts elsewhere.

Having so many lice, one more made no difference—the current scandal stirred not a ripple in You Hai. So long as Daidai was safe, all else was negotiable.

“Prime Minister Liu, your proposal to open the granaries for disaster relief is approved. In addition, grant Shaanxi a year and a half’s tax exemption. Instruct neighboring, unaffected districts to receive and settle the refugees properly. Those who do well shall be rewarded by me. But should anyone embezzle relief funds or grain, causing the hungry to starve and the naked to freeze, inciting unrest, I will hold the responsible parties to account. Dismissal is the lightest penalty; for the gravest, I shall take their heads.”

Having settled this, he turned to Minister Yu, noted his dark expression, and deliberately skipped him, seeking instead a report from the Minister of Rites on the examination and registration of all Buddhist and Daoist clergy across the land. The people were largely ignorant; under no circumstance could corrupt monks or priests be allowed to spread heresy and deceive the masses.

Yet this problem was perennial—every county had more clergy than the authorities had recorded.

When the Minister of Rites had finished, Ji Ye questioned the Minister of War on whether the recent border trouble with the Western Rong had deeper political motives. You Hai gave a brief report on their power distribution, promising to submit a detailed memorandum after court for Ji Ye’s perusal and later discussion.

When it was the Ministry of Justice’s turn, Ji Ye fixed his gaze on the Censor-in-Chief and ordered, “For cases facing heavy penalties, the officials of the Ministry of Justice must be supervised in their review. If the case involves imperial kin, transfer it promptly to the Court of Judicial Review. The law applies equally to emperor and commoner; I will not countenance favoritism.”

The Minister of Personnel, ever diligent, stepped forward to present the list of officials to be promoted, rewarded, or demoted this year, complete with performance records. Ji Ye gave them a cursory glance and set them aside for later review—he would verify the merits before granting approval.

Last was the Minister of Works, whom he addressed directly, “Suspend all repairs and construction at the Imperial Ancestral Temple. Halt the siting and building of the imperial mausoleum, and send the conscripted farmers home to till their fields.”

The mausoleum in question was, of course, Ji Ye’s own. Such was the custom in Great Yan—from the moment a new emperor ascended, preparations for his resting place began. Fate was fickle, and emperors were not exempt; better to be prepared than to leave a monarch unburied.

Governing a great nation is like cooking a small fish—it demands patience. In this manner, one matter after another was addressed, and before long, the hour for adjourning court arrived. The meal followed: only the six chancellors dined in the reserved hall, the rest ate outside in the corridor, their fare naturally less sumptuous. With the meal done, all returned to their offices.

At last, when court was dismissed, Yu Junshi and the elder statesmen gathered to kneel outside the Hall of Proclamation, requesting an audience. Ji Ye knew at once what they wanted—he was prepared for Yu the Vice Chancellor’s spittle-flecked admonitions.

In Great Yan, punishment did not reach the gentry; the emperor was tolerant toward scholars, so it was common for them to remonstrate him to his face.

Since his accession, Yu Junshi alone had rebuked him no fewer than five times. Ji Ye had long since developed a stout heart and a remarkable capacity for self-restoration.