17th year of Jinglong, Yiwei year, autumn.
This day was the thirteenth day of the ninth month. Under the newly implemented court schedule, it was the Emperor’s day to attend court at Fengtian Gate; civil and military officials had come early to wait outside the Meridian Gate.
During court, many officials strained to hear the Emperor’s words; some bolder ones even tried to read the sovereign’s expression on the throne. When they saw the Emperor’s voice strong and his complexion normal, many breathed a sigh of relief.
It wasn’t that the officials were being fussy, the Emperor had been acting unusually these past months. First, the once daily morning audience had been changed to meeting three times every ten days on the 3rd, 6th, and 9th; then there were intermittent cancellations of court. Compared with attending court daily as before, it was a clear slackening, raising worries that His Majesty’s dragon body might have something wrong.
But reports from the Imperial Medical Institute suggested the Emperor had no serious illness, at most, he liked summoning the folk physician Chen Shiyu to prescribe steam treatments and medicinal baths.
Some officials had submitted memorials to advise the Emperor to resume daily morning court.
Those memorials reached the Grand Secretariat but were dismissed by Jiao Yang and not presented to the throne.
When Emperor Jinglong heard of this, he asked Jiao Yang in front of him, “When a woman marries and must cook and wash daily, working day and night, if she falls ill and cannot care for the household, her parents-in-law and husband scold her as lazy. But when a married woman never touches the water and only occasionally cooks on a whim, the in-laws and husband praise her as virtuous. Why is that?”
Jiao Yang smiled and replied, “Your Majesty, it is because human nature is base; people often take blessings for granted.”
Those four words, “human nature is base,” spread. The official who had petitioned felt ashamed and stayed home in disgrace for half a month.
That incident also became one of the emblematic moments when Jiao Yang won imperial favor.
Even Jiao Yang himself felt that, with the Empress Dowager’s support and Li Chengfeng’s retirement, his voice before the Emperor had gradually grown weighty and he was increasingly valued.
Jiao Yang even entertained the thought of growing complacent: if the Empress’s intent was not yet clear, perhaps fanning the change-the-heir movement too strongly was premature?
—If the Emperor were to promote him to Chief Secretary and grant him power to command at court, there would be no need to hurry to depose the Crown Prince!
The moment that idea slipped out, Wang Qianhe, who had always allied with him, turned pale. “You once told me, ‘After the storm comes, the two of us must unite; there must be no second thoughts.’ I remain steadfast, why do you now waver?”
Jiao Yang found himself speechless.
Somehow this conversation reached the Empress Dowager. She again met with Jiao Yang at the Baiyi Nunnery outside the palace.
When the Gelao emerged from Baiyi Nunnery, his face looked sour, and more than that, a desperate resolve. He chastised Wang Qianhe: “Why did our private words leak to the Empress Dowager? You and I both know the reason. I don’t want to pursue it now, after all, you swore you’d laid your head in my hands. But if you betray me in the future, don’t blame me for not remembering old ties, I will not hesitate to cut off your head!”
Wang Qianhe apologized repeatedly, stripping off his robe and begging for forgiveness through tears. He swore he had only accidentally let something slip before the Empress Dowager, and vowed never again to do anything disloyal. If he ever repeated such a mistake, he said, may all his sons bear pixiu-faced grandchildren.
What could Jiao Yang do? After all, they were comrades-in-arms from the same trench, brothers in everything. He could only choose to forgive him.
In the end, the two of them decided: on the morning audience of September 13th, they would force the emperor to take a stand. No more stalling behind the words “to be discussed later.”
So, at court that day, once the six ministries had finished reporting, Jiao Yang stepped forward himself, personally prying open this great, simmering cauldron.
He memorialized: the cabinet had been flooded with petitions urging a change of heir. Each time they were returned, only to be resubmitted again, this endless back-and-forth could not continue. He implored His Majesty to make a final decision.
That was like a signal flare rising into the sky. The “Change-the-Heir Faction” immediately sprang into action, stepping out of rank, quoting the Classics, reasoning, weighing pros and cons, urging the emperor to depose the “heaven-defying, heart-losing” Crown Prince Zhu Helin, and to instead install the Second Prince Zhu Hezhao.
Then the “Orthodox Faction” countered sharply, saying such a move violated ancestral and ritual law. “How can one depose the legitimate eldest son while he yet lives, and enthrone a concubine’s younger son instead?”
The Change-the-Heir Faction retorted: “The ancestral code is important, but cannot be followed blindly! Should we then imitate the likes of Liu Shao of Southern Qi or Li Chengqian of Tang, rebellious crown princes who usurped and plotted, just for the sake of precedent?”
The Orthodox Faction shouted back: “Your comparisons are absurd! Your intentions are malicious!”
The Change-the-Heir faction cursed them in turn: “You are nothing but the Crown Prince’s lackeys, where is your loyalty to the throne?”
The Orthodox side said: “Consort Wei Zhao was demoted for her crimes; her son cannot be crown prince.”
The Change-the-Heir faction replied: “The Second Prince was raised and taught personally by the Empress Dowager; he has nothing to do with Consort Wei. Is the Empress Dowager’s sacred virtue worth less than a mother’s nine months of pregnancy?”
The Orthodox faction dared not offend the Empress Dowager’s authority, so they shifted arguments: “The Second Prince is too young. Installing such a young heir will sow anxiety among officials and the people.”
The Change-the-Heir faction countered: “His Majesty is still in his prime! Your talk of ‘a young ruler causing a doubtful realm’ is nonsense and verges on treason! The Second Prince is blessed with a lucky star, he will grow in a few years. To fret over his youth now, is that a curse, wishing him never to grow up?”
By this point, the Orthodox faction’s momentum had faltered, while the Change-the-Heir faction’s spirits soared. They pressed forward, one after another kneeling and begging the emperor to speak.
Emperor Jinglong rubbed at his throbbing temples, looking weary. After a moment he said, “This matter is grave. It shall be discussed later. Court is dismissed.”
But the Change-the-Heir faction would not let him “discuss it later” again.
Jiao Yang and Wang Qianhe immediately dropped to their knees, begging the emperor to decide, whether to depose or not, there must be an answer.
Seeing the two senior gelaos kneel, the rest of the civil and military officials followed suit, all kowtowing and pleading for the emperor to take a stand.
At that point, Emperor Jinglong could not stay silent any longer without losing face.
He sighed deeply and said, “I… am suffering a severe headache. I ask my ministers for understanding. Court is dismissed.”
Those two words, “for understanding”, were an unprecedented gesture of weakness from the emperor, and at the same time, like a shot of adrenaline into the veins of the Change-the-Heir faction.
One censor cried out loudly: “If the matter is of such gravity, and yet keeps being delayed, when will it ever be settled? May His Majesty decide soon, lest we repeat the disasters of dynasties past!”
The phrase “dynasties past” referred generally to emperors who delayed naming or confirming an heir, leading to fraternal strife and the court’s downfall.
Such words were a grave breach of propriety, bordering on coercing the sovereign. Even Lan Xi, the seasoned chief eunuch, turned pale.
But the speaker was a censor, a “remonstrating official” whose duty and privilege was to speak frankly to correct the monarch.
Emperor Jinglong’s expression turned dark. He ordered the Embroidered Uniform Guard to give that censor thirty blows with the court rod for offending the throne, then rose abruptly and swept out.
Lan Xi took the chance to declare court adjourned and hurried after the imperial entourage.
On the plaza before Fengtian Gate, the courtiers lingered, still brimming with anger and fervor.
The Change-the-Heir faction conferred on the spot, they would not let the matter drop this time. They had to see it through. Besides, for an emperor usually so decisive, his hesitation on this issue was itself telling, it showed he might secretly harbor the will to depose the Crown Prince, only restrained by fatherly sentiment. They would help him overcome that obstacle.
So they rushed toward the Golden Water Bridge before the Meridian Gate, intercepting ministers who were heading home, urging them to return and join. Meanwhile, they laid the bloodied, half-beaten censor on the palace steps, weeping and crying aloud: “A loyal remonstrator speaks out for his sovereign, why must loyalty be punished thus?”
Led by Jiao Yang and Wang Qianhe, dozens of officials knelt as one, sobbing continuously, their tears soaking their robes, begging the emperor to distinguish loyalty from treachery and give them a clear answer.
Whether swept up by the emotion, or fearing they’d back the wrong side, more and more officials joined the kneeling crowd. In the end, the square was packed with hundreds of bowed heads. Even the Embroidered Uniform Guard on duty that day could not drive them off.
The officials wailed to the heavens and refused to leave. Without an imperial order, the guards dared not use force; they could only plead.
After an hour of kneeling and crying, many had gone hoarse, nearly fainting. Some crawled up the jade steps, on their knees, dragging themselves beneath Fengtian Gate, begging the emperor to appear and heed their remonstrance.
Others followed their example. Blood-red marks dotted the stone stairs where knees had split open; gouges marred the red lacquer of the gate where fingernails had torn away.
The collective cries of anguish echoed across the vast square, piercing the vermilion palace walls, reaching the ears of the emperor resting nearby in Wenhua Hall.
This was literally roasting the emperor on a pyre.
If Su Yan were present, he would surely have leapt out to denounce them again: “Mass hysteria! A grand act of moral blackmail!” But he was far away in Nanjing.
The sundial’s pointer crawled from chen to si, yet the cries on the square did not cease. The kneeling officials at last saw Lan Xi’s figure emerge from the palace gate in the distance.
In a sense, the Chief Eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonies was the mouthpiece of the emperor’s will. Lan Xi’s appearance gave the “Change-the-Heir” faction a glimpse of dawn before victory.
Lan Xi stood at a respectful distance outside the crowd and called sharply, “Convey the Emperor’s edict, ‘Although the Crown Prince has faults, filial feeling between father and son is natural; why do you drive Zhen to this? Disperse! In three days I will give you an answer.’”
The officials on site mulled over the emperor’s words and realized the key was not the line about filial feeling but the phrase “the Crown Prince has faults.”
No matter how deep a father–son bond, suspicion, estrangement, and circumstance can eat it away; it is the latter phrase that was the emperor’s thorn, small but piercing, pricking him until it inevitably had to be removed.
The faces of the “Change-the-Heir” men, soaked with tears, lit up with excitement.
Someone whispered, “Since His Majesty promised an answer in three days, shall we… disperse for now?”
Jiao Yang and Wang Qianhe both turned to glare at the speaker.
The man straightened and dared not speak again.
Jiao Yang rose and cupped his hands to Lan Xi. “It is not that we are ill-bred or disrespectful to His Majesty. Out of loyalty to the sovereign and concern for the realm, we urgently hope His Majesty will not be fooled by traitors and will make a timely decision. His Majesty is usually decisive; only in this matter has he dragged his feet. Waiting another three days is fine, but we fear it will only give His Majesty cause to waver.”
Lan Xi shook his whisk and sighed, “The Emperor is in a difficult spot.”
Jiao Yang: “I will say no more. Pray, Lan Gonggong, ask His Majesty one thing: if he cannot decide, will he at once issue an edict summoning the Crown Prince back to court?”
Lan Xi’s expression shifted imperceptibly.
Jiao Yang and the others caught that slight change and were confirmed: the emperor did not wish to summon the Crown Prince back, only the residue of fatherly feeling kept him from moving to depose him.
“Much obliged, Your Excellency.” Jiao Yang bowed low.
Lan Xi returned the salute and left.
So the ministers continued kneeling; the sundial’s long hand crept from si toward wu as they refused to break.
Lan Xi reappeared on the outer colonnade of Fengtian Gate with a retinue of eunuchs, carrying a wooden tray. He came before Jiao Yang and Wang Qianhe and handed them a stack of folded silk petitions.
They opened the silk, and it was blank.
“The Emperor said,” Lan Xi announced, “there are so many petitions urging a change of heir that the Emperor cannot and will not bother to read them all. Therefore He orders you, the ministers, to write a concise piece, one that can persuade the rest of court and the nation, to silence future censure. Also, those who insist on changing the heir must sign this document here, to show that the will of the people and court, not Zhen alone, compels this.”
This… draft the edict to depose the Crown Prince! Jiao Yang’s eyes glittered. Now he saw plainly what the emperor prized above all: not fatherly affection nor the ministers’ whims, but his nearly perfect reputation and the sanctity of his name.
Just as Li Chengfeng’s repeated petitions to retire finally succeeded because the emperor wished to preserve his image, so now they needed this theatrical kneeling to prove the emperor’s clemency and that the Crown Prince’s removal would be by Heaven’s and People’s will, not merely the emperor’s caprice.
In that instant, Jiao Yang felt enlightened. He took the brush and ink offered by a eunuch and declared loudly, “I will write it!”
A scholar-official by training, Jiao Yang’s prose flowed brilliant and vehement; within moments he had composed a flawless piece. It read less like a petition than a manifesto, every line driving the Crown Prince into an abyss of moral and political condemnation.
At the end he blew on the ink with some pride and, in the topmost place, signed his grand name.
The silk was laid out and officials queued to sign. Some signed at once without hesitation; some hesitated, then signed; some put down the brush and left in shame before writing, hiding their faces as colleagues jeered.
When the signatures were complete, Lan Xi counted, ninety-seven names in all.
He folded the silk carefully into his sleeve, whisk in hand, with a half-smile: “I will bring this to His Majesty. Lords, await good news!”
The ministers bowed and gave thanks.
Inside Wenhua Hall, Emperor Jinglong sat at a writing desk, examining the long-worn gouges on its surface.
In the light from the window he tilted his head, tracing the blurred characters carved long ago and read aloud softly, “Troublesome… nagging… hungry…”
Lan Xi entered quietly.
Without looking up, the emperor asked, “Is this the desk Helin sits at?”
Lan Xi: “Yes, Sire, this is His Highness’s desk.”
“That child,” the emperor shook his head, “doesn’t study properly, and always complains in class.” He reached out. “Bring it here.”
Lan Xi drew the signed silk from his sleeve and, head bowed, presented it.
The emperor placed the silk on the Crown Prince’s desk and unfolded it, reading every line with extraordinary care. His gaze finally rested on the dense cluster of signatures at the bottom.
“…Summon Shen Qi,” he ordered Lan Xi, his tone unusually calm.
