“What is to accompany His Majesty?” Nuharoo interrupted.
“Besides His Majesty’s favorite gold and silver sutras, books and manuscripts, there are luminary lanterns.” The architect pointed at two giant jars standing on either side of the bed.
“What’s inside?” I asked.
“Plant oil with cotton thread.”
“Will it light?” Nuharoo took a closer look at the jars.
“Of course.”
“I mean, for how long?”
“Forever, Your Majesty.”
“Forever?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“It is damp in here,” I said. “Will water seep in and flood the space?”
“Wouldn’t that be awful!” Nuharoo said.
“I have designed a drainage system.” The architect showed us that the bed was slightly off level, which made the head a little higher than the foot. “Water will drip into the chiseled canal underneath and flow outside.”
“What about security?” I asked.
“There are three large stone doors, Your Majesty. Each door has two marble panels and is framed with copper. As you can see here, underneath the door, where the two panels come together, there is a chiseled half-watermelon-shaped pit. Facing the pit, about three feet away, I have placed a stone ball. A track for the ball to travel has been dug. When the burial ceremony is completed, a long-handled hook will be inserted in a slit and it will pull the stone ball toward the pit. When the ball falls into the pit, the door will shut permanently.”
We rewarded the chief architect a scroll with calligraphy by Emperor Hsien Feng, and the man retreated. Nuharoo was impatient to leave. She didn’t want to honor the architect with the dinner we had promised. I convinced her that it was important to keep our word. “If we make him feel good, he will in turn make sure Hsien Feng rests in peace,” I said. “Besides, we have to come here again on the burial day, and our bodies will be buried here when we die.”
“No! I’ll never come here again!” Nuharoo cried. “I can’t bear the sight of my own coffin.”
I took her hand in mine. “I can’t either.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Just stay for dinner and no more, my dear sister.”
“Why do you have to force me, Yehonala?”
“We need to gain the architect’s full loyalty. We need to help him drive out his fear.”
“Fear? What fear?”
“In the past, the architect of an Imperial tomb was often shut in with the coffin. The royal family considered him of no further use after he had finished his job. The living Emperor and Empress feared that the man might be bribed by tomb robbers. Our architect may fear for his life, so we should make him feel trusted and secure. We must let him know that he will be honored and not harmed. If we don’t, he might dig a secret tunnel to quell his fear.”
Reluctantly Nuharoo stayed, and the architect was pleased.
When Nuharoo and I returned to Peking, Prince Kung suggested that we announce the new government immediately. I didn’t think we were ready. The beheading of Su Shun had aroused sympathy in certain quarters. The fact that we had received fewer letters of congratulation than expected concerned me.
People needed time to develop confidence in us. I told Prince Kung that our rule should be the desire of the majority. We had to achieve at least the appearance of it in order to make us morally legitimate.
Although Prince Kung was impatient, he agreed to test the political waters one last time. We took a summary of a proposal written by General Sheng Pao to the governors of all the provinces which suggested a “three-legged stool,” with Nuharoo and me as coregents and Prince Kung as the Emperor’s chief advisor in administration and government.
Prince Kung suggested that we adopt a method of voting. The idea was clearly Western-influenced. He persuaded us to comply because it was the main way that European nations assured the legitimacy of their governments. We would allow the votes to be anonymous, which no ruler in China’s history had done before. I agreed, although unsure of the outcome. The proposal was printed and distributed along with the ballots.
We nervously awaited the results. To our disappointment, half of the governors didn’t respond, and a quarter expressed a desire to reelect Tung Chih’s regents. No one mentioned any support for Prince Kung’s role in the government. Kung realized that he had underestimated Su Shun’s influence.
The silence and rejection not only put us in an embarrassing situation, but also ruined the timing-our victory over Su Shun had turned sour. People felt sorry for the underdog. Sympathetic comments began to arrive from every corner of China, which could very well lead to a revolt.
I knew we would need to act. We must reposition ourselves and move decisively. My suggestion was that Nuharoo and I issue an affi-davit claiming that before his death our late husband had privately appointed Prince Kung the senior advisor for Tung Chih. In exchange for this invention, Kung would propose to the court that Nuharoo and I rule alongside him. His influence should encourage people to vote for us.
Prince Kung agreed to the plan.
To speed the results, I visited a person whom I had wanted to contact since Su Shun’s downfall, the sixty-five-year-old scholar Chiang Tai, a well-connected social figure and a fervent critic of Su Shun’s. Su Shun had hated the scholar so much that he had the venerable man stripped of all his court titles.
On a pleasant day Chiang Tai and I met at his shabby hootong apartment. I invited him to come to the Forbidden City to be Tung Chih’s master tutor. Surprised and flattered, the man and his family threw themselves at my feet.
The next day Chiang Tai began campaigning for me. While he told everyone about his appointment as Emperor Tung Chih’s master tutor, he also said how wise and capable I was for recognizing true talent. He stressed how sincere and eager I had been to recruit men like him to serve the new government. After that, it took only a few weeks for the political wind to become favorable.
The court counted the votes, and we won.
On November 30, a hundred days after Hsien Feng’s death, the title of Tung Chih’s reign was changed from Well-Omened Happiness to Return to Order. It was Chiang Tai who gave Tung Chih’s reign the new epithet. The word “order” would be seen and pronounced every time a countryman looked at his calendar.
In our announcement, which was drafted by me and polished by Chiang Tai, we emphasized that it was not the choice of Nuharoo and me to rule. As regents, we were committed to helping Tung Chih, but we looked forward with enthusiasm to the day of our retirement. We asked for the nation’s understanding, support and forgiveness.
The change generated great excitement. Everyone in the Forbidden City had been waiting to discard their mourning costumes. For the entire hundred-day period of mourning, no one had worn anything but white. Since men hadn’t been allowed to shave, they looked like grizzled hermits, with scraggly beards and hair sticking out of their noses and ears.
In the period of a week, the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing was cleaned to a glossy shine. A three-by-nine-foot redwood desk was placed in the middle of the hall, covered with a yellow silk tablecloth embroidered with spring flowers. Behind the desk sat a pair of upholstered golden chairs, which were for Nuharoo and me. In front of where we would be sitting was a translucent yellow silk screen hanging from the ceiling. It was a symbolic gesture saying that it was not we who ruled, but Tung Chih. Tung Chih’s throne was placed in the center, in front of us.
On the morning of the ascension ceremony most of the senior ministers were awarded the right to ride either in palanquins or on horses when entering the Forbidden City. Ministers and officials were dressed in gorgeous fur robes draped with jewels. Necklaces and the peacock-feathered hats sparkled with diamonds and precious stones.
At a quarter to ten, Tung Chih, Nuharoo and I left our palaces. We rode in our palanquins to the Palace of Supreme Harmony. The crisp sound of a whip announced our arrival. The courtyard, although filled with thousands of people, was quiet-only the steps of the bearers could be heard. The memory of my first entry into the Forbidden City rushed back to me and I had to hold back my tears.