“How are you so sure I’ll have a chance to talk to him?”
“You will. Guangkui is on our side.”
“He’s just a guard. What can he do?”
“He’s the Emperor’s nephew.”
Morning, October 1 (Gregorian), 1620
Beijing
The private chamber of Emperor Taichang at the Palace of Heavenly Purity was filled with ministers and councilors and priests who murmured speculations and accusations that were hushed down the moment the foreigner was led inside. Even after receiving repeated promises that not a finger would be laid on him, he found the number of strangers intimidating. Without Guangkui and Xiaobo by his side, he knew he would’ve been executed on sight.
He heard her speak into his ear, “Do it now,” and was pushed toward the royal bed.
Of the wide circle of people standing at the maximum possible distance from the Emperor, he tried to guess which was the court pharmacist. He suspected it must be the one who appeared the most displeased with his intrusion. Avoiding the indignant gaze as soon as he met it, he directed his attention to the bed, which occupied more than half the room and he thought to be larger than the boat that had rescued him at the Ryūkyūs. Upon approaching it, he understood why everyone kept so far from it: the aroma of incense was there to mask the stench of loose bowels. The precise nature of the affliction had not been made clear to him, but he sensed he was expected to be able to deal with anything. He was trying to recall the prayers of his conversion when his mind went blank at the sight of the Emperor’s face.
He had forgotten that this was a newly crowned ruler, an inexperienced man on whose shoulders a world had been dropped. His face, simultaneously youthful and cadaveric, struck Tsunenaga as a contradiction in the order of the world, an incongruous first footprint of death on territory where it didn’t belong. It also reminded him that he was not before a divine being, as emperors everywhere claimed to be, but a vulnerable creature of this world. The man who could order anyone’s death had no power over his own. Reassured that one fearful of God ought to fear nothing from a man, he stepped closer to the soiled bedsheets and began reciting, “Pater noster qui es in caelis…”
“That’s the secret tongue of the barbarians!” cried the officer whose gaze had scared him before. Tsunenaga, not knowing what had been said against him or, if he was honest, what he was saying himself, went on without noticing the gesture with which Xiaobo had just urged that angry man to let him finish. He accompanied the Pater noster with an Ave Maria, a Credo and a Gloria in excelsis Deo, and with that he ran out of all the Latin he knew.
He turned to Xiaobo. “The Heavenly Lord will take care of him now,” he said in Japanese. She waved him out of the room and, along with Guangkui, hurried out of the palace.
After leaving Tsunenaga under the vigilance of the Embroidered Guard, Xiaobo sought an unoccupied office in the barracks to speak with Guangkui. “You didn’t tell me he was that ill,” she said after closing the door.
“He was improving last week. When your letter arrived, I had all the kitchen staff replaced and appointed a guard to follow the medic at all times.”
“What happened, then?” She sat beside the writing table, grateful for the opportunity to rest her feet.
“That pharmacist, Li Kezhuo. He went behind the medic and prescribed another remedy.”
“Didn’t the taster catch it?”
Guangkui raised empty palms. “I don’t know what happened. The taster didn’t report anything wrong with it.”
Xiaobo held her head in one hand, trying to unravel the problem. “Either the pharmacist or the taster is working for Lady Zheng.”
“Neither of them has visited her. My guards have checked.”
“Then we’re looking for someone who is loyal to her and is already employed in the Emperor’s palace.”
“I don’t see how any servant could ignore orders from the Embroidered Guard.”
They exchanged a glance and knew the answer. “Unless they’re receiving different orders from Lady Zheng’s father,” gasped Xiaobo. “He must have told the taster to skip one remedy.”
Guangkui’s mouth tensed with apprehension. “If he’s involved, I can’t help you. He outranks me.”
Her eyes lit up with an idea. “But your mother outranks him.”
He frowned. “What are you planning now?”
She stood up, thinking fast. “Do you keep anything written by your mother?”
“I think so.”
“Good. I’m going to need you to lend me one of those papers. Something like a letter. It’ll be more useful the longer it is. If this goes well, I can get that man out of our way.”
Morning, October 4 (Gregorian), 1620
Beijing
The Emperor lived.
A public celebration was decreed in the capital, with visits made to the Forbidden City temples by the royal family, although the intensity of the festivities was somewhat tempered by the recent memory of the coronation and its ensuing illness. For most of the day, Tsunenaga remained lodged in a soldier barrack, as palace advisors had deemed him undeserving of an official guest room. He spent his hours between prayer and boredom, watched by guards personally selected by Guangkui, until a messenger came and spoke to the guard on duty.
Tsunenaga was taken out and escorted into the palace, where he met with Xiaobo. She explained that he had nothing to worry about; soldiers surrounded him only because the Emperor had asked to see him.
They were informed that the audience would be held in the Hall of Mental Cultivation, one of the minor buildings surrounding the main palace. He entered accompanied by Xiaobo and a clerk from the Ministry of Rites, who instructed him, with the help of her translation, on the proper greeting he should give. He did as told: he bowed, he recited the salutation, and sat in the middle of the hall, at the prescribed distance from the Emperor’s seat.
Seeing Taichang in full health gave him a sense of unrealness; this couldn’t be the same person as that pitiful mass of filth he’d seen a mere week before. In front of him sat a man who knew his assuredness could overpower any who saw his face, save for this visitor, whose first memory of him had been etched indelibly beneath the smell of incense.
“Are you the man who saved my life?” Xiaobo transmitted the meaning into Tsunenaga’s ear.
“It pleased the Heavenly Lord to do it, Your Majesty.” She translated back to the Emperor, beaming with pride.
“I called for you because I thought I should give you an appropriate welcoming. I wasn’t conscious when you visited my quarters, but your prayers brought me back from the brink of death.”
“I am blessed to have been an instrument of the Heavenly Lord.”
“However, it is my understanding that you arrived in China for other reasons. You could have been executed if my agent hadn’t found you first. Why did you disobey the ban on Japanese people in Chinese ports?”
“I did not plan to come here, Your Majesty. I was headed for my hometown, Sendai. Now I am inclined to believe there was a providential force pushing me here.”
The Emperor did not reply immediately, for the thought that he’d been favored by spiritual powers alien to his country’s tradition made him feel uncertain of his footing in the world. His lineage kept the throne with the consent of Heaven; if it became common knowledge that he’d resorted to barbarian rites, his legitimacy could be open to question. Claiming the mandate of Heaven while keeping a debt to a god whose priests had been expelled from the capital by his father was an anomaly, a halfway state that couldn’t last. He needed to find out how far his debt reached. “I want to reward you for the service you’ve done to China.” He caught the beginning of a glimmer of hope in Tsunenaga’s eyes, and clarified, “Anything except leaving China.”