Lord of Ten Thousand Years: The Paper Dragon

By Sidney Chan

This is the story of a power-hungry woman who almost brought down a country destined to become a superpower.

Tzu-hsithe empress dowager of the Manchu dynastymanipulated her way into the heart of the palace almost a century and a half ago, using her charm, looks, and intellect to get what she wanted.

It wasnt long before she was hiding in the Summer Palace in Peking, running the government behind the curtain and scheming to grow her power at the emperors expense.

But when foreign intervention and internal strife combined to threaten her empire, she enlisted the help of a devious eunuch and resorted to extreme tactics to deal with the crisis.

The emperor sought help from the intelligentsia in a bid to stay in charge and reform the government, but he made a critical mistake by placing his trust in an ambitious general who had the power to ruin everything.

Filled with colorful imagery, forbidden liaisons, sneaky maneuverings, heroes, and villains, this novel tells how one woman sought to rise to the pinnacle of power in a male-dominated societyand how a dedicated emperor tried to stop her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480817289

Sidney Chan

Sidney Chan is a certified public accountant by profession. An avid student of Chinese history and classical literature, he lives in San Francisco and served as Commissioner of Police and Commissioner of Recreation and Park for that city. He also served as a member of the Advisory Committee on the Arts for the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, DC. This is Chan’s second book.

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Copyright © 2015 Sidney Chan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1729-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1727-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1728-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906197

Archway Publishing rev. date: 4/28/2015

Contents

Prologue

1 The Harbinger

2 The Little Orchid

3 The Usurpers

4 The Eunuch

5 The Dream

6 The Reformer

7 The Consorts

8 The Plot

9 The Southern Barbarians

10 The Edict

11 The Dragon Search

12 The Audience

13 The Traitor

14 The Act

15 The Lies

16 The Frame

17 The Abdication

18 The Escape

19 The Foreign Devils

20 The Parting

21 The Uprising

22 The Rescue

23 The Boxers

24 The Forts

25 The Siege

26 The War Cry

27 The Relief

28 The Cathedral

29 The Flight

30 The Capitulation

31 The Last Viceroy

32 The Changing Tide

33 The Triple Cross

34 The Last Emperor

Epilogue

To Alex and Juju

Follow your dreams!

Author’s Note

China is a twenty-first-century power.

Barely a century and a half ago, it was a country teetering on the brink of demise.

In this novel, I tried to capture the drama of that period of time, including palace intrigue and foreign intervention. The characters in this drama were colorful and interesting. Added to the tumultuous backdrop of the time, the tale is fascinating to tell.

With regard to romanization of the Chinese names and places, I chose to go with the traditional translation rather than the pinyin method, which is widely used today.

For instance, I find it unattractive to refer to Peking as Beijing in my story, because it takes away the flavor of the time. By the same token, I chose to use the traditional names for the characters in the novel.

To assist the reader in navigating the Chinese names, I have furnished a list of the main characters in order to make reading the book smoother and more enjoyable.

List of Characters

The Imperial Family

Prologue

A gust of wind disrupted the tranquility of South Lake and created ripples on its calm surface. The north wind from the Gobi had ushered out the twilight of autumn and brought in the dawn of another severe winter to northern China.

Emperor Kuang-hsu, wearing an aqua-colored dress, gazed aimlessly out the window of his house. The smartness of the dress was gone, and it hung loosely on his slender frame. In the past year, he had lost a great amount of weight and had also lost his zest for life. The house where he now lived was part of the Sea Palaces—a complex consisting of small palaces on an island in the middle of South Lake. The complex had once been the retreat of the imperial family, but two decades ago, the newer palaces in North Lake had replaced it. For that reason, the South Lake palaces were abandoned and left to the ravage of time.

The island in South Lake was near the Forbidden City. It was linked to a street outside the west wall of the imperial city by a narrow causeway. In spring and summer, the lake’s surface was covered by colorful lotus flowers and their big green leaves. As winter approached, the flowers in the lake were gone; the desolation on the island accentuated the grief and loneliness of the emperor.

Kuang-hsu looked forlornly at the silhouette of the palaces to the east of his house. He saw the setting sun cast waning rays on the roofs of the tallest of those palaces. The yellow tiles on the roof of that palace glistened with a golden glow. Beneath the glowing tiles was the dragon throne, where he had sat and ruled China for twenty-four years—if not in fact, at least in name. Now he ruled no more. Since the evening a year ago when he had been led to this island and forced to sign the Proclamation of Abdication, he had lost contact with the world. How much longer would he be imprisoned? He did not know; he only knew that it had been too long. He watched the sun sink lower into the horizon, fading from his vision along with the silhouette of those palaces in the Forbidden City. Also fading from him was the hope of again ruling China.

Kuang-hsu spent most of his days writing in a diary. The diary was filled with many thoughts rather than events, for he had done nothing worth recording since being held captive. Thoughts of avenging his humiliation took up many pages, as did the thought of retaliating against those who had put him in this predicament.

The quiet of the lake was suddenly punctured by the rhythmic sound of oars penetrating the water’s surface. A small boat was approaching. As the boat got nearer to the island, the sound became louder, and the cadence became slower. Then the sound stopped as the boat pulled up against the shore. Kuang-hsu was deep in thought, and the noises did not distract him. To him, they were familiar noises; he had heard them on a daily basis since he had been there.

Your Ten Thousand Years, the voice of his faithful servant, Wang-shang, called from outside the house. The title of lord of ten thousand years was reserved for the reigning monarch, which meant that an emperor’s lifespan would far exceed that of a mortal man. The door creaked open, and the servant walked in with two large baskets. He flashed a wide smile while lowering his knees to pay homage to the emperor. But after looking up and seeing his master’s face, Wang-shang immediately withdrew his smile. He quietly rose, took the food out of the baskets, and placed it on a table near the window. He stood still, waiting for Kuang-hsu to sit down, but the emperor did not move. He glanced at the food with indifference.

Sir, your dinner is ready, Wang-shang said after neatly arranging the plates on the table.

Kuang-hsu did not answer; he turned his head and coughed. Wang-shang walked over to the corner of the room and lit a half-burned candle. The flickering candlelight made Kuang-hsu’s slim face even grayer. Although the emperor was only twenty-eight, his health had deteriorated.

Your Ten Thousand Years, you have got to eat some food, said the servant. You have not eaten for more than two days. The emperor coughed. You must have contracted a cold. Put this on, Wang-shang insisted, trying to drape a cape over the shoulders of the slouching emperor.

Kuang-hsu refused both the invitation to eat and the cape.

If Your Majesty hopes ever to rule China again, you must stay healthy.

How is the empress dowager? asked Kuang-hsu dryly. He suddenly straightened his body and looked at the servant with his piercing eyes.

Wang-shang was caught off guard and mumbled, I saw Her Majesty a few days ago, and she looked—

No, Kuang-hsu interrupted. I mean, is everything in the court … He stopped, as the thought of Empress Dowager Tzu-hsi sent a chill down his spine. Kuang-hsu and Tzu-hsi’s relationship had been a strange one. He loved her as if she were his own mother, because he had left his mother when he was four years old. He respected her as he had respected no other person on earth. Above all, he obeyed her, because he had been under her control since the day he’d entered the Forbidden City. She too loved him, because she had looked upon him as her surrogate son. But now she despised him because he had disobeyed her. It was she who had abandoned and imprisoned him on this lonely island.

I reported to Her Majesty that you are doing fine.

Wang-shang’s voice jolted Kuang-hsu out of his reverie. However, the emperor soon fell back into his melancholy way. I am doing fine? Kuang-hsu asked himself. An uncontrollable cough cut off his thoughts. Now that she has done away with me, she can once again control the country and dictate her policies. Kuang-hsu again sank back into his reverie. I have got to get out of here before the empress dowager brings down my empire, Kuang-hsu told himself.

Sir, you must eat. The food is getting cold.

Kuang-hsu nodded and sat down slowly on a wooden chair as tears began to roll down his cheeks. Wang-shang, what have I done wrong? He wiped his tears and said, I worked hard. He coughed before continuing. I did what I thought was best for my people. Look what it brought me! The disconcerted emperor picked up a piece of vegetable from one of the plates in front of him and put it in his mouth. The only mistake I made was trusting the wrong person. He spit the vegetable out onto the table.

Sir, you have done nothing wrong. It is the empress dowager who made the mistake of not letting you do what we all know is the right thing for our country. History will judge you well.

History? No matter. I am the emperor, and I am responsible for my actions. If the empress dowager loses the realm, then it is I who loses the realm. I must answer to my ancestors for that when the day of reckoning comes.

Your Ten Thousand Years, I believe the day will come when you are finally vindicated. For that reason, you must stay healthy, so when that day comes, you will still be fit to rule again.

Kuang-hsu shook his head. Too many fine people have paid with their lives for my mistake. I am ashamed that as emperor, I could not stand up to the empress dowager and defend them. He coughed incessantly, and after recovering his voice, he said, I could not even defend my own honor.

You must not continue to blame yourself, Wang-shang said. Sir, please eat.

Wang-shang, I’d like to be left alone. The emperor waved his right hand, and the servant removed the food from the table and put it back into the baskets. Kuang-hsu sat motionlessly while Wang-shang bowed to him. The servant gathered the baskets, took one backward glance at his master, and walked out of the house dejectedly. He closed the door behind him.

Like the sound of the boat approaching, the sound of the boat departing did not distract Kuang-hsu, but he noticed that darkness had taken hold of the universe—at least the universe surrounding him. The harshness of the cold north wind combined with the darkness made Kuang-hsu’s loneliness all the more unbearable. That loneliness was interrupted only by the sound of his continuous cough.

The emperor moved to the corner of the room, picked up the flickering candlestick, and placed it on the table. He sat down in front of the table, opened his diary, and began to write. As usual, he had nothing memorable to write. But his emotions seemed to be at a fever pitch, more so than in recent days. For the first time, the thought that he might not live to see the outside world again crept into his mind. It was a dreadful thought. He tried to suppress it, but his constant cough reinforced his fear.

He looked lazily toward the sky and saw the stars twinkling, some bright and some not as bright, like many eyes blinking at him. For a fleeting moment, he felt lonely no more; the stars were his companions for this night. He scanned the sky again and discovered that the moon was missing. Perhaps it had not risen. Perhaps it was hiding behind the house, where he could not see it. The whereabouts of the moon aroused his curiosity. He put down his writing brush, rose slowly from his chair, and walked toward the door. He pushed it open, and it creaked predictably; he walked slowly out onto the porch. A cold wind pierced his bones, and he braced himself. Some unknown force seemed to have taken over his motion, and the cold did not bother him. He looked for the moon, and it was not there. The stars were still blinking at him, though.

The peaceful surface of South Lake was disrupted more frequently, as the northwest wind from the Gobi seemed to have increased its tempo. The silhouette of the palaces was barely visible, and it rendered an eerie backdrop that was serene and haunting. Kuang-hsu again reminisced about the days when he had sat on the dragon throne in that large palace. How could an empire be without an emperor? He looked quizzically up at the sky. As the son of heaven, I am entitled to an answer to that question from heaven itself! he thought.

The moon had deserted him, as everyone else had. The moon had been his most-reliable companion since he had been there. Although not always showing its full face, the moon nevertheless shared many a lonely night with him. The melancholic emperor recalled reading that Li Po, the famous poet from the Tang Dynasty, had said that the moon also was his best companion. When Li Po was lonely, he would raise his wine glass and drink with the moon.

One particularly lonely evening, reaching into the surface of a lake while trying to touch the moon, Li Po had fallen into the water. He’d drowned, an empty glass in one hand and the elusive reflection of his best friend in the other.

A surge of grief overcame Kuang-hsu as tears began to roll down his slim gray cheeks. His cough would not stop, and his shoulders stooped; his loose aqua dress fluttered in the wind. The moonless night even took away his own shadow, leaving him twisting in the wind alone by the lakeshore.

Kuang-hsu looked longingly down at the surface of the lake. He wished the moon were there so that he too could reach down, as Li Po had, and end his miserable, lonely life.

1

The Harbinger

The events that shaped the miserable, lonely life of Emperor Kuang-hsu had begun ten years before his birth. One of these events—perhaps the most significant one—was the rise to power of Tzu-hsi, the sister of his mother. The other was the premature death of Emperor Hsien-feng, the half brother of his father and the husband of Tzu-hsi.

Hsien-feng died in Jehol while taking refuge from foreign invaders. His death was not regarded as a noteworthy event in the annals of Chinese history. He was a weak and dissolute man, and he ultimately proved to be a dispassionate and less-than-mediocre ruler.

Ascending to the throne in 1851, Hsien-feng inherited from his father an empire torn apart by external crises and internal strife. His father had tried to save the decaying empire by adopting drastic measures, including cutting the excesses from the government and the imperial household. But with a dissipating treasury, a dispirited military, and an ineffective court, noble as his intentions were, he failed. After taking over, Hsien-feng did not rekindle the efforts initiated by his father. Rather, he attributed the deteriorating conditions of his empire to a fate that he was incapable of altering, so he did not even try to redress the situation. Perhaps he failed to do so because he did not possess the intellectual ability and the mental toughness to lead his country in such trying times; he let events control him. He chose a lifestyle of debauchery to suppress his conscience, hoping that by indulging in excess intemperance, the woes that beset his empire would go away. As the emperor, he had the luxury of a harem, thousands of eunuchs and servants, and all of the earthly possessions to sustain a decadent lifestyle, even though his empire was struggling under trying circumstances.

Hsien-feng was the seventh emperor of the dynasty—a dynasty belonging to the Manchu race. The Manchu, one of four minor races of Asia, had long been the antagonists of the Han Chinese, the predominant and so-called legitimate race in China. Since the thirteenth century, these inhabitants from northeast Asia had mounted several invasions against the Han Chinese dynasties, their neighbors to the south, who had controlled the rich plateau in central Asia. While failing in their attempts to take over the mainland, the Manchus succeeded in forcing a coexistence with the Han Chinese rulers by establishing their regimes in the north. To Chinese historians, these Manchu regimes, even though more powerful than their southern counterparts in many cases, were considered to be illegitimate and barbaric states because their crude origin was inferior to the virtuous society of letters and law of the Han Chinese.

In 1644, however, a Manchu prince named Dorgon changed history. After defeating the rebels who had overthrown the Ming Dynasty, he led his people into Peking and placed his nephew on the throne. Thus, the five million Manchus had finally become the masters of four hundred million Han Chinese—a dream that had eluded Dorgon’s ancestors for centuries.

Because of his nephew’s young age, Dorgon became the first Manchu to rule China. He retained many able Ming officials and enlisted new Han Chinese gentry to help him manage his government, thereby facilitating a smooth dynastic transition. After Dorgon’s death and the passing of his nephew, the next three emperors included two able rulers: Emperor Kang-hsi and Emperor Chien-lung. These two rulers reigned over a combined span of 124 years and gave China one of the most-prolonged periods of peace and stability in its history. China prospered and became a first-class economic and military power—a prosperity brought on by an overwhelmingly favorable trade balance resulting from the exportation of tea and silk to Europe.

By the turn of the nineteenth century, the West had completed its Industrial Revolution, and the economic order in the world was forever changed. Eager to sell its newly mass-produced goods to a huge Chinese market, Europe, with England and Holland leading the way, approached Peking to request trade reciprocation. Adhering to a closed-door policy adopted while China was in its economic zenith, the Manchus refused.

At the same time, the British colonization of India altered the status quo. Opium, grown in a great abundance in the new British colony, was first imported into China in modest amounts for medical purposes. Because the Chinese in the south were quickly addicted to the use of the substance, the British had found the key they were looking for to unlock China’s long-closed door for trade. The British seized the opportunity and smuggled opium in large quantities into Canton, establishing a lucrative Golden Triangle of trade between India, China, and themselves. Alarmed that the addiction to opium had reached epidemic proportions, Hsien-feng’s father decreed a ban on the use and import of the substance. England blatantly ignored the ban, prompting the emperor to appoint a new imperial commissioner for Canton to enforce his decree. Failing to stop either the English trafficking or the Chinese addiction to opium, the commissioner set fire to the warehouses, burned the opium supplies, and infuriated the English into a declaration of war against China.

After losing the Opium War in 1842, China was forced to sign the Treaty of Nanking and surrender territories to the West. For the first time, ports in south China were forced to open not only for trade but also for occupation by foreigners. The cost of the war and the reparation fees exacted by the foreign powers severely drained China’s resources. The growing population, already economically deprived, became disaffected; unrest quickly turned into revolts.

In 1851, a small uprising fermented in Kwangsi, a province in southern China. The poverty-stricken people rallied around a peasant, Hung Siu-chuan, who claimed to be the brother of Jesus Christ. His message that the Lord sent him to earth to redeem the oppressed, to slaughter the Manchus, and to save the world offered a powerful alternative to the beleaguered. As a result, he attracted a mass following and was able to organize his gang into a formidable militia, and he turned a small uprising into a national rebellion. Using Christianity as a guise and branding his horde the Taiping Celestial Kingdom, Hung’s movement gathered momentum. Within two years, his followers had threatened the existence of the Manchu empire by winning and controlling many central and southern provinces and by bringing his force to bear on the Manchus in Peking.

Meanwhile, the West’s appetite to divide and colonize China knew no bounds. Throughout the early 1850s, the foreign powers continued their quest even though the Treaty of Nanking had guaranteed them major concessions. England and France in particular were unhappy to be confined to the treaty ports and insisted on revision of the treaties. When the Manchus resisted, the foreign powers sought to strike another blow. They scrambled for pretext to again bring war against China. Finally, in 1856, seizing upon a minor maritime incident in Canton as a provocation, the British attacked the city, but they failed. Encouraged by their unexpected success, the Cantonese commanders burned the English residencies in retaliation.

Not to be denied, the English came back a year later with fresh troops. This time, they brought along the French as chief collaborators. Positioning their gunboats in Canton Harbor, the foreigners demanded more territorial concessions and monetary indemnities. Undaunted, the governor of Canton refused, whereupon the foreign force assaulted Canton, and this time, they captured the city with little resistance. In defeat, the governor was still defiant; he declined to negotiate with the foreign powers.

Frustrated by the governor’s attitude, the British and the French pressed for direct diplomatic access to Peking. The Manchus in Peking claimed that the incident in Canton was a local issue and declined to receive the foreign envoys. Failing to persuade Peking, the foreigners ordered their gunboats northward—to about a hundred miles from the capital. Faced with this imminent threat, Hsien-feng hurriedly fled the capital and took refuge in Jehol, bringing with him his entire imperial household but only a small official court, including a retinue of eight high officials. Left behind in Peking to negotiate with the foreign powers and to run the government was his half brother, Prince Kung.

Prince Kung, even though he was two years younger than Hsien-feng, was a capable and wise statesman. Unlike Hsien-feng, the prince was strong in will, keen in mind, quick in action, and suave in manner. More importantly, though, he was a good improviser and well respected by the foreign diplomatic corps.

Throughout the 1850s and the early 1860s, while the foreigners were raising havoc, the Taiping rebels continued to wage effective campaigns against the imperial armies. At last, the Manchus had to call on the foreigners, their erstwhile enemies, for technical assistance to defeat the Taipings. Thus, by winning a hollow victory, the Manchus suffered a further depletion of what remained of their precious resources.

In Jehol, Hsien-feng had succeeded in escaping from the pressure exerted by his empire’s adversaries, foreign and domestic. Jehol, situated 150 miles to the northeast of Peking, had been a popular summer retreat for the earlier Manchu emperors. Although it lacked the splendor of the Summer Palace in Peking, Jehol offered a landscape and lifestyle familiar to the Manchus: hunting wild game in the day and retiring to the comfort of the palaces at night. However, by the mid-nineteenth century, the Jehol palaces had been long neglected due to the lack of funds for their maintenance. In these serene settings, Hsien-feng drowned himself in a life of sex, wine, and drugs, ruining his health. Barely over age thirty, Hsien-feng fell gravely ill.

Because it was in his nature to dawdle in making decisions on serious matters, Hsien-feng procrastinated in designating his successor. Primogeniture was not in the Ching Dynasty’s law of succession, and thus, Hsien-feng’s son would not be an heir to the throne by birthright. Even if his son were designated as the heir, Hsien-feng still had to appoint a regent to conduct the affairs of state for the son, as he was just an infant. By not addressing these important matters while he was still in good health, Hsien-feng carried these problems to his deathbed. As a result, he set the stage for a power struggle that further hampered the Manchus’ ability to govern. These were the noteworthy contributions offered by Emperor Hsien-feng to the annals of the history of China and of the Ching Dynasty.

2

The Little Orchid

Jung-lu jumped on his white stallion and galloped out of Jehol toward Shanhaikuan, the gateway to Peking. He sensed that Tzu-hsi was in mortal danger. Unless he got to the cavalcade to save her, not only would her life be threatened, but so would the life of her son, the boy emperor.

Earlier in the day, Jung-lu had sat alone in the Jehol headquarters of the Metropolitan Regiment and pondered why he was not allowed to join the traveling party. After all, to escort an imperial caravan was a distinct honor afforded only to the most-decorated officer in the most-prestigious unit of the imperial army. The most-prestigious unit in the imperial army was the Peking Field Force, and the most-decorated officer in the force was Jung-lu.

At twenty-five, he had been a major for more than two years, which was an achievement in its own right. As a descendant of the Plain White Banner, he had come from the uppermost Manchu class. Tall, good looking, smart, loyal, and diligent, he was a favorite of many Manchus in high positions, including Prince Kung, who had organized the Peking Field Force to protect the imperial household and designated Jung-lu as one of its unit commanders.

Jung-lu was unhappy about losing the assignment as imperial escort, but losing it to Captain Pangun, an officer of dubious repute, was especially unbearable to him. Pangun, lacking in moral character and soldierly quality, had gotten into the Metropolitan Regiment mainly because he was related to Su-shun. Su-shun, a powerful Manchu, was a distant relative of Hsien-feng. He was one of the eight high officials in a retinue of courtiers that had escorted the emperor to Jehol. A burly man of forty, Su-shun was unscrupulous, uncouth, ruthless, and ambitious. With Prince Kung staying in Peking, Su-shun had become the de facto head of the government in Jehol. He dictated policies and ran the Jehol court while Hsien-feng lay ill. He even defied Prince Kung’s request for the emperor to return to Peking after the foreign threat had subsided. By so doing, Su-shun created a power center of his own outside of the capital. He achieved his power base by forming a triad with two other powerful imperial clansmen, Prince Cheng and Prince I, the latter of whom was his half brother.

Jung-lu reluctantly accepted the fact that Su-shun was instrumental in appointing Pangun as imperial escort. But he could not understand why he had to remain in Jehol. As an officer in the Peking Field Force, his duty was to follow the imperial household.

As the time approached for the imperial cavalcade to depart, Jung-lu’s annoyance at his own predicament got more intense. He traced circles around the desk in his room and alternated his perpetual motion by sitting on his bed. As the clock on the wall struck ten times, he rose abruptly, took out his dress uniform, and changed. He then put on his highly polished boots and walked in front of a full-length mirror. Fastidiously, he pulled and tucked the wrinkles out of his tunic. At last, he placed his cap squarely on his head and felt satisfied. He dashed out of the room and went to the stable nearby to fetch his white stallion. Wasting little time, he rode off to the palace grounds.

Stopping on top of a grassy knoll about a hundred yards away, Jung-lu saw an impressive caravan of hundreds of horse- and mule-drawn wagons. In their midst stood the large golden bier carrying Emperor Hsien-feng’s casket, which was waiting to be transported back to Peking for imperial burial rites. One hundred twenty-four neatly but solemnly dressed soldiers stood by, ready to carry the bier. Thousands of soldiers on horses, all dressed in colorful field uniforms, escorted the caravan on both sides.

Jung-lu was there for a purpose. He was looking for Pangun. On one hand, Jung-lu would loathe to see Pangun bask in glory. On the other hand, he was curious why Su-shun had chosen Pangun over him. He wanted to believe that nepotism was the reason, but he was skeptical.

It did not take long for Jung-lu to find Pangun in the crowd. Perched atop a tall black horse, Pangun was conspicuous; he was neatly cloaked in a colorful field uniform. Standing near him, a mounted soldier was carrying a colorful standard showing the coat of arms of the imperial escort. To Jung-lu, even with all of the colors and pomp, Pangun was a despicable sight: his beard, as usual, was unshaven, and his bushy brows and mustache dominated an ugly, round face—a face that Jung-lu had come to hate.

One evening about four years ago, Jung-lu was riding with a fellow officer through the busiest section of Peking on their way back to their barracks. It was not Jung-lu’s habit to indulge in alcoholic drinks, but at the urging of his good friend, they decided to stop in a small saloon for a moment of relaxation. As they dismounted and walked slowly through the doors and into the saloon, they heard the sounds of screaming people and falling furniture. With his friend in front of him, Jung-lu began walking up to the second floor, where the barrooms were located. Suddenly, a body came tumbling down and almost knocked Jung-lu’s friend backward down the staircase. Fortunately, Jung-lu was alert, and he managed to break the fall of his friend and the tumbling person, who was bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth. After helping the person to his feet, Jung-lu and his friend resumed their climb toward the second floor. Their interest had shifted from drinks and relaxation to the commotion in the barroom.

Standing on the top step of the staircase, Jung-lu saw a tall man in a disheveled military uniform hunching over a young woman lying on the floor. Her upper garment was torn open, and she was crying for mercy. Five men were lying around on the floor; they were moaning and bleeding. There were also many broken parts of tables and chairs scattered about; it was obvious there had been a ferocious brawl: one man fighting against six people for the woman or, more likely, six men trying to defend one woman from one man. And that one man was in the uniform of the imperial army.

The man in uniform got down on his knees, about to assault the woman. Jung-lu’s friend hurled himself toward the tall man and attempted to knock him off the woman. But the tall man moved with lightning quickness as he turned and rose in one motion, and Jung-lu’s friend landed heavily facedown in front of him. The tall man stepped on the friend with his left foot and simultaneously pulled a dagger out of his left boot. Before the friend or Jung-lu could react, the tall man plunged the dagger into the friend’s back. The suddenness of the action froze Jung-lu momentarily, but he recovered quickly.

Jung-lu did not carry any weapon, so he launched toward the tall man with all of the power his body possessed. The tall man looked intensely at Jung-lu, leaped over some furniture, and headed toward the window. While Jung-lu pursued, the tall man jumped out of the window and onto the street. By the time Jung-lu got to the window, the tall man had escaped.

From that day on, Jung-lu did not forget that ugly face with an unshaven beard—a round face accentuated by thick eyebrows and a heavy mustache. Jung-lu was upset about losing a colleague and good friend, so he filed a report with his commander, charging the tall man with assault and murder. But the next time he saw the tall man, he had been assigned to a more-prestigious unit, the Metropolitan Regiment of Peking, with a promotion to captain. Justice had not been served, Jung-lu thought. Even though he knew he could not take the law into his own hands, Jung-lu would have loved to avenge his good friend’s death.

Jung-lu’s mind came back to the present, and he took his eyes off of that despicable face and saw a yellow wagon among the many green and blue ones. Save for the yellow one, the wagons were reserved for the officials of the court—the blue ones were for lower-ranking mandarins, while the green ones were reserved for the top-ranking courtiers. The yellow one, which was larger and more decorated, was reserved for the boy emperor and his mother. It was sitting in front of the palace with ultimate grandeur, awaiting its occupants.

In the brisk midautumn morning, many banners fluttered wildly in the wind. The banners came in four colors: white, yellow, red, and blue. Some banners had borders, and some were plain. They were interspersed among the horse soldiers. The founding fathers of the Manchu empire had originally organized their militia into eight banners. The plain ones were assigned to the upper-class militia, while the bordered ones were assigned to the lower-class militia. Over time, the militia banners had evolved into a stratification of social orders within the Manchu race. Thus, the Plain White Banner had come to represent upper-class Manchus, while the Bordered Blue Banner identified the lowest social order.

Jung-lu had an urge to go to the palace to see Tzu-hsi, but Pangun and many courtiers were near the palace gate. His