The Samurai’s Wife

27

Alone in the chapel after the sōsakan-sama left her, Lady Jokyōden resumed her preparations for Obon. As she opened a box of incense, her hands began to shake, and she had to set down the box so it wouldn’t spill. The tremors spread through her whole body. Her vision darkened around the edges; the room spun in dizzying rhythm. She knelt, buried her face in her trembling hands, and succumbed to the delayed reaction to Sano’s visit.

Jokyōden had known Sano would come to question her regarding the second murder, and she’d employed against him a strategy designed to risk some dangers and avert more serious ones. She’d thought she knew how far she could lead him and still avoid harm, but some of his questions had caught her badly unprepared. Now aware of perils whose existence she’d never suspected, she feared she would regret what she’d told Sano.

Forcing herself to breathe deeply, Jokyōden willed anxiety away. At last the tremors and faintness subsided, but she desperately needed advice on how to prevent the destruction of her son, herself, and the entire court. Jokyōden rose and walked to the main altar, took one of the candles that burned before the Buddha statue, then knelt at an alcove in the corner and placed the candle in a stand on the table there. She opened the door of the butsudan. The little cabinet, made of teak that had darkened with age, contained a wooden tablet bearing characters that read, “Wu Tse-tien.”

Wu Tse-tien, who had lived in China almost a millennium before, wasn’t an ancestor of the imperial family. However, the women of Jokyōden’s clan worshipped her as a patron deity. At age fourteen she’d become a concubine to Emperor T’ai-tsung of the Tang dynasty. When he died, Wu Tse-tien had won the affection of T’ai-tsung’s son and heir, Emperor Kao-tsung. He was a weak, lazy fool, she intelligent and ambitious. Empress Wu Tse-tien became the only woman ever to rule China, in defiance of the Confucian code that prohibited female leaders.

Her example offered great inspiration to women who shared Wu Tse-tien’s nature.

Staring at the wavering candle flame, Jokyōden concentrated on the hazy brightness that spread across her vision. Soon an image began to form there. First appeared the silhouette of a human head and shoulders; then swirling colors coalesced. It was Empress Wu Tse-tien. Her black hair, piled in a high, elaborate coif, sparkled with jeweled combs. Embroidered gold dragons snarled on her red silk robe. Scarlet rouge and lip paint enhanced the beauty that had seduced two emperors. Wu Tse-tien regarded Jokyōden through sharp, shrewd eyes. Her mouth moved; her voice resounded in Jokyōden’s mind:

Greetings, my sister. The spirit of Wu Tse-tien spoke in Chinese, but Jokyōden understood every word. Why have you summoned me?

“I need your help,” Jokyōden said.

Wu Tse-tien’s image had appeared as a girl during Jokyōden’s childhood and gotten older through years of visitations. Now the Chinese empress looked to be Jokyōden’s own age of thirty-nine. Wu Tse-tien was her closest friend and confidante, as if they’d grown up together, although Wu Tse-tien possessed the wisdom of a lifetime. When Jokyōden described her meeting with Sano, Wu Tse-tien frowned.

It was foolish to provoke him that way. A woman in our position should polish her image until it shines like the sun, not tarnish it by throwing mud upon herself. Instead of compromising your own reputation, you must build it up.

This was exactly what Wu Tse-tien had done. She’d hired Buddhist priests to forge “ancient” documents that prophesied the coming of a great female ruler, the reincarnation of a bodhisattva. Then they’d declared Wu Tse-tien to be this ruler, legitimizing her controversial reign. But Jokyōden had troubles propaganda couldn’t resolve.

“I had to do it,” she said, then explained why she’d practically confessed her guilt to Sano.

Wu Tse-tien nodded. A daring but sensible strategy, she conceded. Your son is key to your success, as my sons were to mine. After Emperor Kao-tsung’s death, Wu Tse-tien had placed two of her sons, one after the other, on the throne as her puppets and founded her own Chou dynasty. Emperor Tomohito is a logical focus for the detective’s suspicion. To shield him is to shield yourself.

“But I dread what could happen if the sōsakan-sama investigates me,” Jokyōden said. “There are things I cannot have him discover.”

Yes… Wu Tse-tien’s expression was fond, though stern. However, you knew the risks when you started on your forbidden path. Now you must prepare to face the consequences, whatever they may be. To labor and fight, then ultimately triumph, is your destiny.

The pursuit of destiny had dominated Jokyōden’s life as it had Wu Tse-tien’s. She’d been born into the Takatsukasa branch of the Fujiwara clan, from which came many imperial consorts. Other kuge families considered their daughters mere pawns for improving their status at court and breeding future emperors, but the Takatsukasa had followed a different tradition. For generations they’d schooled their daughters in reading, mathematics, writing, music, Confucian philosophy, military strategy, astrology, ancient mysticism, and the art of politics-everything an emperor needed to know. Once they’d wanted more than just control over an emperor who shared their blood. They’d sought to oust the current imperial family and found their own court, and they planned to achieve this through a woman who could follow Wu Tse-tien’s example.

Fate had thwarted Takatsukasa ambitions, however. Many of the daughters weren’t smart or strong enough. Better prospects often lacked the beauty to attract emperors. When the warrior clans had taken over the country five hundred years ago, the Imperial Court lost power, and the Takatsukasa lost hope of founding a dynasty that would rule Japan. Long before Tokugawa domination further diminished the possibility of the court’s return to power, the Takatsukasa leaders abandoned as a waste of time the program of training future empresses.

Still, women are often keepers of faith. Jokyōden’s female kin continued to pass on to their daughters the lessons on gaining power. When Jokyōden came along, they rejoiced: Here was the right combination of intelligence, will, and beauty for Japan’s first reigning empress. Jokyōden remembered long days of studying, harsh discipline. The lessons infused challenge and excitement into a world that lacked both. From an early age she believed in the destiny predicted for her, and at first her life seemed a direct path toward it, with Wu Tse-tien her guide.

Eliminate the competition for the emperor’s favor, Wu Tse-tien had told her.

As a new concubine, Jokyōden had identified her chief rival among the other court ladies: her cousin Myobu. A lovely, strong-willed girl, Myobu had been trained in the same manner as Jokyōden and instilled with the same ambitions. They were the emperor’s two favorites.

The court is like a beehive with two queens, said Wu Tse-tien. The most ruthless fighter will be the victor.

Wu Tse-tien had eliminated all her own rivals, including Emperor Kao-tsung’s mother, whom she’d ordered drowned in a wine vat. To clear the way for her new dynasty, she’d executed several hundred aristocrats and members of the old Tang imperial family. She’d even murdered her own infant daughter, whom she feared might supplant her as empress and fall under the influence of her opponents before Wu Tse-tien could bear a son and secure her position. Now came Jokyōden’s turn to show how well she’d learned by example.

One day the palace ladies made a pilgrimage to a mountain temple. Before they left home, Jokyōden sent a note to Myobu, saying she had something private to discuss and asking Myobu to meet her in a secluded pavilion on a cliff above the temple. When Myobu came, Jokyōden was waiting for her. One push, and Myobu fell to her death. Later Jokyōden claimed that Myobu had tried to push her over the cliff, and she’d acted in self-defense. With no witnesses, everyone believed Jokyōden. She became the emperor’s official consort.

Use his laziness to your advantage, Wu Tse-tien advised.

Lady Jokyōden gradually took over the emperor’s duties. Soon she gave birth to Crown Prince Tomohito.

Before you take the next step, make sure he will live, said Wu Tse-tien. The mother of a dead emperor is nothing.

Jokyōden waited twelve years. Prince Tomohito flourished. She convinced the emperor to abdicate and turn the throne over to their son. The sacred mirror, jewel, and sword of imperial sovereignty passed to Tomohito. Jokyōden advanced to the highest rank for a court lady. With Tomohito still a child, she could mold him into a tool to serve her ambitions. However, a serious obstacle blocked her progress.

Through the years, she’d grown aware of the court’s diminished circumstances, its nonexistent influence over the world outside. Tokugawa troops guarded the palace. The bakufu doled out meager sums of money that kept the court alive but dependent. The imperial family had millions of devoted subjects, but no army. Jokyōden had eventually awakened to the fact that she had reached the pinnacle of her world, but there seemed no way to expand her domain. Would all her education, all her scheming, result in nothing more than command over the petty affairs of a few individuals?

Disappointment is the mother of creativity, Wu Tse-tien had counseled. Reassess your objectives. Circumvent the problem.

At last Jokyōden found a new direction for her life. It was daring, unwomanly, and violated both tradition and law. She loved it. But unfortunately, her new venture coincided with another circumstance: Left Minister Konoe’s appearance as her suitor.

Never allow yourself to fall under the power of a man! Wu Tse-tien warned. Men are a woman’s downfall!

But the left minister had awakened needs that Jokyōden had suppressed in pursuit of her dreams. He made her realize how much she craved affection; his lovemaking taught her that sex had other benefits besides procreation. She’d fallen in love with him. Carried away by romance, she had confided in him, and he had betrayed her.

“You were right,” Jokyōden said now to Wu Tse-tien. “I never should have trusted the left minister.”

Never waste time on regretting the past, Wu Tse-tien said sternly. Her eyes, the ornaments in her hair, and the dragons on her robe glittered in the flame that surrounded her. Concentrate on the present and the future. Hasn’t the death of the left minister solved your problem?

Once Jokyōden had believed that Konoe’s murder had saved her from exposure, scandal, and punishment while protecting her great venture. Then Sano had revived the danger. “I thought Konoe had died before he could use the power he held over me, but he was involved in things I never guessed. The sōsakan-sama survived the attack, and his investigation continues. I didn’t anticipate the direction it would take, or the stakes involved.” She added regretfully, “I was a fool to help Lady Reiko, but I could not have guessed what would come of taking her to the left minister’s secret house.”

That was a grave mistake, said Wu Tse-tien. Now there is only one way to protect yourself and your son. You must cease your activities so that the shogun’s detective will not discover them. Until he is gone from Miyako, you must have patience.

Wu Tse-tien had shown Jokyōden the value of patience. The Chinese empress had waited forty-one years to found her new dynasty, until Emperor Kao-tsung and her strongest opponents were dead. She’d accumulated power over a lifetime, gradually replacing the old bureaucracy with men loyal to her. Yet Jokyōden couldn’t accept Wu Tse-tien’s advice.

“I can’t stop now,” she said. “This is a critical time. I’ve invested all my effort and capital and hope in this venture. Unless I move forward, I risk utter failure.”

Bitterness hardened Wu Tse-tien’s expression, because she had suffered defeat in the end. At eighty-three, she’d been forced to abdicate by one of her sons, who dissolved her regime and reestablished the old Tang dynasty. This was the one example from her mentor’s life that Jokyōden must not emulate.

“I shall continue as I began,” decided Jokyōden. Then she asked humbly, “May I have your blessing?”

My blessing, yes: my approval, no, Wu Tse-tien said peevishly. Even from the grave she liked to be in control.

“May I ask what the future holds for me?”

The Chinese empress spread her hands in a mocking gesture of resignation. Yours is a perilous path, which you have chosen to walk without my guidance. The future is uncertain; good and evil are equally possible. I wish you luck, because you are on your own now. Good-bye until we meet again in the afterlife.

“Wait,” Jokyōden cried. But Wu Tse-tien’s image vanished; the candle had burned out. Jokyōden sadly closed the butsudan. The world had changed since Wu Tse-tien’s day. Jokyōden must go where Wu Tse-tien couldn’t guide her. It was her destiny.

She prayed that her destiny would not lead to execution for murder and treason.