ITIEQ C75

Chapter 75 – Mars Stands in the Heart*¹

As soon as Shen Qinghe exited the residence, he boarded a carriage and turned into another street. It stopped before a courtyard house.

The steward had long been waiting; when the carriage arrived, he stepped out at once to receive him.

Though Shen Qinghe had once bought property in the capital, this was not one of them.

“Lord Shen, we heard you would return in recent days. His Excellency instructed us to prepare this place thoroughly—it is ready for you to reside.” The steward noted the thinness of Shen’s clothes and gestured for attendants to fetch a cloak.

Indeed, though humble outwardly, this was a true royal villa—granted together with the edict of promotion. Such particular favor could only come from Emperor Zhaohuan’s personal hand, considering Shen’s would‑be predicament of “having no place in the capital” after his return.

Shen Qinghe merely smiled wryly at himself.

“The osmanthus here are blooming well. In past years His Majesty bid us brew tea and wine from them. We’ve sealed jars again this year. If Lord Shen likes, I will have them opened,” said the steward, his lowered eyes marking him as one from the palace.

With a new master to this long‑vacant estate, and hints whispered from above, the steward managed everything meticulously, like serving the Emperor himself.

He had seen many grand officials before, and knew a fifth‑rank Secretariat Gentleman was not worth this effort. But here? This house had held only one master before; now, a new one arrived. Did he need to think twice how to treat him?

“Very well.”

The scent met him step by step—so many osmanthus trees had been planted. Shen nodded. “I was delayed on the road; forgive the trouble.”

“Sir is too polite.”

Royal villa. Inside, bridges and streams, garden landscapes, and even a swing beneath a tree. Shen Qinghe had seen Emperor Xiao Yuanzheng’s palace at Lóngzhāng Terrace—that was as sparse as could be. He had not expected this villa to be so delicate, so tasteful. He sat upon the swing, wondering—perhaps the inner palace was for duty, and villas like these were for life.

His thoughts strayed once more back to the inner palace. In the capital, the only one he could speak to freely was the very sovereign himself. Laughable. Yet so it was. Thus—

“Steward, if His Majesty is not occupied, may I enter the palace today to give thanks?”

The steward halted. He thought a while and said, “Today is His Majesty’s rest day. But should Lord Shen visit, the Emperor would surely be pleased.”

So he went. Shen changed into vermilion robes of office. In the tall bronze mirror stood a blurred reflection: himself, in robes of state.

A touch of true official style.

He entered by the Wu Zhi Gate. The palace: crimson walls, black tiles, lofty eaves—unchanged since his memory.

“Lord Shen?”

A sharp eunuch voice ran to greet him, with a lacquered sedan chair behind. Shen smiled. “Yuanbao?”

The eunuch laughed, looking him up and down. “Indeed. So many years—I scarce recognized you.”

“And you’ve been promoted as well,” Shen chuckled.

“I only strive to serve His Majesty. Nothing more. But you, Sir—you’ve earned glory outside. I must congratulate you.”

The joy could not be hidden. Shen Qinghe settled into the sedan. They spoke easily—two acquaintances after long years.

Much had changed, yet nothing had changed. Even the palace, with no song of birds. And perhaps so it was between him and the Emperor as well—sovereign and minister, confidants still. At this thought his heart brightened, beating strong enough to match the solemn palace path.

The sedan passed into the Hall of Hánzhāng. Before its vast steps, hundreds of officials in mingled robes knelt, filling the courtyard.

“What is this?” Shen Qinghe asked, surprised.

Yuanbao spat. “Those traitors again, pressing His Majesty! Best they all die kneeling here!” Rarely had the eunuch shown such venom. Shen narrowed his eyes.

He remembered: how the Emperor had personally broken open the Wei clan’s gate for him, then borne the storm of memorials raining like snow, needing to soothe with bowed head.

“Whatever they scheme this time—they will not have it.”

His eyes turned away. But amidst the sea of robes, one middle‑aged man looked up, catching his red figure in the sedan—and started violently.

That—is that Shen Qinghe?! Impossible!

Shen Zhao, half rising, roused Princely Secretary Qi Xiang’s scornful glare. “What’s wrong, Shilang? Lost your nerve already? Want to crawl back to your den?”

The man shook his head quickly. “I dare not.”

Qi Xiang raised his voice for all to hear: “Now, the Emperor is enmeshed by slanders, suspected of slaying loyal servants. If he strays, it is our duty to correct him, to chastise for his own good. Do you all understand?”

Murmurs of assent. But Shen Zhao’s legs trembled. He knew now—he had not been favored as ally, only as pawn. Should the Emperor wrath, the great clans would slip away untouched; it would be small fry like him slaughtered first. Too late to retreat, yet too dangerous to stand…He only prayed the Emperor would not show today. Tomorrow he would feign illness and hide.

He remembered: the Emperor had already struck twice, sending troops across the Wu River, erasing two clans of Zhuozhou overnight. Only when the news returned was the court startled. Letters, evidences of treason—Emperor revealed them later, and everyone feared his hidden reserves were greater still.

Thus dread gnawed now. Why so many kneel, when mere Zhuozhou clans could not justify it? They had bested weak emperors before—why should this one be different? He owed his crown to them—did he not?

So they thought. But three days, still His Majesty had not appeared. Never before had they been left so long in cold silence. Danger, if he had grown bold wings.

The two greatest powers—Chang Taibao and Qi Situ—knelt together, families sworn rivals yet now allied in defiance.

Here, true lines were drawn.

Inside, behind curtain of gauze, no one knew what the ruler’s intent truly was.

As Shen Qinghe’s sedan swayed past, he asked: “His Majesty isn’t working today?”

“Rest day. He is at Lóngzhāng Terrace,” Yuanbao answered honestly.

“Rest day, indeed…” Shen whispered. Rare.

For he knew the Emperor. For him, even “rest” was no different than toil. Drafts, consultations, never ceasing. Truly the most dutiful workhorse.

And so he strode faster toward that Terrace.

This was his second time to come. Last time, he had been expelled from capital, sent into exile. Now, recalled again—meeting here once more.

His steps, quickened. The guards parted. Shen Qinghe entered unhindered.

“You there!”

He froze. Inside, a youth stood, attired in red; fifteen perhaps; brows yet tender with boyhood. “Do you not know this is His Majesty’s own hall? How dare you barge in?”

Shen noted the pointed hems of his robe—sure enough, a prince of the blood. Arms folded, Shen chuckled. “I came at edict, not intruding. And you are…?”

“I am—”

“Zi‑Zhao,” came a calm voice from behind the veil.

“Uncle,” the youth dropped his head at once.

“Enough today. Go.”

“Yes.” The boy bowed gravely and withdrew.

Shen Qinghe steadied his own racing heart. He bowed. “Your servant Shen Qinghe, summoned by royal command, enters the palace to give thanks. Long live the Emperor!”

The beads shivered on veil strings, a broad hand drew him up. And there stood the Emperor—no ceremonial regalia, only a dark green robe, steeped in sandalwood incense.

Their eyes locked.

“Once in this chamber, no titles of court are needed. Speak freely.”

Shen had thought perhaps the Emperor in foul mood. Yet Xiao Yuanzheng was gentle, as before—indifferent to the crowd kneeling without, as though no matter at all.

He was taller now, thinner. Scarlet robe fitted close from throat to wrist. Xiao Yuanzheng could not help but recall: years ago, Shen Qinghe the young scholar-official did not win the top exam honors; he himself had placed the blossom pin upon his hair. Now again robed red—different, yet the same.

For a time, they said nothing. Shen could not bear the silence, spoke his observations from the road. The Emperor listened silently, head dipped, murmuring now and then. Familiar warmth returned; his cautious awe eased.

Xiao Yuanzheng liked this ease. He drew him past a desk, behind veil. Intimate, as if bringing a court favorite to hidden quarters—but Shen had no such thought.

He only thought: this man is utterly trustworthy.

The incense burned heavy. Shen frowned; the Emperor, seeing, covered the censer at once. And Shen then saw the small altar, where a jade Buddha sat. He blinked. The Emperor, devout?

Did he, the man who could seize anything—also have things to yearn for in prayer?

But Xiao Yuanzheng closed it quickly.

“That boy just now?” Shen inquired.

“The orphaned scion of Prince Heqin. I brought him into palace, named him prince.” He would say no more.

So Shen changed subject. “Outside the Hánzhāng Hall, so many kneel.”

The Emperor admitted straight: the annihilation of the Zhuozhou clans. Shockingly bold. Shen felt first blank—then elated. So he had guessed right. His recall to capital was no trivial return.

“Planning to strike the great families, then?”

“Yes. How do you see it?”

Shen thought fast. “Perhaps hasty. Yet surprise may succeed. They must now be vigilant, but…if His Majesty has inner guard, I too have men scattered at low posts. Small though they are, sometimes their reach is long—like how small streams may carry away great ships.”

Xiao Yuanzheng watched the light burning in his eyes and sighed, cut him short: “No need of your aid.”

“You do not trust me?”

“I trust you—that is why I forbid you to act.”

Confusion furrowed Shen’s brow. Yet he nodded. The Emperor must have reasons. He joked, “Then only call on me when you wish to show no mercy.”

A faint “Mn” in reply. Then softly the Emperor added: “I know your brilliance. But to stand too close—too dangerous. I have arranged allies in court you may rely on. And many students of your Academy are already gathered; I tested them—worthy, all. They shall be your helpers when the time comes. Yet remember—every step must be cautious.”

His eyes darkened with unreadable thought. Shen did not understand then.

A broad palm pressed to his bright gaze, shielding it. The Emperor feared its gleam might shake even his own heart.

So close, Shen could feel every word breathed.

“Have no doubt. Do not think too deeply. Only remember this. One day—the burden may come to your shoulders.”

Footnotes

1. “Mars Standing in the Heart” (荧惑守心): Ancient Chinese astrological omen, when the planet Mars lingered near the star Heart (Antares, in Scorpio). Considered the direst sign, foretelling chaos in empire, rebellion, or the fall of rulers. This chapter title implies impending upheaval in court and empire.