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.