For the alchemist Nicholas Flamel it was liquid gold, aab-i-Hayat, or water of life, according to the Persians, Amrit Ras, juice of Soma, for the Hindus and uisce beathe, or whiskey breath for the Celts and for the Chinese: 酏 Yǐ.
They said it was a miracle.
The emperor awoke from a bad dream and saw his assassin.
The knife missed him by a whisker.
As he flung himself aside, he was able to bundle his assassin into the bed linen.
The guards came rushing in.
The Emperor held the knife at the assassin’s throat.
“Who sent you?” he said, still hot with indignation.
The assassin would not speak; her lips were sealed.
“My lord,” said the first and second minister, “We shall make her speak.”
The Emperor gave a sign.
Hardly had the guards dragged the body of the palace maid from the room the Emperor’s mind was on other things.
“Wake the priest,” he said, turning to his counsellor. “I must consult with him.”
Meanwhile, the empress acted. Two of the Emperor’s concubines were ordered to be executed by Linghi, or death by a thousand cuts.
The court was in upheaval: mandarins coming and going with the empress’s seal, servants packing valuables, and all the eunuchs were in a terrible fluster. “Help us!” they cried. “The Emperor is dying.”
But the Emperor was not dying; he was coming and going about his business, as usual, between his most private rooms and his study with his head – as one observer put it – in the clouds of the Gods!
The young girl panicked.
Remembering she was supposed to bow, she dropped the linen and fell on top of it. When she looked up the Emperor’s slippered foot was near her face.
“Who is she?”
“A thirteen-year old nobody.”
“And so small and thin… What is there to get hold of?”
“Well, one thing is for certain she will not be the only one. The emperor has ordered only the youngest maidens to accompany him to the new palace.”
After the assassination attempt, the Emperor moved out of the Forbidden City. He banished the Empress and his remaining concubines from his new home and would only receive the First and Second Minister upon exceptional business, and since there was very little exceptional business, he was rarely disturbed. Instead, he lived with the 13-year-old teenage girl who the courtiers deemed was too small and thin to satisfy his sexual appetite.
This was Lady Shan. Every night he invited her to his bed.
As was their wont, the courtiers, the concubines and the eunuchs began to gossip. “The Emperor,” they said, “was becoming quite obsessed. Why does he take Lady Shan to bed with him and no other?”
“She has some secret hold over him. She must be a sorceress.”
“One so young can only be an apprentice. There must be someone else behind her.”
“Behind or in front of her: mark my words, she has more skill in those little fingers than all his fat old concubines. She has studied with the Buddhists of Mandalay.”
“If the Emperor finds out, he will chop off her head and serve it as a dish to his wife.”
“Nonsense, he does not trust the Empress any more than the two she had killed in his name.”
And yet, of course, there was no sorcery or secret as far as Lady Shan was concerned. The Emperor’s bed would remain warm while she lived in his favour. She had her own rooms and her own servants to command. Though, one thing troubled her, and that was nothing to do with her private religion. The Emperor would begin to make love to her, and yet always at the last moment he stopped short of impregnating her. Even if she suspected he was impotent, she kept her own counsel until, one night, she awoke to find she was sleeping alone.
She got up and wandered through the palace.
When she found him, the Emperor was in his study, pouring over a manuscript.
“My Lord, it is late. Why don’t you come back to bed?”
The Emperor was in deep thought and did not hear her.
She began to touch and caress him, but the Emperor continued to ignore her. Were her charms beginning to desert her?
Lady Shan was about to go back to bed when she beheld a scroll of parchment lying on the floor. She picked it up and hid it under her robe.
The following day Lady Shan called one of the young maidens to her rooms.
“Tonight you will go to the emperor’s bed,” she commanded.
Whatever was the motive behind Lady Shan’s action, the courtiers, the concubines and the eunuchs were not complacent in their gossip.
“What is all the fuss? Lady Shan has just turned sixteen and this girl is still thirteen.”
“Obviously you are not a good Taoist.”
“I will learn to be a good Taoist if you learn to be a good sixteen-year old.”
“Don’t say it too loud, but the Lady Shan is beginning to take over this court.”
“The emperor does not care. The emperor is only interested in his potions. – Why have you heard he has sent that priest to look for the silver liquid?”
“I tell you he will find no mercury in outer Mongolia.”
“In outer Mongolia he will only find the horsemen of his doom.”
The Emperor had been on the throne forty-five years. When he called the Lady Shan to his chambers, he was in an exultant mood. Not only was he in a exultant mood, but he also believed his exultancy would lead to everlasting triumph.
“Many years ago,” he said, “you came to me in my hour of need. I believe it is only right that you should share in this moment.”
The Emperor took a glass vial from its metal holder and he began to drink the liquid. Then he lay down in Lady Shan’s arms and they went to sleep.
“Have you heard the news?”
“The Emperor is dead. That is old hat.”
“I am not talking about that. I am talking about Lady Shan.”
“Why? What has happened? Don’t tell me she has ordered the death of all his maidens!”
“She will not take his place, for she too has drunk of the elixir.”