Long ago, so long that it was far away, there was an Emperor of the Han Dynasty who prized looks in women above all else. Following the death of his empress of two decades, he sought for his new consort a beauty whose appearance could wreck a kingdom. The imperial household looked diligently for years but couldn’t find a woman that matched his desires—merely beauties that could captivate a city, or maybe a prefecture. And so the search continued.

The Yang Family had a daughter who had just come of age. Raised properly within the women’s quarters, no one knew of her, but as the saying goes, for beauties born of Heaven, hiding is hard. A servant whispered, a neighbor confided, the market gossiped, and one day the emperor’s agents came to her family’s compound: she had been selected to come live in the rear wing of the Imperial Palace.

Sensing danger to their positions, the leading concubines, along with such attendant eunuchs who’d tied their fates to theirs, tried to keep her away from the emperor’s eyes. But just as in the city below, word of her beauty soon spread and eventually reached the monarch’s ear. He heard of how, with a glance back and a delightful smile, a hundred charms were born—how compared to her, the painted ladies of the Rear Palace were faces without looks.

Thus the order was given: one cold spring day, the daughter of the Yangs was granted the honor of bathing at the imperial retreat at Huaqing Hot Springs. Droplets of water slid off her creamy skin as servants helped her rise up, languid, without strength. Her eyes were as steamy as the pool, and her smile as warming as a brazier. Though she was not the only concubine present, the emperor saw no one else, and so it was that she then received his royal favor for the first time.

With cloud hair, a flower face, and a golden hairpin swaying with each step, she passed spring nights within the warmth of lotus screens—though those nights were bitterly short. Her lord found them short as well, for when the sun rose high, he stayed with her and did not attend his morning court, leaving the business of the empire to his ministers and officials. As consort, she sought to please him in every way—she herself served him at banquets in her golden house, artfully made up and displaying every charm. By day, they chased the wanton pleasures of spring—at night, she took up all his night.

The Rear Palace had great beauties, three thousand of them—the love of all three thousand he bestowed on only one.

The emperor could deny his consort nothing. He granted her sisters and brothers, both old and young, titles and land—a splendor to envy, giving the Yangs new status. Indeed, parents throughout the land started to prize the birth of daughters instead of sons. The scholars clucked and tutted, but what could they do? They did not have the emperor’s ear. A few ministers did, but they only cared about growing their own power, and the poisonous plots of other ministers.

The imperial couple stayed high in Li Palace, among the azure clouds, away from the dust of court. Winds wafted immortal music hither and yon, while slow and leisurely dance blended with the refined sounds of instruments. All day, the monarch gazed upon her, but could not get enough. He was old enough to be tired of the work of ruling the empire, especially with such a consort to divert him, and others ruled well for him—or so he believed.

Then drums and hooves from Yuyang, in the northeast, shook the earth—one general tired of another’s schemes raised the flag of rebellion and rushed toward the capital. Shock stopped the song of Rainbow Skirts and Feather Robes and fear halted the dancers, as smoke and dust rose from beneath the palace towers—and finally the emperor learned that thousands of chariots and ten-thousand riders had driven southwest.

The palace panicked, and as soon as horses could be harnessed, the emperor and his guards, along with his closest household, fled through the capital’s west gate. Citizens of the city clogged the road with wagons, jostling everyone as they pressed, without regard for status. The kingfisher banners of the imperial carriages shook as they halted, then drove, then halted again.

Finally after a hundred miles, the six armies of guards stopped at Mawei Hill and refused to flee further. Deprived of pay and palace comforts, they blamed the Yang Family and would not move on, though the rebels pressed, until every single one was punished—even her. The emperor could do nothing to stop his soldiers, armed as they were, and strong.

Writhing in anguish, a beauty was killed before the horses. Her flower hairpin fell to the ground—and no one picked it up, nor her kingfisher-green broach, nor her jade hair-clasp.

The monarch covered his face, unable to save his consort, then glanced back—his tears flowed down, an echo of her blood. Then the yellow dust dispersed, and winds sighed bleak and dreary. The column moved on.