“And now for Shihuangdi, the First Emperor,” Katya said. “He also left a record of achievements, inscribed on bronze and stone and set up high in the mountains, in places he visited to carry out sacrifices to the cosmic powers. But it’s frighteningly different. Instead of listing vanquished enemies, the First Emperor celebrates internal order. He’s proud of establishing a totalitarian police state. The empire of Augustus, like the British Empire, was cosmopolitan, with a tolerance for cultural diversity that was a linchpin of the Imperial system. China was different. The empire of the First Emperor was an empire of the Chinese people, full stop. The outside world was barely acknowledged. Augustus was a man of the people, a Roman through and through. The First Emperor was an outsider, a warlord who swept down into the Chinese heartland just as Genghis Khan was to do centuries later. But whereas Genghis Khan expended his energy in endless conquests in the world beyond, the First Emperor stopped at the geographical limits of China while he was still bursting with warrior fury. He found his outlet in a mania for control. He didn’t really rule an empire at all. He himself said it. He unified China. He created China. Before him, China was a chaotic land of warring states. He subsumed all that. He turned back the clock to zero.”
“Plus ca change,” Jack murmured.
Katya opened the book. “Virtually everything we know of him comes from the Records of the Grand Historian by Sima Qian, written about a century after the First Emperor’s death. It records admonitions, edicts, laws, tirelessly issued by the Great One. He adjusts rules, sets standards for everything, ‘the ten thousand things.’ He regulates the seasons and the months, rectifies the days, makes uniform the sounds and measures. All under heaven are of one mind, one will. Listen to this. ‘His great rule purifies the folkways, the whole empire acknowledges its sway; it blankets the world in splendid regulation. Posterity will obey his laws, his constant governance knowing not end. The bright virtue of the Great Emperor aligns and orders the whole universe.’ He even erased the concept of doubt.”
Costas whistled. “Sounds like the mother of all control freaks.”
Katya nodded. “Augustus’ creed was feel-good, the creed of a golden age. The creed of the First Emperor was one of order, certainty. And with that came denial of anything that couldn’t be controlled, denial of the outside world. Listen to this: ‘In the twenty-sixth year of his rule he first united the world; there were none who did not come to him in submission.’ And again: ‘Wherever human tracks may reach, there are none who are not his subjects.’ These are patent lies, as anyone who had been beyond the borders would know. But he tried to solve that by preventing anyone from leaving.”
“So what about the gods?” Costas asked. “Or was this guy divine too?”
Katya put down the book and took out a ziplock bag with an object inside. It was the Chinese coin they had found in the burial, with the square hole in the center. “This coin represents two of the most powerful Chinese symbols of cosmological power, in which the earth is square and the heavens are circular. The coin shows the heavens as a delimited concept, as something finite.” She slipped the bag back in her pocket. “To the steppe-dweller, surrounded by vast open spaces and sky, either you’re overawed by it or you see it as the definition of your world. The ancient Chinese attempted to rationalize the heavens, to bring them within their grasp. Take a look at Altamaty’s yurt. The dome shape is a representation of the heavens, like a planetarium. Sitting inside it, surrounded by the vastness of the steppe, you can feel that you’ve drawn the heavens toward you, that you control them. That’s how to understand the First Emperor. His cities, his palaces, were analogues of the heavens, and so was the underground world he created for his eternal existence.”
“Tell us about that,” Costas said.
“That was another difference from the Romans. Augustus may have been deified later, but he lived his life as a mortal. The First Emperor had no need for the afterlife. He’d created his own heaven on earth. When he went to the mountains and sacrificed to the cosmic powers, he was really sacrificing to himself He couldn’t bear to acknowledge his own mortality.”
“You’re talking about the concept of wu di, non-death,” Jack said.
Katya nodded. “For many ancient Chinese, there was no spiritual world beyond the present. The dead formed a community on earth, an analogue of the world of the living. They could even intermingle, in places where the earth and the cosmos are close, where illusion and reality were interchangeable. Places like this, high in the mountains. And for an emperor, wu di was a control concept. Everyone retained their roles-soldiers, courtesans, the emperor himself For him, it meant eternal power.”
“Didn’t the First Emperor try to prolong his actual life?” Costas asked.
Katya nodded wryly. “He sent expeditions to a place called Penglai, the Isles of the Immortals, the mythical dwelling place of the Blessed. He ate from utensils of gold and jade, thought to dispel bodily decay. He employed spells and charms to battle the demons he thought caused aging. And according to Sima Qian, he took mercury, another supposed panacea. That was probably what killed him.”
“And that gets us to his tomb,” Jack said.
Katya flipped the book to a marked page. “The most famous passage of the Records of the Grand Historian” She read it out:
“In the ninth month the First Emperor was interred at Mount Li When the emperor first came to the throne he began digging and shaping Mount Li. Later, when he unified the empire, he had over seven hundred thousand men from all over the empire transported to the spot. They dug down to the third layer of underground springs and poured in bronze to make the outer coffin. Replicas of palaces, scenic towers and the hundred officials, as well as rare utensils and wonderful objects, were brought to fill up the tomb. Craftsmen were ordered to set up crossbows and arrows, rigged so they would immediately shoot down anyone attempting to break in. Mercury was used to fashion imitations of the hundred rivers, the Yellow River and the Yangtse, and the seas, constructed in such a way that they seemed to flow. Above were representations of all the heavenly bodies, below, the features of the earth”
“Incredible,” Costas murmured. “And all that stuff’s still there?”
Katya passed him a photograph. It showed a vast mound, surmounted by trees. “There’s no reason to doubt Sima Qian’s description, even though the tomb had been filled and sealed before he was born,” she said. “The discovery of the terracotta warriors in pits outside suggests that his account of the burial chamber may not be exaggerated. Chinese scientists using remote-sensing equipment have even detected high concentrations of mercury under the mound.”
“So you’re saying he wasn’t preparing for the afterlife, but for a kind of parallel existence.”
“The First Emperor had already paved the way in real life, planning his palaces and temples in his capital Xian as imitations of the heavens, with the river Wei as the Milky Way. He aligned political and cosmological order, just as he’d proclaimed in his edicts. He was also mapping his palaces on the stars, imposing the dwellings of a supreme being on the cosmos.”
“And for supreme being, read First Emperor,” Costas said.
“Right. And now for the reason we’re here.” Katya picked up the book and read the next passage:
“After the interment had been completed, someone pointed out that the artisans and craftsmen who had built the tomb knew what was buried there, and if they should leak word of the treasures, it would be a serious affair Therefore, after the articles had been placed in the tomb, the inner gate was closed off and the outer gate lowered, so that all the artisans and craftsmen were shut in the tomb and were unable to get out. Trees and bushes were planted to give the appearance of a mountain.”
She closed the book and spoke quietly. “What I’ve told you so far is all documented. What I’m about to tell you no other westerners have ever heard, and no one in China outside a small and secret fold that includes my own family.”
“Here we go,” Cost
as murmured, eyeing Katya.
“There’s an ancient myth,” she said. She paused, and Jack could see the burden on her, the decision to reveal something kept secret by generations of her forbears. She looked at him, and he nodded. She took a deep breath and carried on. “A myth about a pair of precious stones, set together in the First Emperor’s tomb at the apex of the heavens. A pair of stones that shone with dazzling light, a light the emperor believed would assure his immortal power. And a myth that the guardian of the tomb secretly took those stones before the burial chamber was sealed. That those who swore to protect the tomb, to assure the emperor’s eternal reign, pursued the guardian and his descendents relentlessly, through the ages, but never found the stolen jewels.”
“Good God,” Jack murmured. “The inscription in the jungle shrine.”
“Fast-forward two thousand years,” Katya said. “To a foggy night in Victorian London, at the Royal United Service Institution. It was the usual Thursday night venue, sherry and sandwiches followed by a lecture.” She took out a clear plastic sleeve containing a faded brown broadsheet, and passed it to Jack. He looked at it for a moment, stunned. “Well I’ll be damned,” he murmured. He read it out:
An illustrated lecture at the Royal United Services Institute, 6.30 to 7.30 pm, Thursday, 26 November 1888. “Roman Antiquities of Southern India.” Accompanied by lantern slides and artifacts on display. By Captain J. L. Howard, R.E., of the School of Military Engineering, formerly of the Queen’s Own Madras Sappers and Miners”
Jack looked at Katya incredulously. “How on earth did you get this? I knew about Howard’s lecture, but I’ve never seen an original broadsheet.”
“It’s covered in scribbled notes, in Chinese characters,” Costas said, peering closely. “In pencil, so faded you can barely read it. As if someone were taking notes.”
“It was a Chinese diplomat called Wu Che Sianghu, a Kazakh Mongolian,” Katya said. “He’d been posted the year before to the Chinese embassy in London, and frequently attended public lectures. He had a special interest in India because he’d been sent by the Chinese government to investigate the opium trade, which was still flourishing despite Victorian moral opprobrium. He was particularly concerned about the spread of opium use among the hill tribes of the upper Godavari River, following the end of the Rampa Rebellion and the departure of the troops in early 1881. I know about this because Wu Che’s papers came into my uncle’s possession.”
“Your uncle?” Costas said. “The uncle whose body we found in the jungle?”
Katya nodded. “But the broadsheet probably never would have been saved had it not been for one thing Howard said in that lecture, the one thing that explains how my uncle came to be in the jungle and to die there. It’s in those pencil notes.”
“Go on,” Jack said.
She took the paper out of the plastic. “It’s at the bottom. It says, ‘Roman military-style carvings found in jungle.’ And then ‘cave temple$$ The first note was taken from what Howard said, and the second was guesswork by Wu Che. Almost all ancient carvings then being found in southern India were from cave temples or shrines, so it was a reasonable surmise.”
“Incredible,” Jack murmured. “There are no surviving drafts of the lecture and it was never published. In Howard’s papers I found an exchange of letters with the editor of the institute journal badgering Howard for a typescript. The paper had been co-authored with Robert Wauchope, who’d been posted back to the Survey of India. Howard claimed the two of them needed to collaborate to produce a polished version, but that evidently never happened. There was a new editor a few years later and the matter was dropped. It always struck me as odd for Howard not to publish. His collection of Roman coins from India was a passion of his. But what you’ve said might shed light on it. Something was holding him back.”
“Something he said in the lecture he shouldn’t have said?” Costas suggested.
“Here’s what I know,” Katya said. “At the bottom of this sheet Wu Che writes ‘Spoke privately after the lecture to Captain Howard, no more information forthcoming.’ But then I think he tried to contact Howard again.”
Jack’s mind was suddenly racing. “I knew this rang a bell. He did try again. It’s in another letter in Howard’s papers, in the chest in Seaquest II It dates from a few years later, in 1891. Someone from the Chinese embassy in London wrote to Howard about the Rampa Rebellion. That’s why I remember it. I’m certain it was the same Chinese name, Wu Che Sianghu. The letter was purportedly about opium. He knew that Howard had been one of the longest-serving British officers in Rampa. He wanted to know if Howard knew of any ritual contexts in which opium might be used by the jungle peoples, in ceremonies, in caves, temples.”
“He was fishing for more details about that shrine,” Costas suggested.
“Wu Che must have done some research after the lecture, worked out where Howard was during his time in India with the Madras Sappers, anywhere out of the ordinary. Details of officers’ deployments were published in the annual Army List. He would have seen Howard’s deployment to Rampa in 1879 and 1880. It was close to the area of Roman influence in southern India yet hardly explored by Europeans, with hundreds of square miles of jungle not even surveyed. It was just the kind of place where soldiers on patrol might have stumbled on an ancient shrine. The Royal Engineers officers and NCOs of the Madras Sappers were the only British army personnel with the Rampa Field Force, and it’s possible that Howard was the only veteran in England at the time of his lecture. Wu Che might have played on that too. He might have expected Howard to be eager to respond to any query about the campaign. But Wu Che’s letter has Howard’s handwritten ‘Not replied’ across the top. It was obviously Howard’s firm decision, but it was perhaps a mistake. Not replying at all might have rung alarm bells for Wu Che.”
“I thought Howard had clammed up about the rebellion anyway,” Costas said. “Something you think happened to him out there. Some trauma.”
“But Wu Che wouldn’t have known about that,” Jack said. “He would have assumed the lack of reply was because Howard refused to be forthcoming about something he’d found.”
“Howard may have regretted his slip in the lecture, mentioning the sculpture, and determined never to make the mistake again,” Katya said. “When the letter arrived he would have remembered Wu Che from after the lecture, and that may have set off his own alarm bells too. He might have remembered the pact Jack thinks he and Wauchope made after leaving the shrine. That’s maybe when he decided not to go ahead with publishing the paper.”
Costas looked puzzled. “What is it that excites a Chinese diplomat in 1888 about reports of Roman sculpture in a jungle shrine in southern India? What’s that got to do with opium?”
Katya paused. “That’s why I told you about the First Emperor. There’s a connection. A pretty astonishing one. And you are the first outsiders to hear this.” She took a deep breath. “When the First Emperor was planning his afterlife, he entrusted the sanctity of his tomb to his most trusted bodyguards, to men of his clan who had ridden down with him into China from the Qin homeland in the northern steppes. They were Mongols, fierce nomad horsemen, from the stock who would one day spawn Genghis Khan and the most terrifying army the world has ever known. The emperor’s bodyguard wore tiger skins over their armor, and wielded great swords. They called themselves tiger warriors.”
Jack stared at Katya. “Go on.”
“There were twelve of them, his closest bodyguard,” Katya continued. “Six was the First Emperor’s sacred number, and any multiples of it had special power. Even during his lifetime the warriors were secret, and they revealed themselves only to the emperor’s enemies, to those they were sent to hunt down, those who would never live to tell what they saw. In time, one of them became the killer, the emperor’s closest bodyguard, and he alone became known as the tiger warrior. On the emperor’s deathbed, the twelve were entrusted with the outer ring of defenses of his tomb. The inner sanctum was entrusted to a hereditary
family of guardians, who lived within the tomb precinct. The twelve were sworn to infiltrate Xian society for generations to come, as courtiers, officials, army officers, an invisible power always ready to pounce. They were promised immortality through endless reincarnation, the eternal earthly vanguard of the terracotta warrior army who were buried around the emperor’s tomb. For more than two thousand years the tiger warriors have kept the tomb inviolate, from tomb robbers, from later emperors, from archaeologists. Inviolate, that is, with one exception.”
“Something was taken,” Jack murmured.
Katya nodded. “Of all the wondrous treasures of the tomb, only the guardian and the twelve knew what lay at the apex of the heavens, directly over the tomb itself Sima Qian, author of the Records of the Grand Historian, knew nothing of it.”
“A pair of precious stones,” Jack murmured. “Stones that interacted to produce a light like a star in the heavens. A double jewel. The jewel of immortality.”
Katya stared at him, then spoke quietly. “In the last act of the burial ritual, the guardian alone was in the tomb, passing from the central chamber to the entrance before sealing the vault for all eternity. Something made the warriors suspect him of stealing the greatest treasure, and their suspicions hardened when the guardian lived to a great age, well over one hundred years. That was not uncommon for steppe Mongolians, but was enough to convince them that he had taken something that prolonged life, a treasure that should rightly have been left in the tomb to release them from their servitude and allow the emperor to rise again. They never saw the guardian die. He returned to the northern steppes, handing over the custodianship to his son, a tradition that continued. But then, five generations on, the son of the guardian himself disappeared. He did not return to the steppes but went west beyond the boundary of the empire, strayed to where he should not go. The twelve decided to act. The tiger warrior was unleashed.”
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