“—flow toward the south, but there is another, much weaker, that flows from east to west. If my Nine Star calculations are correct,” Master Red said, “we'll get to the main entrance sooner if we go to the right.”
“Don't ask me about the Nine Stars,” Lao Jiang warned the rest of us when he saw us all open our mouths to draw a breath and speak. “It has to do with feng shui and is so complicated that only the great experts can understand it.”
We thus continued walking and reached the corner of the wall about ten minutes later. We turned and continued our descent. There were large chips in the wall that exposed the packed earth behind. Much to my delight, we were stepping on pieces of red plaster as we walked, creating an ominous rasping noise in that dark solitude.
After quite some time—half an hour or a bit more, perhaps—we reached the end and turned left again. It couldn't be much farther to the door. My senses heightened: with a little good luck (or bad luck, depending on how you looked at it), we might see the remains of those servants who'd been speared by the crossbows, warning us of the danger. But when we finally got there, we saw nothing to indicate that an arrow had ever flown through that air. It was obvious, however, that someone had been there before us, because the doors of the monumental entrance were wide open. Nearly fifteen feet high, each door was adorned with an enormous rusted iron ring that hung from a door knocker in the shape of a tiger's head. We passed through them carefully, looking in all directions, entering a sort of vaulted tunnel some thirty feet long that looked like the ideal place for a surprise attack. It was a massive building of colossal proportions. No European king had ever had such a grandiose burial. Not even the pyramids in Egypt could compare.
The other end of the tunnel opened up onto a patio, or rather a huge corridor, white and gray tiles forming spiral and geometric patterns on the floor. By this point I was wishing there were some of those lamps with great quantities of whale oil that Sima Qian's Basic Annals said would never burn out. I was growing tired of the dark that filled the spaces around us, and I couldn't picture the magnitude of the structure with any clarity.
After crossing the enormous patio, we arrived in front of another wall identical to the first. The mausoleum was protected, it seemed, by two barriers capable of stopping any army in the world, however large it might be, even a modern army with its tanks and Big Bertha cannons. All that to protect a dead man? The First Emperor had undeniably been an extreme megalomaniac. There was another door of gigantic proportions in the second wall, although this one was a sliding door and the entire surface was covered in dangerous spikes. It had been left propped open with heavy bronze bars that the servants of Han must have put there; it was a wonder they'd withstood all that pressure for such a long time. Passing between the two, we came into another vaulted tunnel at the end of which were stairs leading up to an enormous black space. We walked up slowly, paying attention to every sound or sign of danger. Once we reached the top, quite simply, we saw nothing. The light from our torch was lost in the most lugubrious, empty silence.
“What do we do now?” my niece asked, her voice melting into that vast space.
No one spoke.
After a moment's hesitation, Lao Jiang walked over to the wall on the left and lifted the torch as high as he could. Then he walked over to the right and searched for something there, finally seeming to find what he was looking for.
“Come here, Biao,” he called.
The boy walked over to him, and the antiquarian knelt down. “Get up on my shoulders.”
Biao looked puzzled but obeyed, and before standing, Lao Jiang passed him the torch.
“Hold on tight,” the antiquarian said. “Master Red Jade, help me stand up, please.”
Master Red walked over and took him under the arm, pulling up as Lao Jiang struggled to rise with the boy on his shoulders, balancing precariously.
“Do you see a receptacle attached to the wall?”
“Yes.”
“Put your hand inside and tell me what you feel.”
Biao's face contorted on hearing those instructions, and he looked toward Fernanda and me in search of help but couldn't see us in the pitch black. Horrified, I watched him reach into that receptacle as if it were a snake pit.
“It's like … I don't know, Lao Jiang. There's a little metal stick stuck in something. It might be dried wood or something else that's grooved.”
“Smell the wood.”
“What?” the boy asked, appalled.
“Bring your hand up to your nose and tell me what the wood smells like.” The antiquarian's legs were shaking. He wouldn't be able to hold Biao much longer.
I was absolutely revolted as I watched the poor boy sniff whatever he had touched with his fingertips. Who knows how much filth had collected there over two thousand years?
“It doesn't smell like anything, Lao Jiang.”
“Put your hand back in!”
Biao obeyed. “I don't know….” He hesitated. “A bit rancid, I guess. Like rancid butter. I'm not sure, though. It's dry.”
“Put the flame up to the little metal stick.”48
“Put the flame where?”
“Bring the flame to the whale oil!” Lao Jiang shouted, unable to take any more. He was leaning heavily on Master Red, whose face grimaced with the effort.
Biao tipped the torch over the receptacle and, after what seemed like an eternity, lifted it back up and jumped down off poor Lao Jiang's shoulders. Fernanda and I watched the scene intently, in part because we couldn't see anything else. Our jaws dropped when a little gleam appeared in the receptacle and grew brighter until, with a splutter, a beautiful light appeared. Our eyes being so used to the dark, it was as if a powerful electric bulb had been turned on. We all let out a few oohs and aahs of admiration watching the fire run along a little channel on the wall, lighting other wicks every thirty or forty feet. We turned around, following the path of the flame with our eyes, when our gaze suddenly came upon the silhouette of an enormous building, a gigantic palace that blocked our view of the flame's advance. An interminable esplanade opened up before it, with a grandiose stone staircase divided into three levels and defended by two huge tigers sitting on pedestals. Somewhere out of our sight, the flame's path must have split into several branches, because as we looked at what was still the vague shape of a palace, two tongues of fire crept up on the left and right of the building, turned toward the tigers, and, once there, ran back toward us along the gray tiles that outlined a wide avenue bordered by pilasters.
We were spellbound, to put it mildly. The tops of the pilasters also lit up as the flames licked past, illuminating the middle and sides of the plaza, where there were two giant ponds. Both were so deep you couldn't see the bottom and must once have been filled with water and fish, undoubtedly connecting to the pentagonal pipes in the funeral chamber's drainage system. As soon as I saw them, I knew that's where we'd have come out if the dam on the Shahe River had still existed. The crossbows couldn't be far away. As the esplanade lit up like a fair, the flame returned to its starting place on the left side of the wall, having circled the entire area. It was an explosion of light, and now the palace was perfectly defined and lay stunning before us, with its three tiers of yellow walls and brown ceramic roof tiles. The only problem was the horrible smell of the whale oil as it burned. However, I did have to acknowledge the merit of its burning smoke-free.
Various other buildings stretched out on both sides of the palace almost as far as the eye could see. If the First Emperor had intended to fool everyone about the truth of his real burial place, he had undeniably achieved his aim. It went far beyond the scope of anyone's imagination.
Without uttering a word, we began the long trek down the gray-tiled avenue toward the palace. If anyone had been watching us from the roof, they'd have thought we were a row of ants marching down the middle of a great ballroom. Indeed, it took us quite a long time to cover the distance up to the terrifying gold tigers that guarded the staircase. Each
was as big as a house and had enormous sharp nails and exotic scales down its back, making them rather repulsive-looking. From down below you had to tilt your head far back in order to see the building at the top of the last set of stairs.
“Are we going to climb up now?” Fernanda asked. Biao and Master Red startled at the sound of her voice; we'd been quiet for so long that it sounded like cannon fire.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked in concern.
Fernanda frowned. “I'm tired. It must be late. Why don't we have dinner here, where it's light, and sleep for a while before we go any farther?”
“I'd like nothing better, Fernanda,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. “But this is no place to sleep, next to these horrible animals. We'll find somewhere better soon, I promise.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a mocking look on Biao's face. How mean adolescents can be, I thought, gathering patience. In any event, if we must reach the top of all those stairs, we needed to get started as soon as possible, so I walked over and led the pack. In order to boast about the incredible feat later, I decided to count each step: one, two, three, four … fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two … seventy-three, seventy-four … one hundred. First set completed. Everything was fine to that point, although my calf muscles did ache a little.
“Shall we carry on?” Lao Jiang encouraged, starting up the second set of stairs. Come on, let's go, I said to myself, and began to count again. But by the time we were nearing the end of that Chinese torture, I was ready to drop. It's one thing to walk and quite another to climb stairs carrying the weight of a travel bag. I was too old for this sort of thing. However proud I might have been of my renewed strength and newfound agility, my forty-something years were taking their toll: I sank down on the floor as soon as I reached the next landing.
“Are you all right, Auntie?”
“Aren't you not all right?” I groaned from that humiliating position. “You said you were tired before we started climbing.”
“Yes, well …” she replied. Her kind heart (in a manner of speaking) didn't want to hurt my pride.
“I'm fine. Just give me a minute to catch my breath, and I'll get up.”
“Will you be able to make it to the top?” Lao Jiang asked nervously. So I was the only one who thought I was going to die, is that it? All the others, including that old man with a white beard, were as fresh as spring daisies.
“I can help if you'll let me, madame,” Master Red murmured as he knelt in front of me.
“You can? How?”
“Allow me,” he said, taking one of my arms and pushing up the sleeve. With both thumbs he began applying light pressure to various areas. Then he moved over to the other arm and did the same thing. The pain in my legs disappeared completely. He continued, pressing spots near my eyes, on my cheeks, and finally he applied a slightly firmer pressure to my ears, using his thumbs and index fingers. By the time he stood up with a courteous bow, I was the freshest daisy in that garden. “What did you do to me?” I asked in astonishment, standing with the greatest of ease. I felt wonderful.
“I got rid of your pain,” he replied, picking up his bundle, “and helped you release your own energy. It's traditional medicine.”
I looked at Lao Jiang in search of an explanation, but upon seeing that all-too-familiar look of pride in his eyes, I promptly refrained and ran up the last set of stairs. The Chinese possessed a wealth of ancient knowledge and knew things we Westerners couldn't even imagine, entrenched as we were in our colonialist superiority. Oh, how we lacked the humility to be able to learn and respect the good things others had to offer!
I was the first to reach the top and threw my arms up in victory. Before me were six large openings in the yellow wall that led into the palace. They had evidently been covered by elegant wooden doors when it was built, but now only the rotten remains lay scattered on the floor. The bright light from the esplanade hung softly through the openings in the walls and gradually disappeared inside until it was completely extinguished, swallowed up by the black ceilings, floors, and columns. Black, symbolizing the Water element, was Shi Huang Ti's color, and, like the man of excess he was, he took even that to an extreme. For the Chinese, white is the color of mourning, but to me that enormous throne room seemed very funereal. According to what Lao Jiang had once told us, a chronicler who knew the First Emperor had written that he was a man with a hooked nose, the chest of a bird of prey, the voice of a jackal, and the heart of a tiger. Well, that room in the funeral palace couldn't have been more suited to someone like him: It must have been over sixteen hundred feet from one side to the other, and it couldn't have been any less than five hundred feet from the other end to where we stood, in the south. The room was divided into three distinct levels by two sets of stairs. Rows of thick black-laquered columns marked the path to the throne, which in this case, instead of an opulent seat whence to preside over important events, was a sarcophagus placed on an enormous altar. On either side of this altar, two imposing sculptures of gold dragons with open jaws stretched from floor to ceiling.
“Look,” Master Red said, pointing in front of us.
Straining my eyes a little, because I was tired and because the tall timber doorframe cast a long shadow that made it difficult to see, I could just make out some sticks and shapeless silhouettes on the floor a few feet away from the entrance.
“The Han servants,” the antiquarian murmured.
I grew alarmed. There? That was where the crossbows fired? But I couldn't see a single one anywhere.
“We'd better not go any farther,” Master Red pronounced. “Will we spend the night here?” Fernanda asked.
I looked at Lao Jiang, and he gave a slight nod of his head.
“Right here,” I replied, letting my bag fall to the floor. It must have been quite late, possibly close to midnight, and we were exhausted. It had been a very long day. We ate hard-boiled eggs and balls of rice that we dunked in our hot tea. A full belly is the best of all soporifics, and so, despite the light and the extraordinary things surrounding us, we all fell fast asleep as soon as our heads hit the k'angs.
There was no way to know if it was morning or not. I opened my eyes. That light, that strange eave, that far-off ceiling … The First Emperor of China's mausoleum! We were finally inside. So much had happened, but we were finally inside! And we were near where the crossbows fired: exactly as the architect Sai Wu had warned his son, once he was inside the main hall of the funeral palace.
I heard something nearby and turned to look. Four pairs of eyes were smiling down at me; everyone was awake and waiting.
“Good morning, Auntie.”
Good morning indeed; as good as if it weren't the most dangerous one of our lives. Still, despite my fears, I enjoyed doing my tai chi on that balcony in front of the palace, contemplating the distant red walls, the grand esplanade with flames on top of the pilasters, and the empty ponds. If this was going to be the last time, then we might as well do it in style.
I was still savoring my tea when Lao Jiang gave the order to get moving.
“Where do you suppose you're going?” I mocked, taking the last sip.
“Not far.” He smiled. “How about the throne room?”
“Do you want us to die?” I joked.
“No. I want us to pick up our things and start studying the terrain. First, we'll use our bundles to see if the old crossbows still work. If they do, we'll try to find where the arrows come from in order to avoid them.”
“Here, use mine,” I said, tossing it to him. “Yours had better stay right here.”
The children hurried to gather their things as soon as they saw Lao Jiang, Master Red, and me approach one of the doors and stop, kneeling just in front of the wooden sill. That great hall was impressive. If it had been a real administrative palace, thousands would easily have been able to gather there. Nearby we could see what was left of a handful of ancient skeletons. In among the virtually disintegrated bones and tattered clothing were fift
een or twenty bronze arrows as long as my forearm.
“Are you sure we can use your bag?” Lao Jiang asked, glancing at me suspiciously.
“I have a hunch the crossbows aren't going to work,” I replied optimistically. Even if worse came to worst, my passport and Fernanda's, as well as my sketchbook and pencils, were safe in my pockets.
Why do I always speak too soon? The moment my belongings touched the ground on the other side of the sill, you could hear the sound of chains, and before we knew it, a single arrow came from the north wall, somewhere between the coffin and the gold dragons, and speared the bag as if it were a pincushion.
“Well, your hunch was wrong,” Master Red noted very seriously.
“I see that,” I replied.
“Now we know everything we needed to know,” Lao Jiang said. “First, the crossbows still work, and second, they're very precise and a great distance away. There's no way we can get to the firing mechanism.”
“The problem's with the floor,” I added pensively. “When something touches it, the arrows fire.”
“Well, we can't fly to the other side,” Fernanda joked.
“It's time, Master Red Jade, for you to hear what the third piece of the jiance says regarding this trap,” Lao Jiang said. “Your vast knowledge has already helped us once. I hope it will be able to help us again.”
Master Red, who was already kneeling, bowed so deeply before the antiquarian that his prominent chin nearly dug into his throat.
“It would be a great honor for me to be able to help you again, Da Teh.”
The monk called Lao Jiang by his courtesy name, Da Teh, the one Fernanda and I were supposed to have been using.
“The architect Sai Wu wrote to his son, ‘On the first level, hundreds of crossbows will fire when you enter the palace, but you can avoid them by studying the founder of the Xia49 dynasty's achievements.’ ”
Master Red crossed his arms, burying his hands in his “sleeves that stop the wind,” and slipped into a state of deep meditation (although, rather than meditation it must have been thought, because Taoist meditation consists of emptying the mind and thinking of nothing, the exact opposite of what he had to do). I began to ponder as well. Something in what Lao Jiang had read of Sai Wu's words caught my attention.