“It's missing the mountains,” my niece replied.
“Perhaps they didn't think they were necessary,” the antiquarian commented, passing through the walls of the town across the bridge in front of us. He suddenly let out a hearty laugh. “All that traveling for nothing! Do you know where we are? We're back in Shang-hsien!”
I couldn't help but break into a big smile.
“So will tiny little assassins from the Green Gang attack us here?” my niece joked.
“Lao Jiang,” I begged, “please don't make us cross the Qin Ling mountain range to get to the mausoleum. Could we take the main road to Xi'an?”
“Of course,” he replied.
We crossed through little Shang-hsien, which, despite its size, was more elegant and lavish than the actual town, and left through the western gate to follow the route to Hongmenhe, a scant hundred and fifty feet away. We walked along enthusiastically, noting every detail in that marvelous reconstruction. Along the shiny bronze paths were scale statues of carters pulling their oxen, peasants with hoes raised in an eternal gesture of cultivation, covered wagons filled with fruits and vegetables heading to the capital, lone gentlemen on their mounts, and farmyard animals such as chickens and pigs. It was a country in miniature, industrious and full of life, a life that became increasingly intense the closer we got to the heart of that world: imperial Xianyang. None of us could believe our eyes. You couldn't imagine a place like that even in your wildest dreams.
“Shouldn't we head toward Mount Li and find the hill that marks the mausoleum?” Biao suddenly asked.
“I don't think the emperor would reproduce the funeral palace inside his burial mound,” Lao Jiang said. “Logically, he'd have wanted to be buried in his imperial palace at Xianyang. If he's not there, then we'll look where you suggested.”
We passed through beautiful cities, crossed bridges over streams that sparkled like silver in the light of the whale-oil lamps, and had to swerve around the increasing numbers of statues that were incredible representations of everyday life in that long-lost empire. Finally, when we were beginning to feel as if we were part of a strange world where everyone and everything had been frozen in time, we found ourselves in front of huge walls that protected what Lao Jiang said was Shanglin Park. This was an exceptional place built south of the river Wei for the Qin kings’ enjoyment and was later enlarged by the First Emperor.
“In fact,” Lao Jiang said, “shortly before Shi Huang Ti died, he decided he was tired of the noise, filth, and crowds in Xianyang, north of the river Wei, and ordered that a new imperial palace be built inside this park, amid the lovely gardens. Sima Qian said that the new palace of Epang, which was never finished, would have been the biggest of any palace ever built, and yet it was simply the entrance to a monumental complex that, according to the project, would have covered hundreds and hundreds of miles. However, work stopped when Shi Huang Ti died, and the only part that had been completed was the great front hall, which could hold ten thousand men and flagpoles that were sixty feet high. If I'm not mistaken, Sima Qian said there was a path in the lower part of this great hall that led directly to the top of a nearby mountain and an elevated, covered walkway that went from Epang to Xianyang, over the river Wei. The First Emperor had several palaces in the capital, so many that the exact number isn't known. All his residences were connected by tunnels and elevated walkways that allowed him to move from one place to another without being seen. Epang was his last palace, his great dream, and he put hundreds of thousands of convicts to work on it. I think he would have ordered that a replica of Epang be built down here so it could be his final resting place.”
“But if the one up above wasn't finished …” I commented.
“The one down here wasn't either,” Lao Jiang agreed. “Both Epang and the mausoleum were being built at the same time, so I suppose the two also stopped at the same point. If I'm right, the First Emperor's real tomb has to be in the underground copy of that magnificent front hall.”
We crossed through a great bronze door richly tooled and decorated with what I didn't dare think were enormous precious stones and found ourselves in a splendid garden where the trees were normal size, as well as the paths and small rivers of quicksilver. The bronze sky was now blue—painted, undoubtedly—and no longer reflected the light from what were now lanterns hanging from branches or set on stone pillars alongside the path.
“How can the mercury still flow after two thousand years?” Biao asked, truly perplexed by the question.
None of us knew the answer. Lao Jiang and Master Red wove a thousand and one explanations, each one as far-fetched as the last, about the possible types of automatic mechanisms that could operate the rivers from some hidden part of the mausoleum. Meanwhile, we continued walking through those incredibly beautiful gardens that would have put Yuyuan Gardens in Shanghai to shame even at their height during the Ming era. All the trees and other vegetation were made of baked clay, like the statues we'd found throughout the mausoleum, but the colors remained vibrant and strong. I couldn't understand how certain much more recent artistic works (various Renaissance frescoes, for example) could be in such terrible condition while the pigments in this clay were as fresh as the day they were painted. Perhaps it was because they'd been enclosed down here with no changes in humidity, out of the wind, and safe from passersby. Surely if any of these statues were taken outside, they'd lose their color forever. The bronze floor was engraved to give it the texture of earth, sand, or grass, and the natural stones that decorated every nook and cranny had the strangest, most elegant shapes imaginable. It was my niece who discovered something else in the rivers of mercury.
“Good Lord, look at this!” she exclaimed, leaning over the handrail on a bridge, pointing straight down with her arm.
We all hurried over to examine that liquid silver surface transporting strange floating fish that seemed to be made of iron. In reality, the actual shape of a fish had been lost long ago, and they now looked like the frames of sunken ships: deformed, eroded by rust, wrecked.
“They must have been lovely aquatics made of high-quality steel when they were placed in the mercury,” the antiquarian commented.
All right, then: first historical error, and one I was not about to let pass unnoticed.
“I believe, Lao Jiang, that steel was invented by an American in the nineteenth century.”
“I'm sorry, Elvira, but steel was invented in China during the Warring States Period, prior to unification by the First Emperor. We discovered cast iron in the fourth century b.c., although you Westerners insist on claiming these advances for your own many centuries later. We've always had good clay for building ovens and foundries.”
“It's true, madame.”
“So why did they make these fish out of steel and not gold or silver?” Fernanda asked, watching the sad remains float away downriver.
“Gold and silver would have alloyed with the mercury and disappeared, while iron is resistant, and steel is nothing but tempered iron.”
We continued through the gardens, discovering ever-more-amazing things—beautiful birds lined up on tree branches, geese and cranes pecking on the ground amid flower beds and stands of bamboo, deer, dogs, strange winged lions, lambs, and, appropriately, a large number of those ugly animals called tianlus, mythical beasts with magical powers whose mission, like that of the winged lions, is to protect the soul of the dead, defending it from devils and evil spirits. There were also buildings with the typical upturned eaves in the middle of little rivers, tables of refreshment and orchestras of musicians with ancient instruments. We passed a small dock with rusted steel skiffs moored to it. An army of life-size servants was all along the way; you'd turn a corner and suddenly come upon someone, nearly jumping out of your skin until you realized it was a statue, and then nearly jump out of your skin again. There were pavilions where groups of acrobats or athletes like the ones we'd seen in the banquet hall were performing, trays with exquisite jade glasses and jugs to satiate the
emperor's thirst, baskets of fruit made of pearls, rubies, emeralds, turquoises, topazes, and so much more. I couldn't take my eyes off that immense wealth, that exaggerated opulence. True, everything here would pay off my debts and give me back my freedom, but why, for what purpose, would the First Emperor have accumulated so much? It had to be some sort of sickness, because once you have everything you want and need, what's the use in accumulating, for example, baskets of fruit made of precious stones or innumerable palaces where you live in hiding from the world?
All of us but Lao Jiang picked up what we liked along the way and put it in our bags. The antiquarian said that these were just trinkets and that the real treasure was in the emperor's true funeral palace. Still, it took us quite a while to get through the gardens before we came upon the largest building any of us had ever seen: a huge pavilion with red walls and several tiered black roofs as well as numerous staircases rising up from the middle of another esplanade that stretched as far as the eye could see. The pillars there burned incessantly, reflecting brightly off the giant bronze statues of warriors guarding the approach, the shiny floor, and an incredible ceiling studded with colossal heavenly constellations that sparkled with every imaginable color. Up above, the figure of a magnificent red crow that could only have been made of rubies or agates was visible in the south; a black tortoise fashioned out of opals or quartzes was to the north; to the west was a white jade tiger; to the east was an amazingly beautiful green dragon undoubtedly made of turquoises or emeralds; and in the center, above the gigantic front hall of the underground palace of Epang, was an exquisite yellow snake fashioned from topazes.
Such beauty and such excess! We were spellbound, staring at the image that lay before our astonished eyes, as if it were some fantastical place that couldn't be real. But it was, it was real, and we were there to see it.
“I believe we have a problem,” I thought I heard Master Red say.
“What's wrong now?” Lao Jiang asked, his voice also sounding unreal.
“We can't get there,” Master Red replied. I had to tear my eyes off that amazing ceiling to look at him and saw he was pointing toward the set of stairs in the middle of that enormous front hall. A wide river of mercury some fifteen feet across encircled that never-ending esplanade like a medieval moat, cutting off access.
“Isn't there a bridge anywhere?” I asked unnecessarily, because I could see there wasn't.
“ ‘And on the sixth, the Original Dragon's true burial place, you will have to cross a wide river of mercury to reach the treasures,’ “Lao Jiang recited from memory. “How could we have forgotten?” he moaned.
“Why don't we use those iron boats we saw near the pavilions in the garden?” Fernanda proposed.
“They weigh too much,” Master Red replied, shaking his head. “We wouldn't even be able to carry one between the five of us. Besides, we'd have to break so many of those lovely clay trees to get them here.”
“But there's no other way,” Lao Jiang objected angrily. Flushed and sweating, he was running out of patience.
“Let's use the trees,” I said without thinking. “We could cut—I mean, we could break some off at the bottom and use that line of yours to make a raft.”
“No, we'll not use my line,” he refused, slicing his hand categorically through the air.
“Why not?” I asked, confused.
“We might need it on the way out.”
“That's not true!” I retorted. “All six levels are open. The hardest part will be climbing those bridges and getting through the methane. We're not going to need your line for anything.”
“Just a moment,” Master Red interrupted. “Please don't argue. If Da Teh doesn't want to ruin his line in the quicksilver, we won't use it. I have another idea. Remember the steel fish we saw floating in that stream?”
We all nodded.
“Well, why don't we try to swim across?”
“Swim in mercury?” I asked in disbelief.
“It's a very dense liquid, Master Red Jade,” Lao Jiang objected. “I don't think that's possible. We'll tire out before we get halfway across, if we get that far.”
“You're right,” the monk admitted, “but the fish floated, so we will, too. If we use poles to propel ourselves, we could easily get to the other side.”
“And where do we get poles?” I asked.
“The bamboo in the garden!” Fernanda exclaimed. “We can use that to push ourselves. We'll be like gondoliers in Venice!”
Master Red and Biao looked at her blankly. Gondoliers in Venice must have been as incomprehensible to them as tianlus were to us.
Any silliness aside, I wasn't the least bit sure about us going into the mercury. After all, immersing yourself in a metal seemed a little dangerous, not to mention how incredibly cold it was. What if we accidentally swallowed some and poisoned ourselves? I knew that mercury was an ingredient in many medicines, especially purgatives, deworming treatments, and some antiseptics,50 but I was afraid it might be harmful in amounts higher than those prescribed by doctors.
The children were already running toward the garden in search of clay bamboo. Though he hadn't complained about the foot he'd hurt when he fell into the Han shaft, Biao was limping some. He didn't seem to be in serious pain, however. I heard a loud knock, and then it sounded as if an earthenware pot had hit the ground.
“Get it, Biao!” my niece shouted.
Master Red, Lao Jiang, and I went to get our own poles. Master Red Jade picked up a crane with a long beak and used it to chop at the bamboo. Soon enough we all looked like penitent Nazarenes keeping time with the shafts of their tall candles. We were ready to wade into that river of quicksilver.
Lao Jiang went first, after he'd tested the depth of the river. It was only about six feet and therefore perfect for pushing himself along. He smiled happily as soon as he was in.
“I'm floating just fine,” he said, and, digging one end of his bamboo into the riverbed, began to propel himself toward the other bank.
“Fernanda, Biao,” I called. “Come here. I want you to promise me you'll keep your mouths closed when you're in the mercury and not put your heads in under any circumstances. Do you hear me?”
“I can't dive?” whined Biao, who had evidently already been planning to.
“No, Biao, you cannot dive, you cannot take a drink of that quicksilver, you cannot get your face wet, and, if at all possible, don't put your hands in either.”
“But that's ridiculous, Auntie!”
“No it's not. Mercury is a metal, and it could be toxic. I don't want to hear any arguments. Is that clear?”
They nodded unhappily. No doubt they'd been picturing many exciting tricks and experiments in the mercury.
Lao Jiang had already reached the other side and, after struggling to get the pole out of the moat and set it on the ground without breaking it, tried to haul himself out by pushing down on his hands. Although his clothes looked dry, they must have been soaked with mercury and made it hard for him to move. Finally, with a great deal of effort, he managed to get one leg up on the bank and crawl out. Puffing, he shook himself off like a poodle, creating a cloud of quicksilver that fell onto the ground.
“Throw me my bag, Master Red Jade,” he called out, and my stomach knotted. Yes, I'd been told that dynamite was the safest thing in the world, but hearing it didn't mean I believed it. The bag of explosives flew through the air, clean across the river thanks to Master Red's strength.
“Your turn, madame.”
“I'd rather the children crossed first.”
Fernanda and Biao didn't hesitate. I watched them like a hawk the whole way, but apart from a little messing around and laughing, they obeyed my orders to a tee, and I was able to breathe freely once I saw them safe and sound beside Lao Jiang. I prepared to head in while Master Red threw the children's bags.
At first the icy mercury took my breath away, but then it was rather nice to float along, bobbing in the thick liquid without having to move arms or legs.
All you had to do was push the bamboo against the bottom, and inertia moved you in the desired direction as if you were a Venetian gondola. I now understood the children's silly laughter, because it was really quite a lot of fun.
Soon I was on the other side, where Lao Jiang and Biao had to help me out; my clothes did indeed weigh as much as if they were made of lead. Master Red threw my bag over and then his own before wading in. I turned to examine the amazing esplanade with its bronze giants. There were twelve in total, six on either side of the main avenue, and each one must have been over thirty feet high. They were all different and seemed to represent real human beings with fierce eyes and a martial stance. They were certainly imposing. If their objective was to terrify the First Emperor's visitors, they were successful.
We walked toward them along the avenue, intensely emotional and nervous now that we were so close to what was undeniably the First Emperor of China's true tomb. We reached the stairs and started to climb. Fortunately, there were only fifty, so no one fell behind, and before we knew it, we were standing in front of the open doors to the great front hall of Epang. The hair-raising sight that lay before us wasn't something we could ever have prepared for: millions of human skeletons scattered on the floor, countless piles stretching into the distance, bare bones heaped against walls with old bits of dresses, jewelry, or hair ornaments still visible. Women, there were so many women: the concubines who'd never given Shi Huang Ti children. The rest were the poor slave laborers who'd built that mausoleum. Sai Wu, our guide on that long journey, would be among the remains in that vast graveyard. A lump formed in my throat at the same time the terrified children drew close on either side of me. No one could look at that deplorable sight without feeling tremendously sorry or imagining the horrible deaths those thousands and thousands of people must have suffered to satisfy the megalomania of one man, a king who thought he was all-powerful. So many lives wasted for nothing, so much suffering and anguish just to punish the supposed infertility of young girls married to an old egomaniac and to keep that tomb a secret! I could understand Sai Wu's fury and desire for revenge. As admirable as the First Emperor's construction was, he had no right to take the lives of so many innocent people with him. I knew that it had been another time and that one shouldn't criticize the past from such a distant perspective, but even so, I thought it odious that one man could have had so much power over others.