The Emperor's Tomb

evaporation, keeping sewer gases at bay. He was relieved to know that the air was not riddled with toxins, but still concerned about not only where Pau Wen had gone, but who else may be around.

They headed for the center plinth, which dominated a prominent platform. He’d been correct. The whole thing had been carved of jade and depicted a multitude of human, botanical, and animal images. The craftsmen had made excellent use of the stone’s varying shades, and he couldn’t resist caressing the translucent surface.

“It’s incredible,” Cassiopeia said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He knew the Chinese considered jade a gift from the gods, the key to everlasting life. It symbolized eternity, and was supposedly imbued with wondrous powers that could protect from evil and bring good luck. That was why Chinese emperors were buried inside funerary suits of jade, sewn together with gold threads and adorned with pearls.

“This was where the emperor lay,” Cassiopeia whispered.

There was no other conclusion. For a culture that prized symbolism, this seemed the ultimate expression.

But the plinth was bare.

He noticed that the top was not smooth. Instead, images had been engraved from end to end, framed by a border of Chinese symbols.

“It’s like the map in Pau Wen’s house,” Cassiopeia said.

He thought the same thing.

He studied the carving closely and saw that it was a compact representation of what the floor depicted—Qin Shi’s empire. What had Pau said about the map hanging in his house? It’s a reproduction of something I once saw. With some changes.

He found his iPhone and snapped a few images of the surrounding room and the map.

“He lay atop his realm,” he whispered.

“But where is he?” she asked.

NI HAD BEEN SHOCKED WHEN THE LEVER HE TWISTED ACTIVATED lights. The premier had told him how power had been run underground to the site and tripods installed. The entire purpose of the incursion had been to ascertain whether the tomb could be used for further propaganda in conjunction with the terra-cotta warriors. But the complex was found empty, every artifact gone, including the emperor himself. Which explained why the government had not allowed any further archaeological exploration. Think of the embarrassment. The questions, none of which came with answers. So a well had been constructed over the makeshift entrance, the area fenced off, and access forbidden.

The premier had wondered if the bulbs would still operate. Most had, illuminating a series of three arched antechambers, and the main burial hall, in a phosphorous glow. He’d been told that the mercury was safe, sheathed by a layer of mineral oil that Pau Wen had applied during the first exploration.

He wondered if Karl Tang would find his way down. Surely he’d found the well, and the removal of the iron plate had left plenty of fresh marks. The sounds of footsteps, approaching from behind, deep in the tunnel from which he had just emerged, confirmed that someone was headed this way.

Then he heard something else.

Movement from within the main burial hall.

And saw shadows dancing across a wall.

Strange.

He stared through the remaining antechambers, which opened one into another, and watched the distant shadows. He was positioned to deal with Karl Tang, gun at the ready.

But he was also trapped.

Between the known and the unknown.

FIFTY-SEVEN

TANG HAD READ ABOUT IMPERIAL TOMBS, EVEN VISITED A COUPLE of notable excavations, but now he was walking inside one totally intact. Clearly, though, someone had been here before. A thick electrical cable lined the base of the tunnel wall and disappeared into the blackness ahead. Pau Wen? Was that why he’d traveled straight to Xi’an? But Pau had gone underground inside Pit 3, a long way from where Tang stood. No, Ni Yong had entered here. Which meant that his adversary knew things that he did not.

Viktor and the two brothers led the way down the passage, wide as an avenue, black as night. The care in the construction, the detail, the colors—they were all spectacular. Stamped decoration in light relief sheathed the walls. In the weak light of their flashlights he saw scenes of court life, the amusements of nobility, a royal procession, bears, eagles, and mythical beasts. Incense burners, shaped as mountains and fashioned of stone, dotted their path.

Fifty meters ahead a shaft of light revealed an entrance between two polished marble doors, both alive with more carvings. Stone lions flanked either side. Hybrid figures of horned bird-men—intended, he knew, to repel malevolent spirits—sprang from the walls on either side. Above the doorway were carved three symbols:

He knew their meaning. “Beside the capital.” Which was fitting. He recalled what Sima Qian wrote of the First Emperor in Shiji. Qin Shi made up his mind that the population of his empire had grown large while the royal palaces of his ancestors were still small. So he built a massive new palace, south of the Wei River, adjacent to his capital. Nearly seven hundred meters long and more than a hundred meters wide, its galleries had been capable of holding 10,000 people.

He called it Afang, which reflected its location, “beside the capital.”

He studied the doors and discovered that they hung with no hinges. Instead, a convex half sphere had been carved at the top and bottom, then fitted inside a concave opening in the ceiling and floor. He surmised that, most likely, the joints had once been greased with oil.

They stepped through the space where the doors parted, the crack about a meter wide, into a lit room that opened into another, then two more, all supported by wide arches and thick columns. This was a yougong—a secluded place.

Strangely, the rooms were empty.

He remembered more of what Sima Qian had written. And there were marvelous tools and precious jewels and rare objects brought from afar. The rooms and alcoves should be filled with silk fabrics, garments, ceramics, headdresses, crowns, belts, ornaments, bronze and tin funerary objects, lacquerware, wooden figurines—everything the emperor would have needed in his afterlife.

Yet there was nothing.

He noticed ornamented pedestals dotting the walls at regular intervals and realized that lamps—like the one he’d sought from Pau Wen, the ones Pau had promised Malone and Vitt existed—would have rested atop to light the emperor’s way and nourish the spirits of the dead.

But there were no lamps.

Which meant no oil.

Nothing.

Only a blue-and-white urn, perhaps a meter wide and at least that tall in the center of the next chamber. He’d seen images of one before. An everlasting lamp, filled with oil, holding a wick afloat. He stepped close and peered inside, hoping that some of the ancient crude might remain, but the container stood dry.

Viktor advanced into the next chamber, the two brothers in tow.

Tang lingered, his mind alight with conflicting thoughts.

Qin Shi’s tomb had clearly been explored—enough that electricity had been run and lighting installed. This could not have occurred during the last decade. His ministry would have known of any such effort. Obviously, though, Ni Yong knew about what had happened here.

“Ni Yong,” he called out. “It is time to settle the matter between us.”

MALONE FROZE AT THE SOUND OF A VOICE, THE WORDS ricocheting through the silence like a gunshot.