The Emperor's Tomb

TWENTY-FOUR

GANSU PROVINCE, CHINA

TANG OPENED THE TRAILER’S DOOR AND STEPPED OUT TO A moonless night, the stars blocked by clouds. The air here, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest city, was refreshingly clear. He flexed his legs. Old emotions boiled within him. He was close—so close—and knew it.

He thought of his father, his mother, naïve souls who knew nothing of the world beyond their simple village. They’d lived surrounded by trees and terraced vegetable plots, tucked away on the slopes of a mountain. His only brother had died in Tibet, keeping rebels at bay. No one ever explained what had happened there. His parents never would have asked, and no records existed.

But it didn’t matter.

Fight self. That’s what Mao had preached. Believe in the Party, trust the state. The individual meant nothing.

His family had worshiped Mao. Yet his father had also held a great affection for Confucius, as had his father before him.

Only after Tang had left the village, specially chosen to attend secondary and higher education, had he come to realize the dramatic contradiction. His philosophy teacher at university had opened his eyes.

“Let me tell you about a man who lived in the state of Song and dutifully tilled his field. His efforts provided ample food for his family and his village. In the middle of the field stood the stump of a tree. One day a hare, running at full speed, bumped into the stump, broke his neck, and died. This was quite fortuitous, since the meat was greatly enjoyed by all. Thereupon the man left his plow and kept watch at the stump, hoping to obtain another hare in the same manner. But he never did, and both his family and the village suffered from his neglect. That is the flaw of Confucianism. Those who try to rule the present with the conduct of the past commit the same foolishness.”

He listened to the distant rumblings of the derrick’s generators. Dawn was not far away. He thought again of that teacher at Hunan’s university, the one who asked him—

“What will you do upon graduating?”

“I intend to study in Beijing and obtain a higher degree in geology.”

“The earth interests you?”

“It always has.”

“You have spirit and promise. I’ve seen that these past three years. Would you perhaps consider something in addition to your studies, something that might answer those questions you constantly pose to me?”

In the days after, he’d listened as his teacher explained about the distant Shang dynasty, the earliest for which there was any documentary evidence, existing nearly 4,000 years ago. A highly developed state with a tax collection system, a penal code, and a standing army, it was ruled by an autocrat who styled himself I the single one man.

“That was significant,” his teacher said. “The first time we know of one man assuming total power over many.”

The Zhou dynasty succeeded the Shang and carried forward that autocratic ideal, expanding the ruler’s authority.

“It was said that all the land under Heaven belonged to the king and all people on the shores were his subjects.”

But governing such a large kingdom from one locale proved difficult, so the Zhou kings created feudalism—kinsmen who were bestowed limited sovereignty over portions of the domain, along with titles such as duke, marquis, earl, and baron.

“A system Western civilization would not envision for another thousand years.”

Loyalty to the king was bound by blood rather than oath but, over time, the local lords began to establish their own fiefdoms. Eventually, these vassals revolted and eliminated the king of Zhou, demoting him to their equal.

“This led to the Spring and Autumn period, a chaotic war of all against all. Within two and a half centuries, 500 wars were fought among the feudal states. Eventually, everyone believed the state of Cu, which occupied the middle reaches of the Yangtze River, would emerge victorious. This fear led the smaller states to turn to the state of Qi for protection. With a strong military, sound economy, and able ruler, Qi was in a position to help. A mutual defense league was established and the duke of Qi was appointed Hegemon, or Ba of the league, charged with preserving the peace. And this he did.”

He’d thought that apt since Ba meant “father, protector.”

But it was how the protection had been accomplished that so interested him.

The entire population had been organized along military lines. Marketplaces were regulated, a monopoly established on coinage, salt and iron production placed under state control. The results were a strong army and a sound economy, which not only offered protection from enemies but also strengthened the power of the Hegemon.

“These were the first Legalists,” his teacher said. “A school of statecraft dedicated to exalting the ruler and maximizing authority. Their philosophy was simple. The sovereign is the creator of law, the officials are the followers of law, the people are subjects of the law. The wise sovereign holds six powers. The ability to grant life, to kill, to enrich, to impoverish, to promote, and to demote.”

And the concept spread among the other states.

At the end of the Spring and Autumn period, after 300 years of constant turmoil, around 481 BCE, twenty-two states survived. The rest had been absorbed by their neighbors.

“The struggle became worse in the Warring States period, which followed,” his teacher had said. “Eventually, after another two hundred years of conflict, seven states emerged, each led by a Hegemon. Their councilors were all brothers of the Ba, Legalists who taught that he who has the greatest force will be paid tribute to by others, while he who has less force will pay tribute to others. The Ba consolidated their influence over the kings, advocating an end to the feudal system. Inherited posts were replaced with appointed bureaucrats, whom the ruler could discharge or even execute at will. Inherited fiefdoms were redrawn into administrative units called counties. Cleverly, by appointing officials who were mere extensions of himself, the Hegemon gathered all power into himself’.”

By the end of the Warring States period, the Ba had assumed virtual control over the monarchs. Though other technological feats were better known—the discovery of gunpowder, the cultivation of silkworms—Tang believed that the Chinese invention of totalitarianism may have had the greatest impact on the world.

“It was a revolution from above,” his teacher had explained. “The people gave little resistance. Five centuries of incessant warfare had left them prostrate, and no one could argue with the order the Legalists provided. And though all that occurred over 2,500 years ago, to this day all Chinese have an irrational fear of chaos and disorder.”

A decade later the kingdom of Qin conquered the seven surviving states, transforming a backward dukedom and six warring neighbors into the First Empire.

“Qin Shi embedded Legalism in our culture, and it remains part of our culture today, though the concept has changed over the centuries. Those changes are why you and I must talk further.”

And they had, many times.

“Study Mao,” his teacher had advised. “He was a modern Legalist. He understood how the Chinese mind fears chaos—and that, more than anything else, explains both his success and his failure.”

Tang had studied.

Nationally, Mao had wanted to make China united, strong, and secure, just as Qin Shi had done. Socially, he had wanted China to evolve into an egalitarian society in the Marxist tradition. Personally, he wanted to transcend his own mortality and ensure that his Revolution became irreversible.

On the first goal he succeeded. The second was an utter failure.

And the third?

That was the unanswered question.

Amazing how like Qin Shi Mao had become. Both established new regimes, bringing unity after long periods of bloody turmoil, crushing all local fiefdoms. They were standardizers, social engineers, insisting on one language, currency, orthodoxy, and loyalty. Grandiose building projects became common. They both loathed merchants and silenced intellectuals. They encouraged worship of themselves and invented new titles to match their egos. Qin had chosen First Emperor, while Mao had preferred Chairman. In death, they were lavishly entombed and harshly criticized, but the framework of their regimes had endured.

“That was no accident,” his teacher told him during one of their final conversations. “Mao understood the First Emperor. You should, too.”

And he did.

No 20th-century Chinese leader had captured the people’s devotion like Mao. He became emperor-like, and not a single pact that Beijing later made with the people could compare to the “destiny of Heaven” that emperors like Mao enjoyed.

But Mao’s day was over.

Give allegiance to political solutions proposed centuries ago by long-dead scholars. That’s what Confucius had advised as the way to understanding. That seemed impossible.

A second hare would not die at the same stump.

He wholeheartedly agreed with Mao’s Cultural Revolution. In deference to it, that was when he’d stopped using the traditional form of his name—Tang Karl, his family name first. Instead he chose the modern incarnation Karl Tang. He recalled when the Red Guards rampaged across the country, shutting down schools, imprisoning intellectuals, restricting publications, disbanding monasteries and temples. Every physical reminder of China’s feudal and capitalistic past had been destroyed—old customs, old habits, old culture, and old thinking were all eliminated.

Millions had died, millions more had been affected.

Yet Mao emerged more loved than ever, the state stronger than ever.

He checked his watch, then sucked more breaths of the clean air.

A smile formed on his lips.

Let it begin.