The Emperor's Tomb полностью

The other man nodded. “I would say so. There are hundreds of manuscripts. They deal with everything. Philosophy, politics, medicine, astronomy, engineering, military strategy, mathematics, cartography, music, even archery and horsemanship. This could well be the greatest concentration of firsthand knowledge ever found on the First Emperor’s time.”

He knew what that claim meant. In 1975 more than a thousand Qin dynasty bamboo strips had been discovered. Historians had proclaimed those the greatest find, but later examinations had cast doubt on their authenticity. Eventually, it was determined that most of them came from a time after Qin Shi, when later dynasties refashioned reality. This cache, though, had lain for centuries within a kilometer of the First Emperor’s tomb, part of his grand mausoleum, guarded by his eternal army.

“The amazing thing is I can read them,” his expert said.

Tang knew the importance of that ability. The fall of a ruling dynasty was always regarded as a withdrawal of Heaven’s mandate. To avoid any curse, each new dynasty became critical of the one before. So complete was the subsequent purge that the system of writing would even be altered, making any later deciphering of what came before that much more difficult. Only in the past few decades had scholars, like the expert with him tonight, learned to read those lost scripts.

“Are they here?” Tang asked.

“Let me show you what I found.”

The expert lifted one of the fragile silks.

Wisps of dust swirled in the air like angry ghosts.

Qin Shi himself had assured that none of the writings from his time would survive his reign when he ordered all manuscripts, except those dealing with medicine, agriculture, or divination be burned. The idea was to “make the people ignorant,” and prevent the “use of the past to discredit the present.” Only the emperor would be trusted to have a library, and knowledge would be an imperial monopoly. Scholars who challenged that decree were executed. Particularly, any- and everything written by Confucius was subject to immediate destruction, since those teachings directly contradicted the First Emperor’s philosophy.

“Listen to this,” his expert said. “Long ago Confucius died and the subtle words were lost. His seventy disciples perished and the great truth was perverted. Therefore the Annals split into five versions, the Odes into four, and the Changes was transmitted in variant traditions. Diplomats and persuaders argued over what was true and false, and the words of the master became a jumbled chaos. This disturbed the emperor so he burned the writings in order to make idiots of the common people. He retained, though, the master’s original thoughts, stored in the palace and they accompanied him in death.”

That meant all six of the great Confucian manuscripts should be here.

The Book of Changes, a manual on divination. The Book of History, concerned with the speeches and deeds of the legendary sage-kings of antiquity. The Book of Poetry, containing more than three hundred verses laced with hidden meanings. The Spring and Autumn Annals, a complete history of Confucius’ home state. The Book of Ritual, which explained the proper behavior of everyone from peasant to ruler. And finally, the Book of Music, its content unknown, as no copy existed.

Tang knew that the Hans, who had succeeded the First Emperor with a 425-year dynasty of their own, tried to repair the damage Qin Shi inflected by reassembling many of the Confucian texts. But no one knew if those later editions accurately reflected the originals. Finding a complete set of texts, untouched, could be monumental.

“How many manuscripts are actually here?” Tang quietly asked.

“I’ve counted over two hundred separate texts.” The expert paused. “But none is by Confucius.”

His fears were growing.