Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

Three huge red lacquered boxes sat on the dais before them, surrounded by the twenty-six chests.

‘And that’s them?’ Margaret asked.

Michael shook his head. ‘Reproductions.’ He sighed. ‘You must remember when it was that these tombs were being opened up. The late fifties in China was a time of political purges and great social upheaval. The director put in charge here was a political appointee. He knew nothing about the history of the place, and couldn’t care less about the contents of the tomb. The original coffins had deteriorated with age, and reproductions were made to go on public show. So the director ordered the originals to be thrown away.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Margaret was appalled. ‘They didn’t, did they?’

‘When the archaeologists objected, the director ordered some soldiers to throw them over the outer wall where they were smashed on the rocks below.’

In spite of herself, and to her great surprise, Margaret found herself full of furious indignation. ‘But these things were hundreds of years old, priceless historical relics.’

Michael looked sombre. ‘Unfortunately, much worse was to happen to the contents of the coffins. Wonderful, irreplaceable artefacts.’ He put his arm around her shoulder, and she felt his warmth, even through his jacket and her blouse. ‘But you’re cold down here. And the rest of the story can wait. I think we should go and get some lunch.’

It required the fifteen minutes it took them to walk the full length of the paved walkway, down to the parking lot, for the warmth of the sun finally to reach and banish the chill that seemed to have set in Margaret’s bones.

On the walk she asked him, ‘Why are you so fascinated by this Hu Bo?’

He smiled, a little sadly. ‘Because all his life he was a victim. Of circumstance, and of history. And every time fate knocked him down he got up and hit right back.’ His hand clamped itself around her upper arm. ‘Think about it, Margaret. At the age of ten he was sold by his father. Sold to work in the camp of a Swedish explorer, Sven Hedin, who was just setting off on an exploration of the remote western regions of China. A disaster for a young boy, forced to become what was little more than a slave. He suffered great hardship, trekking across the western deserts, crossing uncharted mountain ranges. He lost three fingers to frostbite. But he also learned tailoring, and cooking, and barbering, how to bake bread, how to ride and shoot, how to collect samples of ancient relics in the field. He became familiar with the methods of survey, and the essential principles of excavation. He developed the skills needed to restore and preserve disinterred relics.’ Michael’s eyes were shining with wonder and admiration. ‘He took a disastrous sequence of events, and turned them to his advantage. By the age of twenty, a peasant boy from nowhere, he was studying archaeology at the university in Beijing.’

He became aware that he was gripping her arm and let go immediately. ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I get carried away sometimes.’

Margaret looked at the light in his eyes. His enthusiasm was boyish, verging on the immature. But it was also infectious, and quite compelling. She rubbed her arm, smiling ruefully. ‘I’ll be all bruised tonight.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, suddenly self-conscious.

They walked in silence for a few moments. Behind them, the mountains shimmered in a blue haze, and the double roof of the stele pavilion rose above the blue-green needles of the spruce trees. Ahead of them the parking lot was crowded, and crew and cast and extras clustered around the catering wagon. Out of the blue he said, ‘Have you been to Xi’an to see the Terracotta Warriors?’

She laughed. ‘I’ve hardly been out of Beijing.’

He said, ‘But you must see them. You can’t come to China and not see the Eighth Wonder of the World.’

‘A bunch of ceramic figures?’

He gasped in frustration. ‘Margaret, they are awe-inspiring! Thousands of ancient warriors, my height and bigger. Each one individually cast and hand finished. Every face unique. Made by craftsmen two thousand, two hundred years ago. Just to stand among them, to feel their presence, to touch them, is to be touched by history in a way I can’t even begin to describe.’

That infectious enthusiasm again. She smiled and shook her head. ‘Michael, you’re wasting your time with me. I’m a cultural cretin.’

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I have to be in Xi’an tomorrow. We’re arranging for the shipment of more than five dozen warriors to the United States as part of an exhibition I’ve organised to coincide with the broadcast of my latest documentary series. It’s called The Art of War , and it’s going to be the biggest exhibition of Terracotta Warriors ever seen outside of China.’ He paused. ‘Come with me.’

‘What?’ She was completely taken aback.

But there was no restraining his alacrity. ‘I’m travelling down on the sleeper tonight. I’m there all day tomorrow and tomorrow night, then fly back first thing the next morning. I can’t afford to be away from the production for any longer.’

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Margaret laughed. ‘I’m involved in a murder investigation here.’

‘One day, that’s all you’d be away.’ He stopped and took both her hands in his. ‘My production office will book your travel and accommodation. And I can get you right down there among the warriors, touching them, brushing away the earth of two thousand years. Something only a handful of people will ever experience.’ He stopped for breath. ‘Say yes. Don’t even think about it. Life’s too short for that. Just say yes.’

For a moment she looked into his eyes, felt his hands, big and strong, enveloping hers, and was aware of something both painful and pleasurable stirring deep inside her.

Blood, and headless bodies, and disembodied heads, and hands tied with silk cord, swam in front of his eyes. Photographs were spread across his desk like the pieces of a jigsaw that were all the same size and gave no clue as to where or how to begin piecing them together. Li had spent the morning sifting through reports and pictures, interviews and statements, all the while distracted by unrelated thoughts that crowded his mind and blurred his focus. You’re just going to have to learn how to separate your personal from your professional life , Chen had told him last night. But Li was finding it impossible.

During his early morning jian bing stop at the Dongzhimennei corner, he had told Mei Yuan about his sister and her intentions. Mei Yuan had listened with grave intensity, making no comment, offering no advice. She understood that all he needed to do was talk. She expressed her sympathy for his troubles with no more than a slight squeeze of his arm. Somehow, even that had been reassuring, and he had remembered her words of the previous evening. Anytime you need me . It was not until he had reached his office that he realised she had forgotten to ask him about the thirty yuan riddle. It was just as well, for he had given it little thought and had no answer.

He had left Xiao Ling, first thing, preparing for her appointment later that morning at the clinic where they would perform the ultra-sound scan. Xinxin, still sleepy and puffy-eyed as she woke from her slumbers, had forgotten that she was being strange with her uncle, and had given Li a hug and a kiss before he left. His sister, huffy and alienated by his disapproval, had not. Neither of them had slept as Xinxin had. And now Li found himself almost afraid to return home tonight, for whatever the result of the scan, his sister’s response to it would be unthinkable.

He screwed up his eyes to try to banish the thought from his mind, and found a picture of Margaret there, staring at him with that knowing, challenging look of hers. How was he going to be able to deal with her in a professional capacity without being affected by his personal feelings? You’re just going to have to learn how to separate your personal from your professional life. How? How is it done? he wanted to ask Chen. And who, he wanted to ask Margaret, was the man she’d been with at the Sanwei the night before?