Gao P’in Te didn’t think there was a lot of luck around at present, and didn’t wish to press it. Pan nodded imperceptibly, sitting close to his companion. He loved Gao with a whole heart and had for nearly ten years, since they had first lain down together. Every one of the most beautiful of the Emperor of All China’s terracotta cavalry had the face of his lover, core of his being. He could feel the warmth of Gao’s thigh in his working cotton trousers, against his own sturdier, heavier limb, gnarled with toil. Gao was graceful in his movements, with beautiful hands. Pan was stocky, strong, and not terribly clean, after a day in the mud pits where they were constructing the army to guard the emperor’s rest. His hands were ugly with broken nails and he tucked one under his arm when he saw Gao looking at it.
‘Then we can at least die together,’ he replied.
‘I would rather live together.’ Gao slid an arm behind Pan and stroked his back.
‘You have a way to do this?’ asked Pan Liang.
‘If you will leave it all behind: family, business, son. All of it.’
‘For you?’ asked Pan.
Gao looked into his face, then shifted his eyes, looking down.
‘I will understand if you need time to think about it, my lotus, but the King isn’t well and they are saying that he’s been taking alchemical potions, and they have a lot of mercury in them, he’s going mad–’
‘Yes,’ said Pan, spilling tea on him and using the mopping process to caress Gao’s chest. ‘Yes, of course. I don’t need to think about it. What should I do?’
‘I should never have doubted you. Forgive me,’ whispered Gao. ‘We shall have to make it appear that you have been murdered, and that I have committed suicide out of despondency. We don’t want anyone deciding to execute your whole family on the notion that they might have killed you, if we just flee.’
‘And we are fleeing to…?’
‘I have a place in mind. When the Emperor departs, his empire will depart, too. It’s only glued together with blood – our blood. I wouldn’t give it ten years. I know somewhere safe. Trust me?’
‘Always,’ said Pan. ‘When?’
‘Tonight. Bring anything you absolutely cannot leave behind. A change of clothes, your simplest. And gold. Tell no one at all. The path outside your house, where you walk at night; at dead of night, I’ll be waiting.’
‘I’ll be there. Let me pour you some more tea,’ said Pan, more loudly. ‘I’m very sorry about the shirt, I’m sure it will wash.’
‘You’re so clumsy,’ complained Gao, as the proprietor of the tea shop passed close enough to hear.
Seven hundred thousand labourers worked on delving and piling the three great mounds under Mount Li, and more toiled in the jade mine, the gold mine, and the smelting, carving, painting, moulding and arranging of the great labyrinth in which the Emperor was – eventually, if his quest for eternal life failed – going to consent to be buried. Into the tomb would go not only the emperor’s corpse but, living, all of his wives and concubines who had not borne children, all of his officials and advisors, and all of the men who knew the secrets of the tombs. Some of this had been announced, but when Gao saw huge iron doors being installed at the end of certain corridors, he knew his days were numbered.
All books in the new Kingdom of Ch’in had been burned. Four hundred and sixty scholars had been buried alive, and learning was greatly reduced. But artists were allowed to keep copybooks of the best artistic styles. Gao had two books, a number of robes, some gold and jade and his paints. That was all he intended to take. It made a small bundle. Not much for a lifetime. He added a wide piece of coarse cloth, a pot of pig’s blood and a shovel.
He left his small house, cached his bundle near Pan’s house, and went back to the pile of dead workmen who lay beside the road, waiting for the cart to carry them away for burial. With the greatest effort of his life – for he was a fastidious man, he had even changed the tea-stained shirt – he rolled the dead over, seeking one who could resemble Pan Liang well enough to pass a cursory inspection. Death was common enough in this work camp. No one would enquire too closely.
He found a man who must have been a stalwart; stocky and much like Pan Liang in body. The corpse had died of a head wound, common amongst the tunnelers. Gao stripped the body, wrapped it in a length of calico, and slung it over his shoulder, heading for the appointed spot. His friend was waiting for him. Gao could hear him breathing.
Gao kissed Pan Liang on the mouth, hard and fierce. Then he watched as Pan stripped, and put his clothes on the corpse, handling the stiffening limbs with shuddering disgust. Finally the dead man was arrayed, even to Pan’s hat and ear drops and the gold rings on the gnarled fingers. Pan was dressed in clothes which any workman might own. He had stout leather boots and carried his bundle in a sling.
‘There’s one more thing,’ whispered Gao, leaning on him. ‘They have to think he’s you, so we have to...’
He picked up the shovel. Pan understood instantly.
‘No, no, you’ll ruin your hands, using a spade,’ he whispered, turning Gao so that he faced away from the body. ‘I’ll do it. Block your ears.’
Even so, Goa heard the dreadful crunching smash as the corpse’s face was caved in. Pan threw the spade into the undergrowth, where it would be easily found, and poured the pig’s blood out in a wide, arterial spray.
‘How, let’s get on with your suicide,’ he said, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulders and leading him away. He was carrying the cloth and the container.
Gao was trembling. That’s the trouble with these artistic types, thought Pan, flooded with affection, hugging Gao tighter. Brilliant minds, but they demand too much of a fragile body. That’s why he needs me. We’re one. He’s the mind, I’m the body. He thinks us out of trouble, and I carry him when he faints.
‘I would have, you know,’ said Gao, as he took off his outer robe and his ceremonial hat, shedding his official jewellery and piling it all on top of his shoes. ‘If you had been killed, I would have died with you.’
‘Well, that’s not going to happen now, is it?’ said Pan Liang comfortably, sinking the pig’s blood container and washing his hands. He flung Gao’s robe and hat out to float on the water, artfully snagging one hem so the site of this lamentable suicide would not be missed. ‘Now, get dressed, Master, you give me that bundle, I’m your man and I do the carrying. I’ll keep this bit of canvas, it might come in useful. Now, which way?’
‘This way,’ replied Gao, blinking back tears. Without Pan, he would not deserve to survive. He had taken the dreadful task away from his friend, without complaining and without despising Gao as weak. He was a wonderful man, his Pan Liang. ‘It’s a long way, but it won’t be too uncomfortable. I never asked, but can you drive a water buffalo?’
‘Since I was five years old, Master,’ replied Pan, and grinned.
Gao halted, dropped the bag, and kissed him again.
Thirty days later, they were far south, nearing a strange area of mountains and rivers. They had settled into their journey, which seemed to have been going on for years. Gao no longer woke, shivering, with the nightmare memory of that spade. Pan lay next to him in their small inn, sleeping his light potter’s sleep, which would rouse him at the sound of a crackling from the kiln.
There had been two close calls, Gao thought, lying back on the pallet with his arms behind his head. They had travelled at buffalo pace along roads thronged with messengers, soldiers, peasants, traders and farmers.