The China you think you know

The idea of an afterlife in China at that time was not an abstraction. The deceased was believed to continue to exist in the underworld, retaining their status, habits, and needs. Consequently, the emperor needed not only a palace but also an entire power structure — an army, officials, musicians, grooms, and artisans. Everything that surrounded him in life had to accompany him afterward.

Not an army, but a palace

The main misconception is that the Terracotta Warriors are a military unit. In reality, they are a ceremonial guard, part of a gigantic tomb complex. Their purpose was not to repel an actual attack on the tomb. Their purpose was to demonstrate the extent of the emperor’s power in the world to which he was departing.

Excavations revealed that the emperor’s underground city was not a single pit filled with soldiers, but an entire system of structures covering an area of over fifty square kilometers. Bronze chariots with four horses, acrobats, musicians, officials, grooms, birds, and animals were found in various pits. All of this constituted a miniature imperial palace. The army was only the visible part of the iceberg, the one closest to the surface and best preserved.

The bronze chariots discovered in one of the pits are striking in their detail. Bridles, wheel spokes, and body decorations are all life-size and crafted with jeweler’s precision. The chariots were plated with silver and gold, suggesting a ceremonial rather than a combat purpose. They were vehicles for the afterlife, not the battlefield.

Another pit contained figures of acrobats and musicians — entertainers for imperial receptions. A third contained officials with tablets, ready to continue their archival work. A fourth contained stone armor, suits of armor, and real weapons. But these, too, were most likely intended for ritual purposes, not combat. Taken together, this created the illusion of a functioning state, where everyone knew their place and role.

The uniqueness of each figure

Now about the second misconception: that all soldiers are alike. This is not true. Each surviving figure is a portrait. They have different hairstyles, reflecting their military rank. Their facial expressions are different — some are tense and focused, others are calm, and still others seem tired. Their armor is different, their boots are different, the folds of their clothing are different.

Hairstyles were an important sign of social status. Warriors with topknots on the right side of their heads belonged to one unit, while those with topknots on the left belonged to another. Generals wore birds on their headdresses, while officers wore specific types of helmets. Privates had the simplest hairstyles. This was not decoration, but a legible system of rank.

The faces are also unique. Modern research using 3D scanning has shown that facial features vary so much that archaeologists can speak of types rather than stereotypes. Some faces are round, others elongated; some have more pronounced cheekbones, others less so. Perhaps the sculptors modeled the figures on real people — warriors who actually served in the Qin army. Or, more likely, they worked in workshops where each sculptor contributed their own style, their own vision of the human face.

Bodies vary too. Some are slender and some are stocky, tall and some are short. Armor is tailored to their height. Even the soles of their boots have different tread patterns — some are dense, others are sparse, depending on the warrior’s role in the ranks.

All the figures were originally painted. Their skin was pinkish-brown, their armor red, green, blue, and black. Their eyes were different colors, and their hair was black. When the figures were first unearthed, archaeologists saw these paints. But exposure to air destroyed the pigments within hours. Today, almost all the figures have that same clay-gray color we’re accustomed to thinking of as natural. But this is not the case. They were vibrant, almost festive. The Emperor departed for the afterlife not with a gray mass, but with a ceremonial regiment.

Masters and scale

The project took, according to various estimates, around thirty-eight years. Some estimates suggest that around seven hundred thousand artisans participated. This number is hard to comprehend. If we imagine that each artisan produced at least one figure, that would be an army equal to the population of a large modern city.

The work was carried out in workshops located near the burial site. The technology was complex. First, the body was formed from clay, piece by piece — the legs, torso, and arms. Then the head was added, molded separately and attached to the neck. Details — hairstyles, mustaches, folds of clothing — were applied by hand. Afterwards, the figure was fired in a kiln at a temperature of approximately 1,000 degrees Celsius. It was then painted and mounted.

The artisans worked in teams, and many of the figurines bear marks — craftsmen’s marks. This allows archaeologists to trace which workshop was responsible for which section. The quality control system was strict: if a figurine cracked during firing, it was discarded and remade. Cracks on some surviving specimens indicate that repair was also possible.

Interestingly, after the work was completed, many of the masters, according to legend, were buried with the emperor to preserve the secret of the tomb’s construction. This has not been confirmed archaeologically, but it fits the spirit of the times: Qin Shi Huang was loath to have his greatness widely known. His real tomb, located beneath an artificial mound, remains unopened. Archaeologists fear repeating the mistake made when excavating the warrior pits: exposure to air destroyed the paints and organic materials. The emperor’s tomb may contain mercury, trap mechanisms, and unknown substances. It remains sealed, and rightly so.

What we don’t see

A tourist visiting the museum sees warriors. But they don’t see what’s beneath their feet and all around them. Excavations continue, and every year archaeologists discover new things. Recently, they discovered a pit containing figures of dancers and acrobats who were supposed to entertain the emperor at his afterlife feasts. They also found the remains of belts, fabrics, and wooden chariots, which had completely decomposed, leaving only imprints in the clay.

There is evidence that underground rivers of mercury existed around the tomb, simulating the empire’s waterways. This is not fiction: soil analysis revealed elevated mercury levels in certain areas. The emperor wanted his underground world to replicate the geography of real China.

It’s also worth remembering that the Terracotta Army isn’t the only burial of this era. Other smaller burials, constructed according to the same logic, have been found in China. The principle of accompanying a ruler to the afterlife was widespread. But the scale of Qin Shi Huang’s remains unparalleled.

The army as a mirror of the empire

If you look closely at the terracotta warriors, you can discern within them the structure of the Qin Empire itself. These aren’t just warriors — they’re a bureaucratic machine carved into clay. There are archers, spearmen, charioteers, and generals. There are heavily armed units, and there are light units. The arrangement of the figures in the pits replicates the actual battle formations of the Qin army.

This demonstrates that the project’s creators understood military affairs. They weren’t sculpting abstract heroes — they were recreating a real army. An army that conquered six kingdoms and created a unified state. The Emperor took with him to the afterlife not only luxury but also power. Power that made him great in life.

But there’s another, quieter conclusion. All these thousands of figures are the work of ordinary people: artisans, potters, artists, workers. They didn’t know their work would survive two thousand years. They didn’t know their names, engraved on the stamps, would be read by archaeologists. They were simply following orders. But their execution was such a masterful achievement that we still admire it.

Practice

Where to go

The Terracotta Army Museum is located in the Lintong District, in the eastern part of Xi’an, Shaanxi Province. It’s not just an exhibition hall, but a complex built directly on the excavation site. Its main difference from many other museums around the world is that you don’t see finished exhibits behind glass, but rather the process. The pits are open, pavilions are erected above them, and you stand on balconies, gazing down upon rows of figures, just as the first archaeologists saw them in the 1970s.

The complex consists of three main pits, a bronze chariot museum, and a cinema. Pit one is the largest, containing the bulk of warriors arrayed in battle formation. Pit two is the military headquarters, containing more officers and chariots. Pit three is the command post, smaller in size but containing high-ranking figures. The bronze chariots are displayed in a separate hall and deserve special attention — they are perhaps the most exquisite finds in the complex.

How to get there

The museum is about forty kilometers from central Xi’an. The easiest way is by tourist bus, which departs from Xianbei Station. The journey takes about an hour. You can also take a taxi or book a car with a driver — convenient if you’re in a group of three or four. There’s also a city bus, but it takes longer and requires transfers.

It’s best to leave early in the morning, before the museum opens at eight o’clock. By midday, the complex fills with groups, making it difficult to see the warriors over the heads of other tourists. In the evening, around five o’clock, the crowds thin out, but the lighting in the pavilions isn’t as good for photographs.

What to watch

Start with pit number one — it will give you a sense of scale. Then move on to pit number two to examine the details. Pit number three contains few figures, but there are signs of restoration — broken figures, reassembled by archaeologists, stand next to intact ones. This clearly shows the condition in which they were found.

Be sure to visit the bronze chariot hall. It’s cool and dark, the exhibits are covered in glass, but the lighting allows you to see the details. The chariots are smaller than the warriors, but more intricate in their execution.

If you have time, watch a 360-degree film in the museum’s cinema. It was filmed using a technology that rotates the auditorium and projects images onto the walls. The film recreates the history of the army’s construction and at least partially conveys its scale.

Combination with other places

Xi’an is a city that can’t be reduced to just the Terracotta Army. It boasts one of the best-preserved city walls in China. Built during the Ming Dynasty, the Xi’an Wall encircles the historic center on all four sides and can be walked or cycled. It spans fourteen kilometers above the city, offering views of both the old and modern quarters.

Also worth seeing in Xi’an are the Big Wild Goose Pagoda and the Small Wild Goose Pagoda — Buddhist structures associated with the famous monk Xuanzang’s journey to India. And, of course, the Muslim Quarter, which we’ll discuss in a separate chapter.

When to go

Spring and fall are ideal times. Summers in Xi’an are hot and dry, while winters are cool but snowless. If you visit on weekends or Chinese holidays, be prepared for lines. On weekdays, especially early in the morning, the museum is almost empty.

Personal

I stood by the glass railing of pit number two and watched the restorers. They were working below, among the figures, in white coats and masks. Their tools were small, almost jeweler’s. They approached yet another broken figure, carefully dusted it, applied the fragments, and matched the paint.

At that moment, everything was quiet. Groups of tourists passed along the balcony, but their voices didn’t reach the ground. And I realized that what we see now isn’t a finished monument. It’s a process. A process that has been going on for fifty years since its first discovery. And it will continue for decades, if not centuries, to come. Every figure we see intact has passed through the hands of dozens of people. Every broken fragment is a puzzle that needs to be assembled, like a jigsaw puzzle, only without a picture on the box.

The smell in the pavilion is unique. It’s not the smell of dust, although there is a lot of it. It’s the smell of ancient clay, difficult to describe. It’s heavy, earthy, with a dry, bitter note. It reminds you of a basement, but not a damp one — a dry one, where old things are stored. When you stand over the pit, this smell rises from below, and it connects you with those who sculpted these warriors two thousand years ago. They, too, worked with this clay. They, too, smelled this smell.

I walked away from the fence and headed for the exit. In the hallway hung photographs from the first days of excavations — the seventies — people in simple clothes, smiling, shovels in hand. They had no idea they were beginning one of the great discoveries of the twentieth century. They were simply digging. And beneath them lay the silence of two millennia, ready to be broken.

Chapter 3. Beijing. The Forbidden City

Stereotype

When we hear the words “Forbidden City,” an image evokes images borrowed from films and illustrations: golden roofs, scarlet columns, a dragon-robed emperor seated on a throne in the silence of a vast hall. Surrounded by submissive eunuchs, beautiful concubines, and guards in vibrant armor. It seems that life here was a continuous celebration of power, where the ruler, sealed off from the world by thick walls, did nothing but accept gifts, sign orders, occasionally watch dancers perform, and die in bed, surrounded by luxury. This image is so familiar that we stop asking: what really happened behind those walls? What did the man who wielded all power in a country with a population of tens of millions do?

The answer is unexpected. The Forbidden City is not a palace in the European sense. It is not a residence where the monarch relaxes between receptions. It is an administrative complex, a city within a city, operating according to a strict schedule and filled with a bureaucracy as dense as any modern ministry. The emperor did not idle here. He worked. And his work was grueling.

Immersion

City-state

To understand its scale, we must first discard the word “palace” and replace it with “city.” The Forbidden City covers an area of 720,000 square meters. It contains 980 buildings and 8,707 rooms. It is surrounded by a 52-meter-wide moat and a 10-meter-high wall. It has four entrances, each with its own protocol: the northern one for the emperor, the southern one for official ceremonies, and the eastern and western ones for officials and staff.

This was more than just a ruler’s residence. It was a miniature capital. It housed offices, archives, workshops, temples, gardens, warehouses, kitchens, stables, prisons, and residential quarters for several thousand people. The Forbidden City functioned as an autonomous state with its own economy, laws, and hierarchy. It was sealed off from the outside world not to provide the emperor with privacy, but to control every movement within and every entry from without.

It wasn’t just the emperor and his family who lived here. Thousands of eunuchs lived here — they served as servants, guards, secretaries, treasurers, and overseers. Concubines and their attendants lived here. Court officials lived here, taking turns on duty. Cooks, gardeners, tailors, doctors, astrologers, and musicians lived here. The total number of people living within the walls could reach nine thousand. For comparison, that’s the population of a small medieval European city.

Symbolism in every detail

There are no random details in the Forbidden City. Every stone, every color, every number carries meaning. The architecture here is the language in which the empire spoke about itself.

Yellow roof tiles are the color of earth in Chinese cosmology. The emperor was considered the center of the universe, and his roofs were supposed to correspond to the central element. No one else in the empire was allowed to use yellow roof tiles. It was a monopoly of power, expressed through color.

The number of rooms is nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine and a half. Why not ten thousand? Because ten thousand is a perfect number, and perfection belongs only to heaven. The Emperor is a son of heaven, but not heaven itself. Therefore, he had to be content with a number that strives for perfection but falls short. This is an expression of humility before the cosmic order, even under the conditions of absolute earthly power.

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