Great Wall in 50 Objects Page 6

Before the bike, humankind’s mass transportation method was the horse. (I’ve already explored one aspect of man’s relationship with this incredibly useful animal – see Object 7.) But today, few people have ridden horses for long, and even fewer at speed. So you may have to imagine the following. A horse’s locomotion is similar to a human’s, only it’s faster and takes bigger jumps as it runs. So how do riders absorb the constant shocks that are transmitted, let alone the major jolts when horses negotiate very uneven ground? Just like cyclists, they lift themselves out of the saddle. They use their coordination and instinct – horsemanship – to protect themselves from the immense shocks.

  However, for most of man’s horse-riding history, whether hunting, travelling or fighting, he never had the benefit of stirrups. Battles fought by the armies of the ancient world – the Babylonians, Egyptians, Assyrians, Greeks, Persians, Macedonians and Romans – all featured armies riding horses without stirrups. The bloody conflicts of the entire Warring States Period, the Qin and Han dynasties too, were all fought ‘pre-stirrup’.

  How? Some riders probably needed ‘leg-ups’ to mount, and all rode with their legs simply dangling down while gripping with their knees to remain saddled. Amazingly, the stirrup appears to have been invented only in the early fourth century. Our object is one of the earliest known examples. It’s a fine specimen in cast bronze, and is believed to have been made during the stirrup’s opening century, circa AD 350.

  A few days after examining this 1660-year-old object in a museum in Ulaanbaatar, I observed the contemporary use of stirrups. On Mongolia’s Eastern Steppe, the largest pristine temperate grassland in the world, I needed water, so I called by one of the few gers, or tented farmsteads, one might see in a whole day to ask permission to use the local well. I chanced upon a warm-hearted family with three children, and was invited inside to drink milk tea.

  Before long, the family’s two daughters proudly mounted their horses and gave us a riding display. Their little brother was determined not to be left out. His sister had no choice but give him a turn. She helped him climb onto the saddle by interlocking the fingers of both her hands to make a ‘hand stirrup’. Then he took the reins and rode beside her, with his tiny feet way above the stirrups.

  For the next year or so he’d be getting more practice in the saddle, coordinating his movement to the horse’s natural motion – in other words, developing his riding skills. By the time he was seven or eight his legs would be long enough to reach the stirrups. He’d be able to mount alone and ride for longer periods. If he hunts any of the swift animals that roam the steppe, the stability that stirrups provide will give him a better chance of bringing home some meat. From lad to youth, he’ll be moving from no stirrups to stirrups, from no suspension to shock-absorption – the same journey his ancestors made about 1660 years ago.

  DESCRIPTION: A bronze stirrup

  SIGNIFICANCE: Invention providing greater stability for mounted archers and comfort for riders

  ORIGIN: Made circa 350 AD, Northern Xianbei Period

  LOCATION: Museum of the Great Hunnu Empire, at the Genghis Khan Statue, Ulaanbaatar

  The stirrup proper is credited by some as a Chinese invention, based on the earliest evidence dating from the Western Jin (AD 265–316). A tomb discovered in 1958 at Jinpanling, near Changsha, Hunan Province, and dating from AD 302, contained seven figurines of horsemen forming a guard of honour, some of whom have stirrups. I examined them at the National Museum of China, where they are displayed within the ‘Ancient China’ collection, and a few things were immediately apparent. First, the cast stirrups are ‘single’ – that is, they are only fixed on one side of the saddles. Second, not all seven horsemen have them. Third, those who do have them don’t have their feet in them!

  It appears likely that single stirrups were simply an aid to mounting. This idea is confirmed by the fact that the Jinpanling horsemen are not using their stirrups once seated. And they are probably not present across the whole group because stirrups were difficult objects to produce; they were confined to the higher-ranking members of the guard. In other words, although we see cast stirrups dating from AD 302, their full potential had not been realised. The tomb figurines’ stirrups can therefore be regarded as an intermediate stage in their development.

  Researchers credit the origins of the stirrup to steppe nomads, who may have been the first to use a simple leather loop, or perhaps a bone ‘pedal’, to assist them as they mounted up. This design was probably improved upon – in cast metal – by the Jin horsemen, and soon after was greatly improved by their larger-scale production and their double use, which helped balance riders and permitted a much smoother journey, and more accurate discharge of missiles.

  Advantaged by developing the invention, the Chinese may have enjoyed parity with, or even short-lived superiority against their nomadic adversaries, who possessed innately superior riding skills. Before long, however, the Chinese faced nomadic cavalrymen who had also begun using stirrups, as our object from the north evidences. Use of stirrups thus spread to all in the Great Wall theatre of conflict, and eventually across Asia to Europe, but not swiftly: their production depended on metallurgical casting expertise.

  Stirrups greatly accelerated the pace and ferocity of cavalry warfare. Marksmanship improved, which in turn triggered the need for more, and heavier, armour (see Object 19). Meanwhile, the use of infantry forces waned, while clumsy chariots were banished to the annals of history.

  ‘Prior to the stirrup, nomads could cross the steppe and desert by horse, but only with great difficulty because they had to hold on with their legs, and then they had to dismount for effective combat,’ says Professor Jack Weatherford, author of Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World. ‘The stirrup made long treks on horseback much easier because the rider could eat and even sleep for extended periods without fear of falling. The greatest change, however, meant that for the first time the nomads could fight from horseback as the stirrup freed up their arms and hands. It steadied the rider enough that he could fire while attacking at speed. Stirrups changed herders into warriors.’

  11.

  An Eyewitness Report

  Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian

  What criteria do we use to gauge the success of a book? That depends on who we are. Publishers measure copies sold, frequency of reprints, translations and international editions. Agents look for sustainability: what’s the likelihood of a sequel, or two, or more? Critics emphasise the importance of good reviews and literary awards. Authors want all of the above. Readers buy – but that’s only the beginning.

  I’ve asked a random collection of readers how they judge a book, and most give a similar answer. They ultimately rate a book’s worth on whether they find what they are looking for – inspiration, information or whatever – within its pages.

  Me too. Approaching ancient China’s twenty-four ‘official’ histories (Ershisi Shi), which sit at the heart of the culture’s vast corpus of historical writing, I’m hoping to find what I’m looking for: insights into the Great Wall’s story which I can’t find in the field. Later in this series we’ll meet a completely fictitious work about the Wall’s builders and a century-old account of its first exploration, and few other textual sources too. But I’m only including one ancient ‘history book’: Records of the Grand Historian.

  It’s regarded as the first of ancient China’s twenty-four Zhengshi, or official dynastic histories. Judging its achievements against the benchmarks of success mentioned above, it scores highly on all fronts. It’s been reprinted an estimated sixty times since it was written, with a brush, on bamboo slips back in the second century BC (before the widespread use of paper). It first went international circa AD 600, with a Japanese edition, and set the standard for the future compilation which every legitimate ruling dynasty aimed to produce about its predecessor.

  DESCRIPTION: Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian), authored from the late second century BC to the early first century BC, b
y Sima Qian (Qing Dynasty edition, printed 1875)

  SIGNIFICANCE: First eyewitness account of the Great Wall; first accurate ‘military intelligence’ on the state’s main enemy, the Xiongnu

  ORIGIN: Originally written on bamboo slips, studied over the centuries in more than sixty editions; the oldest extant edition dates from the sixth century

  LOCATION: Rare Books Collection, Peking University Library

  This work about China’s opening historical chapter has its own history, which puts it among the world’s earliest works, alongside Homer’s Iliad (eighth century BC), Herodotus’ Histories (fifth century BC) and Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War (fifth century BC). Shiji was written by Sima Qian, who lived between around 145 BC and 86 BC.

  In it I find what I’m looking for as a reader and researcher: a first-person account relating to the Great Wall. Just a few relevant paragraphs lie buried, here and there, within its half a million characters, spread across 130 chapters. Given the scale of Sima Qian’s task (inherited in 110 BC from his father, Sima Tan) – to complete a chronicle of China history from its beginnings to the present day – we cannot expect to find too much space devoted to border walls. But what little we get is worth its weight in gold: a few hundred characters on the Wall at the time, as well as a few thousand characters describing the reason for the Wall’s construction: the enemy.

  Opening an 1875 edition of ‘Records of the Grand Historian’ in Peking University Library’s collection of rare books, my wife and researcher Wu Qi finds Chapter 88, and writes a translation for me in her notebook:

  I’ve been to the northern border and returned via the Direct Road. On the way I saw the ramparts of the Great Wall which Meng Tian built for Qin. He hollowed out the mountains and filled in the valleys and built a road there . . .

  For me, this is the crown jewel, for it begins with ‘I’. Sima Qian’s words are much more than an account of who built what, when and for what purpose: we’re following in the footsteps of the first person to see the structure and record that experience. We’re listening to the first eyewitness in the Wall’s history. As Grand Scribe (Taishi Ling), Sima Qian accompanied Emperor Han Wudi on his inspection tours of the north and west in around 110 BC, and it’s possible that this was when he observed the Wall.

  Elsewhere in his ‘Records’, Sima Qian provides the first and most detailed ethnography of the Western Han’s great nomadic adversary, the Xiongnu people (see Object 3). To do this, he conducted interviews and built relationships with key people, including prominent military officials. With information gleaned from army commanders Li Guang, Su Qian and Wei Qing – all of whom led long campaigns against the northern nomads – he presented a comprehensive picture of the Xiongnu’s lifestyle, military methods, social hierarchy, rituals and beliefs.

  As children, they can ride goats, and can shoot birds and mice with their bows and arrows. When a little older they can shoot foxes and hares for food. As adults, they bend the bow well and all can serve as cavalry. They herd domestic animals and hunt in times of peace but, when needed, everyone sets off on invasions and practises military skills . . .

  They herd domestic animals such as horses, cows and sheep, and some rarer ones such as camels and other equines. Their movements are made in search of pastures and water, and they have no fixed places of abode nor walled towns, and do not engage in the cultivation of crops.

  Previous writing on the northern barbarians had demonised them – in Shanhai Jing (‘Classic of the Mountains and Seas’), written the fourth century BC, for example, the foreigners were presented as distorted and grotesque beings. Sima Qian brought them from the realm of imagination and mystery, presenting them as realistic enemies on the edge of the Empire. In this respect, his descriptions represent the first recorded military intelligence on the Han state’s main enemy, the Xiongnu.

  Perhaps most significantly for scholars of the Great Wall, Sima Qian names the structure. He uses four characters – wan li and chang cheng – in close proximity in a sentence in Chapter 28, thus bringing together the terms that would later make up the structure’s famous name:

  When Qin had unified All Under Heaven, Meng Tian took 300 000 to go north and drive out the Rong and Di barbarians and take control of the territory to the south of the Yellow River. He built a Long Wall [changcheng], taking advantage of the lie of the land and making use of the passes. It began at Lintao and went as far as Liaodong, extending for 10 000 li [wanli]. Crossing the Yellow River, it followed the Yang Mountains and twisted northwards. His army was exposed to hardships in the field for ten years when they were stationed in Shang Province, and during this time Meng Tian filled the Xiongnu with terror.

  These two excerpts, although brief, not only provide evidence but are loaded with detail and insight. From them we learn that ‘the Wall’ was masterminded by Qin, managed by General Meng Tian and built by a workforce numbering 300 000, who also forged an approach road, the Zhidao, or ‘Direct Road’, leading to the frontier region where the Wall was to be built. We even get a rough geography: from Lintao (Gansu) to Liaodong, via the Lang Shan. Sima Qian mentions an obviously rounded figure of 10 000 li (one li equals about 550 metres). This traditional and literal use of wan should be interpreted as being ‘endless’, making a more erudite translation of Wanli Changcheng ‘the Endless Wall’.

  With passing time, this turned out to be both an increasingly inappropriate and appropriate term. Synonymous with a place of no return, it elicits the heartbreaking legend of Lady Meng, warning of death and sorrow for its future builders and their loved ones (see Object 2). Yet, as dynasties rose and fell, and some of them built Great Walls for themselves – adeptly renamed biancheng, or border walls – and collectively the structures increased in length, becoming seemingly more endless. By pre-modern times, with all the Walls abandoned, the original four-character term gradually re-established itself as their evocative brand name, making it more famous.

  Today, precious few of the tens of millions of the Wall’s annual visitors, from near and far – most of whom are preoccupied with sharing their own first impressions of the Wall by WeChat, WhatsApp, Instagram or some other social media platform – are aware that the very first message was sent some 2125 years earlier, and written down on wooden strips by a man named Sima Qian.

  12.

  Writers and Fighters

  Polyhedral wooden record

  How are you reading this? On paper, or a screen of some kind? And when was the last time you wrote a letter, report or an essay on paper? If you answered ‘A screen’ and ‘I can’t even remember’ to these questions, then you – like most people, I suspect – have entered a new era, and paper is almost a thing of the past.

  With this mugu, or ‘wooden document’, we’re backtracking to a time when refined paper was an item of the future; wood was the main surface for writing on. This object is an oddity both in its shape and in its rather puzzling content, but it’s classified as belonging to a category of wooden strips called mujian that vividly preserve details of the Western Han’s Great Wall operation – an episode elucidated by a group of more conventional two-faced mujian (see Object 15). As one might expect from an oddity, this one conceals a different story.

  From the Shang to the Northern and Southern Dynasties period – approximately 1900 years – long strips of thin wood were the most commonly used writing surfaces, whether for scrawling brief notes or transcribing great works of history. Sima Qian’s Shiji (Object 11), for example, would have been a truly voluminous and heavy read, as expressed by the idiom xue fu wu che, literally meaning ‘possessing five cartloads of knowledge’, or more eloquently ‘erudite and scholarly’. Sima Qian gave a measure of Emperor Qin Shihuang’s thirst for knowledge by remarking that he worked his way through one dan (approximately twenty-seven kilograms) of various wooden documents per day.

  ‘The mugu was discovered in 1977 during excavation of ruins of a fengsui, or watchtower, on the Han Wall at Yumenhuahai, about 100 kilometres
west of Jiayuguan in Gansu Province. Most people encountering it in the museum have little idea what it is, let alone appreciate its significance; it is listed as a State Level First Class Antiquity,’ says Yu Chunrong, curator at the Jiayuguan Great Wall Museum.

  The mugu is hexagonal in cross-section and possesses six surfaces for writing, compared to just a single side of a conventional wooden strip. Thicker at its top end, thinning towards the other, it’s about thirty-seven centimetres in length. Overall, it looks rather like a chunky, cumbersome, oversized chopstick. Its surfaces are covered with a total of 212 characters in the lishu (chancery or clerk’s) script, written in black ink. This peculiar, enigmatic object takes us back to the Western Han, circa 90 BC, to a watchtower on the dynasty’s frontier Wall, and into the mind of one man; we’ll call him ‘the writer’. He’s an officer, probably of suizhang rank, and in charge of a small squad of men deployed at the tower.

  The first puzzle about the mugu is its strange mixture of content: it features two unconnected and contrasting texts in adjacency. One part has 133 characters, comprising an incomplete letter – partly a testament, partly a valedictory – issued by the third-longest reigning emperor in imperial history, Han Wudi (who reigned between 140 and 87 BC). The original document was addressed to his youngest son and chosen heir, Crown Prince Fuling, born in 94 BC, who would become the Zhaodi Emperor, reigning until 74 BC. It reads:

  This announcement is for the Crown Prince. My health is ailing and soon I must depart this world for the earth, never to return . . . Crown Prince, you should be a benevolent ruler, paying attention to the needs of ordinary people, reducing their burden of taxation, protecting talented people, staying close to the great thinkers, being a model for all to follow, respecting your ancestors . . . striving to uphold the mandate of heaven you will inherit, then the Huns will not dare to challenge you . . . I do wish to say more before it is too late . . .