The Terra Cotta Warriors (TCW) live on. In China, the special guard wear green and stand at attention. Right next to the TCWs, in their image. There is nothing new under the sun. Made with excellent craftmanship, sure to excite the throngs of tourists moving through in waves, enough to crush any resistance in their path, new armies, their leaders waving banners "China Tours", "CITS". Only a small portion excavated, the emperor's resting place remains untouched.

Excavations leave rolling mounds of clay, like an ocean that tossed and crushed the clay men, Pharaoh's soldiers, the king's men laying broken and smashed at the bottom of the sea of clay. Under the clay, when you listen closely, can you hear their shouts? They are armed for battle, hoofs clatter, shields raised, arrows at the ready. Their muscles cramp, only the clay that fills their throats keeps us from hearing their screams of terror, the heads that rolled, the arms that fell, the primeval fear to be buried alive, with no bell to summon the living. How was the emperor to conquer the dead? Would the souls of his soldiers enter their clay vessels shaped in their likeness, an army of golems ready to do his bidding in the next world, or would their souls flee his tyranny, free at last? Press your ear to the ground, perhaps one of them will utter a cry of victory, of defiance, of terror.