Volume One, Chapter 15: The Tomb of the Gambling King (Part One)

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“Oh, Tang poetry?” Master Qi smiled and patted my shoulder. “This is your realm, apprentice.” Without a hint of modesty, he said, “We cultural relic investigation officers, with just the character ‘wen’ (culture) in our title, are among the rare ‘civil officials’ in the public security forces. Due to the nature of our work, every day we read Tang and Song poetry, appreciate Ming and Qing imperial porcelain, play with the moonlit Liang Garden, drink liquor from the Eastern Capital, admire the flowers of Luoyang, and climb the willows of Zhangtai. Handling national treasures through their rise and fall, we are far from being rough brutes who don’t know how to savor the subtle beauty of a rose.”

Each cultural relic investigation officer has their own specialty. I don’t know Master Qi’s background, but I specialize in poetry, calligraphy, and painting. Early on at the police academy, I memorized the entire “Complete Tang Poems” collection. Every surviving poem of Li Bai’s is deeply etched in my heart.

If a door corresponds to one of Li Bai’s poems, and then relates to a Tang dynasty place name, such a complex threefold riddle is no challenge for me.

“Hukou” refers to Hukou Falls on the Yellow River, corresponding to Li Bai’s “Invitation to Wine” — ‘The Yellow River’s water comes from the heavens, rushing to the sea never to return,’ located between modern-day Linfen, Shanxi and Yan’an, Shaanxi.

“Taibai” is Mount Taibai, related to Li Bai’s “Climbing Mount Taibai” — ‘Westward to Mount Taibai, climbing till sunset. Taibai speaks to me, opening the gates of heaven,’ associated with the Qinling region in Shaanxi.

“Hua Chi” is Huachi County, linked to Li Bai’s “Reply to Cui Wulang” — ‘Though mountains and seas may overturn, my promise will never change. At that time, frost and cold winds blew, my spirit soared by Hua Chi,’ connected to today’s Huachi County in Huayang City.

“Longshou” is the Tang-era Longzhou, connected to Li Bai’s “Ancient Style No. 59, Poem 22” — ‘The Qin River parts Longshou, its murmurs filled with sorrow. Barbarian horses glance back at the northern snow, galloping with long neighs,’ relating to present-day Qingshui, Gansu and Baoji, Shaanxi, as well as the southern Loess Plateau.

“Lintao” is Lintao County, corresponding to Li Bai’s “White Horse” — ‘Determined to leave Hangu Pass, joining the army towards Lintao. Commanding the battlefield with a shout, the Xiongnu flee in all directions,’ linked to modern Dingxi, Gansu.

“Yelang” refers to the ancient Yelang Kingdom, connected to Li Bai’s “Hearing of Wang Changling’s Demotion to Longbiao, Sending This from Afar” — ‘I send my sorrowful heart with the bright moon, following you all the way west to Yelang,’ associated with the southwestern border region of Yunnan and Guizhou provinces.

“Shudao” is the ancient Shu Road from Tang Chang’an into the Chengdu Plain, corresponding to Li Bai’s “Hard Roads in Shu” — ‘The roads to Shu are harder than ascending to the blue sky,’ roughly linked to present-day Sichuan.

“Yumen” is Yumen Pass, corresponding to Li Bai’s “Moon Over the Mountain Pass” — ‘The bright moon rises over the Tianshan, amid vast clouds and seas. The long wind travels tens of thousands of miles, blowing past Yumen Pass,’ associated with today’s Dunhuang, Gansu.

“Hangu” is Hangu Pass, linked to Li Bai’s “Hearing of Li Tawei... Cui Shiyu’s Nineteen Verses” — ‘No birds fly over Hangu, military camps crowd Wuguan. Their intent is to slay the giant turtle, not worry about slicing the great whale,’ related to today’s Lingbao City, Sanmenxia, Henan Province.

All these place names are easy to guess. Only “Hua Chi” gave me pause for a long time.

Although the Tang-era Qingzhou did govern Huachi County, directly associating it seemed somewhat forced. After all, “Hua Chi” in the poem might be a vague reference to the Queen Mother’s Jade Pool, possibly pointing to the Kunlun Mountains in Qinghai-Tibet. But Master Qi said not to get hung up on it; since we can guess the answer, just write it down—we can’t leave it blank.

Lastly, “Chenxiang” refers to Chenxiang Pavilion, corresponding to Li Bai’s “Qing Ping Tune” — ‘Explaining the infinite hatred of the spring breeze, leaning north by the railings of Chenxiang Pavilion,’ located at today’s Xingqing Palace ruins in Xi’an.

While we recited the poems, the archaeological team finally showcased their expertise, deciphering a long passage on the stone wall. It roughly stated that the tomb’s occupant’s grandfather lived during the Tianbao era, had indeed mingled with great poets like Li Bai, and that Li Bai had shown kindness to his grandfather.

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Therefore, this tomb occupant built an underwater tomb themed around “chess,” deliberately naming each stone door after place names from Li Bai’s poems.

“But for now, we can’t tell what exactly happened back then, or why his grandfather was so grateful to Li Bai, nor why three generations remembered him so deeply that they engraved his benefactor’s name in the epitaph,” an archaeologist said, pointing at the wall. These ancient texts require experts on site for deeper interpretation.

“All right, first protect these stone walls carefully,” I instructed simply.

This dive was rushed and sudden; being pulled underwater was even more unexpected. We carried no cultural relic protection tools or materials, and entering the tomb was a last resort. We had to minimize flashlight use and exhaled bubbles, find clues as quickly as possible, and leave the shaft without lingering, lest we accelerate the artifacts’ oxidation.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Soon, we found the lower portion of the stone wall, but this tomb occupant loved mysteries. Regarding his grandfather’s connection to Li Bai, he didn’t directly record the full story or erect a monument, but instead told us through a mural:

Playing chess.

The mural depicted two men playing chess again.

But this time, it wasn’t just two players and a chessboard; many spectators gathered around. Some watched intently, their beards trembling slightly with excitement; others laughed heartily, their crow’s feet fanning like chrysanthemum petals; some literati lightly waved folding fans with smiles at the corners of their mouths; even a few curious children poked their heads out from the crowd, eyes wide, standing on tiptoe.

“Watching chess without speaking—that’s the true gentleman’s way. Why are these spectators so rude?” I frowned. In the Tang dynasty, Go was a popular game enjoyed by all classes. Why would such unruly spectators gather?

The archaeologists worked hard again, piecing together fragments from the damaged wall to decode the scene’s meaning: back then, Li Bai had played a game of chess with the tomb occupant’s grandfather and saved his life. He also gifted him a poem related to chess.

“Playing a game of chess could save a life?” Master Qi scoffed, saying that seemed unlikely.

“I have my doubts too. Li Bai never wrote poems about chess,” I said, closing my eyes to recall. In the entire Li Bai section of the “Complete Tang Poems,” covering over a hundred thousand words, I had memorized every line. His eloquence epitomizes the peak of the Tang era. Yet, oddly, not one poem contains the character for ‘chess’!

“Oh?” Master Qi pressed, “Then close your eyes again—did any of Li Bai’s poems contain the character ‘yi’ (a term for playing chess)?”

I searched my mind once more and confidently told him no.

Master Qi sneered, “Then isn’t this wall inscription nonsense?”

Moreover, why would a game of chess warrant gratitude? How could a single game possibly save a life? Master Qi pointed to the chessboard in the mural.

I stared at the board as well.

I examined the chessboard carefully. It was square, painted in black and white with clear boundaries…

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Wait.

Suddenly, I realized something was wrong—the chessboard was not right!

This board wasn’t like a traditional Go board. It lacked the nineteen vertical and horizontal lines, and had no neatly arranged squares. Instead, it had several winding paths, like coiling dragons locked in battle or streams crisscrossing.

Master Qi said the patterns resembled a delicate microchip, like a circuit board covered in lines.

“That’s not a circuit board—that’s a Liubo board,” I muttered.

Liubo, also called “Six Bo,” was an ancient Chinese board game popular since the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, perhaps even earlier.

Ancient Liubo had a gambling element and ruined many families. The word ‘bo’ in ‘gambling’ actually derives from Liubo.

A Liubo set usually had twelve pieces, half black and white or black and red, with each player controlling one color. There were also six ‘zhu’ sticks, typically made of bamboo, bone, or jade, thrown to determine piece movement.

The board was mostly wooden, roughly square, engraved with various grooves and dots. It featured twelve winding paths and a central waterway symbolizing rivers and mountains contested by the two players.

The game was a chance-based contest where winning was achieved by capturing opponent pieces, with moves determined by the sticks’ throws. Pieces followed specific routes on the board.

“Wait, could it be that the game Li Bai played with his grandfather wasn’t Go, but Liubo?” I suddenly understood.

Although Li Bai never wrote poems about Go, he wrote about Liubo and was very familiar and passionate about this game. His “Liangyuan Song” includes: ‘Calling five whites to play Liubo, splitting groups to gamble and drink in delight’; and “Fierce Tiger” says: ‘Sometimes Liubo stirs the heart fast and strong, circling the bed thrice before a toss.’

In the Tang dynasty, Liubo was popular across all social strata—not only the aristocrats and literati but also common folk embraced it. Tang Liubo masters studied and documented the game extensively, producing many manuals and treatises, advancing the art of Liubo.

Liubo was not merely entertainment but a common motif in Tang poetry, painting, and other arts. Liubo corresponds to “bo” (gambling/contest), Go to “yi” (playing chess), together forming the root of today’s word “bóyì” (to compete or strategize).

“Apprentice, I understand now,” Master Qi said, gazing intently at the board, then suddenly exclaimed, “We’ve just uncovered the tomb of a gambling king!”