From Humble Beginnings: The Archaeologist’s Craft

Every archaeological discovery begins with fragments—broken bricks, scattered bones, or shattered pottery. As one Qin-era excavation team leader recalls, their mentor’s advice was simple: “Gather everything; even the smallest shard is valuable.” This philosophy guided their work in Xianyang, the ancient capital of the Qin dynasty (221–206 BCE), where hollow bricks and ceramic remnants became keys to unlocking the past.

Team members initially dismissed handling these fragments as “rough work,” but seasoned archaeologists know better. Touching pottery reveals secrets: fingerprints pressed into clay, the uneven strokes of ancient tools, even the hesitation marks where an artisan corrected a mistake. These details connect modern hands to those of Qin craftsmen. One brick’s interior showed thick fingerprints—wider than the archaeologist’s own—and folds where wet clay was pressed into molds. Such observations aren’t trivial; they bridge individual artifacts to monumental achievements like the Terracotta Army.

The Terracotta Connection: Made in China

The leap from broken bricks to the Terracotta Warriors isn’t as vast as it seems. Examination of ceramic fragments reveals identical techniques: coiled clay construction, timed mold removal, and freehand carving. A hollow brick’s stamped circles mirror the patterns on a Terracotta archer’s sandals—proof that Qin mass-production methods spanned from mundane materials to imperial grandeur.

Yet these artifacts face modern threats. Looters raid Xianyang’s ruins for “lead bricks” (renowned for their density), repurposing them into inkstones. Bulldozers crush others to avoid construction delays. Such losses aren’t merely about objects; they erase contextual clues about Qin architecture, labor systems, and the logistical marvel of unifying China’s first empire.

Bones of Contention: A “Bewitching” Discovery

In 2015, a local’s tip led to an unsettling find near Xianyang’s palace core: a so-called “mass grave.” Skeptical but intrigued, the team uncovered not human remains but 600 kg of worked animal bones—cut, polished, and dyed. The site, likely a bone workshop, yielded gaming pieces, chariot fittings, and jewelry blanks from over 203 cattle.

The scale overwhelmed researchers. “Too much,” grumbled a grad student cataloging the haul, yet the team worked with feverish dedication. Iron knives and whetstones hinted at meticulous craftsmanship, while tiny tool marks spoke of precision labor. This wasn’t mere debris; it was evidence of Qin-era industry—a testament to standardized production echoing the Terracotta Army’s creation.

Why “Small” Finds Matter

Critics might dismiss studying brick seams or bone fragments as nitpicking. But these details anchor broader narratives:
– Architectural Innovation: Qin bricks’ durability reflects centralized state control over materials.
– Cultural Continuity: Bone artifacts show how craft traditions permeated daily life and elite rituals.
– Ethical Archaeology: Contrasting scientific digs with looters’ raids underscores the need to preserve context.

As the team leader noted, “National unity enabled China’s first architectural peak”—a legacy embedded in every fingerprint on a brick or groove in a bone. The true “bewitchment” of archaeology lies not in treasure hunting but in piecing together how ordinary materials built an empire.

Legacy in Fragments

Today, Xianyang’s remnants face new challenges. Public “archaeology experiences” that trivialize digs as treasure hunts risk distorting the field’s rigor. Meanwhile, each rescued fragment—whether a brick or a bone needle—adds nuance to our understanding of the Qin dynasty’s technological prowess and societal complexity.

The lesson? In archaeology, as in history, there are no small finds—only overlooked stories waiting to be reassembled.