"It's a bloody shame," Hunt said, shaking his head in anger, "though we've proven that the site has already been well-ransacked."

Hunt kicked at some excavated fragments of marble and stone piled near his feet and watched as the dust settled over the remnants that had once constituted an imposing imperial structure. While most of his archaeological contemporaries in China were chasing prehistoric burial tombs loaded with bronze artifacts, Hunt's focus was on the more recent Yuan Dynasty. This was his third summer on the grounds of Shang-tu, excavating the remains of the royal summer palace built in 1260. Staring at a barren hillside dotted with mounds of fresh dirt, it was difficult to imagine the former grandeur of the palace and grounds that would have stood before him nearly eight hundred years earlier.

Though surviving Chinese historical records provide scant detail, Marco Polo, the Venetian adventurer who vividly documented thirteenth-century China and the Silk Road in his book The Travels, provided a striking description of Shang-tu at its zenith. Built on a huge mound at the center of a walled city, the original palace was surrounded by a forest of transplanted trees and lapis lazuli stone paths, which lent a magical blue hue to the estate. Exquisite gardens and fountains weaved through a series of government buildings and residences that encircled the Ta-an Ko, or "Pavilion of Great Harmony," which stood as the imperial palace. Constructed of green marble and stone and gilded with gold, the great structure was inlaid with glazed tiles and decorated with breathtaking paintings and sculptures from China's most skilled artisans. Used primarily as a summer residence by the emperor to escape the heat of Peking, Shang-tu quickly developed into a scientific and cultural hub. A medical center and astronomical observatory were constructed, and the city became a haven for scholars both foreign and domestic. A constant breeze across the hilltop cooled the emperor and his guests, as he administered over an empire that stretched from the Mediterranean to Korea.

But it was the emperor's adjacent hunting ground that perhaps gave the summer palace its most renown.

It was a vast enclosed park of trees, streams, and thick grass, encompassing sixteen square miles. The park was stocked with deer, boar, and other game for the hunting pleasure of the emperor and his guests. Elevated paths circled through the preserve, to keep the hunters' feet dry. Surviving tapestries show the emperor hunting in the park on a favorite horse, with a trained hunting cheetah at his side.

Centuries of abandonment, neglect, and looting had reduced the palace to little more than scattered rubble. It was nearly impossible for Hunt to picture the lush grounds of gardens, fountains, springs, and trees as they existed centuries ago. The landscape was now barren. A wide, grassy plain stretched empty to the distant brown hills. The area was void of life, the city's past glory just a whisper on the wind that ruffled through the tall grass. Xanadu, the romantic name of Shang-tu popularized by the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem, existed now only in the imagination.

With approval from the Nationalist government, Hunt had begun excavations three years before. Trowel by trowel, he had been able to piece together the boundaries of the Palace of Great Harmony, identifying a grand hall, a kitchen, and a dining hall. An assortment of bronze and porcelain artifacts recovered from the earth told the tale of daily life at the palace. But, to Hunt's disappointment, there were no dazzling artifacts uncovered, no terra-cotta armies or Ming vases that would make a name for himself. The dig was nearly completed, just the remains of the royal bedroom chamber remained to be excavated.

Already, most of his colleagues had fled the eastern regions of China, not wanting to get caught up in a civil war or foreign invasion. Hunt seemed to perversely enjoy the turmoil and pending danger from the site in Northwest China, not far from Manchuria. With a love of antiquity and drama, he knew that he was standing thick in the middle of history in the making.

Hunt also knew that the British Museum would be pleased with whatever artifacts he would provide them for their planned exhibit of Xanadu. The chaos and danger created by the Japanese invasion was actually a benefit. Not only did it add to the allure of the artifacts that he transported west, it actually made the process easier. Local authorities had already fled the nearby villages, and the government antiquities officials had not been seen in weeks. He would have an easy time removing the artifacts from the country. That is, assuming he could extricate himself as well.

"I guess I've kept you from your family long enough, Tsendyn. I doubt the Russians will allow the Japanese to pussyfoot around in Mongolia, so you should be safe from this craziness."

"My wife shall welcome my return." The Mongol smiled through a yellowing set of sharply pointed teeth.

The faint drone of a nearby aircraft halted their conversation. To the south of them, a small gray speck grew larger in the sky before banking to the east.

"Japanese reconnaissance aircraft," Hunt mused. "Not a good sign for the Nationalist chaps if the Japanese own the skies." The archaeologist pulled out a pack of Red Lion cigarettes and lit one of the unfiltered smokes as Tsendyn peered at the fading aircraft with a nervous look.

"The sooner we are away, the better, I think," he said.

Behind them, a sudden commotion erupted from one of the excavation trenches. One of the Chinese laborer's heads popped up over the edge, his grimy jaws jabbering at a rapid clip.

"What is it?" Hunt said, setting down his tea.

"He says he's found some lacquered wood," Tsendyn replied, stepping toward the trench.

Both men walked to the edge and peered down. The chattering laborer excitedly pointed his trowel toward the ground as the other laborers crowded around. Barely exposed through the dirt at his feet was a flat square yellow object the size of a serving platter.

"Tsendyn, you handle the excavation," Hunt barked, waving away the other laborers. As the Mongolian jumped into the trench and carefully began scraping the dirt away with a trowel and brush, Hunt retrieved a notebook and pencil. Thumbing to a hand-drafted sketch of the localized area and trench, he neatly outlined the object in its discovered location. Flipping to a blank sheet, he then began sketching the artifact while Tsendyn gently dug around it.

As the dirt and dust fell away, Hunt could see that the object was in fact a yellow lacquered wooden box. Every square inch was painted with delicate images of animals and trees in elaborate detail, trimmed with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Hunt noted with curiosity that an elephant was depicted on the lid. Carefully scraping the dirt away to its base, Tsendyn gently lifted the box out of the sediment and placed it on a flat stone outside the trench.

The Chinese laborers all stopped their digging and crowded around the ornate box. Most of their discoveries to date consisted of little more than broken shards of porcelain and the occasional jade carving. This was easily the most impressive item uncovered in their three years of digging.

Hunt studied the box deliberately before taking it in his hands and lifting it. Something heavy was inside, which shifted as he moved the box. With his thumbs, he could feel a seam midway around the shallow sides and gently tried to separate the lid. The box, sealed for nearly eight hundred years, protested at first and then slowly opened. Hunt set the box down and gingerly worked his fingers around the entire edge, then pulled on the lid until it creaked off. Tsendyn and the laborers all leaned in as if in a football huddle, peering to see what was inside.