head, stood Nelson, small and baby-faced.
“In Tibet, burial in the ground is reserved for criminals and people who die of contagious diseases,” Newboldt began. “Beggars, widows, widowers, and the very poor are usually surrendered to rivers, as is done in the subcontinent. Tibet’s scholar-monks are usually cremated, though Dalai and Panchen Lamas are often immured in stupas or chortens. For everyone else, the preferred method is celestial burial. The dead are wrapped in white cloth and kept for five days, then the body is transported to a high promontory, where it is hacked to pieces—bones and all—and fed to vultures. The birds are summoned by fires built from pine and cypress woods, and tsampa.” Newboldt cut his eyes to Berger. “Now, what does our lesson suggest to you regarding this coffin or sarcophagus, as you say?”
“That it’s probably not from Tibet?” Berger said sheepishly.
“Precisely.” Newboldt glanced at Nelson. “Where are the men who delivered it?”
The guard shrugged. “Gone. They took off.”
“Well, what does the shipping invoice state?”
Berger pulled the slip from his jacket pocket. “It says here that the shipment originated in Tibet. The delivery was made by the Integrity Transfer Company.”
Newboldt snatched the invoice and read it for himself. “Obviously there’s been a mistake. We’re not expecting anything from Tibet—and certainly not some counterfeit sarcophagus. I’ll have Acquisitions contact the customs broker to sort this out. In the meantime, let’s just see what we have here.”
Newboldt moved to the crate. The burnished surface of the coffin had an almost molten look, and the lid was actually made up of two full-length doors, hinged along both sides and secured where they met by five baroque latches, carved to suggest intertwined dragon’s claws.
“Whatever its provenance,” Newboldt commented, “it’s exquisite.” He ran a hand over one of the doors, then rapped his knuckles against it. “It’s solid silver!” He turned to Nelson. “Give us a hand getting the sides off.”
The crowbar Nelson had used to pry off the upper section of crating was still hanging from the lower portion, and Nelson used it to strip away the side slats and what remained of the front. Newboldt brushed the straw away and used his handkerchief to clean what looked to be a cartouche engraved into the right-hand door. Nelson appeared with the reading lamp from the desk.
“What’s it say?” Berger asked.
“The writing is in Latin and what seems to be Arabic.” Newboldt studied the letters intently for a moment. “No, I’m mistaken. It’s in Latin and Uighur script.”
Berger and Nelson traded ignorant looks.
“An alphabet borrowed from the Sogdians—an East Iranian people from Samarkand and Bukhara—” Newboldt stopped himself and inhaled sharply. “ ‘The Kha Khan,’ ” he said, deciphering the engraving. “ ‘The Great Ruler. The Power of Heaven, the One God, Tengri, on Earth. The Seal of the Emperor of Mankind, Ruler of All Tribes Living in Felt Tents.’ ” He looked at Berger and Nelson in undisguised astonishment. “Temüjin! This is the coffin of Temüjin!”
Berger had his mouth opened to respond when Newboldt continued.
“The man we’ve come to know as Genghis Khan—twelfth-century conqueror of half the world. Eldest son of Yesugei. Named after the slain tartar chief, Temüjin. The name approximates ‘Smith.’ The meaning of ‘genghis’ isn’t known, but—”
Again, he glanced at the two men. “But this is impossible. Genghis Khan’s burial site has never been found, much less his . . . his coffin. The body is thought to have been carried to Mongolia for burial on the sacred mountain, Burqan Qaldun, or perhaps along the upper reaches of the Onon. Forty women and forty horses were sacrificed, then the gravesite was trampled by hundreds of horses.”
“So what’s it mean, professor?” Nelson asked, breaking a brief
“In Tibet, burial in the ground is reserved for criminals and people who die of contagious diseases,” Newboldt began. “Beggars, widows, widowers, and the very poor are usually surrendered to rivers, as is done in the subcontinent. Tibet’s scholar-monks are usually cremated, though Dalai and Panchen Lamas are often immured in stupas or chortens. For everyone else, the preferred method is celestial burial. The dead are wrapped in white cloth and kept for five days, then the body is transported to a high promontory, where it is hacked to pieces—bones and all—and fed to vultures. The birds are summoned by fires built from pine and cypress woods, and tsampa.” Newboldt cut his eyes to Berger. “Now, what does our lesson suggest to you regarding this coffin or sarcophagus, as you say?”
“That it’s probably not from Tibet?” Berger said sheepishly.
“Precisely.” Newboldt glanced at Nelson. “Where are the men who delivered it?”
The guard shrugged. “Gone. They took off.”
“Well, what does the shipping invoice state?”
Berger pulled the slip from his jacket pocket. “It says here that the shipment originated in Tibet. The delivery was made by the Integrity Transfer Company.”
Newboldt snatched the invoice and read it for himself. “Obviously there’s been a mistake. We’re not expecting anything from Tibet—and certainly not some counterfeit sarcophagus. I’ll have Acquisitions contact the customs broker to sort this out. In the meantime, let’s just see what we have here.”
Newboldt moved to the crate. The burnished surface of the coffin had an almost molten look, and the lid was actually made up of two full-length doors, hinged along both sides and secured where they met by five baroque latches, carved to suggest intertwined dragon’s claws.
“Whatever its provenance,” Newboldt commented, “it’s exquisite.” He ran a hand over one of the doors, then rapped his knuckles against it. “It’s solid silver!” He turned to Nelson. “Give us a hand getting the sides off.”
The crowbar Nelson had used to pry off the upper section of crating was still hanging from the lower portion, and Nelson used it to strip away the side slats and what remained of the front. Newboldt brushed the straw away and used his handkerchief to clean what looked to be a cartouche engraved into the right-hand door. Nelson appeared with the reading lamp from the desk.
“What’s it say?” Berger asked.
“The writing is in Latin and what seems to be Arabic.” Newboldt studied the letters intently for a moment. “No, I’m mistaken. It’s in Latin and Uighur script.”
Berger and Nelson traded ignorant looks.
“An alphabet borrowed from the Sogdians—an East Iranian people from Samarkand and Bukhara—” Newboldt stopped himself and inhaled sharply. “ ‘The Kha Khan,’ ” he said, deciphering the engraving. “ ‘The Great Ruler. The Power of Heaven, the One God, Tengri, on Earth. The Seal of the Emperor of Mankind, Ruler of All Tribes Living in Felt Tents.’ ” He looked at Berger and Nelson in undisguised astonishment. “Temüjin! This is the coffin of Temüjin!”
Berger had his mouth opened to respond when Newboldt continued.
“The man we’ve come to know as Genghis Khan—twelfth-century conqueror of half the world. Eldest son of Yesugei. Named after the slain tartar chief, Temüjin. The name approximates ‘Smith.’ The meaning of ‘genghis’ isn’t known, but—”
Again, he glanced at the two men. “But this is impossible. Genghis Khan’s burial site has never been found, much less his . . . his coffin. The body is thought to have been carried to Mongolia for burial on the sacred mountain, Burqan Qaldun, or perhaps along the upper reaches of the Onon. Forty women and forty horses were sacrificed, then the gravesite was trampled by hundreds of horses.”
“So what’s it mean, professor?” Nelson asked, breaking a brief
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