Treasure Of Khan Part 3

THE m.u.f.fLED BOOMS IN the distance echoed with the pall of a tribal war drum. First a subtle pop would waft through the air, followed by an inevitable jarring thud a few seconds later. The lazy pause between each beat led to a false hope that the acoustic barrage had finally come to an end. Then another quiet pop would ring through the air, unnerving all within earshot as they waited for the impact to follow.

Leigh Hunt stood up from a freshly dug earthen trench and stretched his arms skyward before carefully setting a hand trowel atop a nearby mud-brick wall. The Oxford-educated field archaeologist for the British Museum was dressed for the part, clad in long khaki pants and matching dual-pocket shirt, both of which were coated in a fine layer of dust and sweat. Instead of the cla.s.sic pith helmet, he wore a battered fedora to shield his head from the rays of the summer sun. Through tired hazel eyes, he peered east down a wide valley toward the source of the thundering noise. For the first time, small puffs of smoke could be seen on the horizon through the shimmering heat of the morning sun.

"Tsendyn, it would appear that the artillery is moving closer," he spoke nonchalantly in the direction of the trench.

A short man wearing a thin woolen shirt with a red sash tied around his waist climbed quietly out of the pit. Beyond him in the trench, a crew of Chinese laborers continued digging through the dry soil with heavy spades and hand trowels. Unlike the Chinese workers, the small but broad-shouldered man had slightly rounded eyes, which were imbedded in a face of dark leathery skin. They were features that the local Chinese knew at a glance belonged to a Mongolian.

"Peking is falling. Already the refugees are fleeing," he said, pointing toward a small dirt road a mile away. Rolling through the dust, a half dozen ox-drawn carts toted the life possessions of several Chinese families escaping to the west. "We must abandon the excavation, sir, before the j.a.panese are upon us."

Hunt instinctively felt for the .455 caliber Webley Fosbery automatic revolver holstered at his hip. Two nights before, he had shot at a small gang of marauding bandits that attempted to steal a crate of excavated artifacts. In the environment of China's collapsing infrastructure, bands of thieves seemed to roam everywhere, but most were unarmed and unsophisticated. Fighting his way past the j.a.panese Imperial Army would be an entirely different matter.

China was rapidly imploding under the juggernaut of the j.a.panese military might. Ever since the renegade j.a.panese Kwantung Army had seized Manchuria in 1931, j.a.pan's military leaders had set their sights on colonizing China in the manner of Korea. Six years of thrusts and parries and staged incidents finally erupted in the summer of 1937 when the j.a.panese Imperial Army invaded northern China, in fear that the Nationalist forces of Chiang Kai-shek were growing too strong.

Though the Chinese forces vastly outnumbered the j.a.panese Army, they were no match for the superior equipment, training, and discipline that the j.a.panese forces brought to the field. Utilizing his resources as best he could, Chiang Kai-shek battled the j.a.panese by day, then retreated at night, in an attempt to slow the j.a.panese advance in a war of attrition.

Hunt listened to the crack of the approaching j.a.panese artillery that now signaled the loss of Peking and he knew that the Chinese were in trouble. The capital city of Nanking would be next, resulting in yet a further pullback to the west of Chiang Kai-shek's army. With an impending sense of his own defeat, he glanced at his wrist-watch then spoke to Tsendyn.

"Have the coolies cease all excavations at noon. We'll secure the artifacts and complete final doc.u.mentation of the site this afternoon, then join in the growing caravan heading west." Glancing at the road, he noted a ragtag band of Chinese Nationalist soldiers filtering into the evacuation route.

"You will be leaving on the aircraft to Nanking tomorrow?" Tsendyn asked.

"a.s.suming the plane shows up. But there's no sense in flying to Nanking under these hostile conditions. I intend to take the most important artifacts and fly north to Ulaanbaatar. You'll have to manage the remaining items, equipment, and supplies with the packtrain, I'm afraid. You should be able to catch up with me in Ulaanbaatar in a few weeks. I'll wait for you there before catching the Trans-Siberian railway west."

"A wise move. It is evident that the local resistance is failing."

"Inner Mongolia offers little strategic value to the j.a.panese. They are likely just chasing the remnants of the defensive forces out of Peking," he said, waving an arm toward the distant artillery barrage. "I suspect they will pull back shortly and enjoy a few days or even weeks pillaging Peking before renewing the offensive. Plenty of time for us to be on our way."

"It is unfortunate that we must leave now. We are nearly finished with the excavation of the Pavilion of Great Harmony," Tsendyn said, surveying a maze of excavated trenches that stretched around them like a World War I battlefield.

"It's a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 const.i.tuted 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 doc.u.mented 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 gra.s.s, encompa.s.sing 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, gra.s.sy 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 gra.s.s. 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 a.s.sortment 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 j.a.panese 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, a.s.suming 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 j.a.panese to p.u.s.s.yfoot 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.

"j.a.panese reconnaissance aircraft," Hunt mused. "Not a good sign for the Nationalist chaps if the j.a.panese 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 sc.r.a.ping 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.

Two objects were nestled in the box and Hunt removed them for all to see. A spotted animal skin, colored black and yellow in the camouflage pattern of a leopard or cheetah, was rolled up like a scroll, the ends tied together with leather straps. The other item was a patinated bronze tube, sealed at one end, but with a removable cap at the other end. The Chinese workers all grinned and chuckled at the sight of the objects, not knowing what significance they held, but a.s.suming correctly that they had some importance.

Hunt set down the cheetah skin and examined the heavy bronze tube. It had aged a deep green color, which only enhanced the elaborate image of a dragon that stretched along its length, the tail of the imaginary beast curled around the capped end of the tube like a coil of rope.

"Go ahead, open it up," Tsendyn urged with excited impatience.

Hunt easily pried off the end cap, then held the tube up to his eye, peering in. He then turned the open end toward the ground and carefully shook the tube, catching with his open left palm the contents as it slid out.

It was a rolled-up bolt of silk, dyed a pale blue. Tsendyn shook clean a nearby blanket and spread it across the ground at Hunt's feet. The archaeologist waited for the dust to clear, then knelt down over the blanket and carefully unfurled the silk roll to its full length of nearly five feet. Tsendyn noticed the normally unflappable archaeologist's hands trembled slightly as he smoothed out the creases in the silk.

A picturesque landscape scene was painted on the silk, portraying a mountaintop with deep valleys, gorges, and streams depicted in beautiful detail. But the silk was obviously much more than an ornamental work of art. Along the left border was a sizeable section of text that Hunt recognized as Uighur script, the earliest Mongolian written language adopted from early Turkish settlers to the Asian Steppes. On the right margin was a sequence of smaller images, depicting a harem of women, herds of horses, camels, and other animals, and a contingent of armed soldiers surrounding several wooden chests. The landscape portion of the painting was bare of life except for a lone figure at the very center of the silk roll. Standing on a small mountain rise was a Bactrian camel draped with a saddlecloth inscribed with two words. Oddly, the camel was painted weeping, shedding oversized tears that fell to the ground.

As he studied the silk painting, a band of sweat formed across Hunt's forehead. He suddenly felt his heart thumping loudly in his chest and he had to force himself to take a deep breath of air. It just couldn't be, he thought.

"Tsendyn ... Tsendyn," he muttered, nearly afraid to ask. "It is Uighur script. Can you read what it says?"

The Mongol a.s.sistant's eyes grew to the size of silver dollars as he, too, grasped the meaning of the image. He stuttered and stumbled as he tried to translate for Hunt.

"The wording on the left is a physical description of the mountainous region in the painting. 'At home atop Mount Burkhan Khaldun, nestled in the Khentii Mountains, our emperor sleeps. The Onon River quenches his thirst, between the valleys of the doomed.' "

"And the inscription on the camel?" Hunt whispered, pointing a shaky finger at the center of the painting.

"Temujin khagan," Tsendyn replied, choking the words out in a hushed tone of reverence.

"Temujin." Hunt repeated the word as if in a trance. Though the Chinese laborers failed to comprehend, Hunt and Tsendyn realized with shock that they had made a discovery of astounding proportions. A wave of emotion surged over Hunt as he digested the enormity of the silk painting. Though he tried to mentally question its content, the power of the description was just too overwhelming. The weeping camel, the offerings depicted on the side, the locale description. Then there was the name on the camel's back. Temujin. It was the birth name of a tribal boy who became the world's greatest conqueror. History would remember him by his royally appointed moniker: Genghis Khan. The ancient silk painting before them could be nothing other than a diagram of the hidden burial site of Genghis Khan.

Hunt collapsed to his knees as the realization of the find sunk in. The grave of Genghis Khan was one of the most sought-after archaeological sites in history. In an amazing tale of conquest, Genghis Khan had united the Mongol tribes of the Asian Steppes and expanded on a march of conquest the likes of which have never been matched since. Between 1206 and 1223 A.D., he and his nomadic horde captured lands as far west as Egypt and as far north as Lithuania. Genghis died in 1227 A.D. at the height of his power, and was known to have been secretly buried in the Khentii Mountains of Mongolia, not far from his birthplace. In the Mongol tradition, he was buried secretly with forty concubines and untold riches, the grave site carefully concealed by his subjects after interment. Ordinary foot soldiers who accompanied the cortege were put to death, while their commanders were sworn to silence upon threat of similar punishment.

Any hint as to the location of the grave site vanished as those in the know expired, keeping their loyal vow of silence to the very end. Only a camel, or so the legend went, tipped off the location a decade or so later. A Bactrian pack camel, known to be the mother of a camel interred with the great leader, was found weeping at a spot in the Khentii Mountains. The camel's owner realized it was crying for its lost son buried beneath its feet, in the same location where Genghis Khan must be entombed. Yet the fable ended there, the secret kept with the herder, and the grave of Genghis Khan left undisturbed in the Mongolian mountains of his birth.