Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

  Farouq’s eyes met Razak’s, registering displeasure for the Israelis’ sneaky tactics.

  “I was informed that the incident here possibly involved an ancient relic.” Barton was trying to peer over Razak’s shoulder.

  The two Muslims were still grappling with what was happening.

  “The thieves must have had very precise information,” Barton forged on, “to know the exact whereabouts of a room so well hidden beneath Temple Mount. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “A moment, please.” Farouq raised a finger and motioned to the archaeologist to move back through the blast hole.

  Sighing, Barton retreated into the mosque. The tricky politics of this place exasperated him.

  Razak watched him go. “Strange. I wonder if they—”

  “An outrage!” Farouq’s face was close.

  Razak’s voice sunk to a whisper. “Did the Israelis mention this to you?”

  “Not at all. And I will not permit this.”

  Razak drew a deep breath. He didn’t like the idea of allowing this Barton—apparently a delegate from the Jewish authorities—to intervene in such a sensitive investigation. After all, the Israeli police and the IDF had already spent two days inspecting the crime scene without apparent results. Now they were sending in an outsider? Perhaps Barton would not simply replicate the investigation. There was no telling what their motives could be. However, time wasn’t on Razak’s side and his knowledge of archaeology and antiquities was limited at best.

  Farouq drew even closer. “What are you thinking?”

  “We don’t have much time. Since Barton claims to be an expert...”

  “Yes...”

  “Well, it’s obvious the Israelis already know what happened here. Perhaps he can give us information. Something to start with. It’s in everyone’s interests to resolve this quickly.”

  Farouq stared at the floor. “Razak. Trust requires merit. Every man needs to prove his character. You are a virtuous man. But not everyone’s like you. You and I—we trust each other. But with this Barton we have to be very careful.” He marked the point with a raised finger.

  Razak raised an eyebrow. “Of course, but do we really have a choice?”

  Farouq returned Razak’s gaze. Finally, the creases in his brow softened. “You could be right,” he relented, sighing dramatically. “I just wish he wasn’t an Englishman.” The Keeper forced a smile. “Take his letter and check his credentials with the police. Proceed how you see fit. I’m leaving.”

  Back out in the mosque, Razak took the letter and instructed the Englishman to wait for him to return, then walked Farouq to the stairs.

  “Keep a close eye on him,” Farouq reminded Razak, leering back at Barton.

  Taking off his suit jacket, Razak asked Farouq if he wouldn’t mind taking it back to his office. He watched as the Keeper disappeared into the sunlight above.

  After rolling up his sleeves, Razak pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number for the Israeli police commissioner who had signed the letter. Two transfers later he was put on hold and subjected to a banal Israeli pop song. Watching Barton pace in small circles in the Marwani Mosque, he shifted back and forth on his feet, holding the phone at arm’s length, trying his best to tune out the song’s headache-inducing techno beat. A minute later, there were two distinct clicks followed by a ring.

  A strong, nasal voice came on. “Major Topol speaking.”

  Razak did his best to filter the Arabic undertones out from his nearperfect English. “My name is Razak bin Ahmed bin al-Tahini. I’ve been commissioned by the Waqf to oversee the investigation at the Temple Mount.”

  “Been expecting your call,” Topol said between sips of burned coffee from a paper cup, clearly unimpressed. “I take it you’ve met Mr. Barton?”

  Razak was thrown by the man’s directness. “Yes, I have.”

  “He’s good... used him before. Very objective.”

  Razak refrained from comment. “I must inform you that his presence wasn’t well received. We understand the need for your department’s intervention, but Mr. Barton entered the mosque without authorization.”

  “Apologies for not notifying you sooner,” Topol replied, stifling a yawn. “But Graham Barton has been authorized to act on our behalf. It’s all in the letter he’s carrying. I’m sure you’ll understand that the nature of this crime requires us to play an equal role in the investigation.”

  “But he’s an archaeologist, not an investigator,” Razak challenged. “Israeli police have already analyzed the crime scene.”

  “Sure, our people have been there,” Topol admitted, “but this crime seems to center on a missing artifact. We’re the police. Stolen cars, burglaries, murders, we understand. We don’t know from artifacts. So we felt the investigation could benefit from Barton’s knowledge of archaeology.”

  Razak said nothing. It was routine for him to choose silence over confrontation. When negotiating, the opposition often blurted out significant information just to fill the silence. The pause allowed him to consider Topol’s argument. For the most part it seemed sensible.

  The policeman lowered his voice and spoke conspiratorially. “I think we’ll both need to put aside our differences, so that justice can be served.”

  “My colleagues and I share your concern. Can we trust all information will remain confidential until our investigation is complete?”

  “You have my word on that. We’re looking for a quick, peaceful resolution here. Rumors are spreading like wildfire. We could soon have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  The line went dead.

  Razak returned to where the Englishman stood near the blast hole, hands folded behind his back, whistling and admiring the Marwani Mosque’s impressive interior. Barton turned to him. “Everything okay?”

  He nodded and offered his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Barton. My name is Razak.”

  6

  ******

  Vatican City

  At the end of the dimly lit corridor Charlotte Hennesey and Father Donovan descended two flights of switchback steps and emerged into the Domus’s modern lobby. They strode across the expanse of white marble tile, passed a bronze bust of Pope John Paul II, and exited the building into bright afternoon sunshine.

  Charlotte was accustomed to the dry desert heat of Phoenix. Rome’s heat came with oppressive humidity. And then there was the Vatican’s strict dress code—arms, legs, and shoulders had to be covered at all times. No shorts or sleeveless tops. It was like high school—no tube tops or halters. For the next few days it would be khaki pants and long-sleeved blouses with uncomfortably high thread counts. Back home, she typically ended her day lying poolside in the backyard of her Spanish-style ranch, sporting a bikini. At least, when she was feeling up to it. It was quite evident that wouldn’t be happening here.

  “I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’ve been asked to come here,” Father Donovan said.

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” she politely replied.

  “The Vatican is proficient in theology and faith,” he explained. “However, you won’t be shocked to hear that in the field of natural sciences, there are some obvious deficiencies in our capabilities.” He offered a selfdeprecating smile.

  “That’s perfectly understandable.” The priest had a gentle spirit, she thought. His Irish accent was calming and she noticed that he gesticulated often, the by-product of years behind a pulpit.

  They strolled past Piazza Santa Marta, circling the rear walkways along the apse of the basilica. Charlotte marveled at its marble and stained glass exterior.

  “Take me for instance,” he offered. “Prefetto di Bibloteca Apostolica Vaticana ...a fancy way of saying head curator of the Vatican Library. My expertise is books and Church history. I must confess that I know little about your field. But when I saw you on television, I was convinced that you could really help me with a project I’ve been asked to undert
ake.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, I’m surprised my field intrigues anyone in Vatican City.”

  “Indeed, many within these walls would have reservations about the intentions of genetic research. I, however, like to keep a more open mind.”

  “That’s good to know,” she said, smiling. “So what exactly is it that I’ll be studying?”

  The priest didn’t respond right away, allowing a pair of strolling clerics to pass a comfortable distance before quietly saying, “A relic.” He considered enlarging on the idea, but decided against it. “It’s best to see it with your own eyes.”

  Heading north on Viale del Giardino Quadrato, they crossed through the lush greenery of the Vatican Gardens, passing the Casina of Pius IV, the lavish sixteenth-century neoclassic papal summerhouse.

  The straight pathway ran behind the massive Vatican Museum. Charlotte remembered reading that the Vatican’s extensive art collection was housed there, within the former palace of Renaissance-era popes. It was also the place where countless visitors from around the world came to marvel at the city’s most famous exhibit—the Sistine Chapel—its walls covered in narrative frescoes; its ceiling painted by Michelangelo.

  She could tell Father Donovan wasn’t yet ready to divulge any more. Though she wanted to inquire why the librarian was handling the study of relics, she decided to change the subject. “This place is enchanting,” she said, gazing at the flowers, ornate fountains, and fantastic Renaissance architecture. “It’s like a fairytale. Do you actually live here?”

  “Oh yes,” he said.

  “What’s it like?”

  The priest looked up at her, grinning. “The Vatican is its own world. Everything I need is right within these walls. It’s kind of like a college campus, I guess.”

  “Really?”

  He held up both hands. “Without the night life, of course,” he said with a laugh. “Though I must admit, we do have our own equivalents to fraternities.”

  They were just approaching the museum’s service entrance. Even at a leisurely pace, in less than ten minutes they had walked about six hundred meters—almost the entire width of the country.

  7

  ******

  Temple Mount

  Razak led the Englishman over to the blast hole, motioning him through the aperture.

  Stepping inside, Barton’s analytical gaze immediately swept the chamber.

  Coming in behind him, Razak remained standing near the opening, uneasy with the gloomy, subterranean atmosphere.

  Energized, Barton didn’t hesitate to start airing his thoughts. “In the late first century BCE, King Herod the Great employed master architects from Rome and Egypt to design the Temple Mount. It was a huge undertaking that required the construction of an enormous platform that incorporated solid bedrock at the northern end”—he gestured behind him—“and expanded south, using vast retaining walls where Mount Moriah’s bedrock slopes down.” He swiveled round, pointing in the opposite direction. “That’s why the southern end of the platform can easily accommodate vaulted rooms, like the space that is now the Marwani Mosque. And archaeologists have long theorized that other similar spaces existed beneath the Mount.”

  “Are you telling me the Israelis were aware of this room’s existence?”

  Barton knew Razak was looking for suspects so he knew he had to tread lightly. Though he was aware that Jewish archaeologists had performed thermal scans on the Mount that had shown questionable subsurface anomalies, he was fairly certain that this particular chamber had remained completely undetected. “Absolutely not. I’m sure that if they had, the Waqf would have been informed.” He could tell that Razak didn’t believe a word of it.

  Barton focused his attention on the stone boxes, crouching down to get a better look, moving from one to the next, his excitement building with each new discovery.

  Meanwhile, Razak’s haunted gaze wandered over the stone walls. “So what is this place?”

  Barton stood and let out a prolonged breath. “You’re standing in what appears to be an ancient Jewish crypt.”

  Razak crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The idea of being amidst death and unreconciled souls was unnerving, only underlining his sense of foreboding. And Jewish, to boot! The place felt instantly smaller. Suffocating.

  “And it looks like your thieves removed one of the permanent occupants.” Barton was shifting from foot to foot, pointing to the rectangular depression in the dirt at the end of the row.

  “But aren’t those boxes far too small to be coffins?”

  “Let me explain.” The archaeologist paused to gather his thoughts. “During the ancient Jewish burial ritual—the tahara—bodies of the deceased were cleaned, then covered with flowers, herbs, spices and oils. Next, the ankles, wrists, and jaw were bound and two coins placed over the eyes.” He cupped his hands over his eyes. “Finally the entire body would be wrapped in linens and covered with a shroud.” At this stage Barton knew that the prepared body would be placed inside a long niche, or loculus. There were none here, but variations in tomb design weren’t uncommon and he didn’t want to complicate matters.

  Trying to visualize the inner dimensions of the box, Razak couldn’t compute how a body could fit in such a cramped vessel. “But I still don’t see—”

  Barton held up a hand. “Please,” he gently cut in. “They believed that the body needed to expiate sin, shed it through the process of decaying flesh. So the family would allow the corpse to putrefy for a year, after which, they would come back to place the bones in a sacred stone box—a miniature coffin called an ossuary.”

  Razak stared at him. Islamic burial practice—interment within twenty-four hours in a modest tomb facing Mecca, preferably without a casket—was in stark contrast to elaborate ancient Jewish rituals. “I see.” Razak fingered his chin.

  “This type of burial was common in this region,” Barton continued, “but only practiced during a very brief period—roughly 200 BCE to 70 CE. That helps us to date ossuaries pretty accurately, even without fancy tests. As you can see,” Barton pointed to the row, “the boxes are just large enough to accommodate a dismembered skeleton.”

  “Why did they save the bones?” Razak thought he knew the answer, but wanted to be sure.

  “The ancient Jews believed strongly in their eventual resurrection, ushered in by the coming of the true Messiah.”

  Razak nodded. The bodies of Muslims also waited in the grave for a Day of Judgment, reminding him how Judaism and Islam shared many common roots.

  “The same Messiah,” Barton added, “whom the Jews believe will rebuild the third and final temple up there,” he pointed above his head toward the Temple Mount esplanade.

  “That will never happen,” Razak defiantly stated.

  That’s precisely what Barton would have expected the Muslim to say. “Yes, well, anyway, this was considered preparation for that day. Without the bones, there would have been no chance for resurrection.”

  “Are ossuaries valuable?”

  “Depends. The stone would need to be in pristine condition.” Barton surveyed the nine remaining relics. “And these look to be in excellent shape—no obvious fractures, plus they all have their lids. Etchings can be important too. Often an engraver would mark the surface with the corpse’s identity. Sometimes they’d have decorative patterns and scenes. If the engravings are impeccable, it pushes the price up.” Barton had seen hundreds of similar boxes that had been recovered throughout the region, many more impressive than these. “These ossuaries look fairly standard.”

  “Then what would one of them be worth?”

  Barton pursed his lips. “Depends. Maybe six thousand pounds, or perhaps ten thousand dollars, assuming it could be sold in the antiquities market. Big problem is that the relic probably wouldn’t be particularly unusual. To fetch a high price, it would need to be in perfect condition and purchased by an avid collector or museum. But these days museums tend not to like pieces obtained through the antiquiti
es markets.”

  Razak was starting to get used to the archaeologist’s English accent. “Why not?”

  “Well, desirable artifacts would be those with a high degree of provenance. A serious buyer needs adequate proof that a relic had been excavated from a specific site, validating its authenticity. The earth and commingled artifacts around an archaeological dig provide lots of clues to an artifact’s age. Remove the relic from the earth, and . . .” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Razak squatted down. This was all a lot to absorb. “So what you’re really saying is...since its value can depend on substantiating its origin, this stolen ossuary might not be worth much at all on the open market?”

  Barton nodded. “Absolutely. Value also relies heavily on the credibility of the seller. If its provenance is suspect, the ossuary’s value would be severely reduced, which means we can rule out the possibility of a museum or well-known collector as the thief.” Barton eyed the squatting Muslim, considering whether or not he should reciprocate by sitting. Would he expect that? Unsure, he decided to remain standing. “The potential consequences are too severe. I might also point out that many relics that have come out of Israel in the past two decades have been proven fakes, only after European museums paid exorbitantly for them.”