Who Is Buried In Charlemagne's Tomb?

Shock shock!  It may actually be the man himself!

Yes, according to SECRET RESEARCH that has gone on since 1988 - like, take your time dudes - conclusion is it is probably Charlgnagne.  Don't you just love that little bit of hedging...

From the local.de (German news in English)

Charlemagne's bones are (probably) real

Published: 31 Jan 2014 08:04 GMT+01:00
Updated: 31 Jan 2014 08:04 GMT+01:00

 

German scientists have announced after almost 26 years of research that the bones interred for centuries at Aachen Cathedral are likely to be those of Charlemagne.

 

Researchers confirmed on Wednesday evening - 1,200 years to the day since Charlemagne died - that the 94 bones and bone fragments taken from the supposed resting place of the King of the Franks and founder of what was to become the Holy Roman Empire came from a tall, thin, older man.

 

Bust of Charlemagne, Aachen Cathedral.

 

The team first opened the sarcophagus of the first emperor in western Europe since the fall of the Roman Empire in secret in 1988 and presented their results for the first time on Wednesday.

Charlemagne and the Elephant

In the Persian game of chess, 'Chatrang,' from which our modern game of chess descended, the elephant piece sat on the board where the Bishop sits now. The elephant had been used in warfare, with mixed success, since ancient times, the oldest use of which may be Egyptian. It was a small herd in northern Syria, however, that supplied elephants to the ancient Persians for their army, before the animals were hunted to extinction some 3000 years ago, long before the game of 'Chatrang' is reported to have appeared in Persia. It has been recorded that various gifts were made to Charlemagne by Caliph Harun al-Rashid, among which were an elephant and a chess set. The elephant was used by Charlemagne in a few campaigns and struck terror into the heart of the calvary coming up against the creature. There are pieces reputedly from the "Charlemagne chess set" in various museums - but they have all been dated to the 11th century CE - too young to be pieces from the set gifted to Charlemagne by al-Rashid. The chess set gifted to Charlemagne by al-Rashid was a key part of Katherine Neville's best-selling novel "The Eight," which I have written about extensively in this blog. Here is a fascinating history about the gifts of al-Rashid to Charlemagne.

The Eight – The Attorney’s Tale, as told by Robespierre

(Page 387) "But you don’t know that the Montglane Service lies at the very center of the storm that’s sweeping away the monarchy throughout Europe – that will cast off the yoke of oppression forever." He reached to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of port, then continued: "Perhaps if I tell you how I came to the Game, you’ll understand. For there is a game going on, my dear David – a dangerous and deadly game that destroys the very power of kings. The Montglane Service must be united under the control of those – like us – who’ll use this powerful tool in support of those innocent virtues espoused by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. For it was Rousseau himself who chose me for the Game." "Rousseau!" David whispered in awe. "He sought the Montglane Service?" "Philidor knew him, and so did I," said Robespierre, extracting a piece of letter paper from his pocketbook and looking about for something to write with. David, fumbling through the litter on the sideboard, handed him a drawing crayon, and Robespierre continued as he began to draw a diagram. "I met him fifteen years ago, when I was a young lawyer attending the States General in Paris. I learned that the revered philosopher Rousseau had fallen gravely ill just outside Paris. Hastily arranging an interview, I journeyed on horseback to visit the man who, in his sixty-six years, had produced a legacy that would soon alter the future of the world. What he told me that day certainly altered my future – perhaps yours will be changed as well." … (Page 388) … "I’ve been expecting you," he [Rousseau] said quietly in greeting. "They tell me, Monsieur Robespierre, that you’re a man who embraces those natural virtues I myself extol. At the threshold of death, it’s comforting to know one’s beliefs are shared by at least one fellow human being!" … "Voltaire died last week," he began. "Our two lives were yoked together like those horses Plato spoke of – one pulling toward the earth, the other up into the heavens. Voltaire pulled for Reason, while I’ve championed Nature. Between us, our philosophies will serve to rip asunder the chariot of Church and State." (Page 389) "I thought you disliked the man," I said, confused. "I hated him and I loved him. I regret never having met him. One thing is certain – I’ll not long outlive him. The tragedy is, Voltaire had the key to a mystery I’ve spent my life trying to unravel. Due to his pigheaded adherence to the Rational, he never knew the value of what he’d discovered. Now it’s too late. He’s dead. And with him died the secret of the Montglane Service." I felt the excitement growing in me as he spoke. The chess service of Charlemagne! Every French schoolboy knew the story – but was it possible it was more than a legend? I held my breath, praying he’d go one. Rousseau had taken a seat on a fallen log and was rummaging through his satchel of yellow Moroccan leather. To my surprise, he extracted a delicate cloth of needlepoint and hand-picked lace and began working over it with a tiny silver needle as he spoke. "When I was young," he began, "I supported myself in Paris by selling my lace and crewelwork, since no one was interested in the operas I wrote. Though I’d hoped to be a great composer, I spent each evening playing chess with Denis Diderot and Andre Philidor, who, like myself, could see the bottom of their pocketbooks. In the nick of time Diderot found me a paying position as secretary to the Comte de Montaigu, French ambassador to Venice. It was the spring of 1743 – I shall never forget. For in Venice that year I was to witness something I can still see as vividly as if it were yesterday. A secret at the very core of the Montglane Service." … "You say you witnessed something?" I pressed. "Something to do with the chess service of Charlemagne?" The old philosopher slowly shook himself back to reality. "Yes… Venice was even then a very old city, filled with mystery," he reminisced dreamily. "Though completely surrounded by water and filled with glittering light, there was something dark and sinister about the place. I could feel this darkness pervading everything, as I wandered through the winding labyrinth of streets, passed over ancient stone bridges, moved in gliding gondolas through the secret canals where only the sound of lapping water broke the silence of my meditation… ." (Page 390) …[Robespierre explains how he meets Casanova in deleted section] "He [Casanova] was interested especially in [the occult] and questioned me closely about the Societies of Freemasons so popular in Paris just then. Though I knew but little of such things, he offered to improve my education the next morning – Easter Sunday. "We met as arranged at dawn, where a large throng had already gathered outside the Porta della Carta – that door separating the famous Cathedral San Marco from the adjoining Ducal Palace. The crowd, sheared of their colorful costumes of the prior week’s carnevale, were all dressed in black – awaiting with hushed voice the beginning of some event.

The Eight – The Attorney’s Tale, as told by Robespierre

(Page 391) " ‘We’re about to witness the oldest ritual in Venice,’ Casanova told me. ‘Each Easter at sunrise, the Doge of Venice leads a procession across the Piazzetta and back into St. Mark’s. It’s called "the Long March" - a ceremony as ancient as Venice herself.’ " ‘But surely Venice is older than Easter – older than Christianity,’ " I pointed out as we stood amid the expectant crowd, all huddled behind velvet ropes. " ‘I never said it was a Christian ritual,’ said Casanova with a mysterious smile. ‘Venice was founded by the Phoenicians – whence we derive our name. Phoenicia was a civilization built upon islands. They worshiped the moon goddess – Car. As the moon controls the tides, so the Phoenicians ruled the seas, from which spring the greatest mystery of all – life.’ "A Phoenician ritual. This lit some dim memory in my mind. But just then the crowd around us fell hushed. A horn ensemble appeared on the palace steps and riffled through a fanfare. The Doge of Venice, crowned with jewels and hung with purple satins, emerged from the Porta della Carta surrounded by musicians with lutes, flutes, and lyres playing music that seemed divinely inspired. They were followed by emissaries of the Holy See in stiff white chausubles, their bejeweled miters picked with threads of gold. "Casanova nudged me to observe the ritual closely, as the participants descended to the Piazzetta, pausing in the Place of Justice – a wall decorated with biblical scenes of judgment, where they’d string up heretics during the Inquisition. Here were the monolithic Pillars of Acre, brought back during the Crusades from the shores of ancient Phoenicia. Did it mean something that the Doge and his companions paused to meditate at this precise spot? "At last they moved on to the strains of the heavenly music. The cordons restraining the crowd were lowered so we could follow the procession. As Casanova and I linked arms to move with the crowd, I began to feel the faint glimmer of something -–I cannot explain it. A feeling that I was witnessing something as old as time itself. Something dark and mysterious, rich in history and symbolism. Something dangerous. "As the procession twisted its serpentine course across the Piazzetta and back through the Colonnade, I felt as if we were moving deeper and deeper into the bowels of a dark labyrinth from which there was no escape. I was perfectly safe, outside in daylight, surrounded by hundreds of people – yet I was afraid. It was some time before it dawned on me that it was the music – the movement – the ceremony itself that frightened me. Each time we paused in the Doge’s wake – at an artifact or piece of sculpture – I felt the pounding in my veins grow louder. It was like a message trying to tap itself through to my mind in a secret code, but one I could not understand. Casanova was watching me closely. The Doge had paused again. " ‘This is the statue of Mercury – messenger of the gods,’ " said Casanova as we came up to the dancing bronze figure. ‘In Egypt, they called him Thoth – the Judge. In Greece they called him Hermes – Guide of Souls – for he conducted souls to Hell and sometimes tricked the very gods by stealing them back again. Prince of Tricksters, Joker, Jester – the Fool of the tarot deck – he was the god of theft and cunning. Hermes invented the seven-stringed lyre – the octave scale – whose music made the gods weep for joy.’ "I looked at the statue for quite some time before moving on. Here was the quick one, who could free people from the kingdom of the dead. With his winged sandals and bright caduceus – that staff of twined serpents forming the figure eight – he presided over the land of dreams, worlds of magic, the realms of luck and chance and games of every sort. Was it coincidence that his statue faced this staid procession with its wicked, grinning smile? Or was it, somewhere in the dark mists of time, his ritual? "The Doge and company made many stops in this transcendental tour – sixteen in all. As we moved, the pattern began to unfold for me. It was not until the tenth stop – the Castello Wall – that I started to put it all together. "The wall was twelve feet thick, covered in multicolored stones. The inscriptions, the oldest in Venetic, was translated for me by Casanova: If a man could say and do what he thinks, He’d see how he might be transformed. "And there at the center of the wall was embedded a simple white stone, which the Doge and his entourage were regarding as if it contained some miracle. Suddenly I felt a cold chill run through me. It was as if a veil were being torn from my eyes so I could see the many parts as one. This was no mere ritual – but a process unfolding before us, each pause in the procession symbolizing a step in the path of transformation from one state to another. It was like a formula, but a formula for what? And then I knew."

The Eight – The Attorney’s Tale, as told by Robespierre

(Page 393) (The scan is from a paperback edition of The Eight)
Now Rousseau paused in his discourse and pulled a drawing, frayed with wear, from his yellow leather satchel. Unfolding it carefully, he handed it to me.

"This is the record I made of the Long March, showing the path of sixteen stops, the number of pieces of black or white on a chessboard. You’ll note the course itself describes a figure eight – like the twined serpents on Hermes’ staff – like the Eightfold Path the Buddha prescribed to reach Nirvana – like the eight tiers of the Tower of Babel one climbed to reach the gods. Like the formula they say was brought by the eight Moors to Charlemagne hidden within the Montglane Service. …"

"A formula?" I said in astonishment.

"Of infinite power," replied Rousseau, "whose meaning may be forgotten, but whose magnetism is so strong we act it our without understanding what it means – as did Casanova and I that day thirty-five years ago in Venice."

"It seems quite beautiful and mysterious, this ritual," I agreed. "But why do you associate it with the Montglane Service – a treasure which, after all, everyone believes to be no more than a legend?"

"Don’t you see?" said Rousseau in irritation. "These Italian and Greek isles all took their traditions, their labyrinthine, stone-worshipping cults from the same source – the source from which they sprang."

"You mean Phoenicia," I said.

"I mean the Dark Isle," he said mysteriously, "the isle the Arabs first named Al-Djezair. The isle between two rivers, rivers that twist together like Hermes’ staff to form a figure eight – rivers that watered the cradle of mankind. The Tigris and Euphrates …"

(Page 394)
"You mean this ritual – this formula came from Mesopotamia?" I cried.

"I’ve spent a lifetime trying to get my hands on it!" said Rousseau, rising from his seat and grasping my arm. "I sent Casanova, then Boswell, finally Diderot, to try to get the secret. Now I send you. I choose you to track down the secret of this formula, for I’ve spent thirty-five years trying to understand the meaning behind the meaning. It is nearly too late…"

"But monsieur!" I said on confusion. "Even if you discovered so powerful a formula, what would you do with it? You, who’ve written of the simple virtues of country life – the innocent and natural equality of all men. What use would such a tool be to you?"

"I am the enemy of kings!" cried Rousseau in despair. "The formula contained in the Montglane Service will bring about the end of kings – all kings – for all time! Ah, if only I might live long enough to have to have it within my grasp."

I had many questions to ask Rousseau, but already he was pale with fatigue, his brow beaded with sweat. He was putting away his lacework as if the interview were at an end. He gave me one final look as if slipping away into a dimension where I could no longer follow.

"Once there was a great king," he said softly. "The most powerful king in the world. They said he’d never die, that he was immortal. They called him al-Iksandr, the two-horned god, and pictured him on gold coins wearing the spiral ram’s horn of divinity at his brow. History remembers him as Alexander the Great, conqueror of the world. He died at the age of thirty-three at Babylon in Mesopotamia – seeking the formula. So would they all die, if only the secret were ours… ."

"I place myself at your command," I said, helping him to the footbridge as he leaned heavily upon my shoulder. "Between us, we’ll locate the Montglane Service if it still exists, and learn the formula’s meaning."

(Page 395)
"It’s too late for me," said Rousseau shaking his head sadly. "I entrust you with this chart, which I believe is the only clue we have. Legend has it that the service is buried in Charlemagne’s palace at Aix-la-Chapelle – or at the Abbey of Montglane. It is your mission to find it."

This is the end of The Attorney’s Tale of Robespierre.