Longworth? There are uncounted thousands of lines of cuneiform to copy, hundreds upon hundreds of bas-reliefs and any one of them might hold the clues to crack the code of the Assyrian language. Every day, I send copies by courier to Henry Rawlinson in Constantinople. The postal horses cover only eighty miles a day, so time is precious. Carrier pigeons cost as much as three horses on the black market, so I’m stuck with the couriers. Rawlinson is working hard to break through with the translation, though. I am plagued by the horror that the one wall I have no time to copy will turn out to be the key to unlock the language.’
Another man and woman stood at a respectful distance. They were holding a baby.
‘In a little while,’ Hormuzd said to them.
‘They asked me to name their baby,’ Austen said. ‘This morning is the naming ceremony and I must attend it.’
‘How many hours a day do you work?’
‘Eighteen to twenty. I have so little time that I’ll keep going until I drop in my traces. Or, until the day Hormuzd draws a red line across the page and closes the account books.’
‘The public want to know why you dress as an Arab.’
‘It’s not an affectation, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a tourist dressing up. How could I be a sheik if I wore an English business suit? And on days of 120 degrees, Arabian or Persian clothes are cooler and more comfortable. But it’s more than a practical choice. I escaped cities to live here because I hate walls closing around me. When Colonel Taylor offered me a comfortable room in the Baghdad residency, I took my tent out to the riverbank.’
Four workers ran towards them and Austen swore in Urdu.
‘What did you just say?’ Longworth asked.
‘I swear in languages the Recording Angel can’t understand.’
‘Do you realise, Mr Layard, that my article will make you into a celebrity?’
‘A celebrated pauper.’
The four workers fell to their knees.
‘Ya bey,
it is a blasphemy. Those infidel Christian women are washing themselves with no clothes on. There is one God.’
‘That is their custom in washing. But how do you know they were entirely naked?’
‘We climbed up to a high place and looked into their camp.’
‘It’ll cost you a week’s wage if you spy on them again.’
‘Forgive us.’ They bowed their heads and ran away as fast as rabbits.
‘But my special prize is hidden in a tunnel.’ Austen rose to his feet. ‘It’ll be a world scoop for you, Longworth, and make you into a celebrity. Come along – I can see that a good Arabian breakfast is wasted on you.’
As they walked towards the northwest palace, there was a strange music in the distance.
‘Isn’t that the most beautiful song on earth?’ Austen gripped Longworth’s arm. ‘To my ears it’s sweeter than Mozart and more stirring than Beethoven. Listen. We call it the nightingale’s song.’
‘What is it?’
‘See? Coming from the river.’
A huge flat cart, drawn by a team of eight oxen, lumbered through the sand. ‘That’s my cart, made of solid mulberry wood. Ah, but it’s not entirely mine. The axles are from one of Botta’s abandoned carts. Can you hear the nightingale song of heavy wheels on axles? It is the song to accompany my treasures when they travel to the river.’
‘What’s piled on the cart?’
‘Poplar trunks from the valley of Mirkan.’
‘Why?’
‘Levers and rollers, my dear man. Come on, here’s the tunnel.’ Austen climbed down a ladder and into a long tunnel, which followed a wall decorated with sculptures. ‘Just around one more corner and you’ll see the prize that will make your fame.’
Austen stood beside a black obelisk and ran his hands down its glistening black marble sides. ‘Start writing. It is six feet six inches high, with four sides, each carved with five panels, as you can see, and with two hundred and ten lines of writing. Some of the prisoners carved into one panel definitely look Semitic. See this line of
Another man and woman stood at a respectful distance. They were holding a baby.
‘In a little while,’ Hormuzd said to them.
‘They asked me to name their baby,’ Austen said. ‘This morning is the naming ceremony and I must attend it.’
‘How many hours a day do you work?’
‘Eighteen to twenty. I have so little time that I’ll keep going until I drop in my traces. Or, until the day Hormuzd draws a red line across the page and closes the account books.’
‘The public want to know why you dress as an Arab.’
‘It’s not an affectation, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a tourist dressing up. How could I be a sheik if I wore an English business suit? And on days of 120 degrees, Arabian or Persian clothes are cooler and more comfortable. But it’s more than a practical choice. I escaped cities to live here because I hate walls closing around me. When Colonel Taylor offered me a comfortable room in the Baghdad residency, I took my tent out to the riverbank.’
Four workers ran towards them and Austen swore in Urdu.
‘What did you just say?’ Longworth asked.
‘I swear in languages the Recording Angel can’t understand.’
‘Do you realise, Mr Layard, that my article will make you into a celebrity?’
‘A celebrated pauper.’
The four workers fell to their knees.
‘Ya bey,
it is a blasphemy. Those infidel Christian women are washing themselves with no clothes on. There is one God.’
‘That is their custom in washing. But how do you know they were entirely naked?’
‘We climbed up to a high place and looked into their camp.’
‘It’ll cost you a week’s wage if you spy on them again.’
‘Forgive us.’ They bowed their heads and ran away as fast as rabbits.
‘But my special prize is hidden in a tunnel.’ Austen rose to his feet. ‘It’ll be a world scoop for you, Longworth, and make you into a celebrity. Come along – I can see that a good Arabian breakfast is wasted on you.’
As they walked towards the northwest palace, there was a strange music in the distance.
‘Isn’t that the most beautiful song on earth?’ Austen gripped Longworth’s arm. ‘To my ears it’s sweeter than Mozart and more stirring than Beethoven. Listen. We call it the nightingale’s song.’
‘What is it?’
‘See? Coming from the river.’
A huge flat cart, drawn by a team of eight oxen, lumbered through the sand. ‘That’s my cart, made of solid mulberry wood. Ah, but it’s not entirely mine. The axles are from one of Botta’s abandoned carts. Can you hear the nightingale song of heavy wheels on axles? It is the song to accompany my treasures when they travel to the river.’
‘What’s piled on the cart?’
‘Poplar trunks from the valley of Mirkan.’
‘Why?’
‘Levers and rollers, my dear man. Come on, here’s the tunnel.’ Austen climbed down a ladder and into a long tunnel, which followed a wall decorated with sculptures. ‘Just around one more corner and you’ll see the prize that will make your fame.’
Austen stood beside a black obelisk and ran his hands down its glistening black marble sides. ‘Start writing. It is six feet six inches high, with four sides, each carved with five panels, as you can see, and with two hundred and ten lines of writing. Some of the prisoners carved into one panel definitely look Semitic. See this line of
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