by Brad Ricca
Eighteen
Cyril Foley
JERUSALEM, 1909
On this morning, like all the others, by the time Cyril had pulled on his boots and walked out to the dig, the sky was already on fire. Cyril stepped across the dirt, ready to walk into what had become an everyday pattern of shuffling, clinking, shouting, and occasionally singing. But as Cyril stepped up onto the hill, he heard none of those things.
Something was wrong.
Cyril saw Monty standing over the staircase, looking down. There was a small crew scattered here and there but nothing like what would usually be working at this hour.
Had they found it?
Cyril started to walk faster, then broke into a run, his hat in his hand. But when he reached Monty, the captain’s face was grim.
“The workers,” Monty said. “They’re on strike.”
Cyril stared down into the open cave, made larger by the absence of the men. Cyril was angry but, then again, supposed he couldn’t rightly blame them. They were employing three gangs of sixty men around the clock each day of the week except Sunday. Cyril wondered if his little wager back in August had something to do with all this, but felt no pressing need to tell Monty.
Cyril knew the problem was greater than some silly bet. Each group of workers earned their pay as contract wages that changed according to the amount of earth they moved out of the tunnels. This led to different groups often receiving different amounts of pay. Indeed, Cyril’s winning troop had since proved considerably more efficient and earned almost twice as much as the other two groups. Cyril did a quick look around the site. Sure enough, it was those other two groups who were gone.
Cyril had to admit it was kind of nice and quiet. And fewer men crowding the works might make it easier to find the Ark. He also refrained from saying that bit aloud to Monty. Cyril knew they could not dig without them, even for a day. Cyril sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. They had hired almost everyone in the village who wanted a job in the first place, and it was already Ramadan.
“We’re in trouble,” he said.
“Well,” said Monty. “We have a contract.” He squinted—as he always did—and bit down on his pipe. “We’ll take them to court.”
“Court? Why don’t we just pay them? What if we lose?”
“Well,” said Monty, obviously thinking on the fly, “we still haven’t had our official visit with the mayor yet. Now might be a good time.”
Several days later, they met with the mayor in his offices at town hall. Hussein Bey al-Husayni was newly installed as mayor but had been in the hospital since their arrival so they had put off what should have been an immediate visit. Now, Monty, Cyril, and Macasdar sat across from his desk and assured him that everything was in perfect agreement with the Turks for the digging rights. The mayor asked this question several times before he was satisfied. He was committed to birthing a new, more modern Jerusalem and did not need problems, especially from old tunnels. He blessed their endeavors as they drank the local tea, glezel tay, served hot in a clear glass. They drank it through a sugar cube held between their teeth.
Monty eyed his watch. The court hearing for the strikers was scheduled for that same afternoon. Monty made a tidy goodbye of things with the help of Macasdar’s translation, with a brief aside about the sordid affair of the strike. The mayor regarded Monty with some pause.
“Let me accompany you,” he offered. Monty bowed his head in thanks. Cyril thought it timing of a most spectacular nature.
That afternoon, Monty took his hat off as they entered the courthouse, an old building of white stone. There, seated up front, were twenty of the leading strikers under an escort of Turkish soldiers. The commandant who was going to judge the case sat in the front of center. The case had already been called, and though Cyril could not hear Macasdar’s whispered translation to Monty, he could get a good enough sense of what was happening.
The spokesmen for the workers stood up and began gesturing and speaking at a rate that Cyril felt must be challenging the limits of human endurance. The worker—who Cyril knew to be a good enough fellow, though he could not recall his name—spoke with greater and greater volume, until he was nearly shouting. At the same time, he was making motions with his arms that Cyril knew quite well. He was acting out—with some flourish—the motion of swinging a pickax.
“Too much work,” Cyril said, nodding to Monty, who seemed to completely disagree.
Cyril was getting worried. If they lost their workers, they would have to go home. Not only would they leave the Ark here, somewhere in the dirt, but they would have to face the Syndicate with nothing but a case of heatstroke.
Cyril returned his attention to the speaker, who was getting even louder. Cyril soon realized that it was not the man who was adding to the rising noise, but his compatriots in the front rows. The strikers had begun chiming in, yelling out various words of agreement, with plenty of wild gesticulations. It was then that Cyril realized that the men were now disagreeing with their leader as they corrected and then outright shouted over his points and facts.
“Apparently,” said Macasdar, “working for Captain Parker is hell on earth.” Monty gave a defeated, hangdog look.
The shouting was now comprised of dozens of angry individuals, who each proceeded to give their own personal view of the situation. Cyril had never seen anything like it. The commandant rolled his eyes at the curdling wave of noise caused by twenty men screaming at the same time. It did not appear to influence the case in their favor.
After about a half an hour of hearing such grievances, the commandant raised his own voice: “Enough!” he said, or Cyril guessed that’s what the commandant said, as he continued speaking, making a strong gesture. The stern guards started moving the workmen as they turned in place, dumbfounded by what the commandant had said. He was apparently no Solomon, thought Cyril.
“That’s unfortunate,” said Macasdar. “He’s committed them all to jail.”
As the room sat stunned, the workmen most especially, Cyril turned again to Monty. The captain looked even more sheepish than usual, though there was a hint of a spark as he pulled his hand down his chin.
Monty straightened himself and took his hat in his hand, like he was preparing to leave. The mayor seemed intrigued.
“Is there anyone here to defend them?” asked the commandant.
Monty stood up.
“I would be pleased, Your Honor,” Monty said walking slowly toward the front. The guards turned to stop him, but the commandant raised his palm.
“And you are?”
“I am Captain Montague Parker, their employer.”
The workmen grumbled and sneered.
“Right then,” said Monty. “Now I do believe I should have a say in the matter as I am the one they have wronged and hurt.”
The judge took a moment, then nodded.
“Thank you,” said Monty. “It is my wish that these men…”
Cyril saw the smile escape, that hint of some caper in the corners of Monty’s eyes that was going to change everything, for either better or worse.
“… should be set free.”
The workmen paused for the translation, then cheered.
Cyril Foley smiled.
It was a masterstroke. Monty knew—or at least had bet—that he would be put in the position of savior. But what a gamble.
The commandant sighed, then declared the men free. The workers roared and spilled out of the courthouse in great spirits, pushing Monty through like a rush of water.
“Well done, old man,” said Cyril, squeezing him on the shoulder. The mayor too gave him a look of admiration.
The workmen, now in uproarious spirits, cheered and hollered. There was no need to make it official; they would all be hired back. As they left, the commandant suggested that perhaps it would be a good thing for him to come down to the works and make a speech to the strikers. Not to be outdone, the mayor said he would do the same. Monty smiled and agreed, though Cyril knew he h
ad no choice.
When they stepped out into the sun, Cyril saw their donkeys all in a row. Some Turkish troops were also there. Macasdar talked with the donkey boys; apparently there had been a misunderstanding. They thought Monty had ordered them to be brought to the courthouse.
“Let’s ride them back,” someone said.
Monty shrugged, and everyone got on their steeds. Cyril looked at Robin Duff, who at six feet tall towered above even the largest animal. Duff’s donkey was pure white by nature, but for some unexplainable reason, someone had painted its tail and mane the brightest possible yellow. Once everyone mounted, they posed for a photograph. Cyril wondered if this was the only photograph of the entire expedition that would ever be taken. They had even managed to squeeze in the Turks, the Arabs, and the donkeys. As Cyril looked up and down the row, he was struck by what a group it was. He wondered what everyone would think of them, these brave English heroes, if they knew what they were really looking for. He wondered what the photograph would look like when they were posed around the Ark. He didn’t know if it was their legal victory or just the camaraderie of the moment, but he felt hopeful for the future, if not a little wary.
Their procession through the city was a strange display of donkeys and horses. They were led by a troop of Turkish lancers with a flag, whose job it was to clear the streets. After them rode the mayor and commandant, at Monty’s generous insistence. Next came their Turkish observers, various personages and hangers-on, and Duff, Monty, Cyril, Wilson, and Macasdar. A mass of Turkish gendarmerie brought up the rear.
The shortest way out of the city was through the old Jewish quarter. Very gradually, the streets became bumpier as the cobblestones got older by the step, narrowing as the high walls rose. They were surrounded by secret quarter arches and endless stacks of stone. It was a most romantic place, thought Cyril. One of a kind. He saw curious eyes begin to appear from open-air windows. He couldn’t help thinking again: if others knew the purpose of the excavation, how they would feel.
As the street narrowed to a wandering contour, the donkeys fell into a natural single line. As they clopped over the ground, Cyril was able to get an up-close view of the quarter that he had not yet seen. The sides of this thin street were lined with shops and carts. Cyril thought that the shopkeepers, who were framed in their doorways, were less than thrilled at the sad parade. One old man, with his hair curling out in wisps along his beard, saw Duff’s yellow-tailed donkey and screamed a terrifically long litany in Yiddish.
As they approached the halfway point in the quarter, Cyril watched as Kissam Iass, Duff’s donkey boy, took his stick and casually gave two very forceful thwacks to the mayor’s Arabian horse ahead of him. Duff watched in disbelief; he couldn’t tell if the boy had not meant to use such force or if it was some nefarious plot—or perhaps he felt that the slow procession needed some speeding up.
There was a second of nothing. Duff sighed that they had avoided catastrophe, before the mayor’s horse whinnied and sped off, swerving to and fro, slipping on the cobblestone as the mayor tipped right and left, trying to keep his balance. The mayor’s horse then nearly broke into a gallop and went dashing down the street at a speed Cyril barely thought possible, his excellency hanging on for dear life.
Cyril watched as Monty jumped off his own donkey and sprinted after the mayor. Meanwhile, Duff was trying desperately to calm his own animal, who was similarly kicking and sliding. But the moment proved to be too much for the poor beast, and Duff was sent flying into the air and into the nearest shop. Cyril hoped it was a carpet shop, or a boot shop, but it happened to be a rahat lakoum and peanut shop. There was a huge crash as Duff collided into the front table where all sorts of things had been displayed. Cyril slid off his donkey and ran over to help. There, spread out under a pile of candy and innumerable peanuts, was Duff, overcome with a dazed look of almost overwhelming peace. He was seated in one of probably twenty-five boxes of overturned Turkish delight.
When the party finally emerged from St. Stephen’s Gate and got down to the works, they had to cut Duff out from his saddle. Turkish delight was like glue, thought Cyril: you either stop with it, or it comes away with you. Duff was brushing peanuts from his person for days.
The mayor (in perfect shape, if a little tousled) and the commandant gave perfectly rousing speeches, thought Cyril, to thoroughly tired workmen about very boring political affairs. It had been a long day. Cyril became worried when he saw that some of the strikers were gathered near the front of the crowd, speaking among themselves again. Cyril hoped that all this politicking had not made them reconsider their position against heat and time. He was not sure even Monty had the magnetism to bring them back twice. It was a good thing the speech seemed to be wrapping up. When it did, there was clapping as the mayor spread his hands and smiled. He really wanted peace.
But, sure enough, one of the workmen barked out some sudden exclamation that startled everyone. The worker turned and looked directly at the Englishmen. Macasdar, who had been, to the great regret of Cyril, translating the mayor the entire time, stopped. Cyril feared the worst.
“The men,” said Macasdar, slowly, “are so grateful to us that they want to show us a new tunnel.”
Cyril looked at Monty, dumbfounded. Had they been holding out on them?
“Go,” said Monty. “I have to stay with the mayor.”
The workmen grabbed their tools and started marching farther down into the Kidron Valley. Cyril grabbed Wilson by the arm, and they both followed the men. After a short walk, they found them stopped still under an arch in the side of a small hill.
Cyril had not seen this before. Had the cipher missed it? It was, like everything in Palestine, of an indeterminate age that veered somewhere between ancient and just old.
Then it hit him. Or rather, the smell did. Cyril knew exactly what this tunnel was. He started to laugh.
“What?” said Wilson, oblivious to what was happening. He had a terrible sense of smell since the war. “We have to explore it!” he said.
“I’m not going in,” said Cyril, shaking his head, “it’s the Jerusalem main drain!” Wilson harrumphed and went in anyway. He got thirty yards before he turned around. When he emerged, he was holding his nose, and his face looked purple. He did not say anything, only nodded his head in agreement. The workmen were laughing, and so was Cyril. As a token of gratitude, it was a failure, but Cyril thought it the finest smell of its kind in Jerusalem, all being said, and that being so, probably the finest in the world.
Nineteen
Dr. Juvelius
JERUSALEM, OCTOBER 1909
Juvelius and Uotila picked up their pace, even as passersby gave them disapproving glances. When they turned the corner at Jaffankatu, they hid behind a building and searched the streets for the man who was following them.
Juvelius watched nervously as the man crept into view and looked about. He was definitely the man who had let him into the rabbi’s house. Juvelius and Uotila doubled around the other side of the block and took a parallel street to the hotel. Once they got in, they hurried to the window of the lounge and looked out.
“Look! He’s speaking to the doorman!” said Juvelius. Uotila saw that the man was in conversation with the doorman, who seemed to be answering his questions. They finally ended their meeting and parted with a firm handshake.
“Can you believe this? In England this kind of spying would be impossible!” said Juvelius.
They immediately went to the hotel owner and complained bitterly. The owner looked the exasperated Juvelius up and down. He assured them he would speak to the doorman. When he came back, the owner said that the doorman had told the man that Juvelius and Uotila were with those—and he paused, knowing how it would sound—“English treasure diggers.”
“Beautiful!” shouted Juvelius. The manager apologized and told them not to worry. But it was too late for that.
The next day, Juvelius met with Mr. Parker and told him about his interview with the rabbi. Mr. Parker wa
s pleased that he had gone. But the more Juvelius went on with his story, the more he bit down on his pipe.
“He tried to angle information from me,” said Juvelius.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Parker. “You were well to get out of there.” He pointed to some newspapers on the table. “The press has already figured out that we are here, but not why.”
“You did good work,” he said, pausing, “Dr. Juvelius.”
That night, Juvelius left his room to meet Uotila for supper. As he left his room, he noticed a man enter the room opposite his and shut the door, at almost exactly the same time that Juvelius opened his. Downstairs, Uotila was already waiting. Juvelius sat down quickly.
“Did you see?” he whispered.
“What now?”
“The room opposite to ours has been occupied!”
“So? It is a hotel, after all.”
“Yes, but this hotel is always empty, which is why he caught my eye. And why across from us?”
“Was he Jewish?”
“I think so.”
“He is probably just a tourist,” said Uotila.
“Fine,” said Juvelius, pushing the glass to his mouth. “You keep the first watch!”
When they left for the excavation site early the next morning, Juvelius noted that the door across from them was shut. They stayed at the tunnels all day, where the heat had unfortunately returned in an awful bloom. After a long day, they finally returned at dinnertime. When Juvelius got back, he immediately began changing his clothes, which were dusty and filthy.
Juvelius reached for his box of collars and immediately noticed something strange: they were not in order but had been separated into a feathery mess. He looked at the other boxes and found them in similar states of disorder. Frantically, Juvelius checked through his chests, his suitcases, and his desk. All was small, undeniable mayhem. Some of the books on the shelf had even switched places.
Juvelius went next door—quietly—to Uotila’s room. His friend had just entered, so his door was open. Juvelius walked in and hurriedly explained what had happened.