The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  "Thank you, Shamas, thank you. I will keep them with me always, until the last day of my life."

  That night Lia listened as Shamas recounted the ceremony of ascension and his gift to Ili. She was proud her husband had been made a high priest, an important man within the hierarchy of the temple. They retired for the night, happy with each other and the world around them.

  But despite the happy day, Shamas' sleep was troubled. Shadows surrounded him and he dreamed of Ili lying broken and bloody on the ground, his fellow scribes dead around him, his tablets shattered and scattered. His head throbbed in agony, and as blackness began to engulf him he came abruptly awake.

  As Lia slept, Shamas rose quietly and stole into his workroom. Stooping to one of the lower shelves, he pulled out a cloth parcel and unwrapped his old tablets, those he had brought from Haran. He contemplated them in silence for a long time. Seeing them transported him to his childhood, his adolescence, the years of his life as a shepherd with his father and his tribe. He felt no longing for the past, for he was happy, but he did wish to see Abraham once more and to speak with

  him of God. Even for his own people, the God of Abraham was not the only god or the all-powerful god—just a god who was stronger than the others.

  Shamas folded the tablets back into their cloth wrappings and returned them carefully to their place alongside the others, arranged in perfect stacks. He asked himself what would become of them when he died.

  35

  "are you all right?"

  Miranda's voice roused Clara from a deep sleep. She had an intense pain in her chest and found it hard to breathe. The reporter was looking down at her with obvious concern, but Clara couldn't manage to respond.

  Daniel set his camera next to the low wall of clay bricks and crouched down beside her.

  A clutch of soldiers joined the reporters, clearly terrified at the sight of Clara lying shivering in a fetal ball on the yellow sand, her eyes vacant, as though she were somewhere far away.

  The commander shouted to his men, and one of them ran off to get a blanket.

  Clara felt paralyzed. Her legs and arms didn't obey when she tried to move them, and her voice still eluded her.

  She felt Daniel sliding an arm underneath her head, his other hand grasping her arm, as he helped her to stand. Then he gave her a sip of water.

  Miranda felt her pulse while the commander looked on, his eyes wide in fright. If something happened to this woman, it would be his head, literally.

  "Her pulse is slow, but I think she's all right—she doesn't seem to be hurt," Miranda said.

  "We should get her back to the camp so the doctor can examine her," said Daniel.

  The soldier ran back with a blanket, and Daniel wrapped it around her. Clara could feel the warmth returning to her body.

  "I'm all right," she murmured, finding her voice at last. "I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep."

  "You're half frozen," Daniel said. "What the hell possessed you to Ue down out here?"

  Clara looked at him and shrugged. She had no answer to that. Or maybe the answer she had would be too complicated, under the circumstances.

  A few minutes later, Clara, accompanied by Daniel and Miranda, was sitting in the tent that served as the dining hall for the soldiers guarding the site. A cup of coffee brought the color back to her face.

  "What happened?" Miranda wanted to know.

  "I went out for a walk around the site. I like to do that—it helps me think. I fell asleep and had a dream. I can't quite remember . . . ," Clara answered.

  "You should be more careful. Desert nights are frigid." Daniel's paternal tone made Clara smile.

  "Don't worry, I may have caught a little cold, but that's all. But please, don't say anything about this. I. . . well, it's hard to be alone here. My grandfather is so protective—he worries that something might happen to me. And with the political situation, and the place fall of soldiers ..."

  "It was just dumb luck that we found you. We were scouting for a location. Wanted to film the ruins at dawn, do something different before we all leave this afternoon. This place is really very beautiful," Miranda said, looking around.

  "And if you're all right," Daniel added, "I'm going to get back to that—but you should stay here, Miranda, and see if Clara needs anything else."

  Clara intrigued Miranda, and the reporter seized the chance to be alone with her. There was something about this woman . . . Miranda just wasn't sure what.

  "You're Iraqi, but you don't look like one," she remarked, to test the waters.

  "I'm Iraqi—and nobody here would say I don't look like one."

  "But your eyes are blue, and the color of your hair . . ."

  "Not all my family comes from here; my background is mixed."

  Perhaps that was the source of the affinity with Clara—they had that in common. She turned the conversation to the dig.

  "You know, Professor Gomez told me that the patriarch Abraham may not even have existed."

  "If we find the tablets, we will prove that Abraham is not a myth. I'm convinced he did exist, that he left Ur to go to Canaan, that he was the first monotheist, and that from that moment on he carried the seeds of his belief wherever he went."

  "I'm surprised that when you were in Rome, no high Church official contacted you to authenticate the tablets your grandfather found."

  "I didn't expect them to. The Church doesn't question the existence of the patriarchs. If we find the tablets, good, but if we don't, it won't matter to the Vatican—the foundations of their religion were laid long ago."

  "But what about that priest, Gian Maria? He seems so out of place. Why is he here?"

  "To help us. He's a good person, very hardworking and good at what he does. He's an expert in the ancient lang-uages of this region, and his participation in this expedition has been nothing less than . . . well, miraculous."

  Miranda smiled. "What will you do when Picot and his people leave?"

  "Stay on and keep digging."

  "Bombs may be smart, but not smart enough to make an exception for you."

  Clara shrugged her shoulders again. Until war became a reality, which she didn't think possible, she was content to keep going.

  The sound of jeeps broke the early-morning quiet. The day's work was beginning. One of the vehicles skidded to a halt in front of the tent where the two women had been talking. Ayed Sahadi leaped out of it and stormed toward Clara.

  "Why do you insist on shaming us? Your grandfather has ordered that the men in charge of your security be whipped, and me—I cannot imagine what he has in store for me. Does it amuse you to bring disgrace and worse to others?"

  "How dare you speak to me that way!"

  Miranda observed the scene in fascination. The man's behavior was well out of bounds for a mere overseer, although he had been introduced to Miranda as such the day before. He carried himself like a soldier, though in Saddam's country, she supposed, many men were. He and Clara looked as though they were about to leap at each other's throats. Finally Ayed broke the tense silence.

  "Get in the car," he snapped, turning on his heel. "Your grandfather wants to see you at once."

  He stalked out of the tent and sat at the wheel of his jeep, waiting for Clara to follow him.

  Clara took her time finishing her coffee.

  "Your grandfather has people whipped?"

  Miranda's question caught her off guard. Clara had grown up amid regular demonstrations of her grandfather's harsh discipline, and to her it seemed only natural.

  "Don't pay any attention to Ayed," she said curdy, as she rose to leave. "He exaggerates when he's angry."

  She left the tent, silently cursing Sahadi for providing the reporter an unforgivable window into their world. Clara prayed that his careless remark would have no further consequences, that the press would not choose to pursue a story about the cruelty of Alfred Tannenberg. If they did, then it would be she, not her grandfather, who had Ayed whipped until he begged for mercy.
>
  Miranda sat pensively, watching them drive away. She didn't believe Clara's denial for a moment, and she shuddered, just thinking about what Ayed had said.

  Clara was getting out of the jeep as Dr. Najeb came out of the house. "I want to talk to you," he said, stepping off to the side. "What's wrong?" she asked in alarm.

  "Your grandfather is getting worse; we should airlift him out to Cairo immediately. Here . . . here, he is going to die."

  "Is there nothing you can do?"

  "Not here. I don't have the proper equipment."

  "Then what good is the operating room my grandfather had brought in?"

  "It's good for a contingency, but your grandfather's condition is critical—we don't have any more time."

  "You just don't want to assume the responsibility for what might happen, do you?"

  "No, I don't. This is madness. His liver cancer has metastasized to other organs, and we are on the outskirts of a dusty village in the middle of nowhere—it makes no sense. But it's your decision."

  She turned away from him without replying and walked into the house. Fatima was waiting for her in tears at the door of her grandfather's room.

  "My child, the master is worse." "Fatima, I will not have him see you crying—he would not have it." She pushed her old nurse aside and entered the room, which was in semidarkness; Samira, the nurse, was watching over him. "Clara?" Alfred Tannenberg's voice was weak. "Yes, Grandfather, I'm here."

  "I should have you whipped too. How dare you put the entire camp in alarm."

  "Grandfather, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." "Well, you did. If anything should happen to you . . . They would all die, I swear I would kill them all."

  "Calm down, Grandfather. I'm here now. How are you feeling?" "I'm dying."

  "Don't be silly. You aren't going to die, much less now, when we're on the verge of finding the Bible of Clay." "I know that Picot wants to leave."

  "He'll give us time to find the tablets, don't worry. And if he goes, we'll keep digging." "I sent for Ahmed."

  "Is he coming?" Clara asked with equal measures of hope and trepidation.

  "He has to come. He's to update me on our current operation, and we have to finalize some details so that you can get out of here." "I'm not leaving!"

  "You'll do as I say! As long as there is breath left in my body, I will not fall victim to anyone's army. We're both leaving for Cairo. Or I'll go to Cairo and you can go with Picot."

  "With Picot? Why?"

  "Because I say so. Now go, I need to rest and think. Yasir will arrive with Ahmed later today, and I want to be sitting up when he comes."

  Clara found Dr. Najeb in the tent-hospital next to the house. He was mechanically putting the operating room in order.

  "My grandfather must live."

  "We all want to live."

  "Do whatever you have to do."

  "If we were in Cairo ..."

  "We're here, and here is where you will do your work. We pay you very well to do it—you have to help him hang on." "I am not Allah."

  Clara struggled to keep her desperation out of her voice. "Treat his pain; keep him strong so that he can appear healthy to his visitors," she said evenly. "We'll talk about returning to Cairo later. As long as we're here, my grandfather has to look like the man he once was." "That is not possible." "Then do the impossible."

  The frigid edge in Clara's voice left no room for argument, and her once-attractive face was overshadowed by her cold, steely gaze. For the first time Salam Najeb saw her resemblance to her grandfather—down to the cruelty in her blue eyes.

  Miranda was waiting for Clara a few yards from the field hospital, smoking a cigarette.

  "I'd like to meet your grandfather," the reporter said, smiling slightly.

  "He isn't seeing anyone," Clara replied coldly. "Why?"

  "Because he's an old man whose health is unstable, and the last thing we're going to do is subject him to a session with the press."

  Clara strode back to the house and closed the door without giving Miranda time to follow her. Once in her room, she fell onto her bed and began to weep.

  When Fatima found her two hours later, all traces of distress were gone and Clara was preparing to join the others.

  "Where are you going, my child?" she asked.

  "The reporters are leaving at noon; we have to see them off. And I want to talk to Picot and have things ready for Ahmed and Yasir's arrival."

  It struck the old woman that her onetime charge seemed to have become harder, more determined, just in the space of the morning. She saw in Clara's eyes her grandfather's fierce determination, and she realized that someone or something had brought out in her the worst features of Tannenberg's character.

  Yves Picot was talking to the reporters; the looks between him and Miranda weren't lost on Clara. They're attracted to each other, she thought, and they aren't hiding it. That's why he wants to leave earlier than he'd planned—he's sick of being here. The minute she leaves, he'll go after her.

  Fabian and Marta were there too, as were Gian Maria and Lion Doyle.

  "Why aren't you working?" asked Clara, trying to make her voice seem casual.

  Marta raised an eyebrow in displeasure.

  "We're saying good-bye to our friends," said Fabian, forestalling her response.

  "I hope you've found what we're doing here interesting," Clara said to no one in particular.

  Miranda walked over to Clara and put out her hand to say goodbye. Only Marta, who was watching them, seemed to notice their mute duel of wills.

  "It's been a pleasure meeting you," Miranda said. "I hope to see you again someday. I suppose you'll be going back to Baghdad at some point; I'll be there until the war's over, if I don't get killed."

  "You're going to stay in Baghdad?"

  "Yes, a lot of us are going to stay. Holed up in the Hotel Palestina." "Why?"

  "Because somebody has to tell the people what's happening, because the only way to stop the horror is to show it. If we leave, it'll be worse."

  "Worse for whom?"

  "For everyone. Come down out of your castle. Look around and you'll understand."

  "Please. I'm a little tired of superior speeches."

  Picot came over to Miranda just then and, laughing, pulled at her— the helicopter was about to lift off.

  "Stay with us until we go," he mock-pleaded with her.

  "That wouldn't be a bad idea, but I'm afraid my desk at home wouldn't understand."

  They kissed each other on the cheek and Picot helped her into the helicopter. Then he waved his hand as the chopper rose and turned away, its rotors raising a fierce cloud of dust. Picot stood there until the helicopter was but a tiny dot on the horizon.

  "You and Miranda seem to have hit it off," Clara said resentfully.

  "Well, yes, as a matter of fact. She's a terrific woman. I enjoyed meeting her, and I hope to see her again."

  "She's going to stay on in Baghdad."

  "So she told me—she's as crazy as you are. Both of you are ready to risk your lives for your causes. Kindred spirits, I'd say."

  "We have nothing in common," Clara snapped.

  "No, just stubbornness, although that may be a trait common to the entire gender."

  "You can leave the rest of us out of it, if you please," broke in Marta, laughing. "Yves, have you talked to Baghdad?" she asked.

  "Yes. Ahmed is coming in. I think this afternoon. We'll see what he has to say, then make a decision. But in case we have to leave soon, I'm going to ask Lion Doyle to photograph everything we've found; he's

  already done the in situ photos, so that'll round out the documentation. We need to be as detailed as possible. I want more than stills, I want video—I hope Lion can do that. I think it's a good idea, as you've suggested, Clara, to detail everything we've done and everything that's left to do. If you like, we'll do that after we hear what your husband has to say when he comes in this afternoon. Is that all right?" Clara agreed. She had no altern
ative.

  36

  mercedes was delirious. carlo, hans, and bruno

  were watching her apprehensively; they feared she might die. None of them could bear to think about what had happened. It was beyond them. Their survival down there on the cold steps where their mothers had fallen had been a miracle; they'd been kicked and pummeled by the guards, then left for dead. Later, when the onlookers from Berlin went into the infirmary to watch the operations, no one seemed interested in the bodies remaining behind, especially the injured children.

  When Hans tried to help Mercedes, one of the kapos had beaten him senseless. Even so, he heard his mother's voice through the torture, strengthening his will to live.

  A team of prisoners was ordered to clean up the stairs of death and to take the children to one of the barracks. They were put onto cots, and a Polish prisoner, a former doctor named Lechw, tried to revive them, though he had little more than dirty rags dipped in water at his disposal.

  The little girl was in the worst shape. She was unconscious, and Lechw cursed under his breath. There was so very little he could do without medicines. Eventually the orphaned boys would be sent out to work with the men, but the little girl would either be killed on the spot or sent to the infirmary, from which no one ever emerged.

  One of the other prisoners, a Russian, removed from inside his mattress a bottle of vodka containing a precious few drops and passed it to the doctor so he could disinfect the wounds. Then Lechw sutured Mercedes' head wounds with the needle and thread that the prisoners used for mending their clothes. The child moaned and writhed in pain, but she remained unconscious.

  One of the prisoners was nervous about having a little girl in the barracks.