Muhad had run on ahead and was standing on top of a pile of debris, with a huge smile on his face. He was so proud to show off his find to Jack, whom he idolised. He had lost both his elder brothers in a roadside bombing a year earlier and Jack was the next best thing.
As Jack approached the small mound, he knew Muhad had found what they had been searching for. He unclipped his faithful trowel from his belt and started cleaning the clay canalisation. He looked up, trying to trace the progress of the qanat in an imaginary line. He wondered if it joined a spring or a subterranean river. He picked up his mobile phone and dialled a number.
‘Hi. Jack Hillcliff. May I speak to Professor Almeini?’ asked Jack, in his strong East coast accent.
‘Yes of course,’ said the secretary, patching him through to the professor’s office.
‘Hello Jack,’ said Professor Almeini, always happy to speak to the engineer.
‘Hi there Professor.’
‘How’s work going?’
‘Very well; we found the qanat.’
‘Wonderful! Was it in the quadrant we spoke of?’
‘Yes. Young Muhad found it this morning.’
The old scholar laughed. ‘I might borrow him someday; he could help me find some long lost papers in the departmental archives.’
‘The problem is I can’t see anything remotely watery in my line of sight. Also, even if I triangulate the potential direction it might have taken to find the water source, the landscape may have changed radically since antiquity.’
‘I agree and as we discussed, some of these qanats go for many miles underground.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jack, ‘I can’t start drilling holes all over the place.’
Both fell silent.
‘Jack, why don’t you pass by my office later today, and we will go over the maps once again. Maybe there is something we missed. I’ll also introduce you to someone who is more versed than myself in the archaeology of the region. I am a linguist after all.’
‘OK. That’s a good idea. See you later.’
He smiled at Muhad, patted him on the shoulder, and they walked back to the villagers.
Mina was a creature of habit. She always woke up at dawn, had a shower, spent half an hour doing yoga stretches, had breakfast and started work. But not this morning. It was past eight a.m. and she was still in bed, wide awake. She felt that Nigel, her PhD supervisor had let her down – after all, she had never officially interrupted her research.
She was trying to remember something that had troubled her in their last conversation when she visited him a few weeks before at Columbia.
‘I need to spend a few weeks in Safed in Israel,’ she’d said to Nigel.
‘Why?’
‘It concerns some odd discrepancies in the writings of Benjamin of Tudela.’
‘The 12th century Jewish traveller from Spain?’
‘Yes. You remember his descriptions of Mosul and the ruins of Nineveh?’
‘Yes. I thought the other traveller was much more interesting. What was his name again?’
‘Petachiah of Ratisbone. Yes, he writes more on Nineveh but hear me out, Nigel. On his way to Mosul, Benjamin de Tudela passed through many cities in Palestine. He recorded whether Jews lived there or not, described synagogues. He also recorded the numbers of Jewish inhabitants and did this throughout his travels.’
‘And?’
‘As you know, Safed blossomed as a centre of learning and mysticism for Jews later in the 16th century, the whole kabbalistic renaissance, and so on. But what I find surprising is that according to Tudela’s writings, he found no Jews there in 1170.’
‘What’s so strange about that? Maybe there weren’t any Jews then even if it did become an important place later on.’
‘Maybe. But Tudela’s other accounts were all accurate, except for this one. I found a piece of evidence in the British Library which contradicts it entirely: as you know, Tudela’s Book of Travels was actually written by an unknown author who compiled his travel notes.’
‘I know that, so what?’
‘Well, a number of specialists believe that this anonymous compiler picked and chose the material and did not insert everything into the manuscript. I think they’re right, and I can prove it.’
‘Go on.’
‘Among the other works bound to the manuscript, an essay by Maimonides and various other commentaries, there were a few pages of Arabic poetry. No-one has paid much attention to them until now because they were in Arabic and not in Hebrew and because they were never inserted in the compiled manuscript of Tudela’s travels. But, I think Benjamin of Tudela copied these poems himself during his travels, because he also jotted down a few notes among them.’
‘What do the notes say?’
‘That he sent a letter to a certain Mordechai in Safed, on his return from Mesopotamia.’
‘Really? How interesting,’ Nigel suppressed a yawn. Mina looked at him. He didn’t seem in the least bit interested.
‘There wasn’t much more, but I thought that the name Mordechai couldn’t be anything other than Jewish, and the travel note states that he is ‘in Safed’. That’s how I made the assumption that there must have been at least one Jew in Safed.’
‘So what? Aren’t you seriously digressing from your thesis? You’re supposed to be studying the writing of explorers in Mesopotamia, not Israel!’
‘I think this deserves to be followed up. There might be more information to be gleaned in Safed. They have synagogues and archives that date back centuries… maybe I’ll find more writings by Tudela?’
‘Right. What do you expect from me?’
‘Well, I was hoping that you could write as my referee to the travel grant committee?’
‘Mina, as your PhD student status is suspended until you return to m… to the department, I’m not sure you will receive all the support you deserve. But I’ll write on your behalf.’
‘Thank you so much. I thought you didn’t want to write any recommendations until I returned to New York?’
‘Well, in this case, I’ll make a small exception.’
Laying on her back, Mina reflected on these last words. Nigel was not known for his forgiving nature, and she had never known him to make exceptions. What did it all mean? She was not getting anywhere this morning. She got up, and had a shower.
An hour later, Mina walked out of her flat and proceeded to the backroom of Ibrahim’s, a small art dealer in the market. She did this twice a week. The word was out through various channels that she helped whoever possessed illegal ancient artefacts to return them to the museum. She did not offer money, but she did offer anonymity and peace of mind. Unfortunately, in these times of need, very few genuine people came to see her. Many came by and tried to hustle her, and some actually came just to know if what they possessed was worth anything. She knew all this, but what else could she do? She had no money to offer these people.
‘Hello Madam,’ said an embarrassed voice.
‘Hassan?’ She was surprised to see him there.
‘You don’t seem very happy to see me,’ he answered, disappointed.
‘Of course I am,’ and without beating around the bush, added ‘but I still have in mind a chat I had with Professor Almeini about you last night.’
‘Ah…’
‘Yes. Ah. What are you doing? You’re an excellent student. You should finish your degree and I’ll find a way of getting you a scholarship to pursue your studies in the US. Life is so tough here. You need a break.’
She wasn’t sure she could deliver on this promise, but she told herself she’d give it her best shot. Hassan seemed to hesitate and for an instant lost his usual cockiness.
‘I would like that very much,’ he said, looking down at his feet.
‘What’s the story about you working for ‘art sharks’?’
He laughed heartily. He was the one who had come up with the expression one day during class.
‘Honestly? They pay more than normal jobs, Mada
m, and I need the money.’ He sat down, pulled out his bag and took out the rag-covered tablet. He handed it to her sheepishly, ‘A gesture of goodwill.’
She was surprised, but did not show it. She removed the rag, and looked at the tablet.
‘It’s really heavy, Hassan.’
‘Yes, I noticed that too when I first held it.’
‘Weird,’ she said.
‘Can you read the inscription?’
‘I’m amazed you didn’t try to do so yourself.’
‘I’m a little rusty,’ he answered.
‘Come on Hassan, don’t be lazy. Let’s have a look together. Is it intact?’
‘No, it’s missing the top part, and it was probably originally rectangular although only a large square remains.’
‘Good. Language?’
‘Akkadian.’
‘Start at the top,’ she said.
Hassan studied the tablet, ‘We’re missing the addressee, but the first few lines seem to describe the sale of a property between two distinct parties.’
‘Good. You aren’t that rusty Hassan. I’ll take this to the department and catalogue it as Mos.Has.01 for tablet found in Mosul by Hassan, n0.1.’ He smiled, proudly. ‘Any idea where this tablet was found?’
‘No. I didn’t think to ask the old labourer.’
‘That’s too bad. I’m off to the department now. See you in class?’ She stood up, feeling quite excited.
As soon as Mina sat down in her office, she unwrapped the tablet and started reading. There was something strange about it. Although she agreed with Hassan’s interpretation about the original rectangular shape of the tablet, this type of contract did not usually require many more lines than what was already here, so the original was probably not much longer than its current square shape. More importantly, the weight of this tablet felt wrong. She picked up the phone and called the small office of the janitor. Nurdin Muhammad used to be an art restorer at the Mosul museum, but in 2003, like many others, realised that the salary he had been waiting months for was not going to materialise. He had been forced to find different work, any work really. Now he was a janitor at the university.
‘Hi Nurdin. Mina Osman here. I need to borrow a small pair of scales. Great. Half an hour? Thanks.’
There were enough student essays piled on Mina’s desk to keep her up all night marking them. She picked up the first essay and started running through it. When she first started teaching at the department she had been aware of the students’ poor English grammar, strange syntax and flowery vocabulary. But she had enjoyed their eagerness from the first instant and how uncontrived their writing was in comparison to some of her New York students. None of these boys followed a set path in the presentation of their essays or in their analyses. They enjoyed being given free rein to write in English about their own past, and they took full advantage of it.
A knock on the door brought her out of her marking reverie. It was Nurdin.
‘Miss Osman?’
‘Hi Nurdin. I see you have the scales. Thanks.’
‘Can I have a look?’
‘Please.’ She knew all about Nurdin’s former life and felt awful about his situation. His hands were strong and agile, and the assured way with which he picked up the tablet testified to the many priceless objects he had handled on a daily basis. He set up the scales on her desk, and weighed the tablet.
‘You’re right. The weight is completely wrong. I don’t understand. It’s much heavier than clay.’
‘But it is clay?’ she asked.
He passed his fingers on the surface.
‘Yes it is. But the weight is more like that of a small stone slab. There must be an obvious explanation, but it eludes me,’ he sighed, ‘I have to get back to my daily chores, unfortunately.’
‘Thanks for your help Nurdin.’
‘Good luck,’ he said as he left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Mina leaned back in her chair, puzzled. There was another knock on the door. She quickly wrapped the tablet in its rag and put it away in her desk.
‘Come in,’ she said.
‘Good morning Mina,’ said Professor Almeini. ‘How are those essays?’ he glanced at the pile of paper on Mina’s desk.
‘They’re quite good actually.’
‘May I introduce you to my American friend Jack Hillcliff?’
Jack appeared behind the professor and stepped into the office. Mina stood up and shook his hand.
‘Mina Osman.’
‘Jack Hillcliff.’
She observed the handsome man in front of her. He seemed unpretentious and had a thoughtful air about him.
‘Jack is in charge of an irrigation project in a small village outside Mosul,’ explained Professor Almeini.
‘You’re American? It must be dangerous for you working on the outskirts of Mosul these days.’
‘No more than working in downtown Mosul I guess,’ he answered, smiling at her.
‘Point taken,’ she smiled back at him.
‘People need water, especially in wartime,’ he explained as if carrying out this kind of project while the war raged on was perfectly normal.
‘Jack and I are working together on an aspect of his project and I thought you might be able to give him a hand,’ Professor Almeini said.
‘Sounds interesting. I didn’t read anything about a departmental irrigation project?’
Jack answered immediately, ‘Oh, it’s nothing like that. I’ve got funding from a number of NGOs to bring water to this village and make it as self-sufficient as possible. I’m an irrigation specialist of sorts. And, until I ran into the Prof here, I was a little stuck.’
‘How’s that?’ she asked.
The professor smiled at them, ‘Mina, Jack, I need to get back to my office. I’m so glad you’ve met.’ Looking at Mina, he added ‘Don’t forget we have a publication committee meeting this afternoon.’
‘Of course not, Professor. See you there.’
Mina turned to Jack, ‘So, Jack, have a seat and tell me all about how you met Professor Almeini.’
She was doing her best to be pleasant, but she was aware that her body language was a little awkward, always a sign that she was attracted to a man.
‘I met the Prof through a mutual friend, a hydrologist in Baghdad. To be honest, I was a little nervous when I first met him but we started chatting, and before I knew it, we were talking shop.’
She smiled, ‘He does tend to have that effect on people.’
‘I came to him with questions about local qanats, you know those underground water canalisations. They’re quite common in arid or semi-arid climates. Thousands of them are still in use in Iran and Afghanistan, and some since the Middle Ages. They carry water for dozens of miles without losing much through evaporation. But I couldn’t find any around the village where I work. He suggested looking for ancient ones, going back to the time of King Darius.’
‘You’re kidding, right? Did he forget to mention that King Darius lived 2,500 years ago?’
‘I know. It sounded insane at first but you know, irrigation specialists all over the world, and especially those working in developing countries, often investigate how things were done in ancient times.’
Mina thought about it and had to agree with him. Knowledge of water systems had not progressed that much over the last thousand years. All it took was keen observation of the water table, underground water and gravity over a long period of time. She had read somewhere about a qanat in Iran, in the city of Gonabad, which still provided drinking and agricultural water, 2700 years later. It was over 30 miles long.
‘I’m totally under-funded and have little time to carry out my project’ Jack continued. ‘Although Mosul is built on the west bank of the Tigris and it’s the major river in the region, we couldn’t afford to set up a secure network all the way to the river. The Prof showed me some maps of the region’s archaeologically excavated qanats and two of them happen to pass very close to the village I’m work
ing in. He felt sure that if I found at least one of them, and could somehow follow its path, maybe I would find the underground water source, which this qanat used to tap into.’
Mina looked horrified. ‘You want to use an ancient qanat to bring water to the village?’
Jack burst out laughing. ‘No, I think I’d run into trouble with sanitary officials! If I could find that water source, I would lay pipes and a filtering system, follow the same track and bring at least one line of water supply to the village.’
‘OK. I could give you a hand on the archaeological side of things if you’re interested.’
‘I’m very interested.’
‘Great! I have some time to spare. Let’s go down to the archive.’
They went down to the basement, into a small room which held the departmental map archive.
‘Most of these maps are unpublished. As you can imagine, with the current state of affairs, there are more pressing needs.’
‘I can. I’m also surprised the basement wasn’t looted.’
’I know. It was seriously messed up though. We’ve spent months putting some order in the archive. The students have helped us tremendously. Where is the village?’
‘About 30 miles west of the city,’ he answered.
‘What’s it called?’
‘Al-Bayaty Ninewa’ he answered.
Mina started rummaging through the piles of maps, and pulled out a few.
‘Here you are,’ she said, pointing her finger at a dotted line on the map. ‘There’s the beginning of the qanat. And look! There seems to be a small pocket of underground water. Now, if we superimpose the first map…here’s the village. Where did you find the qanat?’
‘Roughly here’ he said, pointing at a spot on the map.
‘You’re only about a mile and a half from the water pocket,’ she said triumphantly.
‘That’s amazing. Can I have a photocopy of this map?’
‘Of course. Just mention the help you got from the department to whoever funded you.’
As they walked back up to the main reception room, she asked him ‘So Jack, you’re an irrigation specialist?’
‘Of sorts. I’m an engineer, with an interest in irrigation.’
The 13th Tablet Page 3