The Flames of Time (Flames of Time Series Book 1)

by Peter Knyte

  Androus stopped for a moment then, as though ordering his thoughts.

  ‘Now Ziusudra was known to the Greeks as Xisuthrus, whose story is recounted by Eusebius of Caesaria, via Alexander Polyhistor and the writing of Berossus high priest of Marduk in Babylon.’

  Androus’ bright crimson handkerchief had somehow found its way into his hand and standing he applied this to his forehead as he made to refill his coffee cup.

  ‘Am I right in remembering Xisuthrus as another name for the biblical figure of Noah?’ asked Harry rather wide eyed.

  ‘No, no, no. Harrison, there is an association yes, but it is far more complex and quite the other way around.’ responded Androus rather wearily and taking a breath before continuing.

  ‘One of the oldest pieces of human writing that the modern world has yet discovered, is on a series of tablets found in southern Iraq just over two hundred years ago. It tells the tale of the deluge or the flooding of the earth up to the heavens, and a man who built a boat to survive. This is where the comparison with the far simplified biblical account ends. Because, as a reward for his efforts this figure Utnapishtim or Ziusudra is given the gift of ‘breath eternal’, he is then removed to a faraway place by the gods, this place is variably known as the origin or source of the rivers. He is also, as Xisuthrus, described as being a king who ruled for over sixty four thousand lunar months or five thousand years. In the same tale he is also described as being visited by the legendary Gilgamesh of Sumeria who also seeks the secret of life everlasting.’

  ‘My dear Androushan, this is all very well,’ interjected Jean, ‘but it hardly seems something that would require you to work through the night on, or to disturb us at such an early hour for.’

  ‘You are quite right Jean.’ responded Androus with a weary smile and stretching his back slightly as he walked over to the window with his coffee, ‘please indulge me as I have indulged you. The final point I wished to explain was that name of Ziusudra is a fairly recent addition to our understanding, and has been known to the modern world for less than twenty years, from a single fragmentary tablet of even more ancient Sumerian origin.’

  ‘If I am to come to point then for disturbing you all so early, then I should perhaps begin by confessing that when I came here yesterday, I was fairly convinced that your scroll was some elaborate fake. But now when I look at the evidence. For that scroll to not only be written in old Babylonian, but to feature words cleverly constructed to seem like archaic versions of that already archaic language, and then for that same scroll to contain a name so recently added to our understanding. Well, gentlemen I think I can safely say that in the last twenty years there have only been a dozen people in the world capable of such thing.

  ‘Now I do not wish to labour this point, but you have to realise that if there is any chance, however remote, that this scroll contains the words of such an ancient figure. Well it could quite possibly be the single most important document to be found this millennium.’

  To say that Androus’ words took us all aback would be something of an understatement. We looked at one another for several moments without a word as the implications of what he was saying sank in. Finally Marlow broke the silence.

  ‘Thank you for bearing with us Androus, I realise we’ve made your job that much more difficult by not disclosing the circumstances leading up to the discovery of the scroll, but I think when you’ve heard and seen what we’re about to show you, you’ll understand.’

  CHAPTER 9 – INSIGHT

  It took a while to prepare the sketches, maps and illustrations we’d made at the temple, during which time, the hotel manager appeared again with the offer of breakfast and fresh coffee. I didn’t think Androus would be prepared to wait now we’d agreed to tell him the rest of our story, but he was obviously fatigued from his night’s labours, and he leapt at the chance of a break and some food.

  When we returned to the lounge, now filled with the bright morning sun, and thoughtfully provisioned with fresh fruit and more coffee, I think we were all a little more alert and less on edge than we’d been after being roused straight from our beds. But as Harry began to tell Androus about our encounter with the shaman and the visions, it was still difficult to read the expression on the Armenian’s face. Eventually though, after Jean showed him the picture he’d managed to reconstruct from memory and his sodden sketchpad, he started to ask questions and show a more pronounced interest in the information we were laying before him.

  By the time Harry began describing our journey through the ruins of Great Zimbabwe and our entrance into the temple I honestly thought Androus was going to faint. And when we started to show him the sketches and illustrations of the temple layout with its carved reliefs and writings his entire frame displayed such an intensity of constrained energy I thought he’d burst. Several times he moved as though to speak, only to close his mouth again and press his colourful handkerchief to his brow.

  Eventually, after Harry had finished the story and Androus had spent several minutes just looking from one sketch to another, he suddenly stood up, stepped back from the table and walked over to the window.

  None of us spoke as he stood there, everyone just waiting to see what he’d make of it.

  ‘It is real!’ were his first words when he eventually turned back to us. ‘you have discovered what may be one of the most significant archaeological finds imaginable… The chronicles of Ziusudra, Noah, Xisuthrus, Utnapishtim, call him what you will. There are figures from history on that scroll of whom we have never heard, along with the tales of how they sought him out and what they found when they did. Not only that, but you have found this record in an ancient temple, which may itself rival the wonders of Petra, with walls covered in a whole library’s worth of probably unknown knowledge from the ancient world. Incredible!

  ‘It is obviously a dream,’ he went on half smiling, as he walked back from the window to join us, ‘yes, an elaborate fantasy conjured by my unconscious mind after I have inadvertently fallen asleep at my desk in the library…

  ‘But then if it were a dream you would not be asking me to keep this discovery a secret while you pursue who knows what further course?’

  ‘That’s why we came to you Chuk,’ responded Harry apologetically, ‘because I knew we could rely on you to keep this to yourself, at least for the moment. And because we need to know what’s in that scroll if we’re to figure out where to go next.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Androus, with a small wave of his handkerchief, ‘You wish to retrace the steps taken by those who journeyed to the temple, in the hope that you may find their legacy.’

  He hesitated for several agonising moments, a sad smile still upon his face, as he looked at each of us, before finally continuing.

  ‘You know me too well Harrison!’ he said, looking more determined now, ‘I can and will assist you. This information cannot be lost to mankind again.’

  It seemed remarkable to me how quickly Androus could change in both his mood and overall perspective. It reminded me far too much of my own doubts and changing perspective.

  ‘There is however something else I must tell you.’ continued Androus becoming more focused, but also more hesitant, ‘I have translated more of this scroll than I have yet told. I am still less than sure of the precise meaning, but from what I can make out this temple is not the only one to have been built by this Ziusudra.

  ‘Following the passage I described to you. The author, Ziusudra goes on to inform the reader it is once more time for him to move on. Sealing and burying his second temple before consigning it to the vagaries time, after which he will ‘renew his breath’ at the first great temple in the East.

  ‘He doesn’t describe where this first temple is located, or whether he plans to build another after he has renewed his breath...

  ‘What he does tell us though, is the date at which he is writing, in the form of two king lists. Lists that it was very easy for me to identify, lists that indicate this man was writing his scro
ll seven hundred years ago in a language that was lost to the rest of humanity in 1000bc.’

  On hearing this, we all sat there paralysed. Somehow dealing with a half-mythic figure from distant antiquity was easier to comprehend than someone placed within the very real time frame of a few hundred years. I saw the consequences of what Androus had said, registering on the faces around me.

  Intuitively, I turned my attention to Marlow to see how he’d react. Though my own shock still had the better of me for a moment. I looked at him sitting back in his chair across the table from me, and saw for a moment that same expression I’d so often seen on his face as he regarded a sunset. A calm so complete as to be almost unsettling, accompanied by a quiet barely noticeable smile.

  For the first time I think he noticed me watching him, and for a moment he looked straight at me, that strange stillness in his eyes, captivating and calming me. Until he looked away toward the others.

  It took a moment for my wit’s to come back to me after his gaze moved on, but as they did I found myself unexpectedly reminded of the lion Marlow had killed back in Africa. Had that beast actually come close to killing him, I found myself wondering. Or had even the great golden eyes of that monster been becalmed by this man’s gaze.

  Shaking such nonsense from my head, I realised I was missing what was being said.

  ‘That’s good news Androus,’ replied Marlow, ‘it means our quarry is not as far distant as we’d anticipated.’

  I looked at my friends as he said this, and in particular to Harry, who had a better understanding of what was being said than any of us. There was nothing obvious about the way in which he reacted, but as some of the others started to talk and speculate about this information, Harry looked almost winded by what he’d heard and for the longest time just stared at Marlow.

  We were all tired, the early morning and excitement obviously having taken its toll on us, especially Androus who despite his meal still looked hollow with fatigue. So, after our various speculations and discussions had started to die down a bit, I suggested a break until the evening to give us all the opportunity to rest and more fully consider our situation.

  There was a general agreement at this and after the briefest of goodbyes Androus took his leave, followed in quick succession by the rest of us.

  I was one of the last, after giving Jean a hand to put everything away. Despite being tired I didn’t think I’d be able to get any more sleep just then, so once all our evidence and the scroll was safely repacked I decided to go for a walk instead.

  Before I’d come to Jerusalem I think I’d had a very stereotypical image of what it would be like, all sand and rock with the odd faded bit of scrawny vegetation for some equally scrawny goats to nibble upon. As a consequence the reality when we’d first arrived had been something of a shock.

  One particularly pleasant surprise being the rich and verdant public gardens that exist in various parts of the city. I’d come across one such garden at the far corner of the Armenian quarter during the whirlwind tour I’d had with Harry, and as I left the hotel, it was to that garden I made my way. Being careful to avoid the route most likely to be taken by Androus, past the library, and the risk of getting drawn into further conversation and speculation.

  It was still quite early, and the cool morning air helped to clear my head a little as I walked. I hardly remember reaching the gardens, let alone stopping to buy tea and dates along the way. But I managed to find a nice secluded seat in the shade of the great buttressed wall where I could just sit and think.

  I’m not quite sure how long I stayed there, watching the birds, insects and occasional other small animals as they made their way around that small corner of paradise. But as the sun climbed higher in the sky and the heat started to penetrate even into my shady corner, I decided it was time to move on in the hope of finding another cool spot.

  I hadn’t gone far and was just contemplating taking my tea glass back for a refill when I ran into Jean, sketchpad in hand, doubtless in search of some scenic vista to commit to paper. There was a momentary uncertainty as we each tried to divine whether the other would like some company, and then realising that neither of us had any objection, we moved on together.

  We eventually found a likely sketching site with a good view of the Citadel Tower, toward the northern end of the gardens in the shade of a giant bay tree. We’d nearly missed the spot and were just about to make ourselves comfortable on the grass, when Jean spotted one of the neighbourhood cats jumping through the surrounding bushes and onto a wall hidden by the foliage.

  A minutes exploration revealed two low walls belonging to some anonymous ruin, open and visible to the park on the other side, but appearing to be nothing more than a clump of young trees and bushes from the direction in which we’d approached. Perhaps because it was such a splendid view of the park and distant citadel tower, a new wooden seat had been positioned just inside the walls to better accommodate those wanting to sit in the shade and admire the view.

  It was a relaxing spot, the dappled shade from the Bay made all the cooler by an occasional breeze channelled down the hill by the great wall to our left. Jean had his view and as we sat and talked I observed him as he sketched. First laying out the proportions of the scene in pale hard pencil before beginning to fill in the detail with a softer, darker lead.

  There was no real attempt by either of us to try and avoid the subject at hand, and after we’d both expressed our favourable opinions of Androus, we turned our attention back to the scroll and the unfolding mystery before us.

  I confessed to Jean how I found the entire business just a bit too strange, without even allowing myself to think about the consequences if it were true.

  ‘I know very well what you mean George,’ he responded whilst continuing to sketch, ‘I keep thinking of myself as entering into some childish adventure story, wishing the world to be a different, more exciting place than it is. A world where the cure for all mankind’s ills could actually be sat in some ancient and dusty jar beneath a remote and exotic ruin.

  ‘But then I scold myself. Am I not also a lover of wisdom, a philosopher, poet, and,’ gesturing almost deprecatingly at the sketchpad on his lap, ‘an artist?. As such, do I not strive to break with convention and consider the world objectively for myself? Yet still I think in such a… small way about this journey, viewing it as a childish exploit, too incredible for a grown man who should know better.’

  Jean had a point, and I had to acknowledge I’d been thinking about things in a very similar way.

  We talked for a while longer, discussing all manner of things in and around the subject, including the wonders of antiquity that had somehow survived the centuries, only to be discovered again in our modern age. From the obscure Neolithic structures and cave paintings dotted around Europe, to the great ziggurats of South America, or Stupas of India, not forgetting the abundance of poetry, sculpture and prose left behind by the Greeks, Romans and other cultures, and the amazing discoveries still pouring out of Egypt’s Valley of Kings.

  Eventually I think we rediscovered some semblance of our enthusiasm and perhaps even ‘childish’ wonder for such things, but in doing so we’d talked the morning away. Not that it wasn’t a nice spot, but the shade from the Bay was moving round with the sun and as Jean put the finishing touches to his drawing we started to think about retreating to a tea shop to see out the hottest part of the day.

  My legs were just beginning to toast as the shade from the tree encroached upon our seat, and I was starting to get a little impatient with Jean’s ‘final touches’. When suddenly, I noticed through the shrubbery surrounding us, someone bearing a striking resemblance to Luke. He was strolling back and forth on the other side of the Bay tree, evidently waiting for someone to join him. Calling Jean’s attention to him, he agreed it must be Luke, but whom could he be waiting for.

  Whilst the intrigue was momentarily amusing, especially from our childishly covert vantage-point, we reluctantly gave in to the more e
levated sides of our natures, and decided to go over and relieve Luke in his wait, before heading off on our way for tea. Jean finished his sketch and was just putting his pencils and other equipment away, when I noticed the approach of a demurely dressed young woman who Luke turned and walked toward as soon as he saw her.

  With elevated natures once more forgotten, and our sense of intrigue rekindled, we ‘reluctantly’ conceded that Luke may no longer require or desire the company we’d been about to offer, and that an altogether more circuitous route to the tea-house would be the more diplomatic choice.

  Having said that, there was something about the way they approached one another that made me hesitate for a moment. Whatever it was it seemed a fraction formal for a meeting of friends or even lovers, which Jean commented on also as we watched.

  As they met the young lady immediately extended her hand upon which Luke respectfully placed a kiss. But having done this he then seemed to retreat a step, before they started to talk, or rather, before Luke seemed to talk while the young lady listened, only occasionally commenting or asking a question, to which Luke would again respond at length.

  Strange though it seemed, there could be any number of reasonable explanations for it, so as the couple turned and began to walk, we decided to make a discreet exit and leave them to it.

  We may not have been spies, but after making ourselves comfortable in one of the local tea-houses, neither of us could resist the temptation of wondering who the young lady might be.

  ‘Surely she must be an old acquaintance, a friend of the family perhaps, or even some visiting Italian dignitary with whom he has some link?’ I scurrilously suggested to Jean’s exaggerated disapproval. ‘The latter would certainly explain the apparent formality of their meeting and Luke’s very respectful kiss of the ladies hand.’