The Sunbird

by Wilbur Smith

  Suddenly I was afraid. I didn’t want to know - I didn’t want to find the jar filled with African millet or some other indigenous grain. I could hear my critics howling like wolves out there in the wilderness. Suddenly I was doubting my own premonition of some momentous discovery and I sat on the edge of my stool, miserably rubbing my grimy hands together and staring at the jar. Perhaps Louren was right, perhaps we would echo his cry, ‘Is that all?’

  From the radio shack we heard Louren’s voice end the transmission, and he came through into the warehouse. He was still filthy from the work in the tunnel, and his golden hair was stiff with dust and dried sweat. Yet the grime and unruly curls gave him an air of romance, the jaunty look of an old-time pirate. He stood in the doorway with his thumbs hooked into his belt, and all our attention was on him. He grinned at me.

  ‘Okay, Ben. What have you got for us?’ he asked and sauntered across the room to stand behind my shoulder. Instinctively the others drew closer, crowding into a circle around me and I picked up the surgical scalpel and touched the point of it to the joint of the lid.

  The first touch told me that my guess had been correct.

  ‘Bee’s wax, I think.’

  Carefully I scraped it away, then laid the scalpel aside and gently tried the lid. It came away with surprising ease.

  All heads craned forward, but the first view of the contents was disappointing. An amorphous mass of substance that was stained dirty yellow-brown by time.

  ‘What is it?’ Louren demanded of his experts, but none of us could answer him. I was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. It certainly wasn’t corn.

  ‘It smells,’ said Sally. There was a faintly unpleasant, but familiar odour.

  ‘I know that smell,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Leslie.

  We stared at the pot trying to place it. Then suddenly I remembered.

  ‘It smells like a tannery works.’

  ‘That’s it!’ agreed Sally.

  ‘Leather?’ asked Louren.

  ‘Let’s see,’ I said, and carefully tipped the jar onto its side with the mouth facing me. Gently I began easing the contents out of the jar. It became immediately clear that it held something cylindrical in shape and of a hard, brittle texture.

  It seemed to have stuck to the inside of the jar, but I twisted carefully and with a faint rending sound it was loose. I inched it out of the jar, and as it emerged, there was a running commentary from the watchers.

  ‘It’s a long round thing.’

  ‘Looks like a polony sausage.’

  ‘It’s wrapped in cloth.’

  ‘Linen, I hope!’

  ‘It’s woven anyway. That will take some explaining away as Bantu culture!’

  ‘The cloth is rotten, it’s falling away in patches.’

  I laid it on the table, and as I stared at it I knew all my dreams had become reality. I knew what it was. A treasure beyond all the gold and diamonds Louren had hoped for. I looked up quickly at Sally to see if she had guessed, her expression was eager but puzzled. Then her eyes met mine and my jubilation must have been obvious.

  ‘Ben!’ She guessed then. ‘It isn’t? Oh, Ben, it couldn’t be! Open it, man! For God’s sake, open it!’

  I took up a pair of tweezers, but my hands were too unsteady to work. I clenched my fists, and drew a couple of deep breaths to try and calm the racing of my blood and the pounding of it in my ears.

  ‘Here, let me do it,’ said Ral, and reached to take the tweezers from my grip.

  ‘No!’ I snatched my hand away. I think I would have struck him if he had persisted. I saw the shock on Ral’s face, he had never before seen the violence that lurks in my depths.

  They all waited until I had got control of my hands again. Then carefully I began to peel the wrappings of brittle yellow cloth from the cylinder. I saw it appear from under the wrappings, and there were no more doubts. I heard Sally’s little gasp from across the bench, but I did not look up until it was done.

  ‘Ben!’ she whispered, ‘I’m so happy for you,’ And I saw that she was crying, big fat tears sliding slowly down her cheeks. This was what triggered me, I am certain that if she hadn’t started it I would have been all right, but suddenly my own eyes were burning and my vision blurred with moisture.

  ‘Thanks, Sal,’ I said, and my voice was soggy and nasal. When I felt the droplets start to spill on to my cheeks I struck them away with an angry hand, and groped for my handkerchief. I blew my nose like a bugler sounding the charge, and my heart sang as loudly.

  It was a tightly rolled cylindrical scroll of leather. The outer edges of the scroll were tattered and eaten by decomposure. The rest of it, however, was miraculously preserved. There were lines of writing running like columns of little black insects along the length of the scroll. I recognized the symbols immediately, identifying the individual letters of the Punic alphabet. It was written in a flowing Punic script, of which the first thirty lines were exposed on the roll of ancient leather. The language was not one I understood, but I looked up at Sally again. This was her speciality, she had worked with Hamilton at Oxford.

  ‘Sal, can you read it? What is it?’

  ‘It’s Carthaginian,’ she spoke with complete certainty. ‘Punic!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I demanded.

  In reply she read aloud in a voice that was still choked up and muffled with tears, ‘Into Opet this day a caravan from the.’ she hesitated, ‘that piece is obscure but it goes on, In fingers of fine gold one hundred and twenty-seven pieces, of which a tenth part unto—’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Louren demanded. ‘What does all this mean?’

  I turned to him. ‘It means we have found the archives of our city - completely intact and decipherable. We have the whole written history of our city, of our dead civilization, written by the people themselves in their own language. Their own words.’

  Louren was staring at me. It was clear that the significance of our discovery had not yet occurred to him.

  ‘This, Lo, is what every archaeologist prays for. This is proof in its most absolute form, in its most detailed and elaborate form.’

  He still didn’t seem to understand.

  ‘In one line of writing we have proved conclusively the existence of a people who spoke and wrote the ancient Punic of Carthage, who traded gold, who called their city Opet, who—’

  ‘And that’s only in one line of writing,’ Sally interrupted. ‘There are thousands of jars, each with its scroll of writings. We will know the names and deeds of their kings, their religion, their ceremonial—’

  ‘Their battles and strivings, where they came from and when.’ I took the verbal ball from Sally, but just as adroitly she snatched it back.

  ‘And where they went to and why!’

  ‘My God!’ Louren understood at last. ‘This is everything we’ve been looking for, Ben. It’s the whole bloody shebang and shooting-match rolled into one!’

  ‘The works!’ I agreed. ‘The whole ruddy lot!’

  Within an hour of my triumph, right at the zenith of my career when nothing but the prospect of fame and brilliant success lay ahead of me, Dr Sally Benator managed to bring it all crashing down around me.

  We were sitting in the same tight circle around the scroll, still talking eagerly, one of those talk sessions which could only end in the early morning, for already the Glen Grant bottle was out and all our throats were oiled, the words pouring out smoothly.

  Sally had translated all the writing visible on the scroll. It was an accounting of trade into the city, a cataloguing of goods and values that in itself held intriguing references to places and peoples.

  ‘Twenty large amphora of the red wines of Zeng, taken by Habbakuk Lal of which a tenth part to the Gry-Lion.’

  ‘What’s a gry-lion?’ Louren’s hunter’s instincts were roused.

  ‘Gry is a superlative,’ Sally explained. ‘So a gry-lion is a great lion. Probably a title of the king or governor of the
city.’

  ‘From the grass seas of the south one hundred and ninety-two large tusks of ivory in all two-hundred and twenty-one talents in weight of which a tenth part to the Gry-Lion and the balance outwards on the bireme of Al-Muab Adbm.’

  ‘How much is a talent?’ Louren asked.

  ‘About 56 pounds avoirdupois.’

  ‘My God, that’s over 10,000 lb of ivory, in one load,’ Louren whistled. ‘They must have been great little hunters.’

  We had discussed in detail every line of exposed writing, and again Louren’s impatience came to the surface.

  ‘Let’s unroll a little more,’ he suggested.

  ‘That’s a job for an expert, Lo.’ I shook my head regretfully. ‘That leather has been rolled up for nearly 2,000 years. It’s so dry and brittle it will fall to pieces if it isn’t done correctly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sally agreed with me. ‘It will take me weeks to do each one.’

  Her presumption left me flabbergasted. Her practical knowledge of palaeography and ancient writings was limited to three years as a third assistant to Hamilton. I doubted if she had actually done much work on preservation and preparation of leather or papyrus scrolls. She could read Punic with about the same aplomb as the average ten-year-old can read Shakespeare, and she was taking it for granted that she would be placed in sole control of one of the greatest hoards of ancient writings ever discovered.

  She must have read my expression, for her own alarm showed clearly.

  ‘I am to do the work, aren’t I, Ben?’

  I tried to make it easier for her, I do not like hurting anyone, let alone the girl I love.

  ‘It’s an enormous and difficult job, Sal. I really think we should try and get someone like Hamilton himself, or Levy from Tel Aviv, even Rogers from Chicago.’ I saw her face starting to fall to pieces, the lips drooping and trembling, the eyes clouding, and I went on hurriedly. ‘But I’m sure we can arrange for you to become first assistant to whoever does the work.’

  There was a deadly silence for five seconds, and during that time Sally’s despair changed swiftly to a blind all-consuming rage. I saw it coming like a build-up of storm clouds but I was powerless to divert it.

  ‘Benjamin Kazin,’ she began with deceptive softness of voice, ‘I think you are the most unmitigated bastard it has ever been my misfortune to meet. For three long difficult years I have given you my complete and unswerving loyalty—’

  Then she lost control and it was a splendid spectacle. Even while her words lashed my soul raw and bleeding I could still admire the flashing eyes, the flushing cheeks and the masterly choice of invective.

  ‘You are a little man, in mind as well as body.’ She used the adjective deliberately, and I gasped. No one should ever call me that, it is a word that eats away the fabric of my soul and she knew it. ‘I hate you. I hate you, you little man.’

  I felt the blood rush to my face, and I stuttered, trying to find the words to defend myself, but before I could do so Sally had turned on Louren. Her rage still blazed, her tone was not moderated in the least as she shouted at him.

  ‘Make him give it to me. Tell him to do it!’

  Even in my own distress I felt alarm for poor Sally. This wasn’t a crippled, soft-hearted little doctor of archaeology she was talking to now. This was like prodding a black mamba with a short stick, or throwing stones at a man-eating lion. I could not believe that Sally would be so stupid, would presume so upon the mildly friendly attitude which Louren had shown to her. I could not believe that she would dare that tone with Louren, as though she had some special right to his consideration, as though there was some involvement of emotions or of loyalties which she could call upon in such imperious terms. Even I who had such rights would never misuse them in such a fashion, I knew no one else who would.

  Louren’s eyes flashed cold blue light, like the glinting of spear-heads. His lips drew into grim lines, and the rims of his nostrils flared and turned pale as bone china.

  ‘Woman!’ His voice crackled like breaking ice. ‘Hold your tongue.’

  If it were possible then my despair plunged even deeper as Louren responded precisely as I had expected. Now the two persons I loved were on a collision course, and I knew each of them so well, knew their pride and pig-headedness, that neither would deviate. Disaster was certain, inevitable.

  I wanted to cry out to Sally, ‘Don’t, please don’t. I’ll do what you ask. Anything to prevent this happening.’

  And Sally’s bravado collapsed. All the fight and anger went out of her. She seemed to cringe beneath the lash of Louren’s voice.

  ‘Go to your room and stay there until you learn how to behave,’ Louren gave the order in the same coldly furious tone.

  Sally stood up and with eyes downcast she left the room.

  I could not believe it had happened. I gaped at the door through which she had gone - my saucy, rebellious Sally - as meekly as a chastened child. Ral and Leslie were writhing in a sea of agonized embarrassment.

  ‘Bedtime, I think,’ Ral muttered ‘Please excuse us. Come, Les. Goodnight all.’ And they were gone, leaving Louren and me alone.

  Louren broke the long silence. He stood up as he spoke in an easy natural voice. His hand dropped on my shoulder in a casually affectionate gesture.

  ‘Sorry about that, Ben. Don’t let it worry you. See you in the morning.’ And he strolled out into the night.

  I sat alone with my suddenly worthless roll of old leather, and my breaking heart.

  ‘I hate you, you little man!’ Her voice echoed through the lonely wastes of my soul, and I reached for the Glen Grant bottle.

  It took me a long time to get completely drunk, to the stage where the words had lost some of their sting, and when I staggered down the steps into the bright silver moonlight, I knew what I was going to do. I was going to apologize to Sally, and let her do the work. Nothing was important enough to warrant her displeasure.

  I went to the hut where Sally now slept alone. Leslie had moved into Peter and Heather’s old room. I scratched softly on the door, and there was no reply from within. I knocked louder, and called her name.

  ‘Sally! Please, I must talk to you.’

  At last I tried the door, and it opened into the darkened room. I almost went on in, but then my courage deserted me. I closed the door softly, and staggered to my own hut. I fell face down across the bed, and still dirty and fully dressed I found oblivion.

  ‘Ben! Ben! Wake up.’ Sally’s voice and her hand shaking me gently but insistently. I turned my head and opened my burning eyes. It was bright morning. Sally sat on the edge of my bed, leaning over me. She was fully dressed, and although her skin glowed from the bath and her hair was freshly brushed and gay with a scarlet ribbon, yet her eyes were puffy and swollen as though she had slept badly, or had been crying.

  ‘I’ve come to apologize for last night, Ben. For the stupid, hateful things I said, and my disgusting behaviour—’ As she talked the shattered pieces of my life fell back into place, and the pain in my head and heart abated.

  ‘Even though you’ve probably changed your mind, and I don’t deserve it anyway, I’d be honoured to act as first assistant to Hamilton or whoever does the work.’

  ‘You’ve got the job.’ I grinned at her, ‘That’s a promise.’

  Our first task at the archives was to clean away the thick accumulation of grey dust that blanketed everything. I was puzzled as to the source of this dust in a sealed and airless space like the passage, but I soon found that the joints of the roof lintels were not as tight as those of the walls, and during the centuries a fine sprinkling of dust had filtered down through these cracks.

  When the equipment which Louren had ordered arrived on the Dakota, along with a detachment of Louren’s security police, we could begin the work.

  The security police set up a hut at the entrance to the tunnel, where there was a permanent guard posted. Only the five of us were allowed to enter.

  The vacuum equipment simplified th
e removal of dust from the archives. Ral and I worked from the outer end of the passage like a pair of busy housewives, and the suffocating clouds of grey dust made it necessary to wear respirators until the job was finished.

  We were then able to assess our discovery more accurately. There were 1,142 sealed jars of pottery in the stone recesses. Of these 148 had been knocked from their niches and 127 were broken or cracked, with their scrolls exposed to the air and obviously much the worse for it- These we sprayed with paraffin wax to prevent them crumbling, before lifting, labelling and packing them.

  We then turned our full attention to the evidence of the deadly battle that had raged through the archives, and wrought the damage to the shelves of jars.

  There were thirty-eight corpses strewn down the passage between the shelves in all the abandoned attitudes of sudden and violent death, and their state of preservation was quite remarkable. A few of them had crawled away into the recesses to die, groaning out their last breaths, and clutching the terrible wounds that still gaped in their mummified bodies Their dying agonies were clearly stamped into their contorted features. Others had died swiftly, and most of these had received hideous wounds that had severed limbs, or split their skulls down to the shoulders, or, in a few cases, had struck the head clean from the trunk and sent it rolling yards away.

  There was evidence here of a diabolical fury, the unleashing of an almost superhuman destructive strength.

  All the victims were clearly negroid in type, and wore loincloths or aprons of tanned leather, with beadwork or bone decorations. On their feet were light leather sandals, and on their heads caps or head-dresses of leather, feathers or plaited fibre also decorated with beads, shells or bones.

  Around them were strewn their weapons; crudely forged iron spear-heads bound on shafts of polished hardwood. Many of these shafts were broken, or severed by the blows of some razor-sharp weapons. With them lay hundreds of reed arrows, fledged with the feathers of wild duck and tipped with wickedly barbed heads of hand-forged iron. The arrows had nicked and chipped the soft sandstone walls, and it was easy to determine that they had been fired from outside the mouth of the passage before it had been sealed off. Not one of them had found a mark in a human body, and so we reasoned that a barrage of arrows had preceded the attack by these men who lay scattered in death down the length of the passage.