‘Sharo,’ she hissed, ‘don’t say anything. Let me speak.’
He nodded, but his memory-pain was still hurting him, and she didn’t know if he’d taken it in. When the boats got close enough, the men threw down planks, and the peacock man led them across. Aurya stepped up on to the beams, and looked down to see the two vessels’ oars clattering beneath her in the frothing green water. Soldiers stood everywhere on the King’s barge. Ahead, the plum-pink awning shifted in the breeze. Aurya had never even met the headman of her village, Nebo-Pishtim’s father, who, when the villages gathered, wasn’t important enough to sit near the head. Beyond that canopy, the King of the World waited to question her.
‘Just a word of warning,’ the peacock man said, before they stepped inside. ‘The King hears the voices of the gods. If you lie to him, he’ll know.’
Aurya barely had time to gulp for air before he swept them into the tent. It was gloomy, an underwater light, and the King was sitting slouched sideways on a wooden throne, drinking from a glittering cup. The incense inside made Aurya cough. She took a step forwards, and noticed that the throne’s feet were carved to look like lion claws.
‘Ah, the river children,’ the King said. ‘The brother and sister.’
His voice was deep but dreamlike. Aurya heard the commonness of her own speech when it came out.
‘Your majesty …’ she managed, her voice crackling like dry garlic skins. She didn’t know any of the proper benedictions. The King took a sip from his cup and leaned forwards. As he did, Aurya saw with a shock that the liquid inside was a deep red. She thought of the lion, and the blood painting its muzzle. She thought she was going to be sick.
‘What a funny thing, to find you two there on the riverbank. With that lion. Such a tragedy you have suffered, the death of your father. Isn’t that right?’
Aurya nodded, unable to say anything. If she lied, would the gods tell the King silently, whispering in his ear? Or would they bellow from the shadows, so all could hear?
‘My father died of disease,’ the King said. ‘He went yellow one day and wasted away. But my grandfather was murdered. It was a terrible thing. Murdered by those he trusted most.’
He took another sip from his cup, and his eyes passed from Aurya to Sharo.
‘You – you love each other, don’t you? You, boy – you love your sister?’
She saw Sharo nod beside her, and step closer to her.
‘And you, girl – you love your brother, don’t you? You would do anything to protect him.’
‘Yes,’ Aurya managed. The King gave out a long sigh, and drummed his fingers against his cheekbone.
‘I had a brother once,’ he said, and then sat back heavily in his chair, massaged his brow. ‘Until not so long ago. It’s a beautiful thing, to have a sibling. You’ll never be alone, you know, if you look after each other. And protect each other.’
Aurya felt the King’s large eyes on her. For a moment, they looked tired. She felt behind her for Sharo’s hand. The King seemed to dream off for a second, and then his eyes wheeled back to the two children.
‘Your brother,’ he said, ‘I have heard he has some special abilities. Is that right?’
Aurya nodded. How did the King know? She had only told the servant boy Abil, and she felt a sting of betrayal.
‘Yes, your greatness.’
‘A prodigious memory, my servant tells me.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Well, let’s see it then,’ the King said, leaning forwards. ‘How does it work?’
Aurya looked at Sharo. His face was pale. For a moment, she was at a loss about what to ask him.
‘Sharo, how many days did it rain last month?’ He looked at her with mute desperation. ‘It’s all right, Sharo. You can speak now.’
‘Twenty-one days,’ Sharo said, without a pause.
‘Twenty-one …’ the King said, and waved to one of his guards. ‘Go check on that with Bel-Ibni. He’s always writing these things down.’
‘It will be correct, my lord,’ said Aurya. ‘My lord, tell me a date that you’ll never forget. Sharo can tell you where the stars were on that day. And the weather.’
‘Impossible!’ the King said.
‘Try it,’ Aurya said.
‘The … let me see … the eighteenth of Tibbakh, three years ago.’
‘The bull and the lion rose in the east,’ Sharo said. ‘The goddess on two lions crested the horizon to the south, with the scorpion high overhead.’
The King looked at Sharo with a long, hard look, his eyes far away.
‘That was the night my brother died,’ he said. He kept very still. ‘It’s a great gift you have, boy.’
Sharo shuffled his feet.
‘I don’t want to remember any of it,’ Sharo said. ‘But I do. The bark of every tree I’ve ever seen. The lichen on the stones, or the burnt marks on a piece of bread. It all just sticks, like it’s carved into my head.’
The King’s eyes stayed fixed on Sharo, and he nodded absently, pressing one of his knuckles into his lower lip.
‘Fascinating. Thank you, children.’ The peacock man stepped inside and put an arm around Aurya and Sharo.
‘That will be all for now, children. The King has much to do.’
Aurya felt the King’s watery eyes on her as they left. She expected him to shout after them, to call them back. But he didn’t. They stepped out into the sunshine and the breeze, and the world felt new again like it did after rain.
‘Aurya, why did the King want to know those things?’ Sharo said.
‘I don’t know, Sharo.’
They crossed back to their ship, although Aurya’s legs threatened to give way as she passed over the water. She glanced at the boy Abil, who was sorting through a pile of tablets. A burst of anger lit her from inside, and she went to him.
‘You told them,’ she said, the heat of accusation in her voice. ‘You told them about Sharo.’
The boy looked up, mouth slightly open.
‘It will help you,’ he said, under his breath. ‘If the King thinks you’re special. You’ll see.’
Aurya felt her face flush.
‘You didn’t have any right. You don’t know what we’ve …’
‘You have to be careful,’ Abil said, and motioned at the peacock man’s stooped back. ‘Master Bel-Ibni is in a dark mood, and he hates these journeys. He hates the flies, and the rocking boat. Even the dust in the workshop at Nineveh irritates his throat.’
‘Dust?’ Aurya said. ‘In the workshop?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a lot of dust there?’
‘Of course. You can’t chisel through stone without making dust. It gets everywhere …’
Aurya’s heart thudded. She was going to ask more, but the clang of the iron bell cut her off. Someone shouted out something that she didn’t understand at first.
‘Nineveh ahead!’
Aurya stood up and craned her neck in the direction the man was pointing. On the horizon downriver, a band of gold stretched out from the riverbank. It looked like a piece of jewellery dropped on the grassy plain. The slave drum beat a little faster at the call, and the lion in its cage gave a sonorous yawn. The great city lay ahead. At first, Aurya thought that Nineveh’s city wall must be twice or even three times the size of a man, but closer up, with a growing fear and excitement, she saw that it was taller than the trees. Boats of every kind crowded the water, and the river sweated oils and broken things.
‘It doesn’t smell like I imagined,’ she said.
‘It’s the biggest city in the world. What did you imagine it would smell like?’
‘I don’t know.’
The smell only got worse as evil spirits wafted over the ship, and the buildings began to crowd in on every side, the river hollows bursting with reeds. Bird droppings streaked the walls and ramparts; a nest of storks in one broken tower.
‘Why did they build the city with that mountain inside?’ Aurya asked, pointing to the sharp
point at the city’s heart. Abil laughed.
‘That’s not a mountain, river girl. It’s the ziggurat. That’s where the god Nabu lives, up there in its highest chamber.’
‘People built that?’
‘Yes, long ago.’
Gardens growing on the ziggurat’s side spilled plants down its sides, and a flight of birds were white specks against its slopes. Heavy bells sounded. All around them, boats and rafts of all kinds bumped prows, and were piled with reeds and urns, baskets of grain; pepper and dried fishes; nets bulging with crab and river fish. The peacock man woke up as they bumped into a smaller craft, rocking them slightly, and he summoned Abil to him with a snap of his fingers. The boy gave Aurya an apologetic look and hurried off to his master. Sharo had found a piece of charcoal and was frantically drawing lions all over the bulwark.
‘Stop that, Sharo!’ Aurya said, and rubbed out his drawings with her foot. Everyone seemed too busy to notice.
‘Aurya, it hurts,’ Sharo moaned.
‘Take a deep breath. Look down into the water.’
Dried beans and fish skeletons floated on the surface, and pieces of broken pots hid among the mud and weeds. The smell was even worse than before. They moored in the shadow of a huge gatehouse, thumping against the quay with a noise like a drum, and Aurya stumbled as the deck jerked beneath her. The lion in its cage gave out a frightened roar, and gnawed at one of its bars, whining.
‘Aurya, who built all this?’ Sharo said. He looked pale as ash.
‘Giants,’ Aurya said, looking up at the wall. The gate was tall and made of reddish wood, bound with gleaming bands. It made her think of the cedar trees in Sharo’s story, of monsters and dreams. Flies filled the dock air, with the smell of smoke and cured meat, stagnant water, urine and fish. More spear-men and slaves were there to meet them, and trumpeters with curved horns for instruments, men striking metal bowls.
‘Nineveh,’ the peacock man said to Aurya, although his pride didn’t allow him to look at her directly. ‘It’s the King’s wish that we help you to find your relatives. So where are they? In the south districts no doubt.’
Behind him, a group of slaves bumped one stone slab against a mooring stone, and he wheeled around to shout at them. Aurya’s mind raced.
‘Aurya,’ Sharo said. ‘I want to stay with him.’
‘Stay with who?’ Then she realised that he meant the lion. At that moment, it was struggling in its cage and flicking its tail as the slaves lifted the cage on its poles.
‘Sharo, you can’t go with that thing.’
‘His name is Enkidu,’ Sharo said, sticking out his bottom jaw. Aurya looked around at the men scraping fish with knives in the stoops of shacks, the cats and beggars eating the scales straight from the road. Behind her, Abil touched Aurya on the shoulder.
‘River girl,’ he whispered. ‘If you want to go to the workshop, you should ask now.’
Behind them, the King’s barge docked and tethered, and the awning came down. Inside, the King sat on a throne carried by six men.
‘The incomparable city!’ he boomed. ‘What a delight it always is to come home.’
The calves of the men carrying him quivered as they stepped down the gangplank, and another slave scattered a bag of sand beneath their feet for grip. Aurya tugged on Sharo’s clothes.
‘Sharo, we have to follow them. We have to go to this workshop.’
‘Yes, Aurya, we have to follow Enkidu, or else –’
‘No, Sharo – I think this could be the house of dust, the place father talked about.’
Sharo looked at her again with his big glassy eyes. He seemed to be thinking hard. With a quiver, he nodded. Aurya made a few quick prayers:
To the god of lost children
To the god of cities
To the god of flies
The peacock man stopped admonishing the slaves and turned back to her.
‘We want to go to the workshop with you,’ she said. The man narrowed his eyes. Up on his high seat, to Aurya’s surprise, the King gave a great hoot.
‘Ordered around by a little river girl!’ he wheezed. ‘How you have fallen in life, Bel-Ibni!’
The peacock man let out a high-pitched laugh full of falsity.
‘My lord, surely you don’t want me to …’
‘Bring them along, Bel-Ibni. I have a plan for them!’
‘Shamash and Ashur,’ the peacock man hissed at Aurya. ‘Follow along then, and don’t cause any more trouble.’
Katya
Katya and Salim watched men arrive in two Toyota pickup trucks. They wore khakis and herringbone vests, balaclavas and bandanas over their mouths, carrying guns and shoulder-mounted artillery. From the back of one vehicle, a black flag flew.
‘Stay down,’ Salim hissed to Katya. He was holding the old Kalashnikov they’d found in the museum staffroom, looking as if he’d never held one before. Down the museum approach, one man, who had a white skull design on his balaclava, rattled on the museum door handle, then thumped with the butt of his rifle.
‘They’re thieves,’ Dr Malik said from behind them. ‘The hordes of Genghis Khan. They want to loot the museum.’
Katya glanced around at the doctor, at Lola. Everyone was looking at one another to see how scared they should be. Down on the street, the men were rooting around in the front seat of one truck, and brought out a pair of long-handled bolt cutters.
‘Shit shit shit,’ Salim said, his fingers white on the balustrade. Katya felt it then: the worst thing she could possibly feel in that moment. The aura. Another seizure. She raised her hands out in front of her; they felt light, like two balloons. And hadn’t it all happened like this before, with the smoke wisping over the rooftop, the smell of sulphur, the helicopters and trucks, the running feet? Hadn’t she even thought these same thoughts before? Below, the skull man bellowed something.
‘He says to open the door,’ Salim said, his lips going grey. ‘He says the museum’s contents are forbidden.’
‘What are they going to do?’ Katya said, hearing her own voice from far away.
‘Steal it all.’
‘And what will they do with us?’
Salim’s fingers tightened on the black metal rifle. In the fairway below, the bolt cutters sheared together, and the heavy bicycle chain hit the stone. Katya looked from face to pale face, and a voice in her head spoke up, clear as if whispered right in her ear. Don’t hide, Katya. She stood up.
‘What are you doing?’ Salim hissed again. ‘Get down!’
‘I’m going down to meet them,’ she said, watching herself as if from a great height. Before anyone could say anything, she was running down into the cool stairwell, with Salim shouting her name behind her. It was cool and shaded in the museum halls, and strangely calm. The noise of battle outside was muffled as if through earth, and the statues cast long shadows across the floor. Somewhere below, there were the sounds of hurried footsteps and rough commands. Katya crept down on to the mezzanine overlooking the entrance hall. She tried to blink away the feeling in her head and peered over.
The fighters were inside: they were dashing off down the museum halls, into the Assyrian section, the Islamic section, the Hatra Gallery. A man with round glasses and a folded notebook in his hand seemed to be directing them. In the hall behind her, Katya heard footsteps. It was Salim, ducking low, rifle in hand. He put his back against the mezzanine wall beside her, breathing hard.
‘What are you going to do?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. Just walk down there. Distract them. Maybe Lola and the doctor can get away.’
‘To where?’
She shook her head.
‘Maybe they can hide. Get away at night.’
Salim took a long breath, and she could feel him shaking beside her.
‘Let’s do it then.’ His pupils were the size of coins. ‘We’re fucked either way. Let’s do it together.’
Katya shook. She reached out, and Salim took her hand. They stood up and walked down the stai
rs together. One man in the hallway, the one with the skull on his balaclava, saw them. He shouted and let off two shots into the roof. Katya had never heard a gun go off so close: it made her whole body jump, as if someone had hit a table with a hammer while her head lay against it. Beside her, Salim held the Kalashnikov over his head and called out something. Men rushed at them and snatched his weapon away, checked their pockets and their waistbands. Katya smelt aftershave and petrol from them, felt the anger in their hands. They found her pill bottle, and rattled it in front of her. She knew it would be useless to protest, and they took it. Salim kept trying to say something to them, but they ignored him.
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that the army will come back. That they can give themselves up now.’
‘I don’t think they’ll like that.’
Salim shook his head and said it again. One man butted Salim hard in the stomach with his rifle, so he wheezed and doubled over. The skull man gestured at Katya. The eye holes of his balaclava were ragged, as though burned through the fabric by the smokeless coals of his eyes. He pulled back Salim’s head by the hair.
‘Amreeki? Amreeki?’ he growled.
Salim shook his head, his voice coming out in little sighs.
‘Britanii,’ he murmured.
‘British,’ Katya said. ‘UK.’
One of the armed men, the one with the glasses who had been directing the looting with his notebook, pointed it at her.
‘Where exactly?’ he said. Katya reeled. He had a London accent. She looked over the thin features of his young face, the dark rings under his eyes, a tufty beard and a close-shaved head.
‘Coventry.’
The word put a sudden flash on her tongue: moss and purple beech trees, leaves plastered on wet roads and the bricks of terraced houses. He shook his head slowly.
All Our Broken Idols Page 15
