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

by Peter Knyte

  ‘It is always good to be back in Rome,’ continued Luke, ‘even over the winter, the city is still a welcoming and warm place to its returning sons, and at times it can seem as though every doorway, shop or coffee house contains a welcome and a smile.

  ‘As it happens, while I was away our old priest, Father Francisco, had retired and had been replaced by Father Andrea. He was a young man from a family I knew, and had travelled a little in his youth. Before I realised it I was talking to him about Africa and the friends I had left behind. I even spoke of the visions we’d received and the journey upon which you had all started and how I felt I could not accompany you in pursuit of such things.

  ‘I don’t know why exactly, but while talking to Father Andrea I began to think differently about some of my decisions, and perhaps sensing this he asked me to visit him again at his home later in the week to discuss the matter further.

  ‘I won’t bore you with the details of our discussion on my next and subsequent visits. What I will say, is in the following weeks he helped me to realise such a goal as yours is not in itself intrinsically wrong. Rather it is how we choose to pursue such a goal that is of greater consequence, and the principle that we should not neglect our daily lives lest we forget our devotions or responsibilities.’

  ‘Well said,’ responded Jean, ‘your Father Andrea is something of a philosopher perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps so Jean, perhaps so.’ continued Luke thoughtfully, ‘But the guidance he gave me does not mean I am yet fully supportive of your choices or your goals. All I know for the moment is that the value I place upon our friendship is enough to enable me to travel with you a little further.

  ‘That and the fact…’ continued Luke, with an infectious smile, ‘that I now have several irrefutable moral arguments with which to confound even you Jean.’

  There was much laughter at this last point of Luke’s and the friendly raillery that ensued reminded me greatly of the first night when I’d encountered this group those few, short, exceptional months ago.

  As Luke was finishing his story we were informed the ship was about to get underway once more, to start our northward journey.

  It was Marlow’s turn to look thoughtful now, and excusing himself, he informed us that he’d very much like to watch our departure from Mombassa. Jean also excused himself to accompany him, leaving the rest of us to continue our conversation with Luke.

  ‘You know, I think he loves this country,’ commented Peter, once Marlow and Jean had left to go up on deck. ‘I’ve journeyed with him in a dozen countries, including England, but there’s something about him when he’s here.’

  ‘It is a strange land and no mistake,’ responded Harry, ‘some think it is the cradle of humanity, the place from which we all came, and yet by comparison with almost every other area of the planet, we know next to nothing about Africa and it’s history.’

  We talked for a little while longer before we were interrupted again by a steward informing Luke that his cabin was ready, and with that we each took the opportunity to go our separate ways until dinner.

  The comparative luxury of the ship and a real bed was something I found very easy to get accustomed to. And, several days later as we pulled into Suez after making our way through the Red Sea, I found myself almost reluctant to disembark, even momentarily toying with the idea of staying aboard and returning to Portsmouth.

  We’d arrived in Suez in the early morning, a light mist floating on the surface of the great canal giving the thoroughly false impression that the day might be cool and refreshing. But after finding a berth on one of the cleaner cargo ships it didn’t take long before we were disillusioned of that impression.

  It may have only taken a couple of days to reach the other end of the canal, but it was two days of living in a steel sweatbox. In parts the desert came right up to the waterfront, bringing its scorching heat with it. In other areas as the canal broadened out into one of the lakes along the way, the dry heat of the desert was replaced by an even more suffocating humidity that left us all lethargic and wanting only to sleep. By the time we disembarked in Port Said on the shores of the Mediterranean the shade and cool of town seemed like paradise by comparison.

  From Port Said it was a well-established and easy sea route to the ancient port of Jaffa and from there a relatively short dusty car journey to the old city of Jerusalem. Harry had apparently travelled quite extensively around the Holy Land and took the greatest of pleasure in pointing out some of the biblical landmarks and features that were located along our route. His commentary made the journey pass all the quicker, and before we knew it we were slowing down in order to navigate the busy streets of modern day Jerusalem. A few minutes later and we were entering the Old City walls through the great Jaffa Gate after which it seemed only a heartbeat before we were pulling up outside our hotel, which was located just on the edge of the Christian quarter.

  Harry had telegraphed his friend, Dr Chukjadarian of the Armenian Library, from Maputo, to let him know we were coming, and had then managed to call once we disembarked at Jaffa. As always with Harry, it was impossible to bypass his enthusiasm for long enough to build up any kind of picture of his friend, but we didn’t have long to wait before meeting him. The hotel was a big old building, with the main entrance through a shady and cool courtyard at its centre. The car had dropped us off outside the hotel’s heavy street doors, that opened onto a small piece of verdant paradise, complete with lemon trees and small glittering fountain, beside which in a comfortable wicker chair sat a flamboyant figure that could only be Harry’s friend.

  ‘Chuk!’ bellowed Harry as soon as he laid eyes on the figure.

  ‘Harrison!’ exclaimed the impeccably dressed stranger, immediately jumping to his feet and striding across the courtyard to grasp Harry’s hand. ’Finally you have returned my friend, it has been far too long.’

  ‘I could never visit frequently enough for my liking,’ replied Harry. ‘How have you been?’

  Harry had talked at length, but told us very little about ‘Chuk’ as we’d travelled here, and I was beginning to see why. He was a slender man of average height, and at first glance seemed to be somewhere in his late thirties, but as he came over to meet us, it became clear he was probably closer to Harry’s age, if not a little older. It also became clear that the crimson cravat and matching breast-pocket handkerchief weren’t the only flamboyant aspects to a character that seemed almost able to eclipse even Harry’s for enthusiasm and eagerness.

  Exuberant hello’s out of the way, Harry eventually remembered his manners and turned back toward us to perform the introductions.

  ‘My friends I am very pleased to be able to introduce you to one of my best and oldest friends. George, Rob, Jean, Luke, Peter this is Androushan Chukjadarian, or as he’s known to his many friends, Androus.’

  ‘Or of course, Chuk if you prefer,’ interjected Androus, smiling generously, ‘as some of my much older, if not wiser friends still call me.’

  That got an almost apologetic look from the still grinning Harry, before he continued on.

  ‘Chuk, these are the intrepid adventurers I told you about in my wire.’

  ‘Splendid Harrison, splendid,’ responded Androus expansively, ‘and for my part I am also most pleased to meet all of you, and not a little intrigued as to this strange text with which you would like my assistance in the translation. But where are my manners, you have no sooner arrived in Jerusalem than I have hijacked you and kept you standing outside your hotel, when you must all be eager to clear the dust from your throats and freshen up.’

  With that Androus all but ushered us into the hotel proper. The rooms were spacious, airy and light, and whilst none of us had views of the more famous Temple Mount, the small deep set windows we did have, afforded almost equally pleasant rooftop views across part of the Old City to the Citadel Tower and one corner of Omar Ibn el Kattab Square.

  As I took a few minutes to settle into my room in the hotel and look out over the antiq
ue rooftops, I suddenly felt a little… displaced by the extent of the change in scene and surroundings. To go from the solitude and comparative austerity of Africa to the bustle and hubbub of Jerusalem, with all the sounds, sights and smells of a vibrant and busy city, just seemed too much somehow.

  I was still feeling that displacement when I became aware of a knock at the door. One of the hotel staff with some tea and dates. Thanking him, I absently poured myself a glass of the tea as he left, and was instantly assailed by the aroma of the mint. It was almost shocking in its intensity, but at the same time seemed so in keeping with the place. Having not tried it before I sipped it at first, and then drank the rest of the pot thirstily, revelling in the heady aromatics and mild sweetness of the drink as it refreshed and invigorated me. It was exactly what I’d needed to bring me back to myself. As I finished the tea, I once again looked out of my small window across those antique rooftops, but now it was with a curiosity and eagerness, that I just hadn’t felt before.

  I found Androus, and the others downstairs waiting for me in one of the lounges. They’d already unrolled the scroll across one of the tables, and Androus was hungrily devouring it as I approached.

  ‘This is very interesting,’ he was saying, looking up briefly to acknowledge me as I arrived, ‘It seems to be written in an early Babylonian style… quite remarkable! I didn’t realise your familiarity with the script was anywhere near so advanced Harrison, let alone to use it to write so well in Babylonian. I really must applaud you.’

  ‘I didn’t write this Chuk,’ responded Harry in a very careful tone, ‘This scroll is at least several hundred years old.’

  ‘Harrison, why do you try and tell me this? You know as well as I there are no Babylonian scrolls. Clay tablets, stone inscriptions, even precious metals stamped with a word or two. But scrolls, no. This is an elaborate joke at best, a poor hoax at worst. But this is not a real Babylonian scroll.’

  ‘Now I didn’t say it was a real Babylonian scroll,’ continued Harry earnestly, ‘but Chuk, if this is written in Babylonian, then it was done so several hundred years ago, at least. And I am very sure that if you look at this more closely you’ll be able to see that it is very real.’

  ‘That cannot be, you know as well as I the Cuneiform languages were only recovered from obscurity eighty years ago. Prior to that they have been lost for over a thousand years, if not two thousand for Babylonian…

  ‘You are thinking perhaps this is a blind copy? A clueless scribe copying from a tablet to this scroll without understanding the nature of that which he copies?’

  ‘I would prefer not to speculate before you’ve had a proper chance to study it Chuk.’ responded Harry carefully, ‘All I can say at this moment is the place in which we found it is possibly even more remarkable than the scroll.’

  ‘Then why will you not tell me more about this place? It sounds like it may help.’

  ‘For now Chuk we’ve agreed that your objectivity in the translation is of far greater importance to us than the authentication. Can we impose upon you in this way, and I promise we will explain everything else once we have the translation.’

  It was obvious Androus was far from happy at being kept in the dark about the scrolls origins, but on the trip over we’d all agreed that until we knew him better, it would be best not to tell him anything about the temple or Marlow’s vision. It would also, as Harry had said, guarantee Androushan’s objectivity.

  With obvious reservation Androus agreed to carry out the translation as best he was able over the next few days, although Harry had already saved him a good piece of work by copying the scroll into a much more manageable notebook he’d obtained on our journey here. With this in hand Androus took his leave and returned to the library to begin work.

  It was a glorious day, and with no further progress possible until we had a better idea about the contents of the scroll, we decided to take a break and explore the city around us.

  I had to confess to Harry, that barring the obvious mentions in the bible my knowledge of Jerusalem was otherwise quite lamentable. This like a red rag to a bull was enough to inspire Harry to a fever-pitch of enthusiasm, and before I knew it we were off with Peter somehow sucked into the whirlwind of our passing. Despite their rather churlish grins at our predicament, Luke, Harry and Marlow somehow managed to escape the enforced guided tour, and headed off separately, Marlow and Jean to the Suq, Luke to wander around some of the old churches.

  It was an exhausting avalanche of sights and sounds, but I’d be doing Harry a disservice if I didn’t also confess to being both fascinated and exhilarated by his tour. The layers of history and culture revealed by him at every step as we walked, or jogged, around the city. Narrow alleys festooned with a wild array of hanging clothes and fabrics and overhung by massive arched buttresses to support the great city wall. The building or just doorways of a dozen different styles framed by countless spires, pillars and ancient roads. And of course the ascent to the Temple or Majed Mount, and the last vestige of the second Temple, the elegant Dome on the Mount and the grand Al Aksa mosque.

  It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening by the time Harry ‘allowed’ us to return to the hotel, where we found the others, apparently also only recently arrived, relaxing in the cool of the courtyard with more of the wondrously pungent mint tea.

  It seemed we’d all made the most of our time and were now ready to relax properly. Marlow and Jean had popped into the Armenian library to see how Androus was doing and to invite him to offer us his initial opinions of the scroll over dinner at our hotel. But to their slight surprise they’d been ushered away without sight or sound of our reluctant epigraphist, with only the message that he was busy and hadn’t got the time to see them. Not knowing what to make of this response they’d decided to leave him be and return to the hotel alone.

  It seemed the hotel had only a handful of other guests, and following a delicious meal, the manager invited us to take our drinks up to the hotel roof to better enjoy the sunset and the evening air. We’d heard the almost mournful strains of the call to prayer as we were finishing our meal, and as we moved out now onto the paved and balustrade encircled rooftop, the city seemed to have become more restful. The horizon, almost exclusively painted from a limited palette of deep reds, purples and blues, from the recently sunken sun, with just the odd wisp of cloud here and there coloured over with a watery lilac or yellow for contrast. I was struck by how different the night was in Jerusalem. In Africa it would be filled with the sound of uncounted insects, so pervasive after a while as to seem like the sound of silence itself. Yet here in the middle of this ancient city surrounded by ten thousand souls there was a different urban stillness.

  Marlow had engaged the manager in conversation after he’d shown us to the roof. And watching them for a moment, I could see an almost identical blend of tranquillity and wonder in their faces as they looked out across the city at the thousand hazy blinking lights of the valley beyond.

  I’ve no idea what time we finally made our way down from that rooftop and retired for the evening, but it seemed scarcely moments later that I was being roused from my slumbers by Jean knocking on my door.

  ‘George, get up! Quickly! Androus is here. He’s found something in the scroll.’

  It took me a second to collect my whits, but throwing on some clothes I followed Jean into the lounge we’d used on the previous day.

  The staff were around and about, preparing the hotel for the demands of the day, and had considerately supplied us with a large pot of coffee, that I now helped myself to as I entered the lounge. Androus was there, obviously eager for us all to arrive, while at the same time making a close examination of the original scroll and box. Beside him were Marlow, Harry and Jean and now myself, joined a few moments later by Peter and an obviously tired Luke. At which point we all started to try and make sense of why Androus had disturbed us all so early.

  Putting the scroll carefully back into its box on the table in front of him, and
picking up his coffee he seemed almost agitated as he started to talk to us. Recounting how he’d left us yesterday with the copy of the scroll writings and made his way back to the library. Confessing his doubts and misgivings about spending his time on what must be a hoax. Then when once settled back at the library how he’d become curious about the fake and who would have the skill and inclination to craft such a thing.

  It hadn’t taken long before he was completely absorbed.

  ‘It seemed sketchy at first,’ he continued, ‘the language was indeed Babylonian, but it seemed poorly done. Cuneiform as a script is wonderfully phonetic, so with just a few words it becomes easy to identify which of the many languages the script is being used for. There are some words that are the same in Persian as they are in Chaldean and Babylonian, but there are others that change over time or which we only find in certain languages. In this way it is very like the modern English alphabet which can be used to write in French, German, Spanish or Italian.

  ‘Now the scroll begins in a standard enough format - I am Siusutra conqueror of time, longest of breath, source of the waters and master of the deep etc. Odd phrases of which some seemed vaguely familiar or reminiscent of other texts, but some of the words were unusual even archaic. I can’t be sure but they seem to me like they may be a common root from which perhaps the Babylonian word may be derived. The rough meaning is clear enough though.

  ‘It was interesting to be sure, for this to be a hoax would require some considerable expertise and time. But then I noticed a mistake. As I’d sketched out the opening oration or statement, I’d been a little hasty in my translation of the author’s name, and now when I looked at it, I realised it was actually spelled as Ziusudra.’