The Emerald Tablet

by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios

  ‘I may be a flawed human being, but ignorance is not one of my failings.’ She ran her eyes over the paper. ‘So. You’re an archaeologist, then? An archaeologist who’s going to do what that lazy man should have done himself.’

  ‘Lazy man?’

  ‘Cem Yıldız. Couldn’t even be bothered levering himself out of his desk chair to come down here and pay me a visit after I hauled that piece of marble into his museum.’ She shrugged. ‘He might have cause to regret his action someday soon.’

  She turned and walked towards a wooden door set beneath a lintel carved from the porous white tuff stone that Ben knew was as friable as honeycomb. ‘Well, you’d better come in, then.’

  The door opened into a small room with an earth-toned kilim rug covering the floor. A timber-framed bed, a table and four rush-bottomed chairs were the only pieces of furniture in the tiny space. But what struck Ben most were the books. Carved into the soft stone walls from floor to ceiling were alcoves stuffed to overflowing with books, newspapers, pamphlets and manuscripts.

  Pulling out three chairs from where they sat against the wall, Sebile indicated that Ben and Ilhan should take a seat. ‘You will have tea.’ It was a statement, not a question. By then, she was already at the çaydanlık that simmered atop the wood-fired stove and before Ben and Ilhan had the opportunity to respond, three small glasses of tea were full to the brim.

  ‘So – you like to read, then . . .’ Ben observed. Jesus. That’s the best you can do? he berated himself. There was something about the woman that made him feel like a guileless fool.

  Sebile threw him a withering glance. ‘Well, aren’t you blessed with razor-sharp powers of observation.’

  Ben tried another angle. ‘You seem to have a French accent when speaking Turkish . . .’

  ‘I was born there. But I left many years ago.’ She took a seat and stared fixedly at the American. ‘Now – why are you here?’

  ‘Balinas . . . Apollonius. I’m trying to find out more about the Tabula Smaragdina . . . the –’

  ‘The Emerald Tablet.’

  ‘You know of it?’

  The woman scoffed. ‘Know of it? Balinas is my life. How could I not?’

  ‘Well, the inscription you took to Cem . . . I’d like to see where you found it.’

  ‘You would, would you?’

  Ben hesitated. She wasn’t young, but she was seething with a ferocity and vigour that would have put most women half her age to shame. ‘I’m not sure what to say, Bayan Sebile. You’re not what I was expecting.’

  ‘Well, I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘It’s not a bad thing.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘I was told you were an old woman.’

  ‘You don’t have eyes? That’s exactly what I am.’

  ‘Yes . . . but you’re not the sort of old woman I’m familiar with.’

  ‘Which would that be?’

  ‘Quiet. Reserved. Kindly. Not the sort who flings about balls of horse dung.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I apologise for that. You caught me at a bad moment. So, you’d like to see where I found the inscription?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘First, we’ll talk for a bit. We’ll talk, and we’ll drink tea.’ She took a deep draught of the steaming hot drink. As she savoured it, her eyelids dropped and she inhaled deeply. All was silent as sunlight streamed through windows punched through the volcanic tuff. Ilhan looked at Ben quizzically. The American shook his head. He knew there was no point in pushing.

  ‘You know, this is where he found it.’ She broke the silence.

  ‘Where who found what?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Balinas – or Apollonius. Whatever you want to call him. This is where the Emerald Tablet was revealed to him. In the caverns beneath this room. Why do you want to find it?’

  Ben paused. ‘I’m not trying to find it. I just want to know more about it.’

  ‘Well, it’s said that when Balinas was a young boy seeking wisdom, he was transfixed by a statue of a man standing in what today is my patlıcan patch . . . eggplant. You know it?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Eggplant.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, my patlıcan marks a very important site. It was early in the first century after the birth of your Christ when Balinas was inspired to dedicate his life to the study of Hermetic wisdom by words engraved on a gilt plaque on the statue that was in my eggplant bushes – though, of course, the plants are a recent addition to the landscape. It read: “Behold! I am Hermes Trismegistus, he who is threefold in wisdom. I once placed these marvellous signs openly before all eyes; but now I have veiled them by my wisdom, so none should attain them unless he become a sage like myself. Let him who would learn and know the secrets of creation and nature, enquire beneath my feet.” Eventually, this led Balinas to discover the cavern beneath the statue that contained the cache of treasures brought to Tyana by Alexander the Great from deep in the Egyptian desert. “Enquire beneath my feet.” Wasn’t very subtle, was he?’ She finished her tea.

  ‘We’re very near the Cilician Gates here,’ Ben pondered. ‘When Alexander travelled north from Egypt, that was how he made it through to the Anatolian plateau. Tyana was the most important city in the region at the time. So it’s quite possible he came here.’ The Taurus Mountains formed an impenetrable barrier between the heart of Anatolia and the fertile southern coastline fringing the Mediterranean. The Cilician Gates formed a natural pass through the massif that had been used by humans for thousands of years.

  ‘Possible?’ Sebile scoffed. ‘It’s not a question of being “possible”. It’s a statement of fact. Would you like to see it?’

  Ben had the sensation of being an autumn leaf buffeted along in an unseasonal gale. ‘See what?’

  ‘The cavern. It’s also where I found the carving I gave the lazy man.’

  ‘Yes. I’d definitely like to see that.’

  Sebile stood. ‘Fine. Finish your tea. Then follow me.’

  Sickly yellow light from a kerosene lantern flickered on the undulating walls of a tunnel that had probably been carved into the tuff almost four thousand years before and had since been reused and extended by countless generations seeking refuge from persecution.

  Ben shone the light of his torch deep into the velvety black shadows of the arched entrances and passageways that branched off the tunnel. Sebile raised the lamp as they passed a series of long sepulchres, their lintels carved with Greek crosses. ‘Without these hidden cities, your early Church wouldn’t have survived.’

  ‘It’s not my Church. Not anymore.’ Whatever flimsy belief Ben had once possessed had been destroyed during the war. The things he’d seen on the island of Crete – the horrors he’d perpetrated himself – would have been enough to shatter his faith. But the death of his wife and their unborn child had destroyed any sense that there was a benevolent force overseeing the day-to-day workings of humankind.

  ‘I see.’ She gazed at him, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re a student of history and you don’t believe there to be an underlying order to the universe? Curious.’

  ‘What I’ve seen just confirms that life is governed by chaos and driven by a string of random phenomena.’

  ‘Balinas wouldn’t have agreed with you.’ Sebile turned to Ilhan. ‘What about you? Follower of Islam, I presume?’

  Ilhan laughed. ‘On paper, yes. But I’m not a very good Muslim. Any observances I follow are just to keep my mother happy.’

  ‘So, two faithless men. Interesting that you should find your way here.’ She ducked her head to pass through a small entrance partially blocked by a massive stone disc that once would have been used as a defensive barrier to roll across the doorway and protect those hidden within from attackers.

  Inside, the space opened out into a surprisingly large room with a vaulted ceiling and columns carved into the volcanic stone. At the apex of the rectangular cave was a rough-hewn altar surrounded by niches that woul
d have contained religious icons when it was used for Christian worship. Remnants of paint showed that the walls of the room had once been decorated with scenes from the New Testament to communicate Biblical stories to the illiterate faithful at a time when the only people who could read the Bible were the priests.

  Sebile placed the lantern on the altar, its light casting flickering shadows across the walls. ‘When his life story became known, the early Christians accused the followers of Balinas – or Apollonius as he was then known – of fabricating a pagan alternative to their own Christ. It was no accident that they chose to refashion the cavern in which he discovered the Emerald Tablet into a place of Christian worship.’

  ‘So this is where you found the inscription?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gestured towards a depression in the dirt floor. ‘Right there.’

  Ben inspected the shallow pit. He took a small trowel from his satchel and scraped away the densely packed soil from its sides. The cavern’s floor was covered in fill that had accumulated over thousands of years – an agglomeration of dust and finely ground tuff that had fallen to the floor as the room had been expanded and transformed over the millennia. As far as he could tell, it was clean fill – there was nothing that told him why the inscription had been there.

  ‘When I’m bored I come down here and dig around a bit to see what I might find,’ Sebile said. ‘The tunnels go on for miles. I’ve never found the end of them.’

  ‘Dig around?’ Ilhan’s ears pricked up. ‘So, do you find much?’

  She shrugged. ‘A bit. Why?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m always interested in acquiring interesting old things.’

  ‘I don’t know whether or not you’ll find them interesting, but I can assure you they’re old.’ She gestured towards Ben. ‘When your friend finishes what he’s doing, I’ll show you.’

  The depression in the floor yielded nothing. Frustrated, Ben sat back on his haunches, playing the light of his torch across the wall. As he panned the beam across the flakes of paint clinging to the pitted stone surface, something caught his eye. He fell forward onto his knees and crawled towards the wall, torch held awkwardly in front of him.

  ‘Ben . . . what is it?’ Ilhan walked to his friend’s side.

  ‘Maybe nothing.’ The closer he got to the wall, the less certain he was that what he’d seen was something deliberate and not just an accidental play of light on the uneven stone. He stood and handed Ilhan the torch. ‘Do us a favour, would you? Shine the torch here . . .’ He showed Ilhan how to rake the beam of light along the wall on an angle to emphasise the shadows.

  Ben stepped back. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ Carved into the wall but later painted over by the Christian chapel builders was what looked like an Ancient Egyptian cartouche. When writing the pharaoh’s name, Ancient Egyptian scribes enclosed it within an oval line with a horizontal or vertical line at one end. It was the only time the motif was ever used in hieroglyphics. But here, the oval line surrounded a collection of abstract forms. The outline was abraded and indistinct but unmistakable.

  ‘What is it?’ Ilhan made to move to Ben’s side.

  ‘Stay right there!’ Ben insisted as he fossicked in his satchel and withdrew his notebook. He wasn’t imagining things. The circle, crescent, horned staff and serpent were an exact replica of the collector’s stamp inside the book in the Topkapı archive.

  He turned to Sebile and pointed at the wall. ‘This engraving. Have you noticed it before?’

  Sebile shrugged. ‘There are so many things carved into the walls down here. It doesn’t look very interesting. Just some random scribblings someone made here a very long time ago.’

  ‘You say you know all there is to know about Balinas –’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘So, do these symbols have anything to do with the Emerald Tablet?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  He paused and drew a deep breath. ‘You said you found some other things . . . I have to see them.’

  Her eyes, hooded in shadow, were inscrutable. ‘Fine. Don’t know how they’ll be of any use to you, though.’

  Sebile led the two men up the ladder that had given them access to the underground labyrinth through a hatch hidden beneath the kilim on the floor of her home. Once back inside, she hefted a large wooden box from a niche in the wall, and handed it to Ben. ‘Here you go.’

  Inside was a jumble of ancient artefacts: palm-sized terracotta oil lanterns, their necks charred with use; crudely carved votive figurines and bronze and silver coins; small flasks and tiny Roman glass bottles; a scatter of iron spears and arrowheads.

  Ilhan reached into the box and began to rummage around in the collection. ‘Some good touristy stuff here,’ he murmured. ‘Won’t retire on it. But decent just the same . . .’

  ‘Wait!’ Ben exclaimed. Something glittered in the depths of the box, buried beneath the dull baked surfaces of the ancient pottery and tarnished metalwork. He pushed the other objects aside.

  At the very bottom was a dark-green stone that had been carved into the form of a stylised beetle about three inches long. Mounted onto its flat base was a gold plate inscribed with hieroglyphics. Ben picked it up and turned it in his hands, its dense weight cold and heavy against his skin.

  Ilhan’s eyes lit up. ‘A scarab!’

  Ben studied its base. ‘More than that. It’s a heart scarab. Third Intermediate Period, by the looks of it . . . seventh century BC. Egyptian. Doesn’t make any sense.’ He turned to Sebile. ‘You found this here? Really?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course I found it here. What business would I have in Egypt?’

  ‘These things, well, they were placed under a mummy’s linen wrappings on the chest – the Ancient Egyptians thought the heart was where the mind resided. The jackal-headed god, Anubis, would weigh the dead person’s heart against a feather. If it was lighter, the deceased would pass into the afterlife. But if it was heavier, weighed down by mortal sin, they’d be devoured by a carnivorous hippopotamus waiting on the sidelines. Why would it be here in a cave in the middle of Anatolia?’

  She looked at him intently. ‘Well, you’re the one claiming to be an archaeologist. So maybe it’s your job to work it out. One thing I can tell you is that Balinas travelled to the Alexandrian Library in Egypt to study the Hermetic texts housed there. He was greeted by the learned people in the city as a wise sage. In the biography Philostratus wrote about him, he says that as Balinas left his ship and walked through the city, the people of Alexandria hailed him as if he were a god, making way for him as they would a priest carrying the holy sacraments. And it was in Egypt that he found what he’d been looking for . . . it was the birthplace of alchemy. “Al-khem” – that was the ancient name for Egypt . . . the black land. And that . . .’ She pointed at the amulet in his hand. ‘That was buried beside the marble piece I sent to the museum. How it got there . . . well, that I can’t tell you. Perhaps Balinas brought it back here with him.’

  During his linguistic studies at Oxford University, Ben had mastered Egyptian hieroglyphics. Scanning the ancient text inscribed onto the gold plate on the scarab’s base, he saw that, as would be expected, much of it was a recitation of a spell from the Book of the Dead giving the deceased instructions on how to pass Anubis’ heart-weighing ceremony. But it was the name of the dead person upon whose chest the scarab had once been placed that caught his attention. ‘That name . . . I know it. “Psamtik” . . . and his title, “overseer of sealers in the city of Jezirat Faraun” . . . now where have I seen that before?’

  As Ben attempted to retrieve a long-buried memory, Ilhan began to pick things out of the box. ‘So, Bayan Sebile – would you be willing to part with any of these things?’ He shifted gear, slipping effortlessly into dealer mode and jockeying for a bargain. ‘Of course, other than the scarab, there’s not much here that I haven’t seen before. If I’m honest, there’s nothing too special.’

  She looked up at him, eyes glittering. ‘Is that a
fact? Well, then. If it’s not of any interest to you, I’d just as soon hold on to it all. We do get the odd visitor to these parts. Might set up a little business of my own selling these knick-knacks to the tourists.’

  Ilhan raised his hands in protest. ‘Now, now! I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. It all just comes down to the price . . .’

  ‘As it so often does.’ She smiled. ‘Nothing but things to gather dust, if you ask me. This will be my own attempt at mastering the science of alchemy – transforming base materials into gold.’

  Ilhan laughed. ‘So even a disciple of Balinas has her price.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Enlightenment doesn’t put food on the table. Take whatever you wish. Other than the scarab. That, I’ll keep.’

  As Ilhan and Sebile embarked on a bout of good-natured haggling, Ben walked to the window and placed the scarab on the sill, gazing out over an arid landscape softened only by the emerald-green foliage of Sebile’s apricot orchard and the gnarled, grey limbs of ancient olive trees.

  Ben’s photographic, if also selective, memory was both a blessing and a curse. When introduced to a person he had no interest in getting to know, their name slipped from his mind within seconds. In contrast, anything relating to his passions was locked away in a formidable mental filing cabinet. And buried somewhere in there was the name engraved on the stone that lay in his hand. But despite his best efforts, as Ilhan and Sebile concluded their business, his mind remained blank.

  Plumes of dust kicked up into the air from their heels as the two men walked along a chalky laneway covered in ancient volcanic ash towards the bus stop outside Kemerhisar. The sun was low in the sky, casting dusky shadows across the barren landscape.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if that did us any good other than to confirm there’s a connection between Balinas and the map from Topkapı,’ Ben grumbled, his fists crammed down into his pockets. ‘And we knew that already. Wasted trip, really.’

  Ilhan brandished the bundle of artefacts he’d acquired from Sebile. ‘Speak for yourself!’