by D C Macey
‘No, not an employee. An archaeologist working for himself.’
‘Oh, right enough. That’ll be Professor Bertram. Why didn’t you say? He comes up each year and stays through January.’
‘Miles Bertram, yes. That’s the man.’
Putting the pot down on the table, she delved into the broad pocket at the front of her apron and pulled out a handset. ‘When he comes to the islands, he always stays in the next farm up, it’s closer to the tomb. I’ll call Mrs Gould now. If you’re lucky, he’ll not have set off for the tomb yet.’
She sat at the table and smiled at them both. ‘Let’s see if you’re in luck.’
Helen was closest to her and could just hear the phone’s tone. The ringtone stopped as the call was answered by the sound of a distant voice, but Helen struggled to understand it.
‘Hello, Jeanie, it’s me, Isa. How are you this morning?’ Isa half turned away as though part of a conspiracy. ‘That’s good. That’s very good. I’m pleased to hear it. Everyone’s fine here too, thank you.’ She turned her body back towards the table and caught Sam’s eye. ‘Tell me, Jeanie, do you have your Professor Bertram there? Or is he away to the tomb already?’
Isa paused and listened for a few moments. Then, still keeping eye contact with Sam, she frowned and shook her head. ‘Oh well, it was worth a try. I’ve got a young couple here who were hoping to link up with him. What do you think?’
Isa listened to the reply, pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Okay, if you think so, I’ll tell them.’ She smiled then half turned away again as her conversation ran on to things Sam and Helen knew nothing of. Two or three minutes later, the call ended and Isa slipped the phone back into her apron pocket as she turned back to face her guests.
‘Well, that was my friend Jeanie. Her family work the land up the road, not far from the tomb. Professor Bertram has already set off; he likes a walk. You’ll need to go direct to the tomb if you want to see him. She says you’ll be fine to go there. Drive right up to the visitor centre. It’s all closed up but you can park and then walk on to the tomb; just follow the signs.’
• • •
Sam had insisted they purchase rubber boots to replace those Helen had lost in the car crash. Going on any rural car journey in winter without was asking for trouble. All of a sudden, Helen saw the merit in his forethought. From a wet and deserted car park, a slippy, puddle-strewn path led towards their destination, and all the while, flurries of snowflakes flew past them on the wind. The generally flat farmland continued its gentle rise ahead of them to where it formed a near horizon, beyond that it plunged away unseen to the wild sea below. Above the horizon was a mass of dark clouds, low and heavy, driven in from the wild North Atlantic by the unswerving wind that continually buffeted them and tugged at their jackets and trouser legs.
They stopped and turned, looked back to where the island sloped and spread gently away. Farmland green everywhere, broken by occasional outcrops of weathered grey rock and a scattering of farm steadings, grey like the bedrock. Cold as it felt in the wind, the snow mostly didn’t lie under the relative warming influence of the nearby seas.
‘No trees,’ said Helen.
‘It’s the wind - nothing natural stands much above waist height unless it’s given some shelter, but the land’s fertile, excellent for farming. In fact, humans have lived off it for thousands of years. It has been farmed since before the pyramids were built, when almost all the British mainland was just ancient woodland.’
‘How did the people get here before there were proper boats?’
‘I’m not sure. There was a time before the last ice age ended when Britain and the islands would have been joined to the European landmass. Maybe they were already here and got cut off when the Doggerland flooding occurred. Maybe stone-age man had better boating skills than we give them credit for.’ Helen had moved close to Sam, finding some shelter from the wind in his frame. He raised a hand to her shoulder and squeezed gently. ‘Come on, let’s keep moving.’ They turned and continued along the track.
‘Doggerland? I’ve never heard of that,’ said Helen.
‘It doesn’t exist anymore, other than as the name of a meteorological sea area.’ He waved a hand towards the east. ‘Out there, in the North Sea. Doggerland was the land bridge that linked Europe to the British Isles. Towards the end of the last ice age, it’s believed it was hit by a double whammy. There was a general and steady rise in sea level, drowning out much of the lowland plains. On top of that came what we call the Storegga Tsunami. A giant underwater landslide launched a wall of water twenty-five metres high. It swept over the islands and the eastern coastal lands - it was a true monster, one of the biggest ever. All part of the process that permanently cut Britain off from Europe.’
‘Wow, but everything seems so ageless here.’
‘Ageless, but nothing is ever truly permanent.’
They kept walking. The track underfoot was wet, though easily passable, and it took only a few minutes to reach their destination. Close to the cliff edge, the still green ground rose more sharply, exposing yet another stony outcrop, however, closer inspection showed this one was slightly different. Not all raw stone here. The line of exposed bedrock was broken in the middle section by a series of laid stones, perfectly colour-matched and weathered with their surroundings; only on closer inspection was it clear that human hands had been at work.
‘Here we are,’ said Sam.
‘Let’s hope your professor’s here, and I hope there’s some shelter.’
‘I can’t see him. If he’s here, he must be under cover. See how what looks like bedrock is actually laid slabs? There’s a darker patch down low in the centre; I think that might be an entrance to a passageway. The professor’s probably inside the tomb. We’ll find out soon enough. Come on!’
Even before they reached the outcrop, it was clear Sam was right. The dark patch resolved into a small opening, formed thousands of years before by skilful hands that had carefully constructed the entrance passage. The lintel slab above the opening had been selected and exactly positioned to support the weight of rock above it for an eternity.
There was no sign of Professor Bertram. They crouched down to get a better look at the entrance. A thick blue nylon rope had been fixed above the opening and looped down and round to disappear into the passageway. The floor of the passageway was covered with wooden planking. Getting onto his hands and knees, Sam peered in.
‘It goes back a good bit then I can see light. Electric light - the professor must already be here.’
‘How do we get inside?’
‘We can crawl on the boards,’ said Sam, still peering into the passageway. Then he noticed another much slimmer rope that trailed across the boards. ‘Hold on, what’s this?’ He gently pulled on the rope and felt something move at the far end. He pulled again, and realising what it was, he continued to pull, steadily drawing the cargo along the passageway towards them.
‘What is it?’
‘I think it’s a trolley. Yes, here it comes. See, it’s like a big skateboard.’ He kept pulling and the trolley appeared. ‘You can lie on your back and pull on this thicker blue rope to propel yourself along the passageway on the trolley. Fancy a go?’
‘What do you think?’ said Helen, twisting and settling her back onto the trolley.
‘Perhaps I should go first?’ said Sam.
Helen looked up at him. ‘Next time. I’ll see you inside.’ She pulled on the blue rope, and the trolley slowly rolled back into the passage. The low walls were solidly constructed of neatly set stones, topped by a series of tightly fitting lintels that sealed and protected the passage.
The passage was only nine or ten feet in length, and it took just a few seconds for Helen to propel herself through. She emerged into the heart of the cairn and blinked in the harsh electric lights that shone down from roof fixtures to illuminate the whole inside of the chamber. She rolled off the trolley, and it immediately vanished as Sam pulled it back to him.
His neatly trimmed grey beard complimented the short-cut silvered hair that bristled thickly across his whole head.
‘Can I help you?’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ said Helen. ‘You are Professor Bertram?’
‘That’s me, and who exactly are you? I don’t ever have visitors here.’
‘I trust we haven’t disturbed you too much. It’s just there are some questions my friend needs to ask you.’
Sam emerged from the dark passageway into the lit chamber, and even as his eyes struggled to adjust, he stood up. After taking a moment to regain his composure, he stepped forwards and reached out a hand. ‘Sam Cameron, sir. I’m an archaeologist at Edinburgh. And this is Helen Johnson, a church minister and my … err … my associate.’
‘Edinburgh, eh? Been to a few workshops there over the years. Not for a while though. Cameron … Sam Cameron?’ He looked quizzically at Sam as he took the proffered hand. ‘Your name is familiar; I’m sure I’ve read two or three papers you’ve published. They were impressive.’
‘Thank you, sir. And I have to say you have built up an enviable reputation over the years. If my publications ever get remotely close to yours, I’ll be doing something right.’
Miles waved away the compliment. ‘That’s in the past now. I’ve been retired going on ten years, and before that, I was in Hamburg for nearer two decades. All my published work was focused on the classical period. Now I’m retired, I can do what I want.’
‘Yes, I’d heard you were in Hamburg. In fact, it’s your old university that put me in touch with you. They thought you’d be the man to help me out.’
‘Oh, how’s that? What do you want? It must be quite something to bring you all the way up here from Edinburgh in this weather.’ Miles turned and stepped along the chamber towards a little trestle table that had been set up to one side, a folding chair beside it. He sat. ‘Though, I’m not sure I can help. I keep to myself these days. I like to do a little work at my own pace now, on things that interest me.’ He glanced back along the chamber towards Sam and Helen and beckoned them towards him before sweeping some papers from an adjacent knee-height stone slab that he had been using as a table extension.
Sam and Helen joined him at the table and sat, side by side, on the stone slab.
Professor Bertram fixed Sam with a steady gaze. ‘Sam, you say? And Helen? Well, why don’t you both call me Miles and tell me why I’m being disturbed in a place where I’ve come to expect perfect solitude.’
They chatted for a few minutes. In conversation, Sam confirmed the name of the woman at Hamburg who had made the recommendation. Helen noted a wistful smile cross the old man’s face at the mention of her name then it passed, and the conversation continued.
‘So tell me, Sam. What’s your speciality? Why are you actually here?’
‘In the past year or so, I’ve found myself focusing more on the Middle Ages, the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth centuries. Particularly the Scottish Wars of Independence.’
Miles looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand why you’re here then. You are working several thousand years after all this.’ He let his hands arc up to indicate the cairn. ‘What’s here for you?’
‘It’s you, I think,’ said Helen with a smile.
Miles’ eyebrows contorted slightly as he tried to make sense of what she’d said. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. Look, Miles, by accident, my studies have become focused on the Middle Ages, but a chance discovery is taking me back to the Roman era.’
Miles nodded. ‘Archaeology can overlap. But Rome to the medieval? It seems far too broad a time period.’
‘Yes. Yet I understand when you retired you took up an interest in Scottish Neolithic island life, and I have no idea what prompted you to make that leap; before you retired, your work at Hamburg specialised in the Roman Empire - that’s what I’m interested in.’
Miles suddenly laughed. ‘I can’t argue with that. When I retired, I wanted to keep involved, but with something where I set the pace’—he glanced about—‘and this was perfect. Nobody ever bothered me. Until now.’ He laughed again and reached out a hand to shake Helen’s forearm. She smiled.
‘So, our interests converge, and I have an urgent question about Leptis Magna,’ said Sam.
‘Leptis Magna?’ Miles’ voice was bright with surprise.
‘Yes. You were there on a dig some years ago.’
‘Leptis, yes, of course I remember it. But it’s not a name I would have expected to hear spoken here. What can I do for you? Leptis was meant to be my swansong.’ There was a sudden sparkle in the old man’s voice. ‘I don’t know what I can do or tell you. But if I can help you, I will.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sam, pulling out his copy of the Coptic pope’s letter to the bishop in Addis Ababa. Keeping it inside its clear plastic pouch, he laid it on the trestle table in front of Miles and told a little of the story, explaining the reference to roads or steps or a key at the Temple of Jupiter.
A series of quick-fire questions and answers followed. Miles seemed to get younger with each exchange. Finally, he jumped up and paced the length of the chamber. Pausing at the far end, he muttered to himself for a few moments. He tweaked and shuffled a little cache of eagle claws and skulls he had recently discovered. Then he hurried back and resumed his seat.
‘This is very interesting, and I can see why Hamburg sent you to me. You see, back then it was the Gaddafi era in Libya. We were very lucky to get in at all. There was always politics, of course, and that dictated to some extent what we worked on at Leptis Magna.
‘Much of it had already been excavated by the Italians before the Second World War but then, of course, abandoned, and what with one problem or another, we were pretty well the first modern archaeological team to go there.’
‘It must have been a great experience,’ said Sam.
‘Unbelievable, quite incredible. Have either of you ever been to Africa?’
‘Oh yes, we’ve been to Africa, but never Libya,’ said Helen.
‘Well, trust me; it’s an archaeologist’s paradise. Or at least, it was before the post-Gaddafi breakdown in law and order. Committed as I am, I’m not sure I would go back at the moment.’
‘So can you help? The Temple of Jupiter?’
‘Yes, yes. The Temple of Jupiter, the road, you said, or steps or keys? Hmm, as I said, I can understand why Hamburg referred you to me if you’d mentioned the Temple of Jupiter.’
‘Go on,’ said Sam.
‘Well, the expedition had a brief that, after a general sweep of the site, it was to focus on specific areas that interested the Libyan Government. The Temple of Jupiter was not included. I think we were about day two or three in when there must have been one of those periodic spats between the British and Libyan governments. Gaddafi’s men realised I was British, not German, and they decided I was not allowed to work on the dig. But due credit to the Germans, they said, if I was expelled they would all go too.
‘Gaddafi’s men let me stay so long as I was not directly involved in the excavation. The rest of the team focused on the prescribed work in the main part of the city to the west of the Wadi Lebda. I was left to my own devices on the east side of the wadi. A handful of ruined buildings and temples, the ancient quayside and not much else.
‘I think the Libyans allowed me there because they thought it was less interesting; maybe they hoped I might even up sticks and leave the expedition in a huff. Believe me, that didn’t happen. I spent a very happy month focusing on two or three spots away from the action, and they included the Temple of Jupiter.’
‘That sounds like fun. Did the officials leave you alone then?’
‘I think, eventually, the L
ibyan supervisors put me down as a bit of an eccentric, harmless, so they basically ignored me. When we came to leave, the university did not want my work anywhere near the official records - they were worried about not being invited back. So all my notes, pictures and findings travelled out with me as personal possessions, and they’ve stayed that way ever since.’
Miles glanced from Helen to Sam and back, his eyes glinting triumph in the electric light.
‘The Temple of Jupiter?’ said Sam.
‘Ah, yes. To the point, of course. The Temple of Jupiter. I think I know exactly what you are referring to.’
‘Really? That easy? You know?’ said Helen.
‘Well, we can never be absolutely certain. But if that letter you are carrying has a meaning as you describe, it can be only one thing. And let me tell you, even if you were at the temple it would not be immediately obvious to you, not at all.’
‘This is great news for me, Miles. What is it?’
‘Unless I’ve gone right off track, which is unlikely, it’s all stone after all, not much moveable material … There is a route, an ancient walkway leading from the Temple of Jupiter down to the then new docks.
‘They were built by the Emperor Septimius Severus - in my opinion, a complete waste of money. I believe they contributed to the silting up of the Wadi Lebda. It’s quite amazing how, throughout history, governments have continued to squander money on poorly planned public works, don’t you think?’
Sam gave a humouring smile. ‘Absolutely, but Miles, the temple.’
‘The temple. Yes, the temple. There is only one thing that could possibly represent what the author of your letter meant. I don’t think it’s the walkway you’re interested in. The stairway is stone; of course, nobody’s walked on it since the Saracens took Leptis from the Byzantines. The city was of no use to the new Muslim rulers, and gradually, over the following centuries, it was simply lost to the desert sands. I would imagine just a small resident population remained into the medieval era, maybe a little later, but by the time of the Barbary corsairs, it had completely vanished under the sand.’
