‘What is the political climate in Persia at present?’ I asked, focusing on the more practical aspects of our journey.
Levi cleared his throat, eager to impress us with his knowledge and prove his worth as a member of this expedition. ‘The King of Persia is Shah Nasr ed-Din of the Qajar Dynasty. In him are vested the threefold functions of government: legislative, executive and judicial.’ He counted them off on his fingers, as if giving a lecture. ‘His word is law. The Shah appoints and dismisses all ministers, officers, officials and judges. He has the power of life and death over his own family and the civil or military functionaries in his employ, without being answerable to a tribunal. He holds the rights to the exploitation of any of the resources of the country, and all requests for the making of public works, the working of mines or archaeological excavations must be approved by him.’
‘So the Sangreal brotherhood is paying off the King of Persia,’ I said. ‘I imagine that must be costing a pretty penny.’
‘They would never pay him off,’ Cingar corrected sarcastically. ‘They would present the Shah with gifts.’
I found the gypsy’s interpretation amusing. ‘What a polite way of putting it.’
‘Mother misunderstands you,’ Levi said. He turned to me. ‘It is the custom in Persia—from the Shah downwards, there is hardly an official who is not open to gifts, nor a post that cannot be acquired or an income that has not been amassed by the receipt of gifts. This has been the way of government in Persia for centuries and the system poses a solid barrier against reform. The practice of gift-giving is known as madakhil. This word has no exact English translation, but may be roughly rendered as “commission”, “perquisite” or “profit”. It represents the sum total of personal advantage one has in any transaction.’ Levi noted my frown and decided that a simpler explanation was in order. ‘You see, upon the receipt of a gift, not only must you make a return gift of equivalent cost to the donor, you must also liberally compensate him in a ratio proportionate to his gift’s monetary value.’
‘Making for a lot of very rich officials in Persia,’ Cingar finished.
‘Indeed,’ Levi said. ‘There is scarcely a province, district, city or town in Persia that is not governed by one of the previous Shah’s princelings. All of whom prey upon the country like a swarm of locusts, in order to maintain their own court and a large harem.’
‘In Persia, camels, fleas and princes exist everywhere!’ Cingar cited an old saying.
‘So the Shah has a big family?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Levi raised an eyebrow. ‘The Shah’s wives and concubines number in the hundreds. Needless to say, his offspring are bountiful.’
‘Poor man,’ muttered Lord Devere; he was finding one wife and four children more than enough to handle.
A crewman interrupted us, advising us that the captain wished to speak with Lord Suffolk. My husband departed to answer the summons, and Cingar followed him to the bridge.
‘By sunset tomorrow we shall be on Persian soil,’ Levi said as he and I turned back to admire the coastline, now bathed in a late-afternoon glow. ‘I can hardly wait to see the excavation.’
I felt sure it was not just our quest that had my son so excited. ‘Your zest for knowledge is most inspiring,’ I said. ‘One would almost suspect you are expecting to find something in particular there.’
‘Whatever do you mean, Mother?’ Then Levi observed the grin on my face. ‘Father told you,’ he said, sucking in his cheeks to hide his embarrassment.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ I imitated his innocent tone.
Levi turned away from me, letting me know that he found the subject unworthy of further discussion. ‘I am sure my prediction does not mean what you imagine it to mean.’
‘Your father dreamt of me long before we met,’ I said, regaining his full attention.
‘Did you dream of him?’ he asked. I knew that his real question was: Has she dreamt of me?
‘Only after we met,’ I said. ‘But at that time I had my heart set on marrying the much older and welltravelled Lord Hereford.’
‘Your dreams of Father proved prophetic then?’ Levi assumed.
‘In a way.’ I recalled the vision as if it had occurred only yesterday. ‘In my dream I was off on a wild adventure and your father kept showing up to save me right when I needed him…which proved true enough.’ A smile warmed my face as I remembered all that my husband had endured to protect me, regain my trust and secure my heart. ‘I remember waking with a feeling of great intimacy and attraction to your father.’
This comment brought a grin to my son’s face, until I added, ‘Which lasted all of seconds before my conscious reasoning stuffed it into my mind’s closet and ignored it.’
‘But in the end Father was victorious.’
‘Oh yes.’ My voice broke over the words, for I loved my husband with all my being. ‘No other man has ever come close to rivalling my affection for him.’
‘I am very touched to hear that.’ Levi and I turned to find that Lord Devere had snuck up behind us. ‘However, your mother’s testimony is not entirely truthful.’
Levi was a little disturbed by his father’s claim and I was rather puzzled myself.
‘Albray?’ Lord Devere suggested, to jog my memory.
‘Who is Albray?’ Levi asked.
I laughed. ‘Albray is not a man.’
‘He is not a dog,’ my lord countered.
‘Who or what is he then?’ Levi was intrigued.
‘Albray is a ghost,’ I informed him. ‘The ghost of a Crusader knight that I have had nothing to do with for twenty years.’
‘Is that right?’ my husband challenged.
‘Yes,’ I insisted. ‘And I have no intention of ever contacting him again.’
‘Interesting to hear you say that.’ My lord frowned, appearing most perplexed. ‘Then one wonders why you would pack the sword and accompanying attire that was given to you by the Duke de Guise. We both know you can barely lift the sword without Albray’s aid, let alone wield it.’
During the challenge in which I had bested the duke’s finest swordsman, with Albray’s assistance, I had near lost the upper hand when I had tripped over my cumbersome skirt. Afterwards, when I had secured my victory, the duke had made me a gift of a green velvet suit of clothes that consisted of pantaloons, a thigh-length coat and a long green hooded mantle that made the masculine guise more modest, and which could be used to conceal my gender altogether. I had also been given long riding boots that folded down at the knee and a leather belt for my weapons.
‘The weapons belt of that outfit also holsters a pistol, which I can wield perfectly well alone,’ I justified. ‘As Levi has just been telling us, there is a certain element of lawlessness in the district where we are bound; we enter at our own risk.’
‘I see.’ Lord Devere humoured me with a smile that conveyed he was not entirely convinced. ‘Did you bring the stone?’
‘What stone?’ As a psychic, Levi prided himself on knowing everything about everyone, but clearly he’d never heard of this mysterious ghost we were arguing over. Indeed, Lord Devere and I had gone out of our way to bury the issue.
I faltered; I could not lie to my husband.
‘Ah!’ Lord Devere knew he had caught me out. ‘So you did bring it.’
‘Chiara is also attached to my treasure stone,’ I reminded him. ‘I might need her counsel, so yes, I brought the stone.’
Chiara was the ghost of a gypsy witch; Albray had introduced me to her when I had needed to consult with someone proficient in spell-casting and potionbrewing. She was also the great-grandmother of Cingar, and it was at her request that I went to rescue Cingar from the prison of the Duke de Guise. When I succeeded in saving her great-grandson, Chiara had pledged me her services for life and now her spirit was attached to my ringstone.
‘Are you wearing it now?’ my husband asked with a hint of hurt.
‘Yes.’ I had no idea why I felt guilty to admit this, when I h
ad done no more than think of Albray over the past twenty years.
‘Not over your heart?’ Devere pleaded.
‘No.’ I peeled the glove off my left hand to expose the chain around my wrist and the ringshaped stone that hung from it.
My lord, reasonably appeased, took hold of my other hand and urged me closer to him. ‘I don’t know if I like the idea of you holding another man’s spirit in the palm of your hand.’
I gazed into my husband’s eyes to reassure him. ‘There is no other man for me, Mr Devere.’
‘Oh please, not in public,’ Levi cried. Our open affection for each other had always served as an embarrassment for our children.
‘How on Earth did we ever raise such a family of prudes?’ my husband commented.
‘It defies the imagination,’ I replied, looking to our boy who had distanced himself from us in disgust. ‘You’d think Levi would be encouraged to know that it is possible to find true love.’
‘I am not here to fall in love!’ Levi was vexed, but when he saw that his protest had not swayed our belief, he had to struggle to keep from smiling. ‘I mean it.’
Once our son had disappeared below deck, Lord Devere and I had a wee chuckle at his expense. ‘We shouldn’t tease,’ my husband said, hugging me from behind and kissing the top of my head.
‘Nonsense! What else are children good for?’
This comment was in jest, for I’d had quite a time bringing myself to leave my other three children for a year. My only solace was in knowing that I had left them in the very best of care. Mrs Beatrice Winston had been my nanny and more of a mother to me than mine ever was. She was now head of all our female staff and yet she would not give up her position as nanny to our children. Nanny Beat went everywhere with us, or should I say she went everywhere with the children, who adored her just as much as I had. I was proud to say that, unlike my parents, whom I’d barely known, I was close to my children; still, after twenty years of dedicated motherhood it was time for me to again pursue my own vocation. But, oddly, I found that I could not enjoy the same sense of liberation during this journey as I had during the last, as my mind was constantly distracted by thoughts of home and how my three youngsters were faring.
‘Enjoy the moment,’ my husband whispered in my ear. ‘We shall be bound again by the conformity and responsibilities of England soon enough.’
He was right. After all, we did not every day get the chance to explore a previously undiscovered ancient city, especially one that the Catholic Church had yet to censor.
Yes, we were heading into hostile territory, but I expected the desert bandits would be the very least of our problems.
The excavation site was located roughly halfway between Baghdad and the Persian Gulf, some ten miles west of the Euphrates. Along the great river little villages of mud huts were sparsely scattered in clumps, but westward extended a vast desert. Out of this wasteland rose the hill the Arabs called Tall al-Muqayyar, the Mound of Pitch, which Malory and his team suspected had once been the grand city of Ur.
As our camels approached the summit of the great mound, heatwaves shimmered across the wasteland surrounding us, mocking us with mirages of placid waters. From the higher ground we were able to distinguish the palm gardens lining the riverbank along the eastern skyline, from where we had departed earlier in the day. North, west and south there was little to distract the eye from the vast sandy desert, but to the south-west the horizon was broken by the tall grey pinnacle that marked the ruins of the staged tower of Eridu, the sacred city which the Sumerians believed to be the oldest upon the Earth.
The project sponsors had spared no expense. Rather than the camp of tents I had imagined, the excavation base was a large house surrounded by a recently erected village. Our camel train came to a halt in front of it and a man came out to greet us.
‘Welcome to the site house,’ he said, clearly an Englishman. ‘Mr Taylor, British Museum and Consul at Basra, at your service.’
‘But you are not in Basra now, old friend.’ Lord Devere jumped from his camel to greet Mr Taylor, with whom he was obviously on familiar terms.
Another member of the Sangreal Knighthood, no doubt, I surmised.
‘I am on a research sabbatical,’ our host explained. ‘I feel far more useful in the field than behind a desk.’
Taylor was a slender figure of a man and, like many archaeologically inclined persons, redskinned from years in the sun. His dress was a casual mix of well-weathered English attire and Persian desert robes. His dark hair hung straight, clearly in need of a trim as it took considerable effort to keep it from falling over his eyes. His slight moustache and beard were very neat, however, giving him the overall appearance of a rather dashing and handsome man. Despite being around Lord Devere’s age, he had yet to marry. Still, if he were part of Malory’s boys’ club it was not uncommon for members to remain unattached, due to their pursuit of secret interests. Unless, like my own Lord Devere, who had been initiated into the ranks of the Sangreal Knighthood when he was still a boy, they were encouraged to marry a daughter of the blood for reasons of strengthening the ancient, holy line. My husband had distanced himself from the secret order after our marriage.
A large smile crossed Taylor’s face as he shook my husband’s hand. ‘The prodigal son returns!’
‘As a temporary observer only,’ my lord assured.
‘Quite. And where is the famous Lady Suffolk I have heard so much about?’
I was not surprised that Mr Taylor had yet to spot me. I was wearing the hooded white cloak of an Arab male, with a pair of summer trousers underneath and a white shirt that I’d borrowed from my youngest son before leaving London, as he was just my size. The ensemble was completed by the riding boots that the Duc de Guise had given me twenty years before, and they served me just as well on this journey as they had on my last. Victorian female attire had no place in the East, and especially not on an excavation site.
Taylor gave a laugh as my husband gestured in my direction.
I slid off my camel to approach, Cingar at my side.
‘You are just as I imagined you.’ Our host took my hand, but before he could kiss it, I changed our grip and shook his hand firmly.
‘How do you do, Mr Taylor.’ I let go of his hand and motioned to my associate. ‘This is a dear friend of mine, Mr Choron.’
Taylor shook the gypsy’s hand. ‘And what is the purpose of your visit to our excavation?’
Cingar didn’t like the suspicious inflection of Taylor’s voice. ‘I’m not here to loot if that is what you mean.’
I intervened before the situation turned ugly. Gypsies had a reputation for being nothing but a dirty bunch of thieves; an assumption that, in my experience, was completely unfounded. ‘Cingar’s purpose is personal. Lord Malory has sanctioned Mr Choron’s presence here, as they are friends of old.’
‘Well, any friend of Lord Malory’s is a friend indeed.’ Taylor made an effort to disperse the sudden chill in the atmosphere. ‘I assure you, I meant no offence by my enquiry, Mr Choron. The Fertile Crescent is a long way to come without an objective; I just wondered—’
‘Oh, I have an objective,’ Cingar said. It was true that neither he nor I knew what his purpose was, but if Chiara deemed that I would need her great-grandson’s aid on this journey, then it would be so.
‘All shall be made clear in time,’ I told Taylor, smiling broadly and changing the subject. ‘I gather that Lord Malory informed you that our eldest son would be accompanying us on this journey? Let me introduce you to him.’
‘So this is the youngest man ever to be awarded a fellowship at Cambridge, only to resign it in favour of a stint in the Near East.’ Taylor shook Levi’s hand firmly, impressed by the lad’s decision.
‘I would rather study the facts than the theory,’ Levi explained. ‘And I am confident that my decision will prove most rewarding.’
‘And so it shall,’ Mr Taylor agreed. ‘I believe that we may be unearthing the great Ziggurat of
Ur.’ He pointed to the craggy peak of the Mound of Pitch, where fifty or so diggers were hard at work. ‘Come, let me show you.’
As we negotiated the scattered dig sites of the outer excavation, Levi noticed a young woman climb out of a hole in the ground and hold a rubbing up to the sun to inspect it. She was a local woman judging by her attire; between her long, simple dress and the scarf wrapped about her head and shoulders, only her face and her hands were exposed.
‘What is down that hole?’ Levi inquired of Taylor, pointing to where the young woman stood engrossed by her work.
‘It is a small burnt-brick building from a later period, and of no real significance.’ Taylor pointed to the mats that covered the large hole in the ground. ‘The walls are so high that the workmen have roofed it and use it as a shelter.’
‘So what is that young woman’s interest in the dwelling?’ Levi wondered.
‘I have no idea. She is my linguist…come, I’ll introduce you. Miss Koriche!’ he called ahead to the young woman.
She looked up, and was startled to find she had a rather large audience. She rolled up the rubbing, obviously to avoid showing it to us. ‘Mr Taylor.’ She nodded to acknowledge him, although judging from her tone he was not one of her favourite people. ‘Your new translators have arrived, I see.’
Taylor appeared exasperated by her comment. ‘These people are not here to replace you. I thought I had made that clear.’
‘I am Lady Suffolk, Miss Koriche.’ I stepped forward to introduce myself, holding out a hand to shake hers. The moment I touched her, I recognised her energy. ‘It was your translation I read in Lord Malory’s library—the account was very impressive,’ I said. ‘I am not a translator,’ I went on. ‘My son, Mr Levi Granville-Devere, is the expert on languages.’
I referred her to Levi, only to realise, when I noted how fondly he observed her, that this was the woman he had foreseen meeting here.
‘I am still a learner,’ Levi said, bowing to Miss Koriche. ‘I was hoping I might pick up a pointer or two while I am here.’