The Sunbird

will be staying on here indefinitely.’

‘How are you for water?’ bellowed Larkin, his voice distorted by static and Scotch whisky.

‘Fine. We managed to find an adequate supply here.’

‘You found water?’ roared Larkin, ‘There isn’t any water there!’

‘A small catchment in a rock basin from the last rain.’

‘Oh, I see. Okay then. Keep in touch. Over and out.’

‘Thanks, Peter. Over and out.’

‘You are a fibber.’ Sally grinned at me as I switched off the set.

‘All in a good cause,’ I agreed, and we began to prepare lanterns, and cameras, and sketching equipment for the following day.

The old bull elephant was mortally wounded. Blood, slick and shiny, poured from the wounds in throat and shoulder and the shafts of fifty arrows pin-cushioned his massive frame. He stood at bay with his back humped in agony, while around him swarmed the brave little yellow hunters with drawn bows, and pelting arrows. A dozen of their number were strewn back along the path of the hunt, their frail bodies crushed and broken beneath the great round pads and cruel ivory shafts - but the others were closing in for the kill.

The ancient artist had filled his canvas of red rock with such movement and drama that I felt myself witness to the actual hunt. However, the light was tricky and the best reading I could get was F-11 at l/10th of a second.

Reluctantly I decided to use flash. I try to avoid it where possible for it tends to distort colour and throw in false highlights. I began setting up tripod and camera when Sally called.

‘Ben! Come here, please!’

The echo effect and distortion caused by the lofty cavern could not disguise the urgency and excitement in her voice, and I went quickly.

She was in the main cavern beyond the emerald pool, where the rear wall cut back steeply to form a low recess. It was gloomy in there and Sally’s torch beam jumped quickly over the smooth rock surface.

‘What is it, Sal?’ I asked as I came up beside her.

‘Look.’ She moved the torch beam down and I stared at the representation of a massive human figure before me.

‘Good God!’ I gasped. ‘The White Lady of the Brandberg! It’s the same!’

Sally played the beam of the torch down across the figure until it spotlighted the vaunting erection that thrust from its thighs.*

*The White Lady of the Brandberg is one of the most celebrated and controversial rock paintings yet discovered in Africa. Its date is agreed at about AD 0-200, but its interpretation is the subject of much dispute. One source clams it is a Xhosa circumcision candidate daubed with white clay (one thousand miles from the territory of the Xhosa). The famous Abbe Breuil named it a lady, and Credo Mutwa in his recent book Idaba My Children gives an intriguing interpretation in which he concludes ‘It is not a Lady, but a strikingly handsome young white man, one of the great emperors who ruled the African Empire of the Ma-iti (Phoenicians) for nearly two centuries.’

‘That lady is beautifully hung,’ she murmured, ‘if you get the point.’

The figure was six feet tall, dressed in yellow breastplate and ornate helmet with a high arched crest. On his left shoulder he carried a rounded shield on which yellow ornamental rosettes were set in a circle about the central boss. In his other hand he carried a bow and sheaf of arrows, and from his waist hung sword and battle-axe. His shins were protected by greaves of the same yellow metal and on his feet were light open sandals.

The figure’s skin was depicted as deathly white, but a fiery bush of red beard hung onto his chest. The display of his sexual parts was clearly a stylized indication of his dominant and lofty status. The effect was in no way obscene, but gave to the figure a masculine pride and arrogance.

‘A white man,’ I whispered. ‘Armour and rounded shield, bow and battle-axe. Could it be—’

‘A Phoenician king,’ Sally finished for me.

‘But the Phoenician type is more likely to have been darkhaired, hook-nosed. This man would have been an unusual figure amongst the ancients, to say the least. A throw-back, perhaps, to some north Mediterranean ancestor. How old is it, Sal?’

‘I can’t be sure yet, but I’d say 2,000 years. This wall of paintings is the most ancient in the whole cavern.’

‘Look, Sal.’ I pointed eagerly.

Beyond the central figure was an army of stick figures that followed the king. They were not executed in such detail, but the swords and helmets were unmistakable.

‘And look there.’ Sally directed the beam of the torch onto a row of white-robed figures that stood at the king’s feet. Tiny figures, perhaps nine inches tall.

‘Priests, perhaps - and, oh Ben! Look! Look!’

She played the beam across the stone canvas, and for a moment I did not recognize it - then my heart jumped. Like a huge frieze, that was obliterated in places by moisture, moss and lichens, or that was obscured by the myriad figures of men and animals drawn over it, and that yet managed to maintain its imposing majesty and power, swept the drawing of a stone fortress wall. It was built in blocks with the joints clearly shown, and along its summit was the decorative pattern of chevrons, identical to the one that graces the main temple wall at the ruins of Zimbabwe. Beyond the wall rose outlines of the phallic towers we had expected to find.

‘It’s our city, Ben. Our lost city.’

‘And our lost king, Sally, and his priests, and warriors and - oh, my God! Sally, look at that!’