‘You do run on,’ I said.
‘What do you think then?’ she challenged. I was silent for a long time, then I made up my mind, and came out with it.
‘I think at this level the City of the Moon was sacked and burned, its inhabitants were slaughtered, the walls thrown down and its buildings obliterated.’
Sally whistled softly, staring at me in mock amazement. ‘On the evidence of one bead, and a piece of bone - that just has to be the greatest flyer of all time!’
That evening, in reply to Larkin’s bellowed queries, I replied, ‘Thanks, Peter. We are fine. No, we don’t need anything. Yes. Good. Please tell Mr Sturvesant there is no change here, nothing to report.’
I switched off the set, and avoided Sally’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ she told me sternly. ‘After a stinking one like that, you should look guilty!’
‘Well, you said yourself it’s only one bead and a piece of bone.’
But by the evening two days later, I had no such excuse, for I had sunk my trench seven feet five inches and there I uncovered the first of four courses of dry packed masonry. The stones were skilfully dressed, and squared. The joints between each block were so tight that a knife-blade would not go between them. The stones were bigger than those of Zimbabwe, clearly intended to support the weight of a substantial edifice; the average size was approximately four feet, by two, by two. They were cut from red sandstone similar to that of the cliffs and as I examined the workmanship I knew beyond any doubt that they were the work of artisans from a powerful and wealthy civilization.
That night I spoke to Larkin again.
‘How soon can you get a message through to Mr Sturvesant, Peter?’
‘He should have got back from New York today. I can put a phone call through this evening.’
‘Please ask him to come right away.’
‘You mean you want him to drop everything and come running - that’s a laugh.’
‘Just do it, please.’
The helicopter arrived at three o’clock the following afternoon, and I ran to meet it, pulling on my shirt.
‘What have you got for me, Ben?’ Louren demanded as he climbed, big and blond, out of the cabin.
‘I think you are going to like it,’ I told him, as we shook hands.
Five hours later we sat around the fire and Louren smiled over the rim of his glass at me.
‘You were right, lad. I do like it!’ This was the first opinion he had expressed since his arrival. He had followed Sal and me from excavation to cavern to cliff-top, listening attentively to our explanations, shaking his head with a rueful grin when I explained our theory of low-angle light on the ruins, firing a question occasionally in the same tone I had heard him use in a directors’ meeting. Each time the question was relevant, incisive and searching, as though he were evaluating a business deal. When Sally spoke he stood close to her, looking frankly into her face, those marvellous classical features of his rapt and still. Once she touched his arm to enforce a point and they smiled at each other. I was happy to see them so friendly at last, for they were the two people in the world I loved.
He knelt with me in the bottom of the trench and caressed the worked stone with his hands, he held the charred bone and melted glass bead in his palm and frowned at them as though trying to draw their secrets from them by sheer force of concentration.
Just before sunset, at Louren’s insistence, we returned to the cavern and went to the rear wall. I lit one of the gas lanterns and placed it so that its light fell full on the painting of the white king. Then the three of us sat around it in a semicircle and studied it in every detail. The king’s head was in profile and Sally pointed out the features, the long straight nose and high forehead.
‘A face like that never came out of Africa,’ she said, and as a contrast she picked out the painting of another figure farther down the wall. ‘Look at that. It’s a Bantu and no mistaking it. The artist was skilled enough to differentiate between the features of each type.’
However, Louren’s attention never wavered from his scrutiny of the king. Again he seemed to be trying to wrest its secrets from it, but the king was regally aloof and at last Louren sighed and stood up. He was about to turn away when his glance dropped to the white-robed priest figures below the king.
‘What are those?’ he asked.
‘We have named them the priests,’ I told him, ‘but Sally feels they could be Arab traders or—’
‘The figure in the centre—’ he pointed out the central priest figure, and his voice was sharp, almost alarmed, ‘what is he doing?’
‘Bowing to the king,’ Sally suggested.
‘Even though he is bowing, he stands taller than the others?’ Louren protested.
‘Size was the bushman artist’s way of showing importance. See the relative size of the king - although they are pygmies they always show themselves as giants - the size of the central priest would signify that he was the High Priest, or the leader of the Arabs, if Sally is right.’
‘If he is bowing, it’s with the top third of his body only and he is the only one doing it. The others are erect.’ Louren was still not convinced. ‘It’s almost as though—’ his voice trailed away, and he shook his head. Then suddenly he shivered briefly, and I saw the gooseflesh appear on the smooth tanned skin of his upper arms.
‘It’s become cold in here,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest, I had not noticed any drop in temperature, but I stood up also.
‘Let’s get back to camp,’ Louren said, and it was only after I had built up the fire to a cheerfully crackling, spark-flying blaze that he spoke again.
‘You are right, lad. I do like it!’ And he took a swallow of the malt whisky. ‘Now let’s start talking prices,’ he
