The Sunbird

other indigenous grain. I could hear my critics howling like wolves out there in the wilderness. Suddenly I was doubting my own premonition of some momentous discovery and I sat on the edge of my stool, miserably rubbing my grimy hands together and staring at the jar. Perhaps Louren was right, perhaps we would echo his cry, ‘Is that all?’

From the radio shack we heard Louren’s voice end the transmission, and he came through into the warehouse. He was still filthy from the work in the tunnel, and his golden hair was stiff with dust and dried sweat. Yet the grime and unruly curls gave him an air of romance, the jaunty look of an old-time pirate. He stood in the doorway with his thumbs hooked into his belt, and all our attention was on him. He grinned at me.

‘Okay, Ben. What have you got for us?’ he asked and sauntered across the room to stand behind my shoulder. Instinctively the others drew closer, crowding into a circle around me and I picked up the surgical scalpel and touched the point of it to the joint of the lid.

The first touch told me that my guess had been correct.

‘Bee’s wax, I think.’

Carefully I scraped it away, then laid the scalpel aside and gently tried the lid. It came away with surprising ease.

All heads craned forward, but the first view of the contents was disappointing. An amorphous mass of substance that was stained dirty yellow-brown by time.

‘What is it?’ Louren demanded of his experts, but none of us could answer him. I was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. It certainly wasn’t corn.

‘It smells,’ said Sally. There was a faintly unpleasant, but familiar odour.

‘I know that smell,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Leslie.

We stared at the pot trying to place it. Then suddenly I remembered.

‘It smells like a tannery works.’

‘That’s it!’ agreed Sally.

‘Leather?’ asked Louren.

‘Let’s see,’ I said, and carefully tipped the jar onto its side with the mouth facing me. Gently I began easing the contents out of the jar. It became immediately clear that it held something cylindrical in shape and of a hard, brittle texture.

It seemed to have stuck to the inside of the jar, but I twisted carefully and with a faint rending sound it was loose. I inched it out of the jar, and as it emerged, there was a running commentary from the watchers.

‘It’s a long round thing.’

‘Looks like a polony sausage.’

‘It’s wrapped in cloth.’

‘Linen, I hope!’

‘It’s woven anyway. That will take some explaining away as Bantu culture!’

‘The cloth is rotten, it’s falling away in patches.’

I laid it on the table, and as I stared at it I knew all my dreams had become reality. I knew what it was. A treasure beyond all the gold and diamonds Louren had hoped for. I looked up quickly at Sally to see if she had guessed, her expression was eager but puzzled. Then her eyes met mine and my jubilation must have been obvious.

‘Ben!’ She guessed then. ‘It isn’t? Oh, Ben, it couldn’t be! Open it, man! For God’s sake, open it!’

I took up a pair of tweezers, but my hands were too unsteady to work. I clenched my fists, and drew a couple of deep breaths to try and calm the racing of my blood and the pounding of it in my ears.

‘Here, let me do it,’ said Ral, and reached to take the tweezers from my grip.

‘No!’ I snatched my hand away. I think I would have struck him if he had persisted. I saw the shock on Ral’s face, he had never before seen the violence that lurks in my depths.

They all waited until I had got control of my hands again. Then carefully I began to peel the wrappings of brittle yellow cloth from the cylinder. I saw it appear from under the wrappings, and there were no more doubts. I heard Sally’s little gasp from across the bench, but I did not look up until it was done.

‘Ben!’ she whispered, ‘I’m so happy for you,’ And I saw that she was crying, big fat tears sliding slowly down her cheeks. This was what triggered me, I am certain that if she hadn’t started it I would have been all right, but suddenly my own eyes were burning and my vision blurred with moisture.

‘Thanks, Sal,’ I said, and my voice was soggy and nasal. When I felt the droplets start to spill on to my cheeks I struck them away with an angry hand, and groped for my handkerchief. I blew my nose like a bugler sounding the charge, and my heart sang as loudly.

It was a tightly rolled cylindrical scroll of leather. The outer edges of the scroll were tattered and eaten by decomposure. The rest of it, however, was miraculously preserved. There were lines of writing running like columns of little black insects along the length of the scroll. I recognized the symbols immediately, identifying the individual letters of the Punic alphabet. It was written in a flowing Punic script, of which the first thirty lines were exposed on the roll of ancient leather. The language was not one I understood, but I looked up at Sally again. This was her speciality, she had worked with Hamilton at Oxford.

‘Sal, can you read it? What is it?’

‘It’s Carthaginian,’ she spoke with complete certainty. ‘Punic!’

‘Are you sure?’ I demanded.