Monsters in the Sand by David Harris Read Free Book Online

supreme sultan, but does he know
what
you are hunting?’
    In the streets outside the palace, guns fired and people screamed. The pasha’s soldiers were once again on a killing spree, punishing ‘tax evaders’.
    The pasha belched softly. ‘Our friends, the French, beat you in the race to find Nineveh. And our goodfriends, the French, have also won our licences to dig in other Assyrian cities.’
    Behind the throne, the new French vice-consul smiled coldly at Austen. Since Paul Botta had been sent home in disgrace, the French had begun digging at fifteen more archaeological sites in Iraq. Austen missed the friendly rivalry with Botta, who still sent letters insisting he was owed those twenty bottles of shiraz.
    The pasha’s fingernail picked off the smallpox scab on his cheek and he examined it. ‘You, Mr Layard, have our permission to hunt gazelles and other game at Nimrud. You do not have our permission for hunting of another kind. Beware of my wrath.’

Chapter 16
    Thunder sounded across the River Tigris as a slab of cliff, undercut by whirlpools, crashed into the water. Muddy spray rose into the air, hung for a moment, then splattered down.
    Waves surged towards Austen’s raft and the boatman shouted prayers as he leant against the long rudder.
    The onrushing wave pushed the raft upwards. Ropes creaked, poles clattered and splintered. Austen’s four greyhounds yelped and scrabbled for balance. Bundles of luggage slipped and the raft almost split in half on the wave’s crest. It wallowed down, slewing out of control as the second wave hit. Austen hung onto the ropes around the long box of guns and ammunition.
    The raft groaned as it settled. Only twelve feet by eight, it was held up by inflated sheepskins under the decking, but it was settling too far to the left. Water flowed over the poles along that edge and the boatman leapt into the water, grasped the neck of a deflated sheepskin and blew into it hard. But one skin would not stop the whole raft from sinking lower.
    ‘Secure the baggage!’ Austen yelled to his assistant, Hormuzd. Then Austen tore off his Bedouin headdress and cloak and slid over the side. He found another flat skin and puffed hard into it too. When it was full of air, he held the neck tightly and re-tied the cord to bind it shut. Skin by skin, he and the boatman raised the listing side.
    Hormuzd was dragging boxes and chests back to the centre of the raft. His cheeks were pink with the effort and sweat trickled down the thin beard. Only seventeen years old, he was proud of the narrow line of beard along the jawbone and around under his chin. He began to sing a love song of his people – the Yezidis, also known as the devil-worshippers.
    Austen smiled at the singing. Hormuzd was a good choice for an assistant – as if there had been any choice. The young man had shadowed him around the Rassam house in Mosul. ‘Please can I come with you? I want to be an archaeologist too. My brother,Christian, says it’s all right. I won’t get in the way. I’ll work hard,’ he had begged. ‘You’ll need the vice-consul’s brother with you for respect and protection.’
    Panting hard, Austen hauled himself back onboard and stared inland at the hill of Nimrud. It was moving slowly in circles against the sunset sky, until the boatman climbed back and took control of the rudder. Gradually, Nimrud found its rightful place, running north-south, with the tall pyramid shape rising at the northern end.
    Nineveh’s wonders, mystery and glory were as close as breathing. Years of dreaming, hoping, sufferings came down to this moment of arrival.
    Reeds parted as they nosed in to land, and when the raft bumped against the mud, Austen leapt onto dry ground. For a moment, he remembered the pasha’s warning not to dig at Nimrud, but he had letters from Constantinople. One treacherous, corrupt pasha at Mosul was not going to frighten him away. The pasha fully understood the close alliance between his supreme sultan