would it be urgent so many years later? It was 1940 when Loring was attached to the British Museum expedition. For months she had worked a dig in the desert lands near the Euphrates River. Before that, she had been one of Yazir’s top students here at Columbia University. She had gone through History of Ancient Civilization with him, then continued through his upper-division Middle Eastern Folklore program, then she had taken her master’s degree in archaeology. Yazir had sponsored her for the British expedition, and before leaving, Loring had showered him with gratitude. But upon returning, except for the one brief, exasperating meeting, she had avoided him.
He had provided references for her job with the Metropolitan, but she had not requested them. Yazir bore no grudge: he had many former students who didn’t like to be reminded that before they became experts they had been pupils.
But now Loring was back, and Yazir’s sharp sixth sense told him he was about to be drawn into something unpleasant. He stood up and drained the last of his tea.
She looked better than he remembered, although the Middle Eastern tan was gone and she was back to that New York City museum pallor. But she seemed flushed with excitement, or was it agitation?
Yazir guided her to a chair and offered to make tea. She accepted graciously and thanked him for agreeing to see her. Yazir got the hot plate going again and smiled at her. “So, student, how can I help you?”
She managed a smile. “I hope you still have that great open mind that I recall from the old days.”
“I hope so, too.”
“When I came home from Iraq, I wanted to tell you about this. You were the only one I could trust, but, as I was about to tell it, it suddenly seemed so far away and unbelievable. So... I ran out. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted, but if you do it again I shall be very upset.”
There was no reply. He glanced back. She was working her hands together and frowning. He brought her the tea and waited. When she looked up, he saw fear in her eyes. He knew what was coming—one of those farfetched, mystical experiences that every archaeologist dreams of having, and many concoct because their imaginations demand it.
“There were three of us at the dig,” she began. “Aside from the workers, there was Selim Bayar—an Armenian linguistics expert, and Ismet Moulin—a hieroglyphics man from Syria.”
Yazir sat down. “I know Moulin. Good fellow. Experienced.”
Loring relaxed. “We were on our own. Working apart from the rest of the expedition, we dug through the ruins of a building and found a cache of artifacts, many of them smashed by the weight of accruing sand. But some of them had identifying marks which Moulin was able to decipher. We determined that they had all been the property of a Babylonian sorcerer named Korbazrah.”
“Sorcerer?”
“Necromancer, magician, whatever you want to call him. He lived in Ur-Tawaq, a small city in constant friction with Babylon during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar. For most of his life he produced crafted silver and made a living from a small shop in the city, but in his last years he became a secret ally to the king and was probably responsible for a panic that brought the city to its knees and permitted Nebuchadnezzar to destroy it. The ruins we uncovered were evidently Korbazrah’s work chamber. Moulin deciphered a stack of clay tablets that turned out to be a cabala, a set of occult rituals.”
Yazir showed mild interest, but inwardly his stomach was beginning to protest.
“I found a box made entirely of handworked silver, covered with satyrs and devils and winged lions—Babylonian imagery crossed with the occult. Inside the box were several clay tablets and a silver flask, which was stoppered and sealed and... warm to the touch. It contained some sort of liquid, but we never opened it to find out precisely what.” Her voice caught, and there was a fleeting look of regret in her eyes. “Moulin
He had provided references for her job with the Metropolitan, but she had not requested them. Yazir bore no grudge: he had many former students who didn’t like to be reminded that before they became experts they had been pupils.
But now Loring was back, and Yazir’s sharp sixth sense told him he was about to be drawn into something unpleasant. He stood up and drained the last of his tea.
She looked better than he remembered, although the Middle Eastern tan was gone and she was back to that New York City museum pallor. But she seemed flushed with excitement, or was it agitation?
Yazir guided her to a chair and offered to make tea. She accepted graciously and thanked him for agreeing to see her. Yazir got the hot plate going again and smiled at her. “So, student, how can I help you?”
She managed a smile. “I hope you still have that great open mind that I recall from the old days.”
“I hope so, too.”
“When I came home from Iraq, I wanted to tell you about this. You were the only one I could trust, but, as I was about to tell it, it suddenly seemed so far away and unbelievable. So... I ran out. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted, but if you do it again I shall be very upset.”
There was no reply. He glanced back. She was working her hands together and frowning. He brought her the tea and waited. When she looked up, he saw fear in her eyes. He knew what was coming—one of those farfetched, mystical experiences that every archaeologist dreams of having, and many concoct because their imaginations demand it.
“There were three of us at the dig,” she began. “Aside from the workers, there was Selim Bayar—an Armenian linguistics expert, and Ismet Moulin—a hieroglyphics man from Syria.”
Yazir sat down. “I know Moulin. Good fellow. Experienced.”
Loring relaxed. “We were on our own. Working apart from the rest of the expedition, we dug through the ruins of a building and found a cache of artifacts, many of them smashed by the weight of accruing sand. But some of them had identifying marks which Moulin was able to decipher. We determined that they had all been the property of a Babylonian sorcerer named Korbazrah.”
“Sorcerer?”
“Necromancer, magician, whatever you want to call him. He lived in Ur-Tawaq, a small city in constant friction with Babylon during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar. For most of his life he produced crafted silver and made a living from a small shop in the city, but in his last years he became a secret ally to the king and was probably responsible for a panic that brought the city to its knees and permitted Nebuchadnezzar to destroy it. The ruins we uncovered were evidently Korbazrah’s work chamber. Moulin deciphered a stack of clay tablets that turned out to be a cabala, a set of occult rituals.”
Yazir showed mild interest, but inwardly his stomach was beginning to protest.
“I found a box made entirely of handworked silver, covered with satyrs and devils and winged lions—Babylonian imagery crossed with the occult. Inside the box were several clay tablets and a silver flask, which was stoppered and sealed and... warm to the touch. It contained some sort of liquid, but we never opened it to find out precisely what.” Her voice caught, and there was a fleeting look of regret in her eyes. “Moulin
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