the first place. Is it not so?’
‘Yes. So why did they do it?’
Franz slapped both his hands on the tops of his thighs. ‘That is it! We do not know! Nobody knows. We only confirmed it this month, so we haven’t had a chance to think.’ He grinned. ‘Fantastic, ja? ’
Derya offered Rob another a bottle of Efes beer. He took it and thanked her. He was having fun. He’d never expected archaeology to be fun, he hadn’t expected it to be puzzling either. He thought about the mystery of the buried temple. Then he watched Christine as she talked with her colleagues across the living room and felt a tiny and ludicrous pang of jealousy, which he immediately quashed.
He was here to write a story-not fall pathetically and fruitlessly in love. And the story was proving much more exciting than he’d hoped. The oldest temple in the world. Discovered next to the oldest city in the world. Built by men before the wheel: built by Stone Age cavemen with the curious gift of great artistry…
And then the great Neolithic cathedral, this Kurdish Carnac, this Turkish Stonehenge-Rob was imagining his piece now, writing the paragraphs in his head-then the whole damn temple was deliberately interred beneath tons of ancient dust, concealed for all time, like the most terrible secret. And no one knows why.
He looked up. He’d been in a journalistic reverie for maybe ten minutes. Carried away with his job. He liked his job. He was a lucky man.
The little supper party was coming to a head. Someone got out an old guitar and everyone sang a few songs. Then the raki flowed for a final round of nightcaps, and then it flowed again, and Rob knew he was getting too drunk. Before he disgraced himself and fell asleep on the wooden floor he decided he should head home-so he went to the window to inhale some fresh air and prepare himself to make his excuses.
Out there, the streets were much less noisy. Sanliurfa was a city that stayed up late, because it slept all the hot afternoon-but it was nearly 2 a.m. Even Sanliurfa was asleep. The only real sound came from directly below. Three men werestanding in the street, just under Franz Breitner’s elegant windows. They were singing a strange lowpitched song, almost like a chant. Quite peculiarly, they had a little trestle table erected in front of them: a table arrayed with three guttering candles.
For maybe half a minute Rob watched the men and the candle flames. Then he turned and saw Christine standing in the far corner of Franz’s living room, talking to Derya. Rob beckoned her over.
Christine leaned out of the window, looked at the chanting men and said nothing.
‘It’s sweet isn’t it?’ Rob said quietly. ‘Some kind of hymn or a religious thing?’
But when he turned to look at her he could see that her face was pale, and very tense.
She looked horrified.
9
Rob made his farewells and Christine accompanied him.
Outside, the three chanting men had blown out the candles, packed up the trestle table, and were now starting to walk down the street. One of them looked back at Christine. His expression was inscrutable.
Or maybe, Rob thought, it was just the lack of streetlight making it hard to see what the man was thinking. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked in its own lonely ritual. The moon was high above the nearest minaret. Rob could smell raw sewage.
Threading her arm through his, Christine guided them down the dark little road and out onto a broader, slightly better-lit street. Rob was waiting for her to explain but they continued in silence. Beyond the furthest apartment blocks Rob could just glimpse the desert. Dark and endless, and ancient and dead.
He thought of the pillars of Gobekli, standing naked in the moonlight, somewhere out there: exposed for the first time in ten thousand years; he felt cold for the first time since arriving in Sanliurfa.
The silence had gone on too long. ‘OK,’ he said, unthreading Christine’s arm from his own. ‘What was all that
‘Yes. So why did they do it?’
Franz slapped both his hands on the tops of his thighs. ‘That is it! We do not know! Nobody knows. We only confirmed it this month, so we haven’t had a chance to think.’ He grinned. ‘Fantastic, ja? ’
Derya offered Rob another a bottle of Efes beer. He took it and thanked her. He was having fun. He’d never expected archaeology to be fun, he hadn’t expected it to be puzzling either. He thought about the mystery of the buried temple. Then he watched Christine as she talked with her colleagues across the living room and felt a tiny and ludicrous pang of jealousy, which he immediately quashed.
He was here to write a story-not fall pathetically and fruitlessly in love. And the story was proving much more exciting than he’d hoped. The oldest temple in the world. Discovered next to the oldest city in the world. Built by men before the wheel: built by Stone Age cavemen with the curious gift of great artistry…
And then the great Neolithic cathedral, this Kurdish Carnac, this Turkish Stonehenge-Rob was imagining his piece now, writing the paragraphs in his head-then the whole damn temple was deliberately interred beneath tons of ancient dust, concealed for all time, like the most terrible secret. And no one knows why.
He looked up. He’d been in a journalistic reverie for maybe ten minutes. Carried away with his job. He liked his job. He was a lucky man.
The little supper party was coming to a head. Someone got out an old guitar and everyone sang a few songs. Then the raki flowed for a final round of nightcaps, and then it flowed again, and Rob knew he was getting too drunk. Before he disgraced himself and fell asleep on the wooden floor he decided he should head home-so he went to the window to inhale some fresh air and prepare himself to make his excuses.
Out there, the streets were much less noisy. Sanliurfa was a city that stayed up late, because it slept all the hot afternoon-but it was nearly 2 a.m. Even Sanliurfa was asleep. The only real sound came from directly below. Three men werestanding in the street, just under Franz Breitner’s elegant windows. They were singing a strange lowpitched song, almost like a chant. Quite peculiarly, they had a little trestle table erected in front of them: a table arrayed with three guttering candles.
For maybe half a minute Rob watched the men and the candle flames. Then he turned and saw Christine standing in the far corner of Franz’s living room, talking to Derya. Rob beckoned her over.
Christine leaned out of the window, looked at the chanting men and said nothing.
‘It’s sweet isn’t it?’ Rob said quietly. ‘Some kind of hymn or a religious thing?’
But when he turned to look at her he could see that her face was pale, and very tense.
She looked horrified.
9
Rob made his farewells and Christine accompanied him.
Outside, the three chanting men had blown out the candles, packed up the trestle table, and were now starting to walk down the street. One of them looked back at Christine. His expression was inscrutable.
Or maybe, Rob thought, it was just the lack of streetlight making it hard to see what the man was thinking. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked in its own lonely ritual. The moon was high above the nearest minaret. Rob could smell raw sewage.
Threading her arm through his, Christine guided them down the dark little road and out onto a broader, slightly better-lit street. Rob was waiting for her to explain but they continued in silence. Beyond the furthest apartment blocks Rob could just glimpse the desert. Dark and endless, and ancient and dead.
He thought of the pillars of Gobekli, standing naked in the moonlight, somewhere out there: exposed for the first time in ten thousand years; he felt cold for the first time since arriving in Sanliurfa.
The silence had gone on too long. ‘OK,’ he said, unthreading Christine’s arm from his own. ‘What was all that
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