The Age of Exodus Page 2

  “Not a problem,” said Harrison. “Templar’s coming up here himself the day after tomorrow with Ernie Bevin.”

  “The Foreign Secretary?” said Forrester.

  “The man himself,” said Harrison. “Apparently the Master’s persuaded him to come to High Table as part of our rehabilitation, and Templar’s part of his entourage.”

  And for the first time in a long time Forrester smiled with genuine anticipation, because ever since he was a boy, Ernest Bevin, creator of the Transport and General Workers’ Union, had been one of his greatest heroes.

  2

  THE CURSE OF THE CHALDEES

  The Foreign Secretary arrived at Barnard College, took in the manicured lawns, glanced up at the ancient buildings – and glowered. To Ernest Bevin an Oxford college was enemy territory.

  It was not surprising. Bevin had been born into poverty and for a long time his job had been delivering mineral water from a horse-drawn cart. Then he had joined the union movement and risen, purely on the strength of dynamic personality and organising skill, to become Britain’s leading trade unionist. He had been recruited to the coalition government by Churchill to organise Britain’s industrial manpower, and for five years had directed the lives of every adult in the kingdom who was not in the armed forces.

  Since Labour’s landslide victory in the election of 1945, he had been one of the most powerful figures in one of the most activist governments Britain had ever elected, a government which had seized the commanding heights of the economy, nationalised much of British industry, created the National Health Service, and developed the Welfare State. As head of the Foreign Office, Bevin was now responsible for keeping Britain safe in an increasingly uncertain world.

  But, despite the heights he had reached, Bevin never forgot that his education had ended at thirteen, and as Forrester watched from his window, he felt a pang of sympathy as the Master of Barnard came out to usher him into the Lodge. It was as much as Forrester could do not to hurry down to greet Bevin himself – but he knew he must wait until the appointed hour.

  Ten minutes later there was a knock on his door and Ken Harrison ushered in Charles Templar, a dark-haired, worried-looking man of about thirty. Templar shook Forrester by the hand.

  “I’m enormously grateful that you agreed to see me, Dr. Forrester, and in some ways I feel the most frightful fool for bothering you. On one level this is obviously some kind of hoax, but on another it feels deadly serious.”

  “It’s almost certainly both,” said Forrester. “The attempt to convince you that there is some sort of supernatural element behind the threat is obviously bogus, but that doesn’t mean the threat itself isn’t real. Have you any idea who might want this seal badly enough to try to frighten you into handing it over?”

  “None at all. Only a few people even know I have it.”

  “A few? Who, for example?”

  “Well, my wife Angela, for a start. And one or two members of the family of course. Other people who were in the service with me. Perhaps some people at work.”

  “You often mentioned it, then?”

  “Not often – but I made no particular secret of it when it came up in conversation.”

  “Did you show it to people?”

  “Only if they asked.”

  “And had you recently shown it to anyone before these threatening messages started to arrive?”

  “I’ve racked my brains about that, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t shown it to anyone for months. In fact I’d mislaid it and only recently found it again.”

  “Mislaid it where?”

  “I finally found it in the back of a drawer in my office desk.”

  “When you did show it to people, did you just show them the seal itself or did you roll it out to reveal the complete image?”

  “Generally the former, but I must admit that once or twice when there was a suitable medium, I would show how it worked.”

  “Do you have it with you now?”

  “I do.”

  “May I look at it?”

  “Of course,” said Templar. “I keep it in the box where my wife’s engagement ring used to be.” He took from his pocket a small leather case bearing the inscription of a Bond Street jewellers.

  Forrester opened the box carefully and saw, nestled inside on the silk, a small black cylinder about an inch and a quarter long and a quarter inch in diameter. At first glance it appeared to be entirely blank, and might have been mistaken, Forrester thought, for a small twist of liquorice.

  “Obsidian?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Which means it’s very hard to make out the markings.”

  “I can’t see any markings at all,” said Harrison. Forrester took out a magnifying glass.

  “Take a look through this,” he said. Harrison took the tiny object between his big fingers and peered at it for a moment.

  “All I can see is scratches.”

  “Scratches containing a vast amount of information, which we can elicit with the aid of this,” said Forrester, bringing out the lid of an oblong tin, which had once contained a pound of Needler’s Toffee. Upside down, the lid provided a flat surface with a quarter-inch lip all around it into which Forrester, in preparation for this meeting, had packed a small amount of plasticine.

  He now took the little cylinder, held it loosely between thumb and forefinger, and rolled it firmly but steadily along the surface of the clay.

  “Good Lord,” said Harrison, as a complete miniature landscape unfolded before his eyes. “It’s an engraving.”

  “In Sumer people used cylinder seals the way signature rings were used in the Middle Ages,” said Forrester. “They were a perfect way of authenticating something that had been written in wet clay, which, as paper hadn’t yet been invented, was their chief medium.”

  “Using cuneiform, of course,” said Harrison.

  “Exactly,” said Forrester. “The Sumerians came up with the idea of cuneiform script and cylinder seals at about the same time. But the seals weren’t just for authentication: they were sometimes regarded as magical objects in themselves. Let’s look a little closer to see what your one depicts, Mr. Templar.”

  And he took the magnifying glass back from Harrison and leant close to the little rectangle of indented clay. It was as if, he felt, he was looking through a keyhole directly into the dawn of civilisation.

  The cylinder had rolled out an image of an eerie, almost surreal landscape. In stylised form, there were two mountains, each with a tree on it. Between them ran a river teeming with tiny fish. Hovering above the mountains was a winged, goat-like figure, with curious ladder-like markings on its chest, almost like the frogging on a hussar’s jacket. Emerging from the river was an equally bizarre creature that seemed to be half man, half bird, with something in its mouth. On closer examination Forrester saw that the object was the head of a man. The artist had even succeeded in giving that grisly trophy an expression of blind terror.

  “I think the figure coming out of the river must be Asag,” said Templar. “Am I right?”

  “I believe so,” said Forrester. “The winged goat overhead is almost certainly Narak of the seven seals. The Sumerians were fascinated by the number seven: there were groups of seven gods, seven demons, seven sages. See those indentations in Narak’s chest, like the rungs of a ladder? That’s where the seals are secreted as he collects them. When he has all seven, according to the mythology, he will hold the fate of the world in his hands. The tree on the left is the tree of life, later to feature, of course, in the story of the Garden of Eden. Note the crescent moon up above: that’s a reference to Sin, the moon god.”

  Harrison had retrieved the magnifying glass again. “I have to say it’s a pretty sinister-looking little scene,” he said. “You don’t get the impression these people felt the gods were there to look after them.”

  “I quite agree,” said Forrester. “The Sumerians feared the great gods rather than loved them, and they feared their demons even mo
re. Which was what the priests intended, of course. What better way to ensure people do what they’re told?”

  “So, is this seal of mine particularly unusual?” asked Templar. “Is there anything here which would explain why somebody is going to desperate lengths to get hold of it?”

  “On one level, no,” said Forrester. “These things were produced in great numbers. They were frequently buried with their owners, so they’re often found in excavations, and the stone doesn’t easily disintegrate, so they tend to survive. If a collector wanted something similar I’m sure he could get hold of it by perfectly legitimate means.”

  “So why threaten me with a terrible death unless I hand it over?” asked Templar. His tone was light, and there was the ghost of an ironic smile on his face as he spoke, but Forrester knew that, beneath the bravado, the man was afraid.

  And though he did not say so, Forrester was certain he had reason to be. He could sense the malice that lay behind this veneer of ancient superstition.

  “As I said, cylinder seals were sometimes held to have magical properties,” said Forrester. “That may be the case with this one. It could be that its original owner believed it gave him – or her – the power to cast a spell over a victim.”

  “Or unleash an utukku on him,” said Harrison.

  “Exactly,” said Forrester. “May I see the documents that contain the threats?”

  Templar opened his briefcase and took out a buff envelope. He unwound the string that held the clasp closed and withdrew two eight-by-ten black and white photographs of cuneiform tablets, which he laid out on the desk beside the clay.

  “Do you have the original envelopes?” said Forrester.

  “I do,” said Templar, bringing out a folder. “The police have already checked them for fingerprints, but whoever posted them must have been wearing gloves.” Forrester opened the folder and examined the envelopes without touching them. The postmarks indicated they had all been sent from different locations, but he noted they were all in central London.

  “The address is typed. Did the police see anything distinctive about the typeface?”

  “No. They said it was probably done on a Remington Noiseless, as used in a thousand homes and government departments, which doesn’t get us very far. Here are the translations I had done.” He handed Forrester a set of typed sheets.

  “By whom?”

  “A pal at the FCO who makes a hobby of these things.”

  “Name?”

  “Crispin Priestley. He’s on the Middle East desk.”

  Forrester cast an eye over the translations to check they had not been typed on the same machine which had been used to address the envelopes, and was satisfied that was not the case.

  “By the way, I assume you’ve reported all this to whoever’s in charge of security at King Charles Street?”

  “Of course. Toby Lanchester went into it all very thoroughly. Like the police he thinks someone’s pulling my leg.”

  Forrester began to read.

  The seal thief will be found

  The seal thief will be found by Asag

  He will come for him in the night

  Unless it is given up

  “This is from the Samana Tablets,” said Forrester. “In St. John Townsend’s translation, I think.”

  “Sinjun Townsend?” said Harrison, looking puzzled.

  “Spelt St. John,” said Forrester. “Pronounced Sinjun. I assume your friend Priestley was using Townsend’s text as a guide.”

  “Possibly; I know he used a book,” said Templar. “Priestley’s an enthusiast, not an expert.”

  Forrester laid the typed translation beside the photographs and compared them. Then he nodded and Templar handed him the second typed sheet.

  He who sleeps on the roof,

  Will die on the roof,

  He who sleeps in the house,

  Will have no burial,

  There is no hiding place from Asag

  For he who has the seal.

  “I know it’s ridiculous,” said Templar, “but I’ve been wondering whether I didn’t bring down some ancient curse on myself when I bought the damned thing. Sumerian magic was quite real to the Sumerians. Who’s to say it hasn’t lasted five thousand years?”

  “Sumerian belief in magic was quite real,” said Forrester. “The actual magic itself was about as real as a conjuring trick. You know they used water pipes and echo chambers to try and convince people that the statues of the gods actually spoke? They even pretended to feed them, which was why the poor bloody peasants kept having to bring food offerings. The whole thing was a con trick, Templar, and so is this.”

  “On one level of course I accept that,” said Templar. “But in the early hours of the morning, when you’re lying there in the dark…” His voice trailed off. Forrester put a hand on his arm.

  “Remember that Sumerian demons do not know how to take photographs of ancient cuneiform tablets. This is from someone who knows you and has it in for you, and our task is to work out who that is and make him stop. Or her, of course. You haven’t offended any lovers lately, have you? Or stolen any other men’s wives?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Templar firmly. “I’ve been faithful to Angela since the day we met, and I’d never do anything to hurt her. We married before I was sent to North Africa, and I feel damn grateful she waited for me all those years. Plenty didn’t – you know what the theatre’s like.”

  “The theatre?”

  “Templar’s married to the beautiful Angela Shearer,” said Harrison. “The sweetheart of Shaftesbury Avenue.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” said Forrester, noting how quickly Templar had pivoted from the possibility of his infidelity to the question of his wife’s continued faithfulness.

  “What about this chap Priestley? I know you called him in to translate, but have you considered the possibility that he was the one who sent the photographs in the first place?”

  “I hadn’t,” said Templar. “He just saw me looking at the pictures and offered to help.”

  “He made a good job of scaring the hell out of you,” said Harrison. “Might he have planned that all along?”

  “I really don’t think so,” said Templar. “When you meet Crispin, you’ll see why: he’s a fat little chap who looks like Billy Bunter and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, if he’d really wanted the seal he could have swiped it from my desk any time he wanted. Why go to all this trouble?”

  “All right, let’s put Priestley to one side for the time being and consider other people in your life. Because it is somebody in your life, you know, not some imaginary Mesopotamian monster.” And for the next half hour Forrester conscientiously created lists of Templar’s family, work colleagues, fellow soldiers and acquaintances to try to jog his memory about slights and rivalries, of which there seemed to be remarkably few. In fact, according to Templar, colleagues like Crispin Priestley and his friend Richard Thornham wished him only the best, and his sole complaint about the Foreign Office as a whole was that the messenger service was not all it might be. As for his wife Angela, it seemed she was a paragon among women. Beautiful, loving, and talented, she had waited patiently for him to return from the war and was now eager to put her career on hold and begin a family. Forrester felt a faint touch of envy as he listened, but before he could enquire further the bell in the Lady Tower began to ring and it was time to go over to the Master’s Lodge.

  3

  THIS JAM TASTES FISHY

  It was strange to be back in the Lodge again, with its worn, handsome Turkish rugs, carved beams and minstrels’ gallery, and Forrester could not prevent himself visualising the scene the previous year when Winters had staged the reading of the Norse saga and David Lyall had died. But if anything the room was more crowded than it had been that night. All the Fellows were there, and the Masters of several other colleges, drawn irresistibly by the fame of Ernest Bevin.

  He stood foursquare in the middle of the room, looking as if he had been carved out of a gr
anite boulder over which had been draped a suit created in haste by a distracted tailor. The combination of Bevin’s flattish nose and thick glasses gave him an oddly innocent, almost cherubic air, and the West Country burr in his voice was strangely endearing. As Forrester arrived he was in full flow, watched with some pride by his host, the Master, who was clearly imagining the college’s prestige rising with every moment Bevin was in the room. Stephenson was a striking contrast to the stocky Bevin: a tall, square-jawed figure born to command, only his thick, dark, bushy eyebrows hinting at what Forrester suspected was the animal ferocity lurking beneath.

  “So halfway through the talks Mowlertoff took us to see the Bolshy bally, and there I was with ’im in one of those velvet boxes looking right down on the stage.”

  It was a moment before Forrester realised that Bevin had been in Moscow in the Christmas of 1945, negotiating with the Soviets, and that because he had a tendency to make short shrift of foreign names he considered too ridiculous to try to pronounce correctly, the Russian foreign minister Molotov had become Mowlertoff.

  “Well, the bally went on and on as these things tend to do and to be perfectly honest with you I’d ’ave much rather been in bed with a hot water bottle, but I stuck it out till the end and when the curtain came down we stood up in the box and clapped as if it was the best thing we’d ever seen. But blow me down, when we finally finished clapping them all the blooming dancers started clapping us. So I took a bit of a bow, and finally they stop clapping. But what does Mowlertoff do? ’E starts clapping them again, and everybody in the theatre joins in, and it goes on for a very long time, and then all the dancers start up clapping us one more time. And so the long night wore on. Finally I’d had enough of it, so I gave ’em the clenched fist salute and that was that. Clem Attlee didn’t ’alf give me a bollocking for doing that – ’e said it was beneath the dignity of a British Foreign Secretary – but I reckon if I ’adn’t we’d still be there now.” Ripples of laughter rang through the room; everyone within earshot knew they were in the presence of an authentic English hero. But not everyone was satisfied with anecdotes.