older than the inscription itself. The head of the American team had theorised that it meant that the site was being casually re-used well after the original inhabitants of al-Kuraybah had departed, but nobody could be sure. It had been an exciting discovery – a Latin inscription in an Arab land. What were the Romans doing here, anyway, if they had even been here in the first place?
Al-Rahman assented to Thorpe’s request to see the artefact with a smile and a nod, and took Thorpe down into the basement stores where dozens of objects waited to be catalogued, photographed, and studied. Here, as in many parts of the Middle East, archaeology was of little significance to government priorities, with museums badly funded and collaboration with external scientific agencies limited. Thorpe followed al-Rahman down the staircase, smelling the aroma of wet stone, dry sand, and the mustiness of a storage area. Al-Rahman reached up towards one of the wooden shelves and pulled down a cardboard box, marked with a white tag, and carried it over to a long bench where he placed it down, clicking on an overhead lamp. Thorpe looked at the stone. It was an oblong piece of sandstone, about a foot by a foot and a half, with roughly-carved letters spelling out a short burial inscription in Latin. The quality of the text and a spelling mistake in the second line revealed it to be an amateur piece of work, but carving letters in stone was not an easy task. His fingers traced the words, feeling the grooves left by the chiselling. Thorpe loved inscriptions. They connected with the past like no other artefact, a direct link to a message left by a living person from centuries ago. Touching this one, he remembered the first he had ever discovered, a short graffito on the back of a rock at a Roman fortress called Halabiyya in northern Syria. It had read simply, ‘Julianus, brother of Marcus, dedicates this to Jupiter, in thanks.’ He never found out who Julianus was, or what he grateful for, and despite the fact that, in retrospect, this was probably one of the most uninteresting inscriptions one might find, the excitement that had welled up in him that day at the discovery had never left him. Now, he was looking at a far more interesting piece of work. Its text was familiar, but he read it out again anyway, noting the conventional abbreviations and providing what he hoped were the correct solutions. ‘Marcus, centurion of the sixth cohort, Tenth Legion, Fretensis, together with his colleague, Arethas, at their own expense, paid for this church, in the civitas of the Hegrenses, in the third consulship of Flavius Petrus Sabbatianus Iustinianus Augustus.’ Amazing, he thought. Before this, the only evidence for Roman contact in this area was an inscription from Hegra, also known as Madain Salih, a magnificent city of wind-blasted sandstone tombs, squat bluffs, scrubland, hardly excavated and rarely visited. Now, they had proof that the civitas of the Hegrenses – the city of Hegra – had Roman contact during the reign of the Emperor Justinian, Flavius Petraus Sabbatianus Iustinianus, almost three and a half centuries later than previously thought. The impact of Roman influences on Arab history was important, but hardly known; inscriptions like this were rarely published, for a variety of reasons, and this would most likely stay under wraps, unknown to scholars, or to the world, for some time to come. And as for Arethas? Thorpe knew of an Arab leader, from the family of Jafna, who took that name, and the chronology fit – Arethas was a contemporary of the Roman Emperor Justinian – but who knew. Nothing was for certain in this business, and more harm than good was often done by people who tried to see in inscriptions what they wanted to find, but which did not really exist. Thorpe touched the stone again, and allowed al-Rahman to put it away. He seemed to read his mind. ‘My friend’, the old Saudi said, ‘it is better this way – too many problems, otherwise. Christians, in Hegra? Romans? What will we find next? Arabs?’ He chuckled. ‘Come, let us drink some tea.’ Thorpe groaned inwardly at the thought of more of the dark, sickly liquid, loaded with sugar, impregnated with as much mint as one would ordinarily find in a bush, but he brightened at the prospect of the plump, delicious Saudi dates which would surely accompany the drink. One of Saudi Arabia’s finest secrets, he thought. The best dates anywhere in the world came from the desert palms of this mysterious, fascinating, and beguiling country. He followed al-Rahman back up the stairs to his office.
Later, returning to his hotel, he gazed out at the city from the dusty window of his car. His driver, like most Saudis, considered the rules of the road to be mere suggestions, and ducked and weaved in a terrifying manner between the different lines, more absorbed in his mobile phone than in other cars, police checkpoints, or traffic signals. Yet he liked Riyadh – it was a city of contrasts, with fascinating modern architecture, juxtaposed with much older areas – dusty lanes, overcrowded places, mud, and concrete, and poverty. A dusty pall hung over the city. The late-afternoon sun had relented sufficiently to allow families out to shop in the streets, the women clad in ankle-length black gowns, the men in elegant full-length white thobes, surprisingly effective at giving relief to the blistering heat. As he pulled into his hotel, he smiled to himself again at the eternal crowd of Saudis sipping coffee in the lobby, wondering, not for the first time, what on earth they did all day, and then he picked up his key and went up to his room for a well-deserved shower. The day had gone well – the talk a success, an opportunity to see a wonderful inscription, and spend some time with his friend Abdul al-Rahman. Entering his room, he noticed the message light on his phone blinking. Removing his tie and taking off his jacket, he picked up the phone and punched the message button.
‘Andrew, it’s Jack. Are you free tonight? I have been talking with Mohammed, and he has some interesting news. See you at the usual restaurant, say 8? Call me.’
Thorpe smiled. He liked Jack Campion, and he liked the beautiful restaurant at Riyadh’s newest hotel even more. Located in a stunning example of the new, brave, and dramatic architecture in Riyadh, it provided tremendous views across the dusty city. Pity, though, that Saudi Arabia was a dry country – the food was so good that it deserved a fine wine to go with it. He would have to settle for fruit juice with caviar, again. It would be good to see Jack, though. He and Thorpe had been friends for some years. An attaché at the British Embassy, he had smoothed things over with immigration on more than one occasion and helped out with Riyadh’s notoriously picky customs agents, who always looked askance at the complex equipment Thorpe sometimes brought into the country to help with his archaeological work. They had got to know each other when Jack, through a mutual acquaintance, had asked Andrew for help with his sister. Rachel Campion was, at the time, a stubborn young woman who had fallen in with a rough crowd back in England. She had been an undergraduate when Andrew was a young newly-minted graduate, offering a seminar on Roman history. Jack had persuaded Andrew to overlook his sister’s difficult nature and sub-par grades, and accept her as a volunteer along with seventeen other students to work on one of his projects in Syria. The summer away in the desert had helped to set the young woman, with her striking raven-black hair and confident, even defiant, personality, straight. He had not seen her in several years. He made a mental note to ask Jack about her – she and Andrew were, after all, only three years apart, and it might be nice to see her again if she was ever visiting her brother in Riyadh. The last he had heard, Rachel was looking for work as a journalist, in London, but that was a while ago.
Later, dressed appropriately for the warm evening, he walked the short distance to the hotel, stopping to smell the gorgeous flowers which grew by the open-air barbecue at the establishment where he was lodged, with its mist-jets cooling the evening’s diners, and took the elevator up to the restaurant. He found Jack, immaculately dressed as always, seated at a table near the window, looking out at Riyadh’s most famous building, which resembled a giant sewing needle, in the distance.
‘Good evening Jack’, he said, reaching out his hand. Jack half-stood and shook Thorpe’s hand, returning the greeting. ‘Always a pleasure, Andrew.’
Thorpe took his seat and the waiter spread a pristine starched napkin on his lap, pouring a glass of guava and mango juice. He browsed the menu and quickly settled on a braised lamb shank. You are in the Middle East, Andrew, after all, he thought – no point in eating vegetables here. He loved the region’s addiction to the sheep, in all of its forms. He looked at Jack, and opened his mouth to speak, but his friend cut him off. He could see the eagerness in his face.
‘Mohammed came to see me last week. He had just returned from Syria, and brought with him some interesting material.’
Andrew
