clothing, though my tight khaki shirt and pants, shrunk from too many washings in cheap dorm rooms, draw disapproving stares. Ignoring them, I take my time in the makeshift flea market, examining everything that catches my eye, wiping away dust as thick as wool fibers. Among the collection of bric-a-brac piled onto shelves along the balcony, I find a bronze letter opener with a bird handle, medals, coins, Bedouin jewelry, silver, brass, wood-carved animals and, stuffed under a pile of books, an old leather album filled with cracked, yellowed aerial photographs of the desert. Amazingly clear photos, I note, with exquisite detail of the topography. Flipping through the black-paper pages cracking between my fingers, I also see pictures of a dark-haired, bearded archaeologist wearing gear from a time between the World Wars. Looking closer, I see he’s smiling and holding up a sword and…what is it? I squint at the photo. An edgy calm comes over me, as if I’ve gone into a trance, listening intently for the whispers, hoping the musky smell of the years past hanging over the photos will dissipate if I will it, holding my dreams tight inside me, wanting to see, feel, touch what this long-gone adventurer found that made him smile so big.
Peering over my shoulder, Ahmed quiets down, as if he senses I possess the ability to open secrets no one else can see. In the short time the Syrian has tagged along with me, I’ve earned his respect with my decent command of Arabic and willingness to accept the local customs, like greeting someone with the localism for hello, marhaba, with my hand outstretched, and taking my meals with my right hand instead of using utensils, not easy, since I’m left-handed. I’ve developed an easy friendship with my Muslim guide, who loves to practice his English on me and banters on about how difficult it is to get American music for his boom box.
I continue studying the old photo, tracing the outline of the object the man holds up high, allowing the odd shape to form on my mental plane, round, then oval, pointed in one corner with a drawing on it. No, it isn’t a drawing. It’s a crest. A chill goes through me, though the day breathes heat.
“It’s a shield, Ahmed.” I point to a cross with a rose. “There, see the crest?”
Curious, the guide leans over my shoulder. “Ah, very old, yes?”
“Most likely from the Fourth Crusades.” Not understanding, he blinks at me and hunches his shoulders. “Around the beginning of the thirteenth century,” I continue. “It could have come from the castle built to protect Christian pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land. The fortress was never breached by invaders, but abandoned after a long siege.” I glance at the other photos and see the archaeologist holding what appears to be a goblet. “I don’t see any sign of the castle or the village surrounding it in these snapshots, but look at these huts.” I indicate cone-shaped, mud-laced houses stacked up next to one another.
“Beehive huts.” Ahmed shakes his head. “No one has lived there for a long time.”
I dare to look at my guide, hoping I heard him correctly. “You know this area?”
He nods his head many times. “Far from the city. In the desert.” He explains to me how the area is in a desolate spot not close to any oasis and accessible only by four-wheel drive.
I close the photo book, holding it to my chest, while Ahmed bargains for me with the shop owner with his hand already out. With my eyes shut, a thrilling vision blazes through my mind, making my pulse race as the whispers continue, bringing me closer to acting the crazy idea formulating in my mind. It’s too fantastic to put into words. The scribbled white ink on the photos proclaims the year was 1933. Underneath the photo with the goblet, the archaeologist wrote one word: Byzantine. That confirms what I suspected: here is the evidence of a story long believed by scholars to be legend. A story about a time when knights ransacked the great city of Constantinople and retrieved Christian artifacts to take back to Europe, including gold crosses, goblets, ivory, silver and precious jewels. Much of what they recovered was never seen again, since the returning knights often ended up in graves by the roadside, their loot buried with them or stolen by bandits. Could this be the site of lost Byzantine artifacts?
I’m so sure I’m on to something I can’t wait to get started. Why hasn’t anyone else ventured to this part of the desert to dig? I know the answer. So often, the academic community races across an excavated area like rabbits running across a color-rich Afghani carpet. The area becomes a blur of yellows and reds and blues. They spend their lives racing back and forth, studying a small portion at a time, never seeing the patterns, even with the help of satellite photos converted to digital images.
But this bearded archaeologist from long ago photographed the area from the air, making low flights over the desert to search for hidden ruins in a time before plows and irrigation systems destroyed large areas of archaeological record. He found something out in the desert near the tels, the ancient mounds common in the Near East formed where people lived in mud-brick houses and built on top of the remains of fallen structures. A sword and broken shield, a goblet, but not everything.
I’m going to change that. I heard the whispers.
I have no problem getting together a team of diggers, thanks to Ahmed, along with a cook—an Arab woman tattooed from her forehead to her chin with two children in tow. His wife and sons, Ahmed tells me proudly. I laugh and agree to take them along with us. Why not? With the woman’s patience enduring her husband’s constant chatter, smiling and following behind him with reverence, she allows him to lead yet she exudes strength. I admire that.
Ahmed hires a driver and I set out to acquire my permit to dig. I’m not worried. In the Near East, few prejudices exist against female archaeologists. Everywhere I go, my projects are well received, often welcomed by local antiquities dealers and museum curators.
Until I meet up with Dr. Hassan Omar from the National Museum in Aleppo.
“No, I can’t give you a dig permit.” Dr. Omar picks up a big, green, shiny olive from a glass tray and chews on it, his dark, searing eyes never leaving me.
“But why?” I ask, pressing my point. “All my paperwork is in order. My letter from the university, bank credit, passport—”
“No.” He continues chewing on the olive, sloshing it around in his mouth.
“Listen, Dr. Omar,” I continue, my voice strong but even, attempting to smile to alleviate the growing tension between us. I refuse to let this man get the better of me after what I had to do to see him. His male secretary insisted he was too busy to listen to my plea, so I sneaked into his office when the assistant left for lunch, then waited for the director to return and convinced him I was an archaeologist.
“A team from a well-known university in the States recently got a permit to dig in the northwestern region near the Tel Kalaf,” I insist, tossing out phony information, knowing it normally takes months to get a permit but hoping he’s too busy to check out my story. What do I have to lose? Any minute now Security will barge in here and throw me out. “I’m only asking for a short time. Two weeks.”
“I repeat, no.” He takes the slick, nude olive pit out of his mouth and tosses it onto the tray, then licks his lips, his eyes riveted on my chest. His obvious salacious pleasure in the salty taste isn’t lost on me. I can guess what else is on his mind.
I cast my eyes downward, notice my hand is shaking. Think. Don’t get angry. Losing my cool isn’t going to work with a man whose stony expression reminds me of the ancient, stoic-faced basaltic statues standing guard at the front of the museum, their strange, staring eyes painted huge and white to increase their effectiveness in their duty. Besides, I don’t have much time. A khamsin, winds blowing from the east importing extremely hot and dusty air from Saudi Arabia, is forecast in the next few weeks. The tem-perature can climb to a hundred and twenty degrees, making
