City of the Lost

I

Iain led the way down the rope ladder, his torch strapped around his wrist. The shaft was narrow at the top but then it widened abruptly and he found himself hanging in open space. The rope ladder twisted and yawed, his torch throwing uneven light upon the walls, eliciting eerie shadows from distant walls and disturbing bats from their roosts to whirr and shrill around him.

A hummock of rubble came into view below, presumably deposited by the collapse of the car park. He stepped off the ladder onto it, flashed his torch upwards three times to give the next person their signal to descend. Then he looked around. He was in the corner of an ancient colonnaded chamber. The hummock fell away on three sides, but on the fourth side the gap between it and the wall had been filled with sand so pale and fine that it must have been fetched from a nearby beach and then dumped. It had leaked away at the sides in luminous glaciers, exposing the bonnet of a large vehicle. He knelt upon its front grille, wiped its windscreen with his forearm. The frame was buckled and the glass an opaque sea-green, but it had done well to survive its fall at all.

Butros arrived beside him. ‘Is this what you wanted to show me? An old bus?’

For answer, Iain picked up a heavy clump of fallen masonry and smashed the windscreen. Glass shattered into pebbles and fell away inside. He shone his torch down within. Bejjani rested his hands on a windscreen strut to peer down. When he realized what he was looking at, he grimaced and shook his head. ‘All yours,’ he said. ‘I want nothing to do with it.’ He turned his back emphatically and made his way across the mound and down into the main part of the chamber.

Karin stepped off the bottom rung. ‘Is it what we thought?’ she asked.

He gave a nod but then gestured at Butros. ‘Why don’t you go with him? We need to find out more about this place. You can keep him honest while you’re at it.’ She looked unhappy at leaving this unpleasant duty to him and Andreas, but she saw the sense in it all the same. Iain waited until she was gone then turned to Andreas, who’d now joined them in the site. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Ready.’

The bus was resting on its rear, wedged between the mound of rubble and the corner of the chamber. Its angle of repose meant that the rows of passenger seats offered themselves like rungs in a pair of ladders leaned side-by-side against a wall. He put a foot on the steering wheel then lowered himself gently down onto the back of the driver’s seat. It creaked and turned beneath his weight, but held. He took a moment to settle himself then stepped to one side and shone his torch down again for Andreas to film.

‘What the hell happened?’ muttered Andreas.

‘War,’ said Iain.

It was easy to understand, from a psychological perspective, why the bus had been buried beneath sand; yet it had proved counterproductive all the same. The sheath of sand had kept the bus so sealed and dry that the high heap of corpses lying at the foot were remarkably well preserved. Skeletonized, certainly, but covered with parchment skin in places, heads of black hair, fleshy lips and noses, their bones still articulated, disconcertingly human in their synthetic jackets, leather shoes and the like. Festooned with watches, bracelets and necklaces too, presumably hoping to take what they could carry out ahead of the Turkish advance.

‘Get their IDs,’ said Andreas.

‘Thanks, mate.’ He stepped down onto the top rung of seats. The desiccated plastic and foam crackled like forest twigs beneath his foot. The seats were welded into the chassis and so were mostly solid; but one had buckled and it gave way like a trap-door when he trod on it, so that he would have fallen had he not grabbed the luggage rack in time. Disturbed sand whispered like restive ghosts as it trickled to lower levels, then settled back to silence. He reached down into pockets and bags, passing any wallets and purses he found up to Andreas, who checked them for identifying documents then filmed them and read the names out aloud for his microphone.

One wallet caught in the lining of a stiffened leather jacket. In trying to tug it free, Iain only managed to disturb the heap of bones so that they collapsed a little into the cavities created by their own previous decomposition, like a macabre game of pick-up-sticks. Something rolled into view. He had to reach down to pick it up. It was small enough to fit snugly into his palm, heartbreakingly young. A girl, to judge from the few accreted strands of long black hair. Perhaps three or four years old. And the hole in her dome neatly drilled, execution style, by someone standing above and behind, aiming down. He held it up for Andreas, who filmed in silence. For no commentary was needed, not for this.

II

Kemal Yilmaz trotted down the steps of his army transport onto the runway of Gefitkale Airport. ‘A great honour, General,’ said Colonel Zafer Ünal, when he reached the foot. But the fractional lift of his eyebrow made a question of his greeting.

‘We’ll talk on the way,’ Yilmaz told him, striding across the tarmac to the waiting staff car and small convoy of trucks for his entourage, fifty men he’d hand-picked for their toughness and loyalty. ‘Have you made the arrangements?’

‘Ten dump trucks at your disposal, sir. Filled with sand and hard-core, as instructed. I’ve also ordered all our stocks of quicklime and cement to the Varosha garrison. They’re coming from all over so I don’t know how many trucks that will be exactly, but we should know by the time—’

‘Water? Mixers?’

‘Six fifteen-thousand-litre water tankers are being filled right now, General. I have put another two on standby, just in case. Six cement-mixing trucks are already—’

‘I asked for eight.’

‘We only had six to hand, sir. The other two are on their way down from the north. They should be with us in an hour.’

‘Mechanical diggers? Lighting? Pumps? Pipes? Power? Communications?’

‘Everything on your list.’

‘And the drivers?’

‘Returned to barracks, sir.’ He tried a small smile. ‘I must confess, we’re all very curious about the nature of—’

‘What about Varosha itself? Any activity?’

‘We doubled perimeter patrols, as instructed, when you called me earlier this week. We doubled them again earlier today. There have been no reports of any activity. But Varosha is large and easy to infiltrate. If you tell me what it is that you’re—’

‘No. What about from the sea?’

‘Again nothing. And very little activity in the ports to speak of either.’

He stopped to look at him. ‘Very little?’

‘Famagusta is a port city. There is always traffic coming and going. I could ask the harbour-master to send us through a full list, if you wish.’

‘Do so.’ They reached the staff car. The driver saluted as he opened the rear door for them. Yilmaz ushered Colonel Ünal in ahead of him, climbed in alongside him. It was roomy in the back, glassed off for privacy and with the seats in facing banks. He beckoned to Ragip to join them, then motioned for him to sit opposite Ünal. Ragip wasn’t the biggest of his men, but the scarring around his left cheekbone made him the most intimidating. The door slammed shut, enclosing them in its muffled cocoon. He smiled at Ünal, trying to get a sense of him. In a conspiracy like this, knowing who one could trust, and how best to approach them, was the secret to staying alive. A faint shimmer of perspiration showed on Ünal’s forehead; but then the evening was warm. And was there a glint almost of eagerness in his eye? The glint of an ambitious man sizing up an opportunity. ‘Colonel,’ he said. ‘I am sure you have been following with distress the reports today from Istanbul, Ankara and elsewhere.’

‘Of course, General.’

‘You are a patriot, I know. A patriot with a great future. I say that with confidence, having read your file.’

‘Thank you, General. It’s very kind of you to—’

‘No true patriot could watch what is happening to our beloved country without having their heart torn.’

Hesitation this time. ‘Yes, General.’

‘Your commanding officer was arrested several years ago, as part of the Sledgehammer investigations, and charged with conspiracy to commit treason. The evidence used to convict him was a mockery. So-called transcripts filled with anachronisms, contradictions and other impossibilities. Police officers lied. Witnesses changed their statements. Transparently forged documents were allowed as evidence. And all this in spite of the fact that he was a hero who’d dedicated his life to our nation’s security and well-being. That is correct, isn’t it?’

‘I am a simple soldier, sir,’ said Ünal unhappily. ‘I wasn’t present at the trial so I can’t speak to—’

‘We are all soldiers, Colonel. Turkish soldiers. As such, we have been charged with a terrible responsibility that the soldiers of other countries do not bear. I assume you know what that responsibility is.’

‘The Constitution is—’

‘The Constitution!’ scoffed Yilmaz. ‘It changes with each new government. What matters is what was meant. As leaders of the army, we are the ultimate guarantors of our secular democracy. If we ever see it endangered, it isn’t our privilege to act; it’s our duty. And when a government flouts the rule of law this flagrantly, it can no longer be considered democratic.’

‘The new Prime Minister is a good man.’

‘The new Prime Minister is a weak man,’ said the General. ‘He thinks sitting on a horse is the same as riding a horse. It is not.’ He turned to face Ünal more directly. ‘He has had months to institute changes, if he so wished. He has instituted nothing. But changes are coming anyway, Colonel. They’re coming tonight. Changes that will restore our nation’s honour, integrity, justice and pride. My question to you is this: do you want to be part of those changes? Or are you one of those to stand back while others do the necessary but dangerous work, and only afterwards applaud?’

The blood had drained from the Colonel’s face. He looked bleakly around the staff car. Ragip smiled at him, a smile to render incontinent a stronger man than Ünal. He dropped his eyes in shame. ‘I want to be part of the changes, General,’ he said.

‘Good,’ smiled the General. ‘Then may I be the first to congratulate you.’

‘Congratulate me? On what?’

‘On your promotion, Brigadier General. On your promotion.’

III

Maybe it was her knowledge of what was in the bus, but Karin felt more on edge down here than she had even in the derelict city above. Stones kept getting in her shoes, making her limp. The sculpted walls came almost to life in their staggered torchlight. Fragments of ancient stone and mortar fell from exposed sections of roof, making the whole chamber seem precarious. And maybe it was. Sites like this could survive millennia if undisturbed; but the moment their seal was breached, allowing in fluctuations in temperature and humidity, their structural integrity began to go.

She shone her torch around the chamber. It had something of the look of a church, with its vaulted roof, its colonnades of marble pillars along either flank, the passages and chambers that lay beyond. The roof was lower than a church’s, however, though in part that was because the pillars were buried to their waists in sand and other debris, either by slow accumulation or pushed into the bedrock beneath by the sheer weight of earth above, like so many tacks pressed down by a cosmic thumb. And all the other evidence suggested this hadn’t been a place of worship but rather some kind of banqueting hall. A marble tabletop that ran down its spine had long since toppled, of course, and now was mostly buried; yet it kept resurfacing, like some sea-serpent turned to stone by a glimpse of gorgon. Old benches lay either side, stone legs and traces of charred wood. Scorched bronze tripods and cauldrons stood against the walls, while warped metal and shattered earthenware bowls, vessels and utensils lay scattered everywhere in the sand and dirt.

The arches that flanked the hall on either side would presumably once have led to other rooms, courtyards or maybe even gardens, but most were now blocked by masonry, earth and sand, preventing their easy exploration. Butros had his men spread out in search of interesting artefacts. Many of the pieces proved to be Mycenaean, Cypriot or Egyptian. True to his word, he ordered those to be left behind. The majority, however, were Phoenician, and these he had carried to the hillock of rubble so that Faisal, left on guard up above, could hoist them to the surface for later transfer to the boat. This process underway, Butros took Karin by the arm. ‘The friezes,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’ she frowned.

‘The friezes. From the video.’ It took him a moment to realize she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘You haven’t seen the video? Then how did you find this place?’

She smiled. ‘That’s a long story. But what video? What friezes?’

‘You’re a Homer scholar, correct? Then come with me. You’re in for a treat.’ He led her deeper into the site, navigating confidently, almost as though he’d been there before. Then he pointed his torch up to illuminate a panel of white marble that ran around the top of this section of the chamber. Parts of it had fallen away, while others were blackened from the soot and scorching of an ancient fire, yet the scene he picked out for her was both intact and easy to make out: a handsome youth handing an apple to a woman while two other women watched from the cover of trees.

‘The Judgement of Paris,’ murmured Karin.

Bejjani smiled with vicarious pleasure and turned his torch onto the section of frieze opposite, in which a fearsomely built warrior was taking food with an older man, while two pairs of oxen grazed nearby. Achilles and Priam negotiating the return of Hector’s corpse. A third panel now, a battle scene, the dead and injured lying everywhere, while the gods watched on as though it was all an excellent entertainment. Tears pricked at the corners of Karin’s eyes. As a young girl, she’d been so captivated by Homer’s epic stories that she’d dedicated her life to them. Yet not for one moment had she ever envisaged playing a part in a discovery like this. ‘It’s Dido’s palace,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it. We’ve found it. We’ve really found it.’

‘Yes.’

The passage ahead was partially blocked by the broken pieces of a toppled column packed about with sand and earth that they had to clamber over. The floor beyond was broken. A vast slab of white marble had fallen in to reveal a staircase it once had covered. They had to squeeze between it and the old steps but it quickly opened up beneath. A labyrinth of low passages had been hacked out of the limestone bedrock, the open doorways either side leading to small chambers filled with extraordinary treasures: amphorae as tall as she was; smaller storage vessels still sealed and painted with marvellous designs; gorgeously decorated fine-ware; exquisitely carved ivories on shelves cut from the rock; wooden chests of gleaming necklaces, rings and other jewellery. An armoury of bronze and iron swords and shields. Cauldrons, tripods, platters, bowls and other vessels dulled by dust. She picked a dowdy goblet up from the dusty floor. Its weight so surprised her that she wiped it on her sleeve then shook her head in disbelief at the unmistakeable gleam. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘If Baykam wanted money so badly, why bother with an auction? Why not simply melt this down?’

‘Would you melt it down?’ asked Butros.

‘Of course not,’ she said indignantly. ‘It’s history.’

‘Our friend didn’t set up the auction merely to sell us a selection of these pieces,’ he told her. ‘He set it up in order to sell us the location of this place too. I think he feared for its safety should Varosha be handed back. And what do your late employer and I have in common, after all? We’re both known for looking after the artefacts we buy, and for donating them to museums. That’s why he chose us.’

They ventured on. Wherever they went, however, footprints in the dust invariably indicated that Baykam had been there first. They came across a pair of bronze doors that had fallen from their hinges at the head of a long, downward passage. The gradient was so gentle that the top steps were only lightly covered in sand; but the further down they went, the deeper this covering grew, turning it into a ramp of awkward footing, shrinking their headroom so severely that they soon had to stoop and then to crawl. Karin’s eyes grew raw with dust, she fought a cough, she scraped her scalp on the limestone ceiling, but at last she and Butros emerged into a square antechamber with another pair of bronze doors in the facing wall, only their top halves exposed. They were decorated with floral and geometric motifs, and the handles set in them suggested that they were designed to be pulled rather than pushed open, so that their bases were pinned shut by the weight of sand. A small trough in front of the left-hand one suggested that Baykam had tried to scoop away the sand in order to open it, but it was so fine and dry that it must have trickled back almost as fast as he’d cleared it, and so he’d given up.

Karin grinned at Butros. Butros grinned back. A fine thing to be one of the very first people into a newly discovered site of such extraordinary importance, one that had lain hidden for nearly three thousand years. But being one of the very first wasn’t the same thing as being actually the first. Not the same thing at all.

They rested their torches on the sand then set themselves to work.