Excerpt:
The Great Discovery
We had to flee with all possible haste. Hasan approached my camel and touched its muzzle. “We cannot leave him behind,” he said, just as the beast rose to its full height and allowed itself to be led with meek resignation. “This way!” He pointed toward one of the caves, and we slipped into its half-light in silence, abandoning the paved road. We ran among vast heaps of stone until we reached the blurred frame of a narrow grotto.
“The mercenaries,” he said between gasps. “I greatly fear that your American faces will be our undoing. We shall wait here until dawn. Insha’Allah,” he exclaimed, stroking his head.
He warned us that we must first cross the grotto, barely wide enough for a single body. Without warning, I saw something horrid—Hasan slit my camel’s throat. No! Had he gone mad? I was about to shout at him when he pushed me toward the opening. “Move!” he barked. “We’ve no time to lose!” I struggled for air as we crawled through the passageway. Professor Leakey stumbled over something and let out a groan so painful that it echoed through the darkness. “Silence!” Hasan rebuked us. Blind and clumsy without light, despair overtook us. I thought of Il Millione and turned it on. It brought a semblance of reason back to us, and soon I discovered another of its surprising functions: it could be used as a night-vision device. “Darayary, you genius!” I thanked him from that underworld.
I found Professor Leakey writhing in pain atop a slab; Hasan hurried to lift him. I noticed something: the professor had tripped over a metal object—some crude storage, I supposed, where they kept their ammunition. That made the danger far worse. This will end badly, I thought. Footsteps quickened outside the cavern. “To the back,” said Hasan. We dragged ourselves onward. “Ow!” A sharp object pierced the sole of my foot.
“What’s happened?” asked Professor Leakey. “Did the same thing happen to you?”
I remained silent. Escape was all that mattered. Soon we saw a solid rock wall; the professor stumbled again, clutching my arm as he fell. I braced myself on the ground, but dropped Il Millione. “No!” I crawled after it like a child. Voices grew closer.
“Professor Leakey? Hasan? Where are you? I cannot hear you,” I whispered.
No answer.
“Are you there?” I asked, trembling.
My hand brushed against a smooth, flat object with edges—Il Millione! I raised the lens—and there lay the back of the cave. Across the broad wall, painted in an Eastern style, was the face of a great bearded elder. It unsettled me. I explored the surroundings: ceramic jars filled with water, clay dishes, and nine anthropomorphic winged stones arranged in a circle upon a rocky platform. Above them hung strange implements whose symbolism I could not decipher. My philological instincts told me unmistakably: it was a sacrificial altar. Whose?
“Basilio?” I heard.
It was Hasan, emerging with a large knife in hand. Are you mad? I knew it the moment I saw him murder my noble animal in cold blood. I stepped back. He advanced relentlessly. “Hasan, what is wrong with you?” He seemed deaf. “Stop! You frighten me!” For an instant the image of Hasan fused with that of the Old Man on the Wall. The Old Man of the Mountain, lord of Nizari rites! It was all true. “This place is his sanctuary.” Hasan moved in eerie silence, eyes half-closed, brandishing the blade. He crept toward me, and I imagined the worst. “All this was part of a clever ruse.” At last he halted barely a meter away. I did not expect him to lunge, seizing my wrists with his powerful hands.
“Let go!” I shouted, struggling, collapsing onto the sand. “What have you done to Professor Leakey?”
He gripped my neck. “What is wrong with you, Hasan?” I cried weakly. “Why are you holding that knife? Oh, God—no, Hasan, no… Let me go!” I fought. “Now I understand: a Nizari redeeming himself with the blood of his people’s enemies.”
“Walk,” he ordered coldly. “In silence.”
“Why, Hasan?” I protested. “We trusted you. You cannot betray us.”
“Walk—and keep silent,” he whispered, covering my mouth with his great hands.
“It is war. Neither you nor your people may disentangle yourselves from it.”
“Ah… Silence, please!” he said in the gloom, shaking his hands. “There is fire in the cave…”
“You planned all this since Aleppo, didn’t you?” I went on. “You convinced Professor Lawrence to let you guide the caravan so you could lead us to slaughter. Your people bear mortal hatred for Americans. The trap is set. Those coming in are not mercenaries, no—they’re Nizaris like you! You intend to ransom us—or slaughter us as offerings to your angels!”
Hasan laughed strangely, almost in disbelief. He hurried me toward an unknown place.
“I won’t go on,” I said.
“Quickly,” he replied. “No time to lose. You’re coming with us. Are you armed?”
We reached the end of the wall: a great fissure split it like an arched niche. The traitorous Hasan meant to lock me inside.
“Are you armed?” he repeated.
“No,” I snapped, “but I wish I were.”
“What troubles you, young Basilio?” he asked with a spasm. He pushed me gently into the niche, which revealed itself to be a narrow passage. “Why have you spoken such injurious words, when all I have done is serve you since we left Syria?”
“Because you lied to us. You’ve led us into a trap.”
“I do not understand what you mean, Basilio,” he said. “But we shall speak once we’re outside. Use your device to see if the passage leads to the desert dunes.”
I refused.
“Listen, Basilio,” he said. “I know you hold a poor opinion of me—and of my brothers in faith. You distrust us. It is natural; I understand. I know there are fools out there who mix religion with politics to deceive simple minds and turn them into useful idiots. But such men exist in every creed. As for us—my people—we will not make that mistake again. Hear me: our God is Merciful, the One, and there is no God but the Compassionate. But He may not be yours, and I do not mean to convert you. My people do not hate Americans, despite the pain inflicted upon us. Many of our brothers live peacefully among you. Allah is not a god of war, but of the heart. Long ago, through death and suffering, we Nizaris learned never to mix politics with religion or with race.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, more incredulous than ever. “What happened to Professor Leakey? I heard him scream.”
“Professor Leakey is fine—perhaps a bit bruised,” he said. “I am trying to see whether this crack will lead us to the exit.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” I insisted.
“Please, young Basilio,” he pleaded, shoulders drooping, breathing deeply. “Do not argue. Can you not see the torchlight in the cave? Do you not hear footsteps coming toward us?”
Truthfully, my mind was paralyzed, unable to banish from it the grim tales of his people’s ferocity. Yet I feared even more the clatter of gunfire behind us. For some reason, I could not trust him. Every hypocrite has a price, I thought—so I would negotiate.
“What will you do with us? Ransom us or sacrifice us?” I asked, raising Il Millione to observe his expression. “Those men behind us—they are not your accomplices?”
“No, young Basilio. The Nizaris would never do such a thing. The Prophet’s Book forbids these barbarities,” he said solemnly, touching his forehead with his fingertips.
I distrusted him even more. That gesture—covering his forehead—suggested he was hiding something. Psychology class had taught me that much. Yes—Hasan was lying. He knelt on the ground and continued, more agitated:
“The men pursuing us are mercenaries—soulless creatures who kill for a handful of dinars. There is no faith in them. Dishonest. Brave and wise in speech, but cowards in deed. Allah knows I do not lie.” He straightened to his full height in reverence.
“Please, young Basilio,” he begged. “Use your device to see if there is a way leading to the desert dunes.”
Something in his words—more in his body language—made me believe him. While prostrated, his hands had opened supinely, without calculation. Footsteps were now very near. It was one of those critical choices. Should I trust him? Or was this his final snare? The danger was immediate.
I raised the night lens and we hurried through the fracture. Just as the legionaries entered the altar chamber, we reached a great burrow—only to discover that there was no exit. Merely a vast granite dome. The professor’s face collapsed. Hasan beat his head with his hands, praying desperately.
I leaned against the wall—and sank through it! Yes, I slipped beneath it! From above, a heavy object crashed into the center of the den—boom!—as I hit the dust on the other side. Hasan and the professor rushed to help me. Luckily I was unhurt. What had happened? What had fallen?
The extraordinary was about to unfold. They lifted me into their arms—a gesture I appreciated—but I begged them to find Il Millione, far more useful than I. They did. I was eager to know what the fallen object was. The professor recovered the device. Without waiting, I pointed the lens at the heavy mass.
What I saw was astonishing—astonishing even now. I thought only of my future fame as a scientist, should I survive this hellhole. “At last I shall taste victory right under Beveridge’s nose,” I thought, giddy, arrogant. I had found my treasure—a discovery of global magnitude. Yes! A papyrus? Ha! To hell with your papyrus, Professor Beveridge—your miserable scribbles cannot compare with the technical marvel before me!
“Professor, this is the discovery of the century!” I cried in ecstasy.
“What are you talking about, Basilio?” he replied, alarmed. “You must have hit your head.”
“Here,” I said, handing him Il Millione.
“Incredible!” he burst out.
I passed the viewer to Hasan, who fumbled with it clumsily until he finally saw the object clearly. His great black eyes widened.
“Nemrod!” he shouted, seized by terror.
I was jubilant, trembling with excitement at the thought that technologies we prize today were commonplace to the ancients. Darayary had to see this. I photographed it carefully, opened my email, and sent him a message with the images attached.
(Email omitted here for brevity; I remain faithful to the original content.)
I felt greatly revitalized—yet Hasan was still nervous.
“Calm yourself, Hasan,” I said. “It’s just an inanimate object.”
“No!” he retorted sharply. “Not just any object… It is—” He collapsed on the rocky floor.
“Professor,” I said, exultant, “is this discovery not more astonishing than the ancient Mayan Astronomical Center at Copán in our Mesoamerica, once vaunted as the greatest seat of human technological knowledge?”
“I can hardly believe my eyes. Extraordinary…”
“It is, dear Professor Leakey!”
“It is nothing but a curse upon whoever dares touch it,” murmured Hasan, shaken, trembling, hands to his cheeks. “You know not what you speak. A hundred years ago, a white man, a foreigner like you, first discovered Nemrod the Infidel—but he died under strange circumstances…”
“Layard?” the professor and I exclaimed together.
“Nonsense!” the professor added. “Layard died as many great generals do—in bed.”
Hasan fell silent. Smoke and flames flickered beyond the passage. Fortunately, the great rock wall hid us, provided we kept quiet. Outside, they celebrated some fresh plunder, shouting with wild joy. Hasan moved toward the fissure, as if to flee.
“Wait, Hasan!” I whispered urgently. He halted, uncertain. “Do not fear. Forgive what I shall say, for it goes against your beliefs: we do not fear curses. We fear men’s cruelty. I hope you understand. Take it not amiss.”
Hasan bowed his head, stunned.
“My dear Basilio,” the professor interjected, “I recall from Ceram’s studies that Layard discovered the palace of Ashurnasirpal II, who ruled Mesopotamia from 884 to 859 BCE, claiming descent from the biblical Nimrod. Hence the Mosul legend of the Tower of Babel rising here—though others situate it elsewhere. Layard himself linked this place to the Genesis account.”
“All right,” I said, thinking aloud. “Setting aside the Tower—which Layard and his team confused with the Assyrian fortress—what I have before me, Professor, no one has ever seen: it is the first automaton ever made by human hands, three thousand years old!”
Indeed, sprawled across the dusty floor lay the great metallic body of a giant man. Yes—my triumphant entrance into the Garden of the Delights of History! This was the first robot humanity ever built. Who would believe it? I photographed every detail. His appearance was beyond words: a conical helmet rose over his curled hair and thick beard; his garments were rendered like an Eastern bas-relief—heavy metallic skirts, tight tunics, broad shoulder plates. Within, I detected a complex arrangement of pipes—a beating heart of conduits. A splendid bow, arrows, a sword, a spear, and a massive mace from which a long chain hung completed his warrior form.
“Forgive me, Basilio,” said the professor, “but there is an inconsistency in your claim.”
“What inconsistency?”
“The automaton cannot be three thousand years old.”
“Why not?”
“Come now, Basilio—do not let enthusiasm blind you.”
“But tell me—why not?”
“Well, you know that metalwork, especially steel, was little advanced then. Iron was scarce—extremely costly—and forging techniques were still experimental. Bronze was the chief metal of Mesopotamia.”
“No, no, Professor,” I retorted. “You’re mistaken. Around 1600 to 1200 BCE, lacking tin for bronze, iron became common. Consider this, Professor: if iron was cast slowly in clay molds, is it not possible that, in those four hundred years, some craftsman experimented by mixing wrought iron with charcoal—thus producing primitive steel? My hypothesis is supported by swords, arrows, sculptures, and even a few Hittite cuneiform records from three millennia ago. So why could this automaton not function?”
“Well, young Basilio, let me answer before you answer yourself with that wonderfully persuasive dialectic of yours: aside from structural problems—how would they have powered such a giant?”
“Oh, God! Damn it! You’re right, Professor. That argument is solid. Still—I… No. I must examine it further. If my hypothesis proves true, Professor, History will have to be rewritten.”
I continued studying the robot. And to my astonishment, in its torso I found a hatch. I pulled it open. I could not help but gape: inside lay human bones. The automaton could be worn like armor! But what powered it? At the bottom of the cavity, an inscription in ancient Greek: Aegelphántés. Greek? My heart sank. I had hoped for a Babylonian origin—but the evidence crushed me. Time to use Il Millione as translator. The result: “AEGELPHÁNTÉS: ARGIPHONTE.” Of course! Hermes. Mercury. The burning planet. The allegory revealed the power source.
“I fear you are right, Professor,” I said, grudging yet satisfied.
“What do you mean, Basilio?”
“The robot is of Greek manufacture. It cannot have been made three millennia ago.”
“Greek manufacture?”
Yes. I recalled Professor Beveridge, his Greco-Latin classics, especially The Banquet of the Learned, where Athenaeus recounts that in 280 BCE an automaton, human in form, capable of eating, drinking, and moving, was presented to King Ptolemy Philadelphus. I remembered all that—and more, including Beveridge forcing us to perform ancient dramas on the gymnasium stage, under the crude laughter of the students. A ridiculous ordeal—but one thing leads to another. If such marvels were spoken of in antiquity, who might have crafted this device? A revelation dawned.
“Professor,” I said, inspired, “what does the phrase Mechaniké Syntaxis remind you of?”
He laughed. “Of course! Philo of Byzantium!” he cried. “Ah, Philo and his ‘automatic priests’ powered by pneumatic pressure! How could I forget?”
“Which explains the pipes inside.”
“Pneumatic pressure! That accounts for its possible operation. But how did it reach northern Iraq? Transporting such a thing then was unimaginable. And what justifies its existence?”
“How many times have we said that war is the mother of technological advances?”
“Some say so, but I disagree. It is a fallacy used to justify imperialist violence. War has existed for millions of years—but without peace, no civilization could ever arise. Peace, not war, makes us wiser.”
“I agree,” I said. “Dinosaurs lived for hundreds of millions of years, yet their culture of death produced no social advancement. They killed mindlessly. They were stupid.”
“Let us return to the robot, Basilio.”
“Right. Forgive me. Inside, the inscription reads Aegelphántés.”
“Argiphonte? Hermes—Mercury—by extension, the Sun.”
“Exactly, Professor. Who in those days might be represented as a sun?”
“Someone who changed the fate of the world.”
“A great Greek?”
“Well… to them he was Macedonian: Alexander the Great—he made Greece a world power.”
“Exactly, Professor Leakey! And Asia was Greece’s natural sphere of expansion.”
“Of course…!
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