CHAPTER 4

She traced her fingers gently across the cuneiform indentations. Her digits registered every strike and flick made by the scribe's reed stylus, recorded in the small clay tablet four thousand years earlier. She found touch to be as important as sight when interpreting these most ancient of writings—and no-one was going to question her methods.

Doctor Talia Wells was one of the country's rising stars in the field of Middle Eastern history and philosophy. Talia had earned a doctorate in advanced cuneiform epigraphy five years earlier, from Harvard no-less, the first African-American woman to graduate from the University. Not bad for a preacher's daughter from Tennessee.

Talia had an almost psychic ability to crack these primordial texts quickly and accurately, breathing unique life into the long dead prose. Perhaps it was the years reading braille with her little brother, Sammy, that had helped Talia develop her unconventional way of working. The thousands of nerve endings in each of her finger tips relayed messages to Talia's brain that gave her a tangible, physical connection to the past.

"No working. Remember what I said? We're supposed to be taking the night off. You know, relaxing, maybe even having a little fun." Doctor Lawrence Cavendish approached Talia with two glasses of champagne and continued "Besides, this one's already been translated." Cavendish gestured to the printed card next to the museum exhibit that Talia was poring over.

"Yes, lousily!" Talia didn't even register the champagne. "Here, see, they've misquoted the goddess Ishtar 'I shall raise up the dead from the underworld and they shall take the living'" Talia pointed to a tiny, barely discernible symbol on the tablet—a squished rectangle with several strokes protruding from the right side. "This isn't the symbol for 'take'. This means 'to eat'. 'I shall raise up the dead from the underworld and they shall eat the living.'"

Cavendish feigned queasiness "Please, Doctor Wells, show some mercy, I've just over-indulged on the canapés." Talia smiled and lightened up a little. She took the champagne from Cavendish.

Cavendish raised his glass. "Now, here's to our success in the desert—hopefully just the beginning of a long and stimulating relationship." They clinked glasses.

Talia had only been working with the debonair British professor for a few months but they had developed a relaxed, easy way with each other. Cavendish was in his mid fifties, but his broad shoulders carried his age well; his blonde hair was turning a silvery white and was thinning at the temples, but he had retained his youthful good looks. She hadn't shown it, but Talia had been flattered when Cavendish sought her out. Of course, she'd let him work at charming her into taking the role, but in truth, she'd not needed any persuading. He'd offered her the chance to get some much needed field work under her belt and—so far—working with the professor had been a truly exhilarating experience. Cavendish had a passion for Mesopotamian history and mythology which equalled her own, and he was incredibly well connected; Talia knew of associates in Europe, Asia and North Africa, and he was actively involved in excavations across the Middle East. His site outside of Mosul had proved particularly fruitful of late, giving up some fascinating clay fragments dating from the Old Babylonian Empire. The pieces had added texture and clarity to existing Mesopotamian texts, and Cavendish was convinced the best was yet to come.

For Talia it had been invigorating. Her eyes and fingers had been the first to explore these tablets for four millennia, and she'd had the opportunity to make the original translations. Cavendish had had to practically drag her back to the States—there was a complication with their work permits—but he assured her it would all be straightened out soon.

In the meantime, there was plenty of work to do on the treasure trove they'd brought back with them, and she'd much rather be doing that work now, instead of being on show at this drab museum reception. As she sipped champagne Talia could feel the heat of the glances and side looks she was getting from every corner of the room. She was the most popular exhibit in the place.

Talia had been getting these looks ever since she stood up in second grade and announced to Miss Hanley and the rest of the class that when she grew up she was going to be an archaeologist. She remembered Miss Hanley taking the big encyclopedia off the top shelf to look up the word. From that day on the consensus was that Talia Wells had ideas several storeys above her station, she was trying to push through doors that weren't made to be opened, but that just made the strong willed little girl even more determined to keep her foot firmly wedged in there. Through college she actually enjoyed being different, standing out in the crowd—she'd had plenty of attention from guys, though most were just middle class white boys keen to brag to their friends that they'd notched up an insight into the 'black experience'.

Her daddy had always told her to hold her head high, that way she wouldn't be able to hear what they were saying down in the gutter. The preacher knew of what he spoke. The Reverend Michael Wells had battled poisonous adversity his entire life, he'd been subjected to physical and verbal abuse on a near daily basis, but had faced it down with a towering dignity. Talia missed him enormously. He'd given her so much. Her faith, obviously, but he'd also fanned the flames of her curiosity. The Bible was just the beginning for Talia, she wanted to know more about the world and the lives of the people she read about—people who could weather insurmountable hardship and take on great empires, all through their faith in God. That's where this had all began, a journey that had brought her here, to this stale museum reception on a muggy Friday evening—with a hundred eyes fixed on her every move.

"Doctor Cavendish, Doctor Wells," Charles Stanforth was the newly appointed museum curator, the poor guy was so desperate for tonight to be a success, but he was a walking wrecking ball—Talia had seen him collide with a waitress, trip over an elderly patron's walking cane and topple a fifteenth century Valencian vase, and she'd only been here for half an hour.

Stanforth continued. "May I introduce you to Doctor Jones? He's the associate dean at Marshall College and is responsible for acquiring quite a few of the items you'll see on display. Such as the... erm... well, why don't you fill them in, Henry?"

Oh great, Talia thought. Tonight just keeps getting better and better. She'd spotted Jones a little earlier—he'd been the one to catch the plummeting vase—but had hoped she could get through the evening without having to exchange pleasantries.

She'd first met him a few years earlier, while at Harvard, and she'd been pretty intimidated by the guy. Everyone had heard of Doctor Indiana Jones. He represented a romantic, swashbuckling style of archaeology that had fallen out of favour in recent years, but the guy was a legend, the last of his kind, and rumours persisted that he'd made several groundbreaking discoveries which had yet to be made public.

That initial meeting with Jones had been doubly nerve-wracking for Talia as she was dating his son at the time. The relationship hadn't lasted long, she liked Mutt—yes, that's what he called himself—he wasn't afflicted with pretension like most of the boys on her course, and they had an undeniable chemistry. But, to be honest, the writing had been on the wall from the start.

They'd met when Talia had been protesting against segregation and Mutt was one of the soldiers called in to try and 'keep the peace'. Anyway, he was due some leave and they got to know each other pretty quickly, it was a crazy couple of weeks, and that's when he'd introduced her to Jones. Things didn't get off to a great start when she questioned the ethics of Jones' smash and grab approach to archaeology, and it was downhill from there. She and Mutt had gone their separate ways shortly afterwards and Talia hadn't seen the Doctor again, until tonight.

As he shook her hand, a slight tension in Jones' smile let Talia know he'd rather have avoided this encounter too.

"Doctor Wells, nice to see you again," Jones turned to Cavendish. "Doctor Cavendish. I understand you've been a generous donor to the museum over the years."

"One must do what one can." Cavendish glanced to Talia, then back to Jones. "Am I to understand that you two have been previously acquainted?" Cavendish didn't miss a trick. Talia passed the empty champagne glass to a waiter as she processed how best to explain her and Jones' relationship to her employer. Thankfully Jones dove in first.

"Doctor Wells and my son were... involved a few years ago." His eyes met Talia's. "Though I only had the pleasure of Doctor Wells' company for one evening."

"How is Mutt? Is he still serving?"

"No, the military wasn't a ... good fit."

"So what's he up to now?" Jones didn't answer immediately and as the question hung in the air, Talia kicked herself for asking it; clearly father and son weren't on the best of terms—which didn't surprise her, given how Mutt used to speak of his dad.

Luckily Cavendish interjected. "I believe you served, didn't you, Doctor Jones? You were highly decorated, I understand?"

"One must do what one can." Jones's smile wasn't altogether warm, but Cavendish chuckled as he got the joke.

"Very good, Doctor, very good."

"How about you? RAF? Royal Navy?"

"Dicky ticker, I'm afraid." Cavendish patted his chest. "Had to sit it out, more's the pity!"

A glint of light caught Talia's eye, reflected from an object in the display cabinet behind Jones. Talia saw the crisp, flawless outline of a blade, cast from bronze yet gleaming like gold. It seemed to call out to Talia, the world around her became hazy and distant. Cavendish and Jones were talking but their voices were muffled and vague, as if heard through water. She could feel her heartbeat quickening, the blood surging through her veins. She roughly pushed past Jones, pressed her palms against the glass and gazed upon the most exquisite object she'd ever seen.

The sword was pristine, flawless, too perfect; its razor tip glistening under the glare of the display lights. The twenty five inch blade was attached to a handle which dazzled a spectacular deep-blue; carved from lapis lazuli, it had been painstakingly engraved with entwined human figures surrounding the Mesopotamian symbol of the sun—a circle in the centre of a four pointed star radiating lines of sunlight.

"The Sword of Irkalla. It's real? It's here?!"

"Yes, it is rather spectacular, isn't it?" Stanforth had rejoined them. "It came as something of a pleasant surprise when I was rummaging through the archives, goodness knows how long it had been stuck down there collecting dust."

"The sword wielded by King Gilgamesh of Uruk. There were rumours it had been found, but..." Talia was spellbound. "Over four thousand years old, but look at it, it's immaculate. It could've been forged yesterday."

"It's an unusual alloy. Copper and tin, obviously, but there's something else in there too," Stanforth continued. "We haven't quite been able to get to the bottom of it. Some ancient alchemy. If memory serves, it was one of your early discoveries, wasn't it Henry?"

Talia looked to Jones, her eyes ablaze "You? You found it?!"

Jones nodded reluctantly. Talia, everyone, could sense his unease. Seems he was as surprised as Talia to find this particular artifact on display, he threw an irked glance at Stanforth. "A long time ago."

"Where? Surely a find of this magnitude should have been—"

Jones cut Talia off. "Like I said, it was a long time ago."

"But you can't just—"

Cavendish jumped in "Let's not interrogate Doctor Jones."

Talia looked to Cavendish, why wasn't he as energised as she was by this discovery? "This sword might be actual proof that Gilgamesh transcends mythology—that he's a real, historical figure." Cavendish shifted uneasily, he glanced to Jones, a faint apologetic smile on his lips, but Talia continued. "It could completely transform our understanding of Mesopotamian, no world, history. It's the most important discovery since... since... Tutankhamen!" she turned to Stanforth "You should be screaming about it from the rooftops!" then to Jones. "Did you see him? Did you see Gilgamesh?"

"Please, Doctor Wells." Cavendish implored her, but Talia continued to press Jones.

"Do you believe the legend? Do you believe the sword was bestowed on Gilgamesh by the gods? That it somehow contains their power?"

Jones smiled dismissively and shook his head. But Talia could see through him. Why was he so cagey? What was he hiding?

"I really should find my wife. Last I checked she was in danger of being bored to death by Professor Oxley. Doctor Cavendish," Jones looked to Talia. "Doctor Wells. It's been... interesting. Excuse me." Jones disappeared into a sea of dinner suits and cocktail dresses.

Talia looked back to the sword; it pulled at her, the attraction magnetic. She longed to hold it in her hands, to let her fingers unravel its secrets.

As the evening drew to a close Indy couldn't shake his foul mood. This would never have happened on Marcus' watch. He supposed it was his own fault for letting the museum hang onto the damn thing. But he'd assumed the safest place for it was hidden away in the underground vaults. Besides, there had been a very clear agreement—it wasn't for public display; it would draw too much attention and raise too many questions. Questions he likely couldn't answer.

Still, it wasn't really Charlie's fault, the poor guy had enough on his plate, and had agreed to pack it away in the morning, before the museum opened. Of course, Charlie had no knowledge of the agreement between Indy and Marcus, and why should he? The museum's management had changed countless times since then.

There'd been no harm done. Wells was the only person who'd shown any interest in the thing, and Indy was glad she had, otherwise he likely wouldn't have noticed it. Still, she had a way of getting under his skin. He'd only met the girl twice and both times he'd ended up in a stinking mood.

Indy took Marion's coat from the cloakroom attendant and helped his wife slip it on.

"So, c'mon Jones, spit it out. What's eating at you?"

Indy glanced up at the menacing jaws of a T-Rex skeleton cast as they strolled through the museum's marble pillared atrium.

"What do you mean?"

She gave him a look that told him to try harder.

He sighed. "It's nothing." Lights in the exhibition rooms flicked off behind them as the last few people filed out. "You know I can't stand these things. Too many people in love with the sound of their own voices. Everyone's gotta have a goddamn opinion on everything." Indy tried a smile. "You lit the place up, though. As always."

"Hah! When you start with the compliments then I know something's going on."

A paunchy security guard held open the front door, Marion threw him a smile. "Thanks Barney, goodnight."

"And to you Mrs. Jones, Doctor Jones."

As they stepped outside Indy was hit by a single raindrop, a storm was readying to freshen up the warm autumn air and he regretted not bringing his fedora. They walked down the museum steps. On the far side of the tree-lined plaza Cavendish and Wells were climbing into a taxi. Marion noticed them.

"Now I get it. You were talking to her earlier. That's why you're walking around like a bear with a pinecone up its ass." Marion linked Indy's arm and leaned in close as she affectionately teased him. "What she say to you this time?"

Indy sighed and shook his head. "I reckon the kid had a lucky escape with that one." Indy couldn't even convince himself that this was true. Despite her ability to bug the hell out of him, Indy couldn't help but admire Wells. She was headstrong, gutsy, intuitive and—by all accounts—brilliant; whereas Mutt... well, Indy would rather not think about his son, he was pissed enough already.

"I liked her a lot. Mutt really blew it there." Marion continued. "The Jones' boys never know what they've got till it's gone. They need someone to keep them on their toes." Indy wasn't gonna argue with that.

Rain sliced through shafts of streetlight and pelted the sidewalk. Drains spluttered under the deluge, the road fast becoming a river as Indy and Marion hurried along a street behind the museum. Soaked to the skin, they giggled at Indy's futile attempt at chivalry—shielding Marion with his sodden dinner jacket.

Indy ran into the road, rummaged for his keys and quickly opened the passenger door of his black '61 DeSoto. Marion climbed in, still laughing. Indy readied to shut the door, but something caught his eye and he paused, looking back toward the museum.

"What is it?" asked Marion.

A beam of torchlight danced in one of the second floor museum windows.

"Someone's up there."

Marion leaned forward and squinted through the rain streaked windscreen. "So? It's probably just one of the guards."

"Probably." Indy wasn't convinced.

"Will you shut the door and get in?"

Indy wasn't listening. "But why's he moving round so much?"

"I dunno, maybe he dropped his cigarettes. Jesus! Jones, come on! We're gonna be swimming home at this rate!"

Indy sighed. It was likely nothing. He slammed the door shut.