Page 72 of Troy Story
Shit. Since everyone lived and worked together, an illness like this could knock out the whole crew. “Do you want a ride back to the field house? Kerim or I could drive you if you’re not up for it.”
“I can drive myself. I’ll take the truck. That way, you’ll have the two Land Rovers, plus Mort’s car.”
“Okay. I think Em can handle the other Land Rover.”
“Good. I’ll see you back at the field house this afternoon. Text me if anyone else gets sick. I’m hoping this bug won’t spread.”
“Will do. Hope you feel better soon.”
As Stuart watched him walk away, he pressed his hand over his stomach. So far, he didn’t feel ill. No pain, no dizziness, no other symptoms. Whatever had sidelined Dusty and Dr. Hughes, he hoped it wasn’t too contagious.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
Leaving her clothes in the washing machine, Dusty ran to Dr. Hughes’ room and unlocked his door. The room smelled as bad as she remembered, with dirty socks and balled-up underwear on the floor. After stuffing the spare keys in her pocket, she opened the doors to his wardrobe. There, behind the bottles of wine, brandy, and raki, was the faded green knapsack Dr. Hughes had been carrying that morning.
She grabbed a strap and hauled it up, surprised at the weight of it. Pushing aside the pile of rumpled bedclothes, she set the pack on the bed. She unzipped it and pulled out a heavy rectangular object wrapped in a towel. As she unfolded the towel, she fumbled and dropped the object on the bed.
With a small bounce, it landed faceup, revealing an inscribed tablet.
Her breath hitched, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than dropping a three-thousand-year-old tablet and watching it shatter into pieces.
Placing a hand over her chest, she inhaled slowly, willing herself to calm down.
But it was hard to keep composed while staring at a piece of history.
The tablet was dark grayish brown, baked out of clay, about the size of a hardcover book. The top edge was jagged, as though a few pieces had broken off, but the rest was in perfect shape, other than a slight weathering around the edges.
Every inch of the tablet was covered in cuneiform script—a system of writing used during the Bronze Age. It consisted of small, wedge-shaped indentations created by a stylus, an ancient version of a pen usually made from reeds.
Over the years, Dusty had encountered plenty of awe-inspiring finds. She’d seen her parents uncover intact tombs, ancient mummies, and golden jewelry worth thousands. But this worn tablet filled her with a sense of awe she hadn’t experienced in a long time.
She recalled one of her favorite lines fromRaiders of the Lost Ark, a movie her parents loathed but which she secretly loved. When Indiana Jones had tried to blow up the Ark of the Covenant, his rival Belloq had dissuaded him by saying: “We are simply passing through history. But this, thisishistory.”
This tabletwashistory.
If the inscriptions had been written in Greek or Latin, she might have been able to decipher them. But she’d never studied cuneiform. For all she knew, the writing on the tablet could be one of a dozen ancient languages, including Sumerian, Akkadian, Hittite, or Linear B. She didn’t have the first clue where to start.
But she knew someone who did.
Not only was her father an expert in ancient languages, but he also loved a challenge.
She pushed aside the blankets until she’d cleared a space for the tablet on the bed. Using her phone, she took a series of photos, zooming in on the details. Not for the first time, she wished her father owned a smart phone so she could text him the pictures immediately. Instead, she’d have to send him an email.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled up the email app on her phone. After attaching all the photos, she fired off a quick message:Any chance you can read this writing? I promise I’ll explain later.
She hit Send but knew better than to wait for an immediate response. Since it was only 3:00 a.m. in Boston, chances were good he wouldn’t check his email for another four or five hours. Then she’d have time to tell him the whole story. For now, she needed to contact Stuart. She was just about to text him when a gruff voice shattered the silence.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Hughes demanded.
She gasped and dropped the phone, sending it clattering across the floor.
Before she could grab it, he swooped in and snatched it up. He pressed his fingers on the screen, no doubt to stop it from locking up. “Were you texting Stuart? Showing him what you’d found?”
“N…no. I…didn’t…” Though her heart was pounding furiously, she refused to let him intimidate her. “Give me my phone.”
He scowled at it. “Not until I get rid of all these photos.”
As he took his time deleting them, her jaw tightened, her fear giving way to irritation. Once he was done, he stuck her phone in his pocket and regarded her with a smirk. “There. That’s better.”
