— Hmm? Oh, yes. There was a man called Scylax who came here long ago. Longer ago than anything in the Museum. He travelled from Peshawar all the way down the Indus, and when he went away he took stories of the tribes who lived here.
— Stories of the Yusufzai?
— Stories of shade. For instance, there was a tribe called the Otoliknoi whose ears were like winnowing fans and could protect them from the sun in the manner of umbrellas.
— What?
— Oh yes. You haven’t ever seen them? No? Keep a lookout. And also for the Skyapods or Shadow-Feet. When it gets too hot the Skyapods lie down on their backs and raise one leg up. Their huge feet cast a shadow so big it gives them complete shade.
— I’ve never seen that.
— Next you’ll be telling me you haven’t seen gold-hunting ants either.
— I haven’t!
He looked stricken.
— Lucky you. So much yet to discover. Where are you going?
He had darted off, in search of something or following something, she didn’t know which. When she caught up with him around the other side of the pavilion he was standing above a Pathan man who was lying on his back, allowing Najeeb to manoeuvre his one raised leg this way and that.
— Look, Miss Spencer, the feet don’t have to be so large. It’s all about the angle of the leg and the position of the sun. See?
She had been close to Najeeb’s age that bright summer’s day when she saw a constable bend his head to hear something a schoolboy was saying, and the sunlight shimmered off his helmet crest, turning him mythical. She had turned to Tahsin Bey, and said, Scylax, coming to London, might have written of the Glaucocephalos — the gleaming-headed man — who had light where there should be a face and drew his power from the sun. Today, for the first time, she entirely understood Tahsin Bey’s delight.
The older Pathan stood up at the sight of Viv, cuffed Najeeb on the head, and stalked away. The boy ran back to her.
— What’s a winnowing fan?
The greater part of Asia was explored by Darius, who desiring to know of the River Indus, which is a second river producing crocodiles of all the rivers in the world — to know, I say, of this river where it runs out into the sea, sent with ships, besides others whom he trusted to speak the truth, Scylax also, a man of Caryanda. These starting from the city of Caspatyrus and the land of the Pactyike, sailed down the river towards the east and the sunrising to the sea. .
Beneath the whirring, nestless fan, Najeeb was barely able to get through the sentence, his tongue thick as he tried to manoeuvre it around the unfamiliar names, his brain clearly defeated by the syntax. He looked up at her, despairing.
— That’s Herodotus, the Father of History. Writing more than two thousand years ago. It’s not a very good translation — Darius trusted Scylax especially. Kai de kai, the emphasising phrase goes. Caspatyrus is Peshawar.
— Peshawar? But there’s no river here.
— The Bara River has changed course through the centuries.
— So, the Pactyike. .?
— Yes. You, Najeeb Gul. You are Pactyike. He’s writing about the Pathans. Turn to the page with the bookmark. They — you — appear again.
Others however of the Indians are on the borders of the city of Caspatyrus and the country of Pactyike, dwelling towards the north of the other Indians. . these are the most warlike of the Indians. .
He stopped reading there.
— Miss Spencer, may I ask you something?
— Of course.
— Have you ever met anyone who’s been to war?
— Many. Very many.
— Do they ever become the way they were before?
— I don’t know. I’ve only known them in the middle of war, not after. Why do you ask?
— I just wondered. May I go now? It’s getting late.
— Yes, of course.
— And may I come back tomorrow?
— Yes. Of course.
— I hear you’ve found yourself a civilising mission.
Remmick reached over the gate to undo the bolt, and gestured for her to go ahead of him along the garden pathway toward the ‘modest’ bungalow available to rent.
— You work for Empire in large ways, Mr Remmick, I work in small ways. Oh, this is perfect!
She walked past the Ionic columns supporting a red-tiled sloping roof and in through the doorway to a darkened interior. Remmick, following, closed the door behind him and touched her waist — when she quickly moved away, he apologised. Can’t see a thing in here. There was a sound of something rusty being eased, and the sunlight rushed in, revealing a high-ceilinged corridor and Remmick standing beside the heavy wooden window shutters, one hand on the bolt. Beyond the corridor was a spacious room with a large writing desk at its centre, facing shutters that reached from floor to ceiling. Viv opened them and stepped out into a garden bordered with a line of trees bearing flame-coloured flowers; and at the far end, a weeping willow. Perfect, she repeated, stepping out onto the verandah.
— I still think it would be better if you were at Dean’s.
— You’re very kind, but I’ll be perfectly all right on my own.
— Will he come here for lessons? Your civilising mission?
— His name is Najeeb, and yes.
— A Pathan is a Pathan at any age, I hope you remember that. They’re not accustomed to the company of women.
— I would swear this one has Greek blood in him. I call him the Herodotus of Peshawar.
— Just make sure there’s always someone else about when he’s here. I’ll send over staff you can trust. And also, the Pashto teacher you were enquiring about — I know you said Hindko, but most people here understand Pashto and you can use it throughout the Peshawar Valley.
— You really are very kind. When your wife is back from Simla, you both must come over for supper.
— It’ll be a while before she’s back.
— It’ll be a while before I have this place ready for entertaining guests.
— As you say, Miss Spencer. I’m available to you at all times.
Viv pretended not to understand his meaning, and walked out into the garden, smiling when he couldn’t see her; she had no intention of taking him up on his availability but it was both useful and flattering to have a man as powerful as Remmick attendant on her every need. He’d even promised to introduce her to John Marshall who planned to resume excavating Taxila when the weather changed — and once Marshall heard about Labraunda he’d ask her to join him, of course he would.
The thought of returning to London in December was fading.
Days fell into a routine: in the morning, Pashto lessons with a retired Anglo-Indian schoolteacher; in the afternoon letter-writing and dozing in darkened, thick-walled rooms; the evening, a lesson with Najeeb which might mean sitting in her garden with books or might mean an excursion to Gor Khatri, Bala Hisar, Pipal Mandi, the Museum — over and over, the Museum. At the end of the day there was almost always either a sundowner (or several) at the Peshawar Club with Remmick or an early supper at Dean’s with the Forbeses. And then home before the stars were out, to read by lantern-light in her garden which must have been designed by someone of nocturnal habits, it was so rich in night-blooming flowers.
As the Allied forces faced setback after setback in Gallipoli the news reports about Armenians grew ever more dramatic. ‘ARMENIANS SENT TO DIE IN THE DESERT’ read a headline. ‘MORE ARMENIAN HORRORS’ said another. Surely the propaganda department was overplaying its hand?