Free Solomon's Throne by Jennings Wright Page A

houses here, so we will wish to stay aboard until we have made our arrangements.”
    “Very well. And how long shall we remain, sir?”
    “I should think we will be here at least five weeks. We will be exploring the ruins… It is a journey of some twelve to fourteen days with a small caravan, and not traveling to exhaustion. As Isabel will be making the journey, we will want to make sure not to tire her too greatly.”
    Isabel began to protest and then remembered… She would be riding on a camel! She shook her head in disbelief. Perhaps it was best that her father had not accompanied them back to Lisbon after all.

    The journey to Ctesiphon had, in fact, been completed in eleven days. The Bedouin guides had spent a week provisioning the caravan, making sure there were comfortable accommodations for the Xaviers in the form of a flowing tent that would be assembled each evening. The floor was lined with carpets, and a small brazier by the bed roll kept them warm during the chilly nights. Joao sat astride his camel during the long days, swaying side to side and also with a strange front to back motion. He had made this journey before, but had conveniently forgotten how sore his hind parts were for the first several days. A litter of sorts had been made for Isabel, much to her relief, but the long days of lounging on the platform against rolled up carpets made her bones ache.
    At noon on the eleventh day the caravan came in sight of the ruins of Ctesiphon. They had tracked up the Tigris River for much of the journey, except when it veered too far to the east, and had crossed it to the south of the ruined city. The days were monotonous, as the scenery did not vary from sand, stunted shrubs and trees, and more sand. Heading northeast, they could see the great arch in the distance. Joao turned back to Isabel and pointed.
    “There it is! We’re almost there!” Isabel smiled with relief. They would stay on the banks of the Tigris, near the ruins, for a week, exploring and enjoying the hospitality of the locals. Joao had camped within the ruins themselves on his previous visit, leaving it to the guides to procure provisions in the village as needed, so he did not think that he would be recognized.
    In a short while they were in front of the colossal structure. The enormous arch, the Taq-i Kisra, rose dozens of feet above them, with the wings of the palace on either side. Made of baked bricks, it rose out of the desolate landscape, quiet and lonely.
    “What happened to it?” Isabel asked in a hushed voice, sitting up on her litter atop the camel.
    “The Taq-i Kisra and the Shahigan-i Sepid…” The guide pointed to a mound of rubble that could only nominally be recognized as a former structure, “…were burned when the last of the great kings was overthrown by the Ottomans, a thousand years ago. They burned the library, the palaces… but the people were not harmed. The Arabs stayed for a time, but there were stories of the ghosts of our Persian ancestors, of the great kings who searched for their palaces. Slowly they moved up river, or to Bagdad. There is no one left now.”
    Isabel shuddered a bit, but looking at the Taq-i Kisra with its magnificent arch, and the enormous blue sky, she felt nothing but peace. She settled back against the rugs as the caravan moved on, past the site.
    Later that afternoon they arrived in the village of Hasuyn as Salih. The guide and his servants erected their tent on a hill overlooking the Tigris, and set about establishing a cooking area and the other necessities of camp. Village women arrived with dates and other fruits, as well as a flat fresh breads and cured olives. There was a fresh breeze from the river, and the air was cooling, as it always did in the evening. Isabel went to the tent to refresh herself before the evening meal, and Joao sought out their guide.
    “ Meu senhor, have you arranged the meeting that I asked for?”
    “Ah yes, sir, yes! The anciao will come for you in the