The romance of excavation

by David Masters

In 1835 Rawlinson, then a young man of twenty-five, took up his residence at Kermanshah, as commander of all the troops in the province. Behistun was no more than 20 miles away, and something must have told the soldier that here was the key to the riddle he sought. So, when opportunity served, he jogged along the old road to the rock of Behistun, and began to copy the inscription. He had no rope, no ladder to assist him. All he had to rely upon were his own sure feet and strong hands. A slip meant certain death, yet the risk sat so lightly on his shoulders that he made his dangerous way up and down the precipice three and four times a day.

There came a time when ladders were absolutely essential to secure the copies he needed. So narrow was the ledge at the foot of the sculptures that Rawlinson was forced to place his ladder almost perpendicularly against the face of the rock. For long periods he perched in a most precarious position at the top of the ladder and glued himself to the rock. The least little movement outwards on his part and the ladder would have overbalanced and plunged with him to destruction. He knew it, yet he continued his work as calmly as though he were at a desk instead of standing on a crazy ladder at the edge of a precipice.

On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion he escaped death by a miracle. He sought with his ladder to bridge a chasm in order to copy other inscriptions, but the formation of the rock made it impossible to place the ladder flat. Eventually, after some trouble, he arranged the ladder with one side resting firmly on each opposing rocky ledge, while the other side hung free immediately below.

Standing on the lower side, he took hold of the upper side of the ladder with his hands and started to walk across. Suddenly, without warning, the lower side of the ladder with all the rungs broke away from the upper side and dropped into the dizzy chasm. Rawlinson, as he fell, clung desperately to the top side of the ruined ladder. For a brief moment he swung on the verge of a terrible death, then, hand over hand, he made his way back to safety. In the end he managed to copy the Persian and Median inscriptions, but the other inscription in Babylonian on the outjutting rock defeated all his efforts to reach it.

For three years he studied his inscriptions, and began to lay their secrets bare. The first draft of his great work was written. Then duty called him elsewhere, and the Afghan War put an end to his studies, compelling him to lay his book aside.

It was 1844 before he was able to resume the work he was so anxious to do. That year saw him appointed British Consul at Baghdad, and he took up his residence in the city on the Tigris and his studies at the same time. He was once more in the neighbourhood of Behistun, and eventually he made his plans for procuring a copy of the Babylonian inscription which had defeated him years before.

Riding along the old highway to Behistun, he carried with him this time much rope and many sheets of thick paper. He studied the well-known rock from below. There was the long line of figures carved in the limestone, to their left the series of inscriptions cut in column. A little above, on the slanting rock, was the inscription he desired. Through a telescope he could make out the inscriptions he had already copied, but he needed the wings of an eagle to lift him to the other rock. He made his way round the top of the bluff, studying it from all angles, and concluded that it was impossible for him to obtain a copy of the last inscription.

He inquired among the Kurdish peasants for one who would climb up to the rock and make a copy in the way he directed. He offered a good reward, but the peasants shook their heads. They considered the feat impossible. Rawlinson, paying no heed, pushed his inquiries further afield, and at last came on a Kurdish boy who willingly undertook the task.

The lad was lithe, agile, sure-footed as a chamois, and he climbed up to the platform in front of the sculptures with little trouble. Equipping himself with some ropes and pegs and a hammer, he gazed up at his objective. The rock jutted outwards over the sheer precipice; it seemed impossible for anything but a fly to crawl over its face. For a little while the keen eyes of the lad sought for handholds and footholds; then he squeezed himself into a crevice at the side of the big rock and began to worm his way upward.

Rawlinson gazed on while the lad mounted a foot at a time. Often the climber stopped while his fingers sought another hold, then he progressed a little higher. But at last even he came to a stop; he was unable to go on.