A Day Discovering the Palace of Nineveh, 1849
Time Surfing: Graphic History
Time Surfing: Experience History Firsthand.
Historical Backdrop
In 1849, most Europeans thought the mighty Assyrian empire was half-myth, known only from a few grim lines in the Bible about kings like Sennacherib. Our subject is Austen Henry Layard, a restless, self-taught young English explorer of about thirty-two. Working near the town of Mosul in Ottoman-ruled Iraq, he dug into giant grass-covered mounds along the Tigris River. Beneath them lay real palaces. At the mound called Kuyunjik — the true Nineveh — Layard’s hired Arab and Chaldean workmen tunneled through packed dirt and suddenly struck carved stone.
Mosul, Ottoman Iraq — before dawn, autumn 1849
You wake in a bare mud-brick room as the muezzin’s call floats over the river. Your body aches from yesterday’s digging. You splash cold water on your face, pull on dusty clothes, and eat a little flat bread and hard cheese by candlelight. Somewhere below, a horse stamps. You gather your notebooks and pencils and step out into the grey, cold morning air.
The banks of the Tigris, Mosul — first light
You walk down to the muddy riverbank where a ferryman waits beside a small wooden boat and a raft floated on inflated goatskins. The water is brown and cold, smelling of silt and reeds. You climb aboard, your young Chaldean assistant beside you. The ferryman pushes off with a long pole, and the far bank — where the great mound waits — slowly grows closer through the morning mist.
The plain below Kuyunjik mound — early morning
You ride a small horse across the flat, stony plain toward a huge grass-covered hill. Sheep bones and broken pottery litter the ground. Groups of workmen in ragged robes are already gathering at the base of the mound, leaning on picks and baskets, waiting for you. The sun is climbing and the air smells of dry grass and dust. You raise a hand in greeting and swing down from the saddle.
The excavation trench, Kuyunjik — mid-morning
You climb down into a deep, narrow trench cut into the side of the mound. The walls of packed earth rise above your head. Workmen chip and dig around you, dust rising in clouds that catch in your throat. You crouch, run your hand along a hard edge in the dirt, and feel the smooth, cut face of carved stone. Your heart quickens. You call out for a lamp.
Inside the buried chamber — late morning
