The Seventh Scroll (Novels of Ancient Egypt)

by Wilbur Smith

  He estimated that he would need at least twenty men to secure and search the monastery, and to fend off the outraged retaliation of the abbot and his monks. He selected his best men personally. None of them was squeamish.

  Two hours before dawn he paraded them within the security of the Pegasus compound, under the glare of the floodlights, and briefed them carefully. At the end of the briefing he made each man step from the ranks in turn and recite his orders to ensure there was no misunderstanding. Then he inspected their arms and equipment meticulously.

  Tuma Nogo was painfully conscious of his own culpability in allowing the Englishman and the Egyptian woman to escape, and he could sense the danger in Herr von Schiller’s attitude towards him. He had few illusions about the consequences if he were to fail again. In the short time since he had made the acquaintance of Gotthold von Schiller, Nogo had come to fear him as he had never feared God or the Devil in the days of his priesthood. He realized that this raid was an opportunity to reinstate himself with the formidable little German.

  The Jet Ranger was standing by, the pilot at the controls, the engines running and the rotors turning lazily, but it could not carry such a large number of fully equipped men. It would need four round trips to ferry them all down to the assembly point in the gorge. Nogo flew with the first flight, and took Nahoot Guddabi with him. The helicopter dropped them three miles from the monastery, in a clearing on the banks of the Dandera river, the same drop area as they had used for the raid on Quenton-Harper’s camp.

  The drop area was just far enough from the monastery for the engine noise of the Jet Ranger not to alarm the monks. Even if they did hear it, Nogo was banking on the probability that they were by this time thoroughly conditioned to the frequent sorties of the machine, and would not associate it with any threat to themselves.

  The men waited in the darkness, warned to silence and not even allowed by Nogo to smoke, while the Jet Ranger ferried in the remaining troopers. When the last flight came in Nogo ordered his detachment to fall in, and led them in single file down the path beside the river. They were all trained bush fighters in top physical condition, and they moved swiftly and purposefully through the night. Only Nahoot was a soft urbanite, and within half a mile he was wheezing and whining for a chance to rest. Nogo smiled vindictively to himself as he listened to Nahoot’s pathetic whispered pleas for mercy as he was prodded along by the men behind him.

  Nogo had timed his arrival at the monastery to coincide with the hour of matins and lauds, the break of day. He led his contingent down the cliff staircase at a trot. Their weapons were at high port, all the equipment was carefully muted so as not to clatter or creak, and their rubber-soled paratrooper boots made little noise on the stone paving as they hurried along the deserted cloisters to the entrance of the underground cathedral.

  From the interior echoed the monotonous chanting and drumming of the ceremony, punctuated at intervals by the higher treble descant of the abbot leading the service. Colonel Nogo paused outside the doors, and his men drew up in double ranks behind him. There was no need for orders, for his briefing had covered every aspect of the raid. He looked the men over for a moment, then nodded at his lieutenant.

  The outer chamber of the church was empty, as the monks were gathered in the middle chamber, the qiddist. Nogo crossed the outer nave swiftly, with his detachment moving up close behind him. Then he ran up the steps to the wooden doors of the qiddist, which stood open. As he entered, his men fanned out in two files behind him and swiftly took up their positions along the side walls of the qiddist, their assault rifles cocked and locked, and with bayonets fixed, covering the kneeling congregation.

  It was done so silently and swiftly that it was some minutes before the monks gradually became aware of this alien presence in their holy place. The chanting and drumming died away, and the dark faces turned apprehensively towards the ranks of armed men. Only Jali Hora, the ancient abbot, was unaware of anything untoward happening. Completely absorbed in his devotions, he continued kneeling before the doors of the maqdas, the Holy of Holies, his quavering voice the lonely cry of a lost soul.

  In the silence Colonel Nogo marched down the centre of the nave, kicking the kneeling monks out of his way. When he came up behind Jali Hora he seized him by his skinny black shoulder and threw him roughly to the ground. The tinsel crown flew from his silvered pate and rolled across the slabs with a brassy clatter.

  Nogo left him sprawling and turned to face the rows of monks in their white shammas, addressing them imperiously in Amharic.

  “I am here to search this church and the other buildings of this monastery, on suspicion that there are dissident rebels and other bandits harboured here.” He paused and surveyed the cowering holy men haughtily and threateningly. “I must warn you that any attempt to prevent my men performing their duties will be regarded as an act of banditry and provocation. It will be met with force.”

  Jali Hora crawled to his knees and then, using one of the embroidered hangings for support, slowly hoisted himself to his feet. Still clinging to the tapestry of the Virgin and child, he gathered himself with an effort.

  “These are hallowed precincts,” he cried, in a surprisingly clear and strong voice. “We are dedicated to the service and worship of almighty God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

  “Silence!” Nogo bellowed at him. He unbuckled the flap of the webbing holster on his hip and placed his hand threateningly on the grip of the Tokarev pistol it contained.

  Jali Hora ignored the threat. “We are holy men in a place of God. There are no shufta here. There are no law-breakers amongst us. In the name of God the most high, I call upon you to be gone, to leave us to our prayers and our worship, and not to desecrate—”

  Nogo drew the pistol and in the same movement swung the black steel barrel into the abbot’s face with a vicious back-handed blow. Jali Hora’s mouth burst open like the rind of a ripe pomegranate; the red juice burst from his crushed lips and flooded down the front of his tattered velvet vestments. A low moan of horror went up from the ranks of squatting monks.

  Still clinging to the tapestry, Jali Hora kept his feet, but he was swaying and teetering wildly. He opened his shattered mouth to speak again, but the only sound that came from it was a high-pitched cawing, like that of a dying crow, and the blood splattered in bright droplets from his lips.

  Nogo laughed and kicked his legs from under him. Jali Hora collapsed like a heap of dirty laundry and lay on the paving, groaning in his own blood and spittle.

  “Where is your God now, you old baboon? Bleat to him as loud as you will, and he will never answer you,” Nogo chuckled.

  With the pistol he gestured to his lieutenant across the church. He left six of his men guarding the monks, four at the doorway and one at each side wall. The others bunched up and followed him to the entrance to the maqdas.

  The doors were locked. Nogo rattled the ancient padlock impatiently. “Open this immediately, you old crow!” he shouted at Jali Hora who still lay in a bundle, moaning and sobbing.

  “He is too far gone in senility,” the lieutenant shook his head. “His mind has gone, colonel. He does not understand the command.”

  “Break it open, then,” Nogo ordered. “No, don’t waste any more time. Shoot the lock away. The wood is rotten.”

  Obediently the lieutenant stepped up to the door, and gestured his men to stand well clear. He aimed his AK-47 into the wood of the door lintel and fired a long, continuous burst.

  Dust and chips of wood and stone flew in a cloud, and fresh yellow splinters splattered the paving. The noise of gunfire and the whine of ricochets was deafening in the echoing hall of the qiddist, and the monks wailed and howled and covered their ears and their eyes where they knelt. The lieutenant stepped back from the shattered door. The black wrought-iron hasp and staple hung at an angle, the supporting woodwork almost shot through.

  “Break it down now!” Nogo ordered, and five of his men ran forward and put their shoulders
to the sagging door. At their combined thrust there was a crackling, rending sound, and now the monks were screaming. Some of them had covered their heads with the skirts of their shammas so as not to have to witness this sacrilege; others were tearing at their faces with their fingernails, leaving long bloody gouges down their own cheeks.

  “Again!” roared Nogo, and his men rushed the door once more, using their shoulders in unison. The lock was ripped away from its fastenings, and they pushed the massive door fully open and peered into the dim recesses of the maqdas beyond. The chamber was lit only by a few smoky oil lamps.

  Now suddenly even these non-Christians were reluctant to cross that threshold into the holy place. They all hung back, even Tuma Nogo, despite his defiant protestations of non-belief.

  “Nahoot!” He looked back over his shoulder at the bedraggled and still sweating Egyptian. “This is your job now. Herr von Schiller has ordered you to find the things we want. Come here.”

  As Nahoot came forward, Nogo seized his arm and thrust him through the doorway. “Get in there, oh follower of the Prophet. The Trinity of Christian gods cannot harm you.”

  He stepped into the maqdas immediately after Nahoot and shone his torch around the low chamber. The beam of light danced over the shelves of votive offerings, sparkling on the glass and precious stones, on the brass and gold and silver. It stopped on the high cedarwood altar, lighting the Epiphany crown and the chalices, reflected from the communion plate and the tall silver Coptic cross.

  “Beyond the altar,” Nahoot cried out with excitement. “The barred gateway! This is the place where the Polaroids were taken.”

  He broke away from the group in the doorway and ran wildly across the chamber. Gripping the bars of the gate in his clenched fists, he peered between them like a prisoner sentenced to life imprisonment.

  “This is the tomb. Bring the light!” His voice was a high-pitched and frantic scream.

  Nogo ran to join him, brushing past the damask-covered tabot stone. He shone the torch through the bars of the gate.

  “By the sweet compassion of God, and the eternal breath of his Prophet,” Nahoot’s voice sank from a scream to a whisper, “these are the murals of the ancient scribe. This is the work of the slave Taita.” As Royan had done, he recognized the style and the execution immediately. Taita’s brush was so distinctive, and his talent had outlasted the ages.

  “Open this gate!” Nahoot’s tone rose again, becoming strident and impatient.

  “Here, you men!” Nogo responded, and they crowded around the ancient structure, trying at first to rip it from the cavern wall by main strength. Almost at once it became apparent that this was a futile effort, and Nogo stopped them.

  “Search the monks’ quarters!” he ordered his lieutenant. “Find me tools to do the job.”

  The junior officer hurried from the chamber, taking most of the troopers with him. Nogo turned from the gate and studied the rest of the interior of the maqdas.

  “The stele!” he rasped. “Herr von Schiller wants the stone above everything else.” He played the torchbeam around the chamber. “From what angle was the Polaroid taken—”

  He broke off abruptly, and held the light on the damask-covered tabot stone, on which the velvet-cloaked tabernacle stood.

  “Yes,” cried Nahoot at his shoulder. “That is it.”

  Tuma Nogo crossed to the pillar with half a dozen strides and seized the gold-tasselled border of the tabernacle cloth. He pulled it away. The tabernacle was a simple chest carved from olive wood, glowing with the patina that priestly hands had imparted to the wood over the centuries.

  “Primitive superstitions,” Nogo muttered contemptuously and, picking it up in both hands, hurled it against the cavern wall. The wood splintered and the lid of the chest burst open. A stack of inscribed clay tablets spilled out on to the cavern paving slabs, but neither Nogo nor Nahoot took any notice of these sacred items.

  “Uncover it,” Nahoot encouraged him. “Uncover the stone.”

  Nogo tugged at the corner of the damask cloth, but it caught on the angle of the pillar beneath it. Impatiently he heaved at it with all his strength, and the old and rotten material tore with a soft ripping sound.

  Taita’s stone testament, the carved stele, was revealed. Even Nogo was impressed by the discovery. He backed away from it with the torn covering cloth in his hand.

  “It is the stone in the photograph,” he whispered. “This is what Herr von Schiller ordered us to find. We are rich men.”

  His words of avarice broke the spell. Nahoot ran forward, and threw himself on his knees in front of the stele. He clasped it with both arms, like a lover too long deprived. He sobbed softly, and with amazement Nogo saw tears streaming unashamedly down his cheeks. Nogo himself had considered only the value of the reward that it would bring. He had never thought that any man could long so deeply for an inanimate object, especially something so mundane as this pillar of ordinary stone.

  They were still posed like this, Nahoot kneeling at the stele like a worshipper and Nogo standing silently behind him, when the lieutenant ran back into the cavern. Somewhere he had found a rusty mattock with a raw timber handle.

  His arrival roused both men from their trance, and Nogo ordered him, “Break open the gate!”

  Although the gate was antique and the wood brittle, it took the efforts of several men working in relays to rip the stanchions out of their foundations in the rock of the cavern wall.

  At last, however, the heavy gate sagged forward. As the workers jumped aside it fell with a shattering crash to the slabs, raising a mist of red dust that dimmed the light of the lamps and the electric torch.

  Nahoot was the first one into the tomb. He ran through the veil of swirling dust and once again threw himself to his knees beside the ancient crumbling wooden coffin.

  “Bring the light,” he shouted impatiently. Nogo stepped up behind him and shone the torchlight on the coffin.

  The portraits of the man were three dimensional, not only on the sides, but on the lid too. Clearly the artist was the same as the one who had executed the murals. The upper portrait was in excellent condition. It depicted a man in the prime of life with a strong, proud face, that of a farmer or a soldier with a calm and unruffled gaze. He was a handsome man, with thick blond tresses, skilfully painted as if by someone who had known him well and loved him. The artist seemed to have captured his character, and then eulogized his salient virtues.

  Nahoot looked up from the portrait to the inscription on the wall of the tomb above it. He read it aloud, and then, with tears still backing up behind his eyelids, he looked down again at the coffin and read the cartouche that was painted below the portrait of the blond general.

  “Tanus, Lord Harrab.” His voice choked up with emotion, and he swallowed noisily and cleared his throat. “This follows exactly the description in the seventh scroll. We have the stele and the coffin. They are great and priceless treasures. Herr von Schiller will be delighted.”

  “I wish I could believe what you say,” Nogo told him dubiously. “Herr von Schiller is a dangerous man.”

  “You have done well so far,” Nahoot assured him. “It remains only for you to move the stele and the coffin out of this monastery to where the helicopter can fly them to the Pegasus camp. If you can do that, you will be a very rich man. Richer than you ever believed was possible.”

  This spur was enough for Nogo. He stood over his men as they laboured around the base of the stele, digging in clouds of dust, levering the paving slabs out of their mooring. Finally they freed the foundation of the stele and between them lifted the stone out of the position in which it had stood for nearly four thousand years.

  Only once it was free did they realize the weight of the stone. Although slender, it was a solid half-ton weight. Nahoot went back into the qiddist and, ignoring the rows of squatting monks, pulled down a dozen of the thick woollen tapestries from the walls and had the troopers carry them back into the maqdas.

  He
wrapped both the stele and the coffin in the heavy folds of coarse-spun wool. It was tough as canvas, and afforded the men who were to carry it a secure handhold. Ten of the burly troopers were able to lift and carry the stele, while three men were able to handle the wooden coffin and its desiccated contents. This left seven armed men free to provide an escort. Then the heavily burdened procession moved out through the ruined doorway of the Holy of Holies into the crowded central qiddist.

  As soon as the assembled monks realized what they were carrying away with them, a shocked babble of voices, of lamentations and exhortations, rose from the squatting ranks of holy men.

  “Quiet!” Nogo roared. “Silence! Keep these fools quiet.”

  The guards waded forward into the mass of humanity, clearing a passage for the treasures they were plundering, laying about them with boot and rifle butt, shouting at the monks to give way and to let the staggering porters through. The hubbub rose louder, the monks encouraging each other with their howls of protest, whipping themselves into a frenzy of religious outrage. Some of them leaped to their feet, defying the commands bellowed at them to remain seated. They crowded closer and closer to the armed troopers, clutching at their uniforms, chanting and whirling about them in a challenging display of mounting hostility.

  In the midst of this uproar, suddenly the spectral figure of Jali Hora reappeared. His beard and robes were stained with blood, his eyes were crazy, bloodshot and staring. From his battered lips and ruined mouth issued a long, sustained shriek. The ranks of dancing monks opened to let him through, and he rushed like an animated scarecrow with his skirts flapping around his thin legs straight at Colonel Nogo.