The Tenth Saint

by D. J. Niko

  The terrain had been the same for many moons— a great desert ocean stretching in every direction, rippling with waves of high dunes sculpted by the eternal dance of sand and wind. The color changed with each passing hour. Sunrise painted the sands in the electric ochre of raging flames. Late morning brought with it the warm rosy glow of a blushing virgin. In the afternoon the sand took on the hue of a lion’s hide. By dusk it turned brick red with long black fingers cast by the waning sun.

  As the shadows deepened and the land succumbed to the inevitable darkness, Gabriel wrapped himself in his woolen blanket, which doubled as the camel’s saddle, and looked to the horizon for the rising moon. On one occasion, the orb, so close he thought he could touch it, emerged from the peaks of the sand mountains and illuminated the sky as if it were day. As brutal as this place was, it was a breathing, living being that embraced him.

  His destination was the kingdom of Sheba. At the westernmost point of Sheba, Hairan had told him, he would find the port city Muza, the very end of Arabia. From there he would board a baghlah, a sailing ship that would carry him across the sea to the savage lands. Civilization seemed an eternity away as he walked, kicking up plumes of dust with his every step. After long days of hard travel, his feet had blistered and bloodied inside the sandals he had made long ago from scraps of dried sheep’s hide. His indigo robes had become brittle with dirt and dried sweat, and with no way to clean up he smelled like a combination of cured meat and stagnant urine. He had grown accustomed to the stench, as much a part of him as the graying beard grazing his collarbone, the deep lines mapping his tanned face, and the tangles of dirty blond hair well hidden inside his turban.

  Gabriel didn’t know how many days he had been traveling. Counting was a Western inclination and of little use here, so he’d stopped marking time and let himself rise and fall with the sun and be carried by the simoom that blew hot and dry over the desert. Days and nights dissolved into one another like salt into water, until the morning he crossed the path of the Himyarites.

  Gabriel walked past the caravan, where men sat in a circle drinking from small clay cups. He smelled coffee. The men were dark skinned and black bearded, their heads bound tightly with yards of white cotton. They stared at Gabriel with hard frowns, their looks betraying suspicion and anger, but they did not speak.

  Gabriel greeted the tribe with a bow. Speaking in the Bedouin dialect, he said, “Hail, brothers. Where do you come from?”

  The men looked at each other inquisitively, and one barked out some words that Gabriel did not understand.

  There was no mistaking the man’s unfriendly attitude. He knew he would have to be careful, for these desert dwellers surely were looking for trouble. He lowered his head and hunched his shoulders, hoping his fellow travelers would interpret it as a gesture of submission and cease to be threatened by him.

  The leader spoke. Gabriel picked up the Semitic word for Roman along with the contempt these men obviously felt for the white men from the West. Even filthy and weather-beaten, he did not look like one of them. His features and stature betrayed his foreignness. Clearly, that had a different meaning among these people than it had among the Bedouins.

  “I mean no harm, wise brothers. I am not Roman. I have lived with Bedouins for many moons. My way is that of the nomad.”

  One of the men spoke. Then another. The leader waved the other men down and turned to Gabriel, pointing at his camel.

  Gabriel read the comment as a provocation but didn’t let it show. “He has been my friend through good days and bad.”

  The leader rose, his bloodshot obsidian eyes staring at Gabriel with contempt. He spat on the ground and spoke gruffly as he attempted to snatch the camel’s reins from Gabriel’s hands.

  It was plain to Gabriel that he could not avoid this confrontation with kindness. “I don’t care to part with my camel any more than you care to part with yours.” He straightened his body and looked down at the Himyarite. “Now I will take my leave. Safe travels, brothers.”

  Leading his camel by its rope reins, he backed away from the group. As he walked toward the west, he could hear laughter and shouts behind him, the crass mockery of hooligans. He quickened his pace, eager to escape an altercation. But he knew his foes wouldn’t be satisfied with a peaceful farewell. He heard the shuffle of a djellaba behind him but didn’t turn around, hearing Hairan’s voice inside his head: Let what will come, come. Fear is the enemy of men.

  A massive weight hit his back, and he fell to his knees. An arm wrapped around his neck. A fist smashed his temple. A burly Himyarite turned him on his back and held his arms down while another drove a knee into his abdomen. Gabriel gasped for breath. Several fists descended upon his face, punishing him until he slipped out of consciousness.

  When Gabriel regained his senses, he was shivering from the pain and loss of blood, his body broken. He tried to stand but fell in breathless agony. He gathered his knees to his chest to warm up. When that didn’t work, he dug a pit and dragged his body inside, covering himself up to the chest with sand, as he had seen the Bedouins do on especially cold nights.

  The sandy tomb cradled him. For all the burden that lay atop him, he felt surprisingly weightless. He prayed silently. God, if you have not left me, hear me now. I would rather be dead, dwelling with my beloved and our son in a place that knows not grief nor despair nor the ignorance of men. What hope is there here amid so much hatred? We were fools to think we could change anything. I beg you, let me be taken by sleep and never awaken. Let my body be covered with the eternal sands. Let my flesh nourish the scorpions and my bones calcify the land. And let my spirit escape this prison of consciousness that tortures me like a flesh-eating plague.

  Exhausted from the confrontation and his own conflicting emotions, Gabriel fell into a deep sleep.

  When the morning sun beat down on his face, he woke with a start. For a moment, he wondered where he was and how he had come to be there. Then, as the fog of sleep lifted, he recalled everything and regretted that the Himyarites hadn’t finished the job. He fought the cruel stabs of pain to rise out of his sandy cocoon.

  He felt for gashes on his face and head and realized his nose had been broken, his forehead split open. The wounds were caked with dried blood and sand. A tooth was missing, and his lips were cracked like the flats of the Sahara in the dry season. He looked for his water bladder and saw it was gone, along with everything else—his camel, his possessions, even his makeshift sandals.

  Though he trembled with rage, he didn’t have the strength to shout. He kicked the sand, but his feet couldn’t do the bidding of his brain and he fell gracelessly. His chest heaved, and he sobbed without tears.

  Fourteen

  By the meager lamplight, Sarah read and reread the pages of the codex to make sure she was not missing anything. A few words were unfamiliar, but she deduced a rough meaning from their context. Though the language was nebulous, almost cryptic in places, she could tell by the author’s urgent, grave tone that this was a warning. She sat back on the rickety chair and crossed her arms.

  Daniel broke her concentration. “Enough of this suspense. What does it say?”

  She shook her head. “Well, the theory about this being a prophecy is correct. I can say that much. Some of it is downright chilling. And some of it makes no sense at all.”

  “Read it to me. We can figure it out together.”

  Sarah read slowly, attempting to find the proper words in English. The ancient Greek language was so full of nuance and color it didn’t always translate easily. English simply wasn’t as textured, and the corresponding words often did not exist. She gave it her most valiant effort.

  Sarah looked at Daniel intently, waiting for his reaction.

  He was silent.

  Tension hung thick in the room.

  “The apocalypse,” he finally said, breaking the silence, “or some version of it. The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood. And the second angel sounded, and
a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea: and the creatures which were in the sea and had life died.”

  “Revelation 8. There is also talk of a beast in Revelation, one that rises up out of the seas—presumably Satan.”

  “Yes, but something doesn’t rhyme with the good book. This Gabriel says he left his destroyed world behind. That he was one of three who escaped … as if he was not merely a prophet but a man who had lived through the end of ends, as he calls it. Question is, when did it happen?”

  “Something about it sounds awfully modern.” She turned the pages. “Look at this part: he will rape her and dig into her core, sucking out the black blood that runs through her veins. Doesn’t that sound like drilling for oil?”

  “Sounds plausible to me,” a voice behind them spoke.

  Daniel and Sarah turned. An Ethiopian man wearing a woolen balaclava stood at the entrance of an open doorway, a movable wall so well concealed that neither of them had noticed it before. The three holes of the balaclava revealed the man’s charred skin, which hung loosely over pink, raw flesh.

  Apostolos’ murderer.

  In one swift motion, Daniel grabbed his revolver and pointed it at the masked man. “Who are you? Speak or I’ll put you out of your obvious misery.”

  ”I wouldn’t do that, Dr. Madigan.”

  Daniel turned around.

  A second man was in the room.

  A pistol pressed the back of Sarah’s head.

  “Slowly drop your weapon.” The man spoke in English.

  Sarah looked at Daniel but didn’t dare speak.

  Daniel dropped his gun. The leader called out to another of his associates, who picked up the gun, made sure it was loaded, and pointed it at Daniel. “I am Mr. Werkneh. I bring the regards of Mr. Matakala. He regrets he couldn’t come greet you personally, but you will see him soon enough.”

  Matakala. Sarah wasn’t surprised the director of antiquities was corrupt; she’d suspected it all along. But she hadn’t imagined that a government official was the mastermind behind the killings, nor could she fathom his true motives. Her mind raced across a field of possibilities. Had Matakala contracted with a collector for these relics? Was he working for Apocryphon or against them? Was this a matter of faith or greed?

  “Turn around.” The man prodded Sarah with his weapon.

  She turned to face him. The Ethiopian, a short man of husky build, hid his eyes behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. A half-spent cigarette hung from the corner of his fleshy mouth.

  She glared at him. “Just answer me this. How did you know about the codex?”

  Werkneh laughed. “We have good informants. You see, this is Africa. For the right price, everyone is a traitor.” He glanced toward the masked man. “I believe you’ve met Brehan. Not so long ago, Brehan was the chief acolyte of Brother Apostolos. He was being groomed to succeed him as the guardian of the Sheba Stone and the church’s archives … the documents in this very library. But he came to realize he could be so much more than a monkey in white robes. He craved the company of women, not men. He liked the idea of driving a Mercedes and drinking beer. The church couldn’t do all that for him. Isn’t this true?”

  Brehan laughed.

  Sarah’s stomach turned. All it had taken was a fistful of worldly goods and the promise of pleasure for this former disciple of God to sell his soul. He had been entrusted with the secrets of Yemrehana Kres-tos, down to the hidden entrances to the church’s most holy of holies, and he’d bartered them without remorse. She considered how painful it must have been for Apostolos to come face-to-face with his acolyte’s betrayal. Even so, he had let Brehan live. He could have easily ended it in the labyrinth, while Brehan had lain defenseless, but that was not his way. She wasn’t sure she would have done the same.

  Werkneh picked up the codex. “What he didn’t know was how to get to this. Apostolos kept that little secret to himself all these years. And yet … he told you.” He looked her up and down and licked his ample lips. “Tell me, Dr. Weston, how did you get him to trust you? Did you pleasure him in that dark chamber?”

  Sarah’s face burned, and she instinctively struck Werkneh’s face. His glasses crashed to the floor. Snarling, he grabbed Sarah by the throat. The barrel of his gun trembled in his hands as it dug into her forehead.

  She didn’t struggle but spoke behind clenched teeth. “Go ahead and kill me, you bastard. Or don’t you have the guts?”

  “It would give me immense pleasure,” he hissed, “but Mr. Matakala wants you alive. You can still be of service to him.” He waved Brehan over.

  The masked monk slipped handcuffs around Daniel’s wrists, then Sarah’s, and covered their heads with burlap sacks.

  The car ride was long and tortuous. The incessant bumps, twists, and turns told Sarah they were in a remote part of the country, well removed from asphalt roads and stoplights: a place where a band of thugs could go about their dirty business undetected. Hours seemed to pass before the car lurched to a stop.

  Sarah and Daniel were marched inside. She heard footsteps around the room. A mobile phone rang, and a man answered. She couldn’t make out his words.

  At last, their hoods were removed.

  Sarah’s eyes had to adjust to the brightness of the room. Beyond the surrounding bare windows was a remarkably well-maintained rose garden. A mountain range loomed in the distance, but it offered no clue as to where they were. In Ethiopia, mountains always lined the horizon. The room itself was painted white and sparsely furnished. There was a sofa covered loosely in white linen with traditional red embroidery, some floor cushions, and a low tea table. Bookcases, packed to every available square inch with books and overstuffed notebooks, lined the walls. Sarah and Daniel, still handcuffed, were told to wait for “the boss” and left alone.

  “So. Your friend Mr. Matakala resurfaces,” Daniel said. “Maybe this time he’ll tell us what he really wants.”

  “Would you believe him even if he did? Things are so convoluted here. You can’t count on anyone for the truth.”

  “True, but there’s a reason we’re here. Maybe he wants to strike a bargain.”

  “What bargain? He has everything. The codex, the cross, access to the tomb. What can we possibly offer him at this point?”

  The door creaked open, and Andrew Matakala walked in, looking dapper in a khaki linen suit with a navy T-shirt underneath. He took a seat on the sofa and crossed his legs, his bony ankles exposed between crisp trouser cuffs and expensive Italian loafers worn without socks. Soft shadows defined the contours of his chiseled face in the afternoon light. He ordered an attendant to bring tea, then addressed them.

  “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Weston.” He turned to Daniel. “And a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Madigan. I’ve seen your documentaries on television. Quite intriguing.”

  “Can’t say the same about you,” Daniel said. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? I like to know who I’m speaking to.”

  “Very well. I am the director of antiquities for the Ministry—”

  “No, pal. I want to know who you really are.”

  Matakala placed two sugar cubes in his tea and stirred. “Let’s just say I work with some very important people. People who stand to suffer from your little project.”

  For the right price, everyone is a traitor. Sarah resisted the urge to verbalize her anger. It was a dead end. What she needed now was diplomacy. Matakala had kept them alive for a reason. Their only hope was to use that to their advantage.

  ”Why did you bring us here?” Her tone was calm but firm.

  He took a sip of tea, then delicately placed the china cup on its saucer. “It seems you can be useful to me … to us. You see, when you didn’t leave for England after your expedition was closed, people worried about you. When the news came out that you were in the monastery during that unfortunate siege, why, UNESCO and Cambridge claimed the incident was connected with the Aksum tomb and began demanding answers from the Ministry. Yo
ur father, in particular, has been rather up in arms about your sudden disappearance. For some reason, he has been asking a lot of questions about me. He’s even sent Scotland Yard agents to Ethiopia—most inconvenient to our mission.”

  “I sure would like to know what that mission is,” Daniel said.

  Matakala did not acknowledge his statement but kept his eyes on Sarah. “My offer to you is this. I can let them find you and Dr. Madigan here in the highlands, the victims of a tragic accident. Or I can let you live.” He paused and leaned forward. “In order for me to select the latter, you must call Daddy and tell him you are alive and well and to please call off the dogs. Then you will explain to Cambridge that you have discovered the tomb was nothing more than the resting place of a Roman missionary. That the cave inscriptions were merely an account of Christian worship rites and religious battles in fourth-century Aksum. I have taken the liberty of constructing the official translation, which will be authenticated by you on behalf of Cambridge and filed on record with the department of antiquities. Shall I read it to you?”

  Sarah was speechless.

  “Very well, then.” He put on his reading glasses and read aloud.

  “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Sumerius, former merchant, humble monk, unworthy servant of God, in the service of Ezana, king of Aksum and of Raydan and of Saba and of Tsiyamo, king of kings, invincible to his enemies and servant of the Lord Christ, amen.