by D. J. Niko
“I come to Abyssinia from the great empire of Rome, through Constantinople to Nabataea to Persia to the fertile valleys of the Tiger and Euphrates. I am charged by God himself to spread his word to the heathens of Africa, who know not his divine mercy.
“The great King Ezana of the Aksumite Empire has accepted me into his kingdom to teach his subjects about the power and grace of the Almighty. I have erected an Orthodox church on Dabra Maryam, where the men of royal blood may gather to learn the teachings of the Lord Christ.
“The men of Aksum under the leadership of the most excellent King Ezana have been summoned to holy battle at the Kasu. As God is my witness, we will rid the valley of the pestilence of nonbelievers and install the great faith to the heathens that escape our swords. O Lord, your word is our shield, our spear, and our guidance. It is in your name that we pursue our enemies and turn them to dust if they do not repent and bow to your will.
“The men ofAksum fought valiantly and destroyed those in their paths and made prisoners of their enemies. Many of King Ezana’s troops were killed in battle in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. The losses were devastating but necessary, and those men were martyrs before God.
“This humble servant of God has been speared through the rib and fears the end is near. But the parting is not one of sorrow, for I long to be united with the Creator, the one whose divinity is without question, and whose mercy is greater than the greatest deserts and the vastest skies. Take me swiftly, O Lord, for it is only in your kingdom that I will be redeemed. Amen.”
Matakala threw the paper on the tea table in front of Sarah.
She weighed all her possible moves as if she were playing a chess game. Anything she did at this point would likely end in checkmate. Only one move could prevent her from losing, but it was risky and her opponent might well see through it.
She had no choice. “Mr. Matakala, I might be more inclined to do what you ask if you tell me one thing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re really in no position to demand anything, Doctor.”
“No, I’m not. But I don’t get many opportunities to converse with someone like you. All I ask is that we exchange knowledge as one intellectual to another.”
He smirked. “Very well. This could be amusing.”
“Why does Apocryphon want to keep the prophecies hidden?”
“Simple. It’s dangerous knowledge. It has been deemed so since the sixth century, when a holy man named Aregawi found the tenth saint’s tomb. If you know your Ethiopian history, and I trust you do, you will know Aregawi was one of the nine saints who spread Christianity. As a Syrian familiar with the dialects of the desert, he translated the inscriptions and saw they were prophecies of the world’s last hours. At the time, it was anathema. Just as the church was adamant for so long about keeping the book of Revelation under wraps, they wanted these prophecies safely hidden from common men. If the people believed the end was near, there would be mass chaos.” He held a silver strainer above his cup and poured more tea. “So Aregawi removed the cross from the coffin and sealed the tomb. He then formed Apocryphon to keep the secret alive until it was time to release it to the world. He originally hid the codex with his translations in Dabra Damo, the church he erected near the site of the prophet’s tomb. It stayed there several centuries and was moved when Aregawi’s last descendants defected and were taken in by the priests of Yemrehana Krestos.”
“Apostolos?”
“And his brother.”
She was stunned but didn’t need an explanation. That was why Apostolos had taken Brehan under his wing. And why he couldn’t kill him even in self-defense. She was nauseated by the realization that money and power could pit brother against brother. But there was still something she didn’t understand. “You once told me Apocryphon would stop at nothing to protect what is theirs. Why would they destroy what they vowed to defend?”
Matakala smirked. “They didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“Someone far more powerful.”
“You, obviously.”
Her intention was to flatter him. It worked.
“Obviously.” Matakala stood and walked to the window, gazing at his roses.
“And these important people you work with?”
“Let’s just say my benefactor is the money behind this operation and I’m the brains. He was willing to pay anything for the prophecies. I had the expertise and ingenuity to give him what he wanted … using whatever means possible.”
Sarah fell silent, trying to process all that she had just heard.
“I don’t get it,” Daniel said. “What does this guy want with the prophecies? Is it a trophy for his mantle? An ego thing?”
He turned to Daniel. “No, no, Dr. Madigan. It’s nothing of the kind. He wishes to see the prophecies destroyed. The information they contain could be misinterpreted. That could be very damaging.”
“Damaging to what? Or whom?” Daniel pressed.
“Ah, but that’s the million-dollar question, as you Americans say.” He laughed and turned to Sarah. “Are you ready to make a phone call?”
“Sarah, no,” Daniel said. “He’s bluffing. He will never let us out of here alive.”
She looked Matakala in the eye. “I think he’s a man of his word.”
“I said I will let you leave here and I meant it, Dr. Madigan.” Matakala handed Sarah the phone. “Whenever you’re ready, my dear.”
“Don’t do it, Sarah.”
“No, Danny. I have to believe him. This is our only chance.” She took the phone from Matakala’s hands.
“Remember, Dr. Weston. Don’t try anything foolish. A gun is pointed at your back at this very moment.”
Sarah turned around and saw Brehan, indeed armed, standing behind them.
“All I need to do is give Brehan the signal, and he will shoot to kill.”
With shaky hands, Sarah put the phone on speaker and dialed the number of Dr. Simon’s private office line.
After the usual seven rings, the familiar gruff voice answered the phone. “Stanley Simon here.”
“Hello, Professor. It’s Sarah Weston calling.”
“Sarah. My word. Where have you been? We’ve all been worried sick about you. Your father has been searching the whole of Ethiopia for you.”
She struggled to keep her voice from breaking. “Everything is jolly good. I have been in good hands. Tell my father I’m dying to come home.”
Matakala made circles in the air with his index finger, signaling her to get to the point.
“Listen, Professor, I have some good news. I have translated the inscriptions.”
“Have you indeed?”
“I will explain it all when I see you. Suffice it to say we weren’t on the right track. Our supposed prophet was indeed a holy man, a missionary by the name of Sumerius.” Her eyes darted to Matakala, who nodded his approval. “His writings were merely descriptions of Christian life in fourth-century Aksum. It wasn’t the revelation I was hoping for.”
”Do go on.”
Sarah proceeded to read the fake translation word for word.
“Well. I hate to say I told you so. This makes perfect logical sense. Right, then. When will you be home? We have much to talk about, young lady.”
“In a few days’ time, I should think.”
Simon let out a chuckle. “Prophecies. The tenth saint. You do have an imagination, my girl. Now leave that god-awful place and get back to England.”
“Indeed. I do fancy a pint right about now. Goodbye, Professor.” Sarah clicked the phone off and let it drop on the table.
Matakala clapped. “An excellent performance. And now for my end of the bargain.” He nodded to the masked man. “As I said, I am releasing you. Brehan will drive the two of you away.”
“And our belongings?” Daniel said.
Matakala stood to leave the room. “Those have been destroyed, I’m afraid. Anyway, you won’t be needing them where you’re going. Good-bye, Doctors.
It’s been a true pleasure.”
Sarah turned to Daniel. “What do you suppose he meant by that?” she whispered.
He leaned in. “I told you I don’t trust this guy. I don’t believe for a minute the monk is driving us to safety.”
Brehan motioned them to follow him and led the way to a battered, dusty Suzuki of eighties vintage. They ducked into the backseat, their hands still bound. Brehan engaged the safety locks on the back doors and slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Where are you taking us?” Sarah asked in Amharic.
He turned to face her, and she was revolted by the sight of his singed face peeking through the eyeholes of the mask. His eyes were encircled by charred flaps of skin, and his eyelashes and eyebrows had been burnt off.
“Too many questions,” he said with an ugly slur that revealed the extent of his injury, “for a dead woman.”
Fifteen
Muza was even more filthy and chaotic than Gabriel had imagined. Bare-chested port hands from the East, their ribs protruding, pushed carts filled with sacks of spices and grain. At the traders’ bazaar, veiled women picked through piles of lemons to find the juiciest specimens. Roving merchants, ragged and stinking of sweat and camel dung, haunted the streets vending their “quality” frankincense from the Qara Mountains. Miserable souls, some missing eyes, others with lopped-off legs, sat in their own waste and begged for bread. Still, the place was beautiful to Gabriel’s eyes.
The last portion of his journey across the desert had been grueling. He was convinced that had it not been for the people in the passing caravan who had taken mercy on him and given him bread and water, he would not have seen this day. Now he had arrived at last, in the port city that only days ago had seemed so far away as to be an illusion. Muza. He repeated the name in his mind to assure himself the place was real. Loath to press his luck, he made haste toward the docks to catch the next baghlah across the sea. In his rush, he nearly toppled over an old man selling spices. The small pouches, sewn together in rows and draped over the man’s arms and around his neck, fell to the ground.
“Sorry,” Gabriel instinctively said in English. He caught his gaffe and repeated his apology in the Semitic dialect.
The merchant, his face as dry as old leather, studied the stranger and spoke.
Gabriel didn’t understand the words but hoped the man was the friendly sort. He asked, reinforcing with hand gestures, “Which way to the port? To the boats that leave for the west bank of the sea?”
The man grinned, revealing a row of misshapen, decaying teeth. “You know the Bedouin language,” he said approvingly and continued in a dialect so close to the nomadic tongue it rang familiar to Gabriel’s ears. “You are a long way from the desert. What do you seek in Muza?”
“I am a pilgrim. A nomad like the Bedouins, but I do not belong to their tribe, so I must move on.”
“What tribe do you belong to?”
”I know no country, no kin. I strayed into the harsh lands of the Rub’ al Khali. I would not be alive if not for the Bedouins. They cared for me and gave me shelter. They were my friends.”
“The nomads, they are good people. My ancestors came from the desert. The wandering life is very hard. It makes a boy a man.” He waved his hand. “Ah, it was not for me. Me, I like to see people, hear noise. It makes me feel alive.”
Gabriel nodded his sympathy for the self-fashioned city dweller. Though city life was a distant memory for him, it was deeply embedded in his consciousness. “I understand you, my friend. Where do you make your home?”
The merchant gestured toward the medina. “In there. I have a bedroll inside the spice shop of my brother. He gives me spices in the morning, and I go find customers.” He held up a belt of pouches. “You want pepper? Myrrh? Frankincense? Best in South Arabia.”
“No, thank you, my friend. I have no money.”
“And how do you plan to take the boat across the sea?”
“I am hoping I can work. Put up sails, clean the deck.”
The merchant let out a laugh that made his abdomen quake. “Hope all you want, but if you don’t have money, the captain will not take you. You need three drachms. Though for the life of me, I don’t know why anybody would pay to make that journey. The sea is swollen this time of year. The wind is coming from the east in great gusts. Some of the boats have capsized. You should stay in Muza for a while and wait for the waters to be calm again.”
“You are very wise.” Gabriel had no intention of waiting for better weather, but he thought it unnecessary to share his plans with the old man. He did beseech him for one last piece of advice. “Tell me, friend, how can a stranger earn three drachms?”
The merchant scratched his head. “You can try the metalsmith. Maybe he has use for someone to sweep shavings off the floor. But the wages will be paltry. It will take a long time to save the money you need, especially since you will have to spend some of it to eat. You’re skin and bones, my friend. And you look like you’ve been trod upon by a camel.”
Gabriel had no idea what he looked like to the old man, so he raised his hand to feel the scars from his encounter with the Himyarites. His brow was cut and covered with dried blood, and his lips were swollen, blistered, and drier than cured meat. A good deal of sand was embedded in the wiry strands of his beard. Suddenly self-conscious, he bowed to the man and turned to walk away.
“Wait,” the man called behind him. “My sister-in-law is a very good cook. At least come tonight for a meal.”
”I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. It is very rude to refuse the hospitality of an Arab.”
That night Gabriel feasted on goat stew and couscous. With the merchant and his brother’s family, he sat at a low table draped with embroidered cotton cloth. A fire burning in the hearth warmed them. The walls of the place were made of hay and stone bound by a sand mortar with tiny slits for ventilation. Beneath them, the compacted sandy soil of the arid Arabian lands was covered with trampled kilims in fading shades of indigo and saffron and the deep red of crushed beetles. Everything smelled of rancid goat milk and feces, but it was shelter and for that Gabriel was grateful.
The merchant’s brother spoke of his business, complaining that things were not going well. He also complained about the pains and swelling in his joints, and Gabriel was certain he was describing arthritis.
Unsure of the customs in this part of Arabia, Gabriel didn’t speak much for fear of saying the wrong thing. He did, however, feel a deep urge to repay these people’s kindness. After dinner, he asked the merchant for a pinch of his quality frankincense, a few leaves from the olive tree in the courtyard, and a mortar and pestle.
The man complied, and Gabriel concocted a paste. “Give this to your brother. Tell him to put it on his aching joints tonight. Tomorrow morning he will feel like a young man.”
The man laughed in disbelief.
The next morning in the town square, Gabriel saw the merchant.
“It is a miracle,” the man said. “You are a healer of the highest order. You and I, we can be rich. I will give you the materials, and you make the stuff. We will sell it and split the profits.”
“I will help you, but I don’t want your money, my friend. It won’t help me where I am going. All I need is three drachms for the boat captain. After that, it is all yours.”
The man agreed.
That afternoon Gabriel went to work smashing leaves and herbs and resins in a stone mortar until the mixture gave off an astringent odor. He knew from Hairan how to test the efficacy of the poultice. “Trust this,” the old chief would always say, tapping his nose. It had taken many tries over the years, but Gabriel had mastered the art of blending the healing herbs. This was one of many muds, rubs, and teas he could make.
As Gabriel cooked up his concoctions, the merchant put his own skills to work, convincing passersby that the answer to their health woes was a rub away— all they had to do was produce a twopenny and relief would be theirs. Before long, they lined up—moth
ers with scraped-up children, old men hunched over with arthritis—waiting for their turn at liberation from whatever ailed them.
Centuries pass, progress sets in, the world changes, and yet people remain the same, Gabriel thought. One ounce of hope weighs more than a ton of fortune.
By the end of the first night, the two had amassed their first drachm. Gabriel happily accepted the merchant’s invitation to stay the night in his brother’s house in the medina.
Over a meager meal of flatbread and runny lentil gravy, the merchant asked him what had lured him to the savage lands. “White men always know where there are fortunes to be made. Tell me, what riches lie to the west?”
“I know nothing of riches, friend. My reasons for going are not what you think.”
“Please, you must tell me.” In a conspiratorial tone, he added, “There is a girl in the village … I want to make her my wife. But I am a poor man. I have nothing to give her family. I cannot provide for her or any children. But you … you are clever. You know the ways to turn dust into gold. I have seen it.”
“You give me too much credit.” Gabriel laughed. ”I am a simple man, a wanderer. Just as a nomad seeks new pastures when the land dries up, I go in search of knowledge … friendship.”
“But you have a home, no? A wife?”
“I had a wife and a child. They died. I am alone now. Without them, no place feels like home. This is why I cannot linger anywhere for too long.”
The merchant nodded. “We have an old saying in my village: Your shadow is always attached to you. No matter where you go, it follows. You cannot be separated from something that is a part of you.”
The two men laughed and said no more of ghosts and shadows and elusive riches. Not that night or any other night. In the weeks that followed, they earned all the drachms they needed, Gabriel for the baghlah, the merchant for his impending marriage and another goat. When the first breath of autumn crept into the dawn air, Gabriel quietly slipped out the door.
Sixteen
Brehan had been driving more than three hours through snaking unpaved mountain roads, and the only sign of life was the goat herd grazing on the meager grasses of the hillside. As they ascended the mountain, the road became narrower and coarser until it wasn’t a road at all. The path was barely wide enough for one car, with no guardrail to protect against the steep drop down a rocky chasm.