The Seventh Scroll tes-2

by Wilbur Smith

  "No." His voice was hoarse and strained with the effort.

  "It's solid. Won't budge."

  "Lift me up. Let me look."

  "With the greatest of pleasure. Any excuse to lay hannds on you." He

  stepped behind her and placed lascivious han both arms around her waist,

  then lifted her until she was able to touch the bird's head.

  Quickly she explored it with her fingertips, and then she let out a

  small cry of triumph.

  "Nicky! You have started something. The paint is cracked all around the

  outline of the head. I can feel it.

  Lift me higher!

  He grunted with the effort but raised her another foot off the floor.

  "Yes, definitely!" she exclaimed. "Something has a hairline crack in the

  wall above the moved. There is head, as well. You have a look!

  He fetched one of the empty ammunition crates from the landing outside

  the entrance and placed it below the vulture image. When he stepped up

  on to it he was on a level with the vulture's eye.

  His expression changed. Quickly he groped in his pocket and brought out

  his clasp knife, He opened the blade and probed carefully around the

  outline of the head.

  Tiny specks of dried paint and plaster filtered down as he worked.

  It does look as though the head is a separate detached piece, "he

  admitted.

  "Look on top of it, higher up the wall. There along the edge of the

  sunbeam. Can't you see a vertical crack in the plaster?"

  "You are right, you know," he admitted. "But if I try to open that crack

  I am going to damage the mural. Do you want me to do that?"

  She hesitated only a moment. "This tomb is going to be reflooded when

  the river rises, so we are going to lose it again anyway. It's worth the

  risk. Do it, Nicky!'

  life-blade into the fine He pressed the point of the kn crack and

  twisted it gently. A slab of painted plaster the size of his s'read hand

  fell out of the wall and splattered into the dust on the agate tiles of

  the floor.

  He peered into the cavity that it had left in the wall.

  "It looks like some kind of slot or groove in the wall," he said. "I am

  going to clear its full length." Carefully he worked at the cavity he

  had opened, and more loose plaster rained down.

  Royan sneezed in the dust, but would not retreat, Particles of debris

  lodged in her hair like confetti.

  "Yes," he said at last. "There is a vertical groove running up here."

  "Chip the plaster away from the crack around the vulture's head," she

  ordered, and he wiped the blade against his trouser leg and attacked the

  wall again.

  "It's free," he said at last. "It looks as though the head will travel

  up the groove. Anyway, I am going to try it, Stand back and give me room

  to work."

  He placed the heels of both hands under the head of the vulture, and

  heaved upwards against it. Royan bunched her hands into fists and

  screwed up her face in sympathy with his effort.

  There was a soft grating sound, and the head began to move jerkily up

  the exposed groove in the wall. It reached the top of the slot and

  Nicholas jumped down from the crate. They both stared expectantly at the

  disembodied head, now disfigured by the chipped and damaged plaster.

  After a long, breathless wait, Royan whispered dejecr edly, "Nothing It

  hasn't changed anything."

  "The rest of the quotation from the stele," he reminded her. "There was

  more to it than just the vulture and the sun."

  "You are right." She looked around the rest of the wall eagerly. "'The

  jackal hops and rests Upon his tail.

  She pointed with a trembling finger at the small, almost insignificant

  figure of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the graveyards, on the wall

  opposite the vulture that they had mutilated. Standing at the foot of

  the huge, towering painting of Osiris, he was only a little larger in

  size than the ringed and bejewelled big toe of the husband of Isis and

  father of Horus.

  Royan ran to the wall, and the moment she touched Anubis she felt that

  his image too was raised. She flung all her strength against the tiny

  figure, trying to twist it first one way and then the other.

  "'The jackal turns upon his tail"," she panted as she wrestled with him.

  "He must turn!'

  "Here, let me do that." Gently Nicholas pulled her away, and knelt

  before the black-headed god image. Once again he used the blade of his

  clasp knife to chip away the plaster and the thick layer of paint from

  around the outline.

  "It seems to be carved in some sort of hard wood and then it's been

  plastered over," he told her, as he tested the construction of the

  figure with the point of the blade.

  When at last he had chipped it clear he tried to twist it in a clockwise

  direction, and grunted with the effort.

  "No! He gave up at last.

  "They had no clock dials in ancient Egypt," she reminded him agitatedly.

  "The other way. Turn it the other way-$

  When he tried to turn it counter-clockwise, there was another rasping,

  gritty sound from behind the wall panel.

  The tiny figure revolved slowly in his hands, until the black head

  pointed down towards the yellow tiles.

  They both stood well back from the wall, looking expectantly at it, but

  after another long wait even Nicholas was disheartened.

  "I don know what to expect, but whatever it is, it isn't happening he

  grunted with disgust.

  "There is still the last part of the quotation," Royan whispered. "'The

  river flows towards the earth. Beware, you violators of the sacred

  plain, lest the urrath of all the gods descend upon you!"'

  "The river?" Nicholas asked. "As Sapper might say, I don't see no

  perishing river."

  Royan did not even smile at the cockney accent.

  Instead she searched the profusion of writing and images that covered

  all the walls around them. Then she saw it.

  "Hapi!" Her voice was shrill with excitement. "The god of the Nile! The

  river!'

  High up the wall, on a level with the head of the great god Osiris, the

  god of the river looked down upon them.

  Hapi was'a hermaphrodite, with the breasts of a woman and the genitals

  of a man protruding from under the pendulous belly. The mouth in his

  hippopotamus head gaped wide to display the great curved tusks that

  lined his cavernous jaws.

  Standing on a pile of ammunition boxes, Nicholas was able to reach the

  Hapi image at the full stretch of his arms.

  As he touched it he exulted, "This one is raised also."

  "'The river flows towards the earth,"' she called up to him. "It must

  move downwards. Try it, Nicky."

  "Give me a chance to clear the edges." He used the point of the blade to

  chip the outline of the god free, and then he probed the plaster beneath

  it and found another vertical slot running towards the floor.

  "Ready to give it a go now. He folded the knife and tucked it back into

  his pocket. "Hold your breath and say a little prayer for me," he

  instructed.

  He settled both hands on the image of the god and began to pull steadily

  do
wnwards, Gradually he brought more pressure to bear upon it, until he

  was hanging all his weight on it. Nothing moved.

  "It's not working, he grunted.

  "Wait!" she ordered. "I am coming up."

  She scrambled up on to the boxes behind him and tight,, placed both

  hands around his neck. "Hang she ordered.

  "Every little bit helps, I suppose," he agreed, as she lifted her feet

  and hung her full weight on his shoulders.

  "It's moving!" he shouted. Suddenly the image of Hapi gave way under his

  hands, and with a sharp grating sound travelled down to the bottom end

  of the groove in the wall.

  Nicholas lost his grip on the smoothly rounded shape as it came up hard

  against the end of its slot. The stack of boxes under them toppled, and

  both he and Royan dropped back to the floor of the gallery. She was

  still hanging around his neck, and he lost his balance as she pulled him

  over backwards. The two of them sprawled on the agate floor in an untidy

  tangle of arms and legs. Nicholas scrambled to his feet and pulled her

  up beside him.

  "What has happened?" she gasped, looking up wildly at the damaged Hapi

  figure and then around the walls of the gallery.

  "Nothing," he said. "Nothing has moved."

  "Perhaps there is another-' she began, but broke off at a sound from the

  roof above them. They both stared upwards, startled and filled with

  sudden trepidation. There was a ponderous movement from above the high

  plastered ceiling.

  What is thatV Royan whispered. "There is something up there. It sounds

  like a living thing."

  A giant was moving, coming awake after slumbering for thousands of

  years, stretching and turning as he awoke.

  'is it-?" She could not finish the question. She had an image in her

  mind of the great god himself stirring in a hidden chamber in the rock,

  opening those baleful, slanted eyes, rising on one elbow to discover who

  had disturbed him from his eternal sleep.

  Then there was another sound, a creaking and rumbling as though the arm

  of a mighty balance was swinging slowly across, as its equilibrium

  altered. Softly at first, then louder, the movement gathered momentum,

  like the beginning of a mountain avalanche. Then there was a report like

  the shot of a cannon.

  A crack appeared in the high ceiling, running the length of the gallery.

  Dust smoked from the jagged opening, and then, slowly as a nightmare,

  the roof began to sag down over where they stood. Both of them were

  paralysed with superstitious horror, unable to tear their gaze from the

  slow, inexorable collapse of the ceiling upon them. Then a chunk of

  plaster struck Nicholas's upturned face, slamming into his cheek,

  tearing the skin and sending him staggering backwards against the wall.

  The shock and pain aroused him at last.

  "The warning!" he blurted. "Taitals warning. The wrath of the gods." He

  sprang to her side and grabbed her hand, "Run!" He pulled her after him.

  "Taita has booby-trapped the roof!'

  They raced back along the gallery towards the opening in the seated

  entrance. Lumps of stone and plaster began to rain down and dust filled

  the passageway, halfblinding them. The dull rumble overhead became a

  rising roar as progressively the roof collapsed. They did not dare to

  look back as the thunder of falling masonry swept towards them,

  threatening to overtake and overwhelm them before they were able to

  reach the entrance.

  A jagged piece of rock as large as her head struck Royan a glancing blow

  on her shoulder, and her legs sagged under her. She would have gone down

  if he had not flung one arm around her and held her upright, dragging

  her along the gallery. The dust obscured the passage ahead of them, so

  that the square opening that offered their only chance of escape receded

  in the choking fog.

  "Keep going!" he yelled at her. "Almost there." As he spoke, a thick

  sheet of plaster came crashing down and smashed into the tripod stand of

  the floodlamp. Instantly the gallery was plunged into utter darkness.

  Completely unsighted, Nicholas's first instinct was to come up short and

  try to orientate himself. But all around him the rubble of the roof was

  falling heavier and faster.

  He knew that at any second the entire roof would come down on top of

  them, burying and crushing them. Running on without a check, he dragged

  Royan along behind him in the darkness. He reached the end wall at full

  tilt, and the impact knocked the breath out of him. Now, through the

  swirling dust cloud, he was just able to make out the rectangular

  opening in the plaster wall in front of him, back-lit by the lamps on

  the landing at the head of the staircase outside.

  As he reeled backwards he seized Royan around the waist and lifted her

  bodily off her feet. He hurled her through the opening and heard her cry

  out as she fell heavily on the far side. Another piece of rubble struck

  him on the back of his head and knocked him to his knees. He felt

  himself teetering on the very brink of consciousness, mail but crawled

  forward, groping frantically until he touched the jagged edge of the

  opening. With this handhold he was able to drag himself over the sill,

  just as the full weight of the roof came thundering down along the

  entire gallery.

  Here on the upper landing of the staircase Royan was crouching on her

  knees. She crawled towards him, guided once more by the lamplight.

  "Are you all right?" she panted. A trickle of blood snaked down her

  cheek from a wound in her scalp line. It cut a dark glistening runnel

  through the caked white dust that powdered her face.

  He did not answer, but dragged himself to his feet and pulled Royan up

  beside him. "Can't stay here," he croaked, _1ro just as a thic '. lite

  at St. ug mouth of the opening and swept over them, choking them and

  dimming the floodlamps to a faint glimmer.

  "Not safe." He pulled her away from the opening. "The whole thing might

  cave in." His voice was rough, his throat closing with the dust.

  He dragged her to the head of the steps and they staggered down

  together, stumbling against each other, their feet sliding under them as

  they came on to the algae.

  slippery footing. Through the dust mist ahead of them loomed the broad

  square figure of Sapper.

  "What the ruddy hell is going on?" he bellowed with relief as he saw

  them.

  "Give me a hand here," Nicholas yelled back at him.

  Sapper lifted Royan in his arms and together they ran back -down the

  tunnel, only stopping to draw breath when they reached the causeway over

  the sink-hole.

  unburrit and glared like a mirror in the high mountain sunlight. The

  public telephone should have been in its booth outside the front door.

  However, the instrument had long since vanished - stolen, vandalized or,

  more likely, removed by the military to prevent it being used by

  Political dissidents and rebels.

  Tessay had expected this, and hardly glanced into the booth before she

  strode into the small room which was the main post office. It was filled

  w
ith a motley crowd of peasants and villagers, queuing to conduct their

  leisurely business with the elderly postmaster, the only person behind

  the barred counter. Some of the customers had spread their cloaks on the

  floor and settled in for a long he post office in the village of Debra

  Maryarri a small building in the dusty street behind was the church. Its

  walls were of unplastered unpainted brick, and its galvanized iron roof

  T

  wait, chatting and smoking while their children romped and crawled

  around them.

  Most of the patient crowd recognized Tessay as soon as she entered the

  room."Even those who had waited most of the morning in the lines at the

  counter greeted her respectfully and stood aside to allow her to go to

  the, head of the queue. Despite two decades of African socialism, the

  feudal instincts of the rural population were still strong.

  Tessay was a noblewoman and she was entitled to this preference.

  "Thank you, my friends." She smiled at them and shook her head. "You are

  kind, but I will wait my turn."

  They were embarrassed by her refusal, and when the old postmaster leaned

  over his counter top and added his insistence to the others, one of the

  older women seized Tessay's arm and forcefully propelled her forward.

  "Jesus and all the saints bless you, Woizero Tessay." The postmaster

  clapped his hands in respectful greeting.

  "Welcome back to Debra Maryam. What is it that your ladyship desires?"

  The entire clientele of the post office crowded around Tessay so as not

  to miss a detail of her transaction.

  "I want to make a telephone call to Addis," she told the postmaster and

  there was a hum of comment and discussion. This was unusual and

  important business indeed.

  "I will take you to the telephone exchange," the postmaster told her

  importantly, and donned his official blue cap for the occasion. He came

  around the counter shouting and hectoring the other customers, pushing

  them aside to make way for Lady Sun. Then "he ushered her through to the

  back room of the building, where the telephone exchange occupied a

  cubicle the size of a small lavatory.

  Tessay, the postmaster and as many of the other customers who could find

  standing room pushed their way into the tiny room. The exchange operator

  was almost overcome by the honour being accorded him by the beautiful

  Tessay, and he shouted into his headset like a sergeant major commanding