Ben looked up. He didn’t see a thing. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
Moving to his side, Ari grabbed his shoulder and directed his gaze. ‘There! Right there! You can’t miss it!’
A winged shadow spun in spirals against the indigo-blue sky. ‘That? Yes, I see it. Isn’t it just a bird?’
Ari pressed his binoculars to his eyes and beamed. ‘Not “just” a bird. A Golden Eagle. Aquila chrysaetos. Wingspan over seven feet. The Roman legion that lay siege to Masada – the Golden Eagle was its symbol. They hunt hares and pigeons out here – and their speed . . . well – nothing like it. Seventy-five miles an hour when they strike. Phenomenal!’ He dropped the binoculars so they hung from their strap and put his hands on his hips. ‘Never seen one in the wild. What a day!’ Ari looked apologetically towards Ben. ‘Sorry . . . but I’m pretty keen on birds . . .’
‘No kidding.’ Ben laughed. ‘Maybe it’s a lucky omen.’
‘It certainly wasn’t lucky for the martyrs at Masada.’
‘Yep. You could say that. But I’m grabbing on to anything I can at the moment. And I really hope I’m not leading us all on a wild-goose chase.’ He watched the soaring bird silhouetted against a sky so blue it hurt to look at it. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
‘South to Aqaba, or west to Har Karkom?’ Ari asked.
‘All or nothing.’ Ben drew a deep breath. ‘West.’
The men looked out across the daunting, rubble-strewn expanse, the golden rock of the cliffs blinding in the midday sun.
The Israeli slapped his hands together. ‘Let’s go then.’
30
Sinai Peninsula, Egypt
If ever I was to find God, it would be in a place like this, thought Essie as the helicopter banked low between the naked and weathered peaks that punched through the desert floor like bunches of fingers raised heavenward.
On the journey south, they’d flown over Bedouin camps in the oases that dotted the desert floor, the cacophony of the helicopter’s passing causing herds of goats to scatter between the trunks of feathery palm trees dotted like gems around pools of sweet water. The men tending the flocks bolted out from the shelter of their goat-hair tents, waving ancient rifles that posed more danger to the people shooting them than they did to the airborne weapon of war that swooped above their heads like a metal raptor. But other than the nomadic tribesmen, they’d seen no human activity since leaving the outer reaches of Port Said.
Captain Knight’s voice crackled to life in the headphones. ‘There it is . . . off to the left.’
For those who placed stock in the stories of the Old Testament, the barren mountain that loomed ahead of them was the one upon which God had passed down the Ten Commandments to Moses. The folds and undulations of its worn contours were sensuous and flesh-like; the summit might have been a beast slumbering on the desert floor – a camel’s back, or a leopard’s flank. Any lingering vestiges of her religious upbringing had been extinguished years before, yet there was something about the mountain’s quiet grandeur that moved Essie deeply.
‘We’ll set down to the north. I’ll get you as close as I can to the monastery,’ Knight said.
At the foot of Mt Sinai and its twin peak, Mt Catherine, nestled the religious community dedicated to the Alexandrian martyr who’d refused to denounce her faith and was beheaded by the Romans after the wheel intended for use to break her body fell apart at her touch. Her body was then transferred by angels to the peak of Mt Catherine, where monks from the monastery found her remains, uncorrupted and emanating a fragrant oil. Or so the story goes, Essie thought.
Despite her scepticism, there was no denying the intensity of the faith that had inspired the men who’d built one of the most remarkable Christian edifices in the world here in the sixth century AD, on the site where they believed God had spoken to Moses through the unlikely agency of a bush in flames. The sheer-sided, fortress-like structure housing the Sacred Monastery of the God-Trodden Mt Sinai hugged the foothills of the mountain that soared almost one and a half miles into the sky. Although she knew the defensive walls enclosing the main monastery buildings were over sixty feet high, from Essie’s elevated perspective the mountain’s imperious stature rendered them as insubstantial as a castle made of children’s blocks.
The sight of their destination set Essie’s heart pounding. Not long now. Now we find out whether or not you know what you’re doing.
The stone walls, hewn one and a half thousand years ago from rocks that had once tumbled down the face of the mountain, towered over Essie’s head as she stood at the unadorned arched entranceway to the monastery. Hanging back so the presence of a woman wouldn’t upset the monks within, she watched as Josef Garvé lifted his hand and pounded at the heavy oak door set at the end of a corridor through walls that must have been at least ten feet thick.
She heard the shuffle of sandals on a stone-floored courtyard within. Bolts were unlatched and bars slid back, then the door creaked open, revealing a round-faced monk with a black beard speckled with grey which cascaded over his black cassock.
‘Eυλογειτε,’ he said in Greek, brow crinkled with curiosity at the new arrivals.
‘Tην ευχή σας,’ responded Garvé, reverting fluently to the language he’d learnt on Crete during the war.
‘Του κυρίου,’ the monk replied. ‘What brings you here?’
‘We’re here to warn you,’ the Frenchman said. ‘War is coming.’
The monk looked startled. ‘War? Out here? Are you certain?’
‘Yes. This man here,’ Garvé said, indicating Penney who was fidgeting at his side, frustrated by the linguistic barrier that excluded him from the conversation. ‘He’s from the British Government. We’ve been sent to make sure you’re safe.’
‘And her?’ The monk tilted his chin to indicate Essie standing in the shadows at the end of the corridor. She knew enough of Greek Orthodox traditions to understand that his reluctance to look at her wasn’t borne of arrogance or animosity, but of a fervent wish to avoid temptation and preserve his modesty. The arrival of a strange woman in the cloistered confines of the monastery was an unsettling and disruptive event.
‘She’s Mr Penney’s secretary. She’s here to assist him with . . . administrative matters.’
The monk paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘It’s a matter for the abbot.’ He stood back from the doorway. ‘I’m Father Mathias. Please. Come with me.’
The searingly hot desert air burnt Essie’s lungs as they passed through the tiny entranceway into the monastery where the community within the battlements functioned as a self- contained and self-sustaining village. She’d studied the layout of the monastery and knew it intimately. Beside the Italianate belltower of the basilica rose another tall, whitewashed structure, its summit capped with a dome and encircled by a narrow walkway; a minaret – not what might be expected within the grounds of a Christian sanctuary.
‘Excuse me, Father Mathias,’ Essie addressed their guide in Greek.
He glanced up, startled. ‘Ah . . . yes?’
‘The mosque – why is it here?’
‘Ah . . . it’s for the Bedouin. The men of the Jabaliya tribe.’ His eyes darted frantically from side to side, desperately trying to find anything to look at other than her. ‘When the Emperor Justinian decided to build the monastery here, he ordered two hundred men and their families from Alexandria and the Black Sea to relocate here to take care of the construction. Afterwards, they were to stay here to defend the monks. Even after the Bedouin converted to Islam in the seventh century, they remained loyal to the promises they’d made. They work here and help us with upkeep. We provide them with medicine and give them bread. In the desert, nobody survives alone – we may have different beliefs, but we need each other.’
Mathias ushered them forward towards a heavy door clad in bands of bronze held in place with massive metal studs. They passed through the entranceway into an alcove, the hot desert air suddenly chill within the space enclosed by the thick
, stone walls. Facing them was a painted icon showing the Madonna with the infant Christ on her knee, suspended above a rendering of the monastery and flanked by two saints. Following the monk single file past black-clad ascetics sitting in silence, their mouths moving as they recited passages from tiny books of scripture, Essie, Garvé and Penney ducked their heads to avoid a low-slung archway leading into an enclosed courtyard where their footsteps rang out on cobblestones worn into grooves by the passage of thousands of feet over thousands of years.
‘Wait here,’ Mathias said, indicating a bench seat set at the bottom of a modest timber stairway leading to a second-floor balcony. ‘I’ll explain to the abbot why you’re here.’
He trod up the stairs, the sound of his steps ringing out in a silence so absolute it was deafening.
‘For over one thousand years, we’ve remained here undisturbed.’ The abbot gazed at his visitors with gentle but inquisitive eyes, his white beard a soft halo against the pitch black of the veil draped from the flat-topped kalimavkion perched on his head. ‘The greatest empire builders in history have left us in peace, even when the rest of the world was burning. This place was built by Byzantium . . . Napoleon Bonaparte swore to defend our walls when he conquered Egypt. Even the man who is worshipped as the Prophet by the Muslims – Mohammed – he visited this hallowed place. In our library is the Ahtiname – a document he issued ordering that the monastery should be protected. And so it has always been. Why should it be different now?’
‘Did you hear our arrival by air?’ asked Garvé. Essie knew it was a rhetorical question; in a valley hemmed in by bare, stone escarpments and in a building with walls high enough to operate as an echo chamber, there was no way the monks could have missed hearing the helicopter’s approach and cacophonous landing. ‘The war that is coming will bring with it machines like the one we flew here in. And the weapons they carry with them are more powerful and more destructive than any that have been used in battle before. I doubt anybody would deliberately target your monastery, but what concerns the British and French governments is that missiles might hit you accidentally.’
The abbot leaned back in his ornately carved chair, elbows resting on the armrests and his wizened hands clasped at his chest. ‘And why would the warriors who fight this battle be interested in a community of men whose only concern is to worship God?’
Garvé nodded, his head bowed. Essie marvelled at how obsequious he could be when he put his mind to it. ‘Very reverend abbot,’ he responded. ‘I understand that it sounds unlikely to you. But these men are here to fight for possession of this land. We’re here to ensure you’re safe. With the radio we’ve brought with us, we’ll communicate with the military to make sure they have the coordinates of your monastery recorded accurately and don’t accidentally launch any missiles that might hit the building. But until we do, I must plead with you to order your brothers into the tunnels beneath the battlements. In there, you’ll be protected.’
Shaking his head, the old man summoned Mathias to his side and murmured something beneath his breath. The monk nodded his head and scurried out of the room.
‘Yes, we have stores down there. And water from the underground cistern. We can survive many weeks beneath the walls. We’ll do as you ask.’
‘Reverend, may I ask you a question?’ Essie asked in Greek, her gaze averted modestly.
‘Yes,’ the abbot responded, grabbing at a string of amber κομπολόι beads on his desk and flicking them anxiously between his fingers. ‘Yes, you may.’
‘Have you had any other unexpected visitors here recently? Other than ourselves?’
The old man frowned. ‘No. Some pilgrims. But that’s not unusual. Or unexpected.’
‘Any Americans?’
‘Americans? No. Armenians, yes. Also some Greeks and Russians. But no Americans. Why?’
‘No reason. Just curious,’ Essie responded.
The abbot shrugged. ‘You mentioned you need to use your radio. Can you do that in here?’ he asked Garvé.
‘No – we need to be outdoors. We were thinking the monastery garden would be suitable.’
‘I’ll ask Mathias to escort you there.’
Garvé shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary. We studied the floor plan of the building before we arrived.’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ the abbot said, looking at the three interlopers curiously. If he was planning to pursue the question further, he was interrupted by the mournful pealing of the bells in the church tower echoing through the labyrinth of stone buildings and corridors. The abbot stood and walked towards the door. ‘My brothers will be concerned. If you’ll excuse me, I must join them and explain why we’re doing this.’ He ushered his three visitors out. ‘You’ll tell us when we’re safe?’
‘Of course,’ Garvé assured him.
‘The Mother of God be with you.’ The abbot made the sign of the cross with his hand as Essie, Garvé and Penney found their way back down the stairs.
‘Why are you worried about Americans, Essie?’ Penney asked.
‘Just checking nobody has a head start on us,’ she responded.
‘Any Americans in particular?’ The Englishman sounded panicked.
‘No. Nobody specific. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and opened the satchel she’d slung over her shoulder. Taking out her notebook, she opened it to the page where she’d copied a map of the monastery from an account written by a traveller in the nineteenth century that she’d found in the British Library. She oriented herself by the belltower and the looming peak of Mt Sinai. She pointed to an archway. ‘That way.’
‘Good. I’ve had enough of this place. It smells bad. Musty. Like a cellar that needs a good airing. Or a wet dog,’ Penney whinged, heading for the door.
Garvé moved alongside Essie. ‘You really don’t have to worry about him, you know,’ he murmured quietly.
‘Who?’
‘You know who. Hitchens. He’s miles away.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Trust me. If he’s planning to catch up with us, he has some work to do.’
The three unlikely confederates walked outside into the blazing sun.
Wish I shared your optimism, Essie thought.
31
Negev Desert, Israel
This must be what it feels like to be on the moon, Ben thought as he braced himself against the bone-jarring passage of the jeep across the ancient, dry riverbed. The first few miles they’d travelled across the open desert had been tortuous, with impassable boulders that had tumbled down from the cliffs over centuries blocking their way and forcing Ari to take a circuitous route west. But just when it seemed it was going to take days to travel a distance that should have taken no more than a few hours, the path ahead opened up and it seemed to Ben that they were following what might have been, at some time in the distant past, a caravan route through the desert. Although the path was still rough, it was clear of major obstacles and seemed to be heading in the direction they needed it to.
The people who’d passed through here before had left their mark. On the edge of the riverbed, in the lee of the staggeringly sheer cliffs that hemmed in the makhtesh, Ben saw rough circles of stones that showed where nomads had erected their tents. Charred patches on the cliff walls were all that remained of the hearths where they’d cooked their meals and warmed themselves against the Negev’s night chill.
Something caught his eye on an escarpment. ‘Hold on! Stop!’ Ben shouted, slapping Ari’s shoulder.
‘Wait, Ben!’ the Israeli exclaimed as the archaeologist flung the jeep’s door open and jumped out before the vehicle had even come to a halt. He scrambled up the steep hill of scree hemming the mountain’s base up to the point where it met the cliff’s flat face. Carved into the eroded surface were masses of lines of the sinuous script Ben recognised as Nabataean. Each character was the size of his palm, and the ancient graffiti stretched from ground level to above his h
ead, and as far as he could see along the cliff wall. Though he recognised the alphabet used by the people who’d carved the city of Petra from the rock walls of Jebel Al-Madbah in Jordan, that knowledge was useless – the Nabatean alphabet had evolved into modern Arabic, but nobody had worked out how to decipher the ancient language. Another one for my bucket list of academic ambitions.
Ben knew the desolate landscape they were driving through had been home to the civilisation that controlled the trade in incense and spices from the lands at the southernmost tip of the Arabian Peninsula that the Romans had called Arabia felix – blessed Arabia. But he was still surprised to find such irrefutable evidence of the Nabataean presence here, far to the east of the well-worn route used by the caravans of camels that carried frankincense, myrrh and cinnamon across the desert from the Gulf of Aden through Petra to ports in the Mediterranean. He ran his finger along the rock. The inscription was pitted and weathered, and covered with a glossy mineral accretion that would have taken thousands of years to accumulate in the intricately carved whorls making up the script. Whoever had chiselled the letters out of the stone had done so many, many years before Ben’s arrival.
‘Ben?’ called Ilhan, who’d exited the jeep and now stood at the base of the slope, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun with a raised hand. ‘What’s up there?’
‘Nothing!’ he responded. ‘At least – nothing that has any bearing on what we’re looking for . . . I don’t think.’ He scooted back down to the jeep and took the map on which he’d been marking their passage as they travelled through the desert. Pointing to their location, he checked the compass. ‘As far as I can tell, we’re here. If my calculations are correct, the twin peaks of Har Karkom should be nearby.’
‘So,’ exclaimed Ari, banging on the outside of the driver’s door with an open palm. ‘Stop wasting time! Come on!’
In the labyrinth of steep-sided canyons that carried them towards their destination, Ben was concerned he’d struggle to identify which mountain, exactly, was the one Ethan had identified as Mt Sinai. But the instant the jeep skidded around a corner and exploded in a cloud of dust and gravel out of the ravine and onto an open plain, he knew he’d worried for nothing.
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