In the distance, across a lunar-like landscape of sand and coarse rubble, two flat-topped summits tilted up out of the desert floor, their ancient faces eroded into ripples and folds and glowing a rosy pink. Although Har Karkom wasn’t a particularly tall mountain, in the arid landscape it appeared monumental. ‘There,’ Ben said unnecessarily, pointing through the windscreen. He had no doubt it was the place they were looking for, but whether or not it was also the spot Balinas had chosen to hide the Emerald Tablet remained to be seen. A sickening lurch of doubt made him flinch, even as he realised it was too late to change his mind and turn around.
The men drove in silence on the approach to Har Karkom’s foothills. The horizontal bands of rock that made up the ancient massif had been worn down over many millions of years, some withstanding the elements better than others and leading to a geological effect that left its slopes looking like the layers of a cake. But what set Ben’s heart pounding were the countless tumuli dotted across the plain surrounding the mountain. Some were small – their summits no higher than a couple of feet. Others were larger; one they passed would have been at least twenty feet tall by Ben’s estimation. Elsewhere, flat slabs of stone stood upright in rings like miniature versions of Britain’s Stonehenge, in close proximity to man-made platforms of rubble that Ben guessed would once have been plastered. And, everywhere, Ben saw petroglyphs – although none exactly like the ones Ethan had shown him in his office. But countless others, geometric forms depicting animals including ibex, leopards and camels, as well as human figures and features – eyes and hands – were scratched into stone surfaces in apparently random patterns.
Ari took the jeep to a point at the base of the mountain beyond which the vehicle could no longer safely progress, just at the foot of a low escarpment presided over by the ruins of what once would have been a fortress tower, although only a dozen courses of its walls of roughly worked stones remained intact.
Ben jumped out of the car with his two companions, his attention immediately switching to what was on the ground. The petroglyphs were literally everywhere. Like the one Ethan had given Ben, some were inscribed on stones that fitted in the palm of his hand. Others were random agglomerations of meaningless symbols carved into flat boulders the size of the jeep’s bonnet. But they carpeted the ground.
He walked towards a low ring of stones at the foot of the mountain. Ilhan and Ari followed him as he clambered into its centre and kicked purposefully at the dirt.
‘There . . . there it is.’ Ben murmured, dropping to his knees and sweeping aside the pale dust with his hand.
‘What?’ Ilhan asked.
He pointed at a circular depression in the hard-packed earth. ‘A tent pole went here. I’d say this is Bronze Age. So thousands of years ago, a nomadic family unpacked the pole they’d have been carrying with them. Timber was a scarce commodity – the tent pole would have been a priceless heirloom, passed down from generation to generation. They’d have propped it up in the hole, laid the skin tent over the top, and hemmed it in with a circle of stones . . . And here,’ he kicked at a massive piece of fine-grained granite, its top surface worn down into a smooth concave depression, ‘one half of a grindstone. The same people who set up the tent would have used it to grind down the grain they carried with them to make flour. As for this . . .’ Stepping outside the stone circle, he picked up a ceramic sherd. ‘Whoever made it over three and a half thousand years ago dipped the vessel into a liquid terracotta slip and then burnished the surface to a shine using a pebble . . .’ Realising he was rambling and that Ilhan and Ari were looking perplexed, he pulled himself up short.
The truth was, Ben was overwhelmed by the density of archaeological remains at Har Karkom. Everywhere he looked he could see something – wall stubs, stone pillars and depressions in the ground that hinted at something buried beneath the soil. And with each step, he crushed a carpet of stone tools and pottery sherds beneath his feet. The evidence of humankind’s intensive engagement with this vast, arid and unpopulated space was mind-boggling.
The three men recoiled and looked skyward as they heard the banshee-like wail of Spitfire aircraft approaching. If Ben needed a reminder of the urgency of the mission they were on, that was it.
‘This petroglyph,’ Ben said as he slapped the stone Ethan had given him onto the jeep’s bonnet. ‘This is what we’re looking for.’ The churning excitement in his gut told him he was on the right track. When he was in the field, Ben’s unerring ability to sniff out treasures had earned him the grudging admiration of his peers; so much so that in some quarters he’d become known as the ‘water diviner’. As he felt the scorching sun of the Negev Desert burning the back of his neck, he welcomed the prickling sense of second sight he knew so well.
‘“Petroglyph”?’ Ari said as he picked up the stone and turned it in his hand. ‘What does it mean?’
‘“Petro-” from the Ancient Greek for “stone”, and “-glyph” meaning “carving”.’
Ari kicked at the stones scattered at their feet. ‘But these are all over the place.’
‘No – we’re looking only for stones with these symbols, specifically,’ Ben said, pointing at the abstract marks engraved on its surface. ‘A crescent, a serpent, a horned staff and a circle. They’re alchemical symbols. And I hope they’re going to lead us to the cave we’re looking for.’
He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the landscape. ‘Ilhan, you and I will inspect the tumuli – we’ll go together, moving out from the base of the mountain. I presume what we’re looking for won’t be too far from here. I hope, anyway. And Ari . . .?’
‘Yes?’ The Israeli beamed at Ben, clearly enjoying himself.
‘You’re in the armed forces. Can I assume you’re in pretty good shape?’
Ari shrugged and flexed his biceps. ‘Sure. Of course.’
‘Right. Then I need you to hike to the top of the two summits of the mountain and see what’s there. Focus your search on this side – the map indicates that we’ll find what we’re looking for by aligning ourselves with Orion’s Belt . . . and that will rise tonight in the southern part of the sky. So what we’re looking for should be in the northern quadrant. But if the cave’s already been exposed over the years, I want to know about it before I waste too much of my time down here.’ He pointed at a ravine running between the two peaks. ‘There’s a track there – should get you to the top pretty quickly. If you find anything, just shout out. With the canyons about here, and nothing much else, we should be able to hear you. OK?’
‘Done!’ Ari gave Ben a mock salute and jogged towards the path, a canteen of water clanking at his side.
Ben and Ilhan stood silently beside each other and scanned the innumerable man-made stone hillocks dotted across the plain.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Ilhan asked.
Despite his excitement at the archaeological wealth around him, there was no ignoring the doubt that clouded Ben’s mind. ‘As sure as I can be,’ he responded, hoping he sounded convincing as he broke away and headed for the nearest gal`ed.
‘I’m not sure you always realise the potential complications of some of the situations you get yourself in,’ Ilhan shouted.
‘Oh, believe me, I know exactly how much trouble I’m getting myself into.’ Ben bent and picked up one of the petroglyphs that made up the first stone mound. Ibex, he thought and tossed it away, scanning the pile of stones. Not the one we’re looking for. ‘Enough with the life advice, anyway. I need your help.’
Ilhan trudged to the neighbouring gal`ed as Ben moved on to the next.
He picked up another stone. Nothing. He’s right, he thought. This is going to be a big job.
The next tumulus yielded nothing, nor the one after that. The two men crisscrossed the desert floor from one mound of stones to the next. As the sun sank lower in the sky, Ben was overcome by misgivings. It is ridiculous. What are the chances this is the right place? Seriously, why didn’t I just head straight for the Sinai instead of runni
ng off on this wild-goose chase? Why was I so certain it wasn’t the Mt Sinai everyone else knows . . .? Why the hell do I always have to be so goddamned contrary?
Just as he thought this, there was a shout from Ilhan. ‘Ben! Here!’
He jogged over to where his friend stood beside a tumulus that was about six feet in height. He held out a stone and pressed it into Ben’s hand. ‘Were you looking for something a little like this?’ he asked.
Ben looked down. A horned staff, a crescent, a circle and a serpent. He let out a cry of delight. ‘Yes!’ Scrambling up onto the tumulus’ sloped side, he grabbed at the other small, engraved stones that made up its bulk. Every single one of them had been engraved with the same symbols. Any doubt he’d had about whether or not this was the monument they’d been searching for was put firmly to rest when Ben saw what was at its summit: a black stone carved into the form of a raven.
He scrabbled in his satchel for his notebook.
‘So, do you think this is it?’ Ilhan asked.
Ben opened the book to the page where he’d copied the map from the Topkapı document. With a forefinger shaking with excitement, he tapped the illustration of the black bird perched on top of the pile of stones. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘You found it. This is it!’ He smacked Ilhan affectionately on the back before bolting back to the base of the mountain to summon Ari.
‘Well. I suppose that’s a good thing, then, isn’t it?’ said Ilhan quietly to Ben’s retreating form.
32
Sinai Peninsula, Egypt
The trees growing outside the monastery’s battlement walls in the merciless desert sun were among the few varieties that could survive the Sinai’s harsh conditions. After centuries of care and using precious water drawn from the monastery’s underground cisterns, gnarled olive trees, date palms and pencil-thin black cypress pines had grown between meandering paved paths in the gardens that provided the only sustenance the monks could coax from the desert. An orchard of pomegranate, citrus and nut trees bore testament to the back-breaking labour and unshakable faith of the men who’d carved an existence in the wilderness.
Essie consulted her map and led her two companions towards a simple two-storeyed building standing at the centre of the garden. They passed a single file of Bedouin men dutifully responding to the summons pealing from the belltower in the main monastery building. The Arabs wore blindingly white thobes topped with striped sleeveless coats and kufeya held in place on their heads by camel wool igal twined about their headdresses. They stared unapologetically at the three visitors as they passed, the fiercest scrutiny reserved for the woman who dared wear pants that displayed the outline of her legs and – worst of all – the most intimate parts of her body.
‘Hmm,’ leered Adam. ‘They like what they see, Mrs Peters. Can’t say I blame them.’
Essie was disappointed to see that the anxiety that had kept him silent on the flight to the monastery had evaporated and he was back to his most obnoxious self. She ignored him while suppressing a shudder and kept walking towards the lower level of the chapel, where a freshly whitewashed arched entranceway was gated by a grille of metal bars with a simple Greek cross set into the lintel. ‘Here we are.’
Pushing the gate open, she led Penney and Garvé into a low-ceilinged space lined with arched entranceways opening into small alcoves illuminated by dim, indirect light that came through windows set high in the walls. As their eyes adjusted to the dark, shapes began to take form.
‘Are they . . .?’ Penney said, leaning closer to the alcoves and peering at the contents. ‘Oh, Christ!’ he exclaimed, jumping back.
‘Yes. Bones. I’m surprised you’re so squeamish, Adam,’ Essie took great delight in his discomfort. ‘It’s a matter of practicality. Out here, there’s virtually no good soil – it’s next to impossible to chip graves from the rock, and sand shifts too much to be any good for tombs. It’s the same on the Greek islands. So the monks have six graves out there in the garden where they bury those who die. Once their bones are bare – it takes five years or so – they’re interred here, in the ossuary.’ Enjoying herself, she directed him to a crucifix-topped glass case further along the passageway. ‘A salient reminder for you, Adam – beauty, strength and power mean nothing. Life is nothing but a dream . . . a shadow. At the end, we’re all just bones – ashes to ashes, and all that. Memento mori – remember death. Have a look in there. The Righteous Stephanus in person.’
Penney edged cautiously towards the cabinet, flinching when he saw what was within. ‘How absolutely revolting,’ Penney exclaimed, peering at the mummified figure dressed in religious vestments. ‘Thank God for the good old C of E.’
‘Strange sentiment coming from one of Aleister Crowley’s disciples,’ Essie snapped.
‘Just saying,’ said Penney defensively, arms crossed at his chest.
‘So,’ interrupted Garvé. ‘Where do we begin?’
‘I need to find something. Just give me a moment,’ Essie replied.
When she’d first uncovered the hidden map in Topkapı, most of the clues were totally obscure to her. She’d always loved a good puzzle, but the problem was that even with the help of the hints preserved in Aleister Crowley’s account and her extensive knowledge of ancient history, identifying an exact location for the tomb was next to impossible. She recognised Orion’s Belt, of course, and knew it would be the pointer in the heavens that would direct her to the cave. She could see that the keystone referred to by Crowley was hidden beneath a pyramidal stack of what looked like round stones, but she didn’t know where to start looking no matter how many ways she attempted to interpret the clues.
She’d thought she’d exhausted all options until she found a rough sketch of a statue in Crowley’s notes and, in desperation, had decided to take a trip to Cairo to examine it. It was there that she’d identified the same alchemical symbol she’d seen stamped in the front of the book in Topkapı. As soon as she’d interpreted the hieroglyphic inscription that mentioned Mt Sinai, it all made sense. She knew of the monastery’s famed charnel-house and had seen photographs of the morbid piles of skulls and bones. The caput mortuum, the death’s head, above the summit of the mountain, confirmed she was on the right path. All she needed then was plausible cover to get inside the monastery. Colonel Nasser had obliged with his action in the Suez Canal, not that he’d ever know the real reason behind Great Britain’s irrational rush to attack the Sinai.
Essie worked her way along the corridor. In each alcove, the bones were arranged neatly and stacked like with like: legs with legs and arms with arms. If she was right, she’d find what she was looking for in one of the alcoves containing the skulls.
Essie had learnt what she could about the charnel-house associated with the Sacred Monastery of the God-Trodden Mt Sinai, but she hadn’t anticipated how many dead monks had accumulated over the one and a half thousand years the monastery had been operating. There were far more piles of skulls than she’d imagined there might be.
How the hell am I going to know which is the right one? she wondered. Please tell me I’m not going to have to dismantle all of these . . . I feel bad enough doing this as it is, without having to destroy them all.
As she was grappling with her already compromised conscience, she saw it. ‘Thank Christ!’ she exclaimed beneath her breath. ‘Here!’ she called out. ‘It’s over here!’
The two men joined her. ‘How do you know?’ Garvé asked.
She pointed. As they’d seen elsewhere in the monastery, a fresco depicting the Virgin and Christ child had been painted onto the wall at the back of the alcove. But it was the inclusion of some atypical details in the composition that had caught Essie’s eye.
‘What?’ Garvé couldn’t see it.
Essie flipped her notebook to the page where she’d copied down the diagram from the archive in Topkapı Palace and pointed at the pile of stones with a black raven perched on its summit, and the death’s head hovering in the sky above the cave on the mountaintop. ‘There! Do you
see now?’
Garvé looked from the notebook to the fresco. A pile of skulls sat beneath the Virgin’s throne while above, a black raven lifted the topmost skull from the stack into the sky. ‘Yes. I do believe you’re right.’ His face creased into an uncharacteristic smile. ‘Well done.’
‘So, what do we do now?’ Penney asked.
‘You’re not going to like it,’ Essie answered, enjoying every minute.
Dust rose in clouds and Essie was forced to confront the realisation that they were inhaling the dead. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen more than her fair share of skeletons over the years – she’d lost count of the number of ancient tombs she’d opened and desecrated, stripping the dead of precious things they no longer needed. But this seemed different, somehow; more immediate and personal for some reason. As they dismantled the bier that housed the skulls of monks who’d, in most cases, been dead for many hundreds of years, Essie couldn’t help but think that the hollow-eyed sockets were contemplating them with a collective look of disapproval.
Refusing to use his bare hands, Adam had pulled the sleeves of his shirt over his fingers and grasped the bones through the fabric, holding them at arm’s length to deposit them gingerly on the growing pile in the passageway. In contrast, Garvé seemed to be enjoying himself, grabbing the skulls in handfuls with his fingers hooked through the eye sockets, and flinging them contemptuously onto the stone floor outside. Essie winced as those he tossed with more vigour than others smashed into the wall and shattered. For her part, she treated the mortal remains of the monastery’s monks with more reverence, carefully lifting them from the stack and placing them gently with their fellows.
The Emerald Tablet Page 23