Foretold by Thunder

by Edward M. Davey

  “I can’t believe this is happening, Dad.”

  Jenny forced herself not to cry. She hadn’t since Marc had left her – and the memory of that breakdown still made her prickle with embarrassment. It finally came at the supermarket checkout, a full fortnight after he had dropped the bombshell. The weekly shop was so much cheaper without all his meat and booze in the trolley, and with only one person packing the damn items had come down the conveyor twice as fast as she could bag them. That was when it hit her she was alone – and possibly always would be.

  Why was she thinking of this now?

  “They’ve got her in an artificial coma,” her father said. “So she’s not in any pain, love.”

  Of course. Loneliness. When all this came to its logical conclusion the number of people on her side no matter what was down to one.

  “Dad, do I need to come home right away? To see her.”

  “No, don’t be silly.” His voice was thick. “It’s not come to that yet. The doctors say there’s no imminent danger of … the worst. She’s peaceful for now.”

  “And is this a permanent state of affairs?”

  “Oh love, we just don’t know. But it looks bleak, darling. I’m so sorry.”

  To her own disgust Jenny’s instinctive thought was for herself. A fear reflex, generated like the jerk of a leg struck below the kneecap.

  What if I’m a carrier too?

  For the second time that day she realized she was digging her fingernail into her palm.

  “When will you be back, love? I know your work is really important and everything. But perhaps if you spoke to her while she’s sleeping, like I’ve been doing – she’d know you were there.”

  Jenny could picture him at that moment: a balding, delicately featured man in late middle age. Slightly stooped, almost certainly wearing his dressing gown. He’d be in the armchair by the piano with a carafe of coffee, one hand on the cat perhaps, his forefinger tracing circles of worry on the top of her head. The dratted cat would be purring away without a care in the world.

  “I’ll be coming back soon, Dad,” Jenny promised, hating herself.

  When she hung up it felt as if the world was projected around her on screens and none of it was real.

  Her phone buzzed: it was the transcript of Jake’s latest conversation with his news editor. Amazingly, the journalists still weren’t taking proper precautions on the phone. She pulled herself together. Duty calls. Jenny read the dispatch without interest at first. She had studied hundreds of Jake’s communications by then, most trivial. But as she read this transcript she shifted in her seat.

  What if the guys in the Mercedes weren’t the ones who shot the agent? What if they were MI6 too?

  At once her mind went to another conversation – when she’d pulled Waits out of his jolly to tell him of the discovery in the cistern.

  Oh, all the major embassies have a couple of smooth operators I’m authorized to call on in absolute emergencies.

  For the first time Jenny thought the unthinkable: maybe her handler was responsible for an attempt on the life of two British citizens. That still left the question of who killed Medcalf. She read on, and another line jumped out at her that rang so true her skin seemed to shrink around her body.

  I’m not trying to say this fortune-telling stuff actually works. But can we completely rule out that MI6 thinks that it works?

  Could Jenny rule out that Waits thought the Book of Thunder was a functional instruction manual for predicting the future? Patently she could not. It was, now she considered it, only slightly less plausible than his line about wanting to unsettle Britain’s enemies. Before she could develop the thought her phone rang again. It was de Clerk in Vauxhall.

  “You’re not gonna like this,” he said. “Chung just paid for two tickets to Addis Ababa on her credit card. They’re flying in three hours.”

  The cradle of humanity beckoned.

  35

  The visa desk at Bole International Airport was a glory of bureaucracy. Six elderly men wearing bobble hats brandished forms, each with his own stamp to be stamped or sticker to be stuck. The queue took an epoch and when Jake thought it was over they were sent back to the beginning so each actor in the farce could tick off the others’ contribution. It was an infinite staircase of a border control, and Jake knew he would like this country.

  His newspaper was on sale in an airport kiosk, and with a rush of excitement Jake saw he had the front-page byline – the first he’d had in three years. But his face darkened as he read the copy. The story he’d wanted to tell was that all this violence was down to an archaeological fixation at the top of MI6. But every mention of ancient history had been expunged. The top line was that the security services were in some way involved with the Topkapi shootout, with a female agent shot dead nearby. She was named as Jess Medcalf. The claims were attributed to ‘sources close to MI6’, and at the end it said additional reporting by Marvin Whyte.

  Niall Heston had refused to sanction a trip to Ethiopia to pursue some “damn fool hunch” – and he had only relented to Jake’s request for two weeks’ immediate leave after a review of his personal security was carried out. The resulting risk assessment ran to seven pages. Jake wasn’t dissuaded. This was the biggest story of his career; he was young and unattached – if ever there was a time for swashbuckling, dangerous journalism it was now.

  They emerged from the airport, blinking at the magnificence of an African morning. Ethiopia is in the tropics, but Addis stands at twice the height of Ben Nevis. The altitude counters tropical sunshine, so it was pleasant beneath the sun but cool in the shade. The capital was comely by the standard of African cities, high-rises interspersed by greenery, with entire city blocks abandoned to baobabs and warka. Dome-shaped mountains ringed the metropolis and eagles patrolled above. Jake had anticipated the bedlam of a Mumbai or a Bangkok, yet there was little hassle, most people lolling in the shade. The shantytown parted to reveal agricultural land. Women wearing headdresses tilled the fields; a river choked with rubbish cut through the pastures, while cannabis plants nodded in the breeze.

  Florence was nervous – “this is Africa” – so for a soft landing they checked into the Addis Hilton, a brutalist 1970s megalith. The embassies nearby were guarded by teenagers with AKs dressed in mismatched uniforms. But something was missing. There were no guards outside the big houses, no machinegun posts or razor wire. Addis was not Johannesburg.

  Jake and Florence planned their next move in a restaurant. Ethiopia lay before them, a land of deserts and mountains so inhospitable it had taken Europeans two millennia to conquer it. For the twentieth time Florence studied the prose. But Eusebius’s pointer was oblique to the point of uselessness.

  Others interpreted passages of scripture, and unfolded their hidden meaning, while those who were unequal to these efforts presented mystical service for the Church of God. I myself explained details of the imperial edifice and endeavoured to gather from the prophetic visions fitting illustrations of the symbols it displayed.

  “What does that even mean?” she asked.

  “It definitely sounds relevant,” said Jake. “Hidden meanings in scripture, prophetic visions and so on.”

  “But it’s too dense to make any sense of it.”

  “That phrase, ‘the imperial edifice’,” said Jake. “I haven’t seen it anywhere else – it’s a little odd. But trying to single out a site from those two words?”

  Florence groaned. “We haven’t a hope.”

  36

  The only option was to investigate every historical site contemporaneous with Eusebius. But there were dozens to choose from: it looked like folly.

  “What about this Lalibela place?” said Jake. The guidebook pictured churches carved by hand from the red rock. “It’s a world heritage site, and the Ethiopians believe it was created by angels.”

  Florence wrinkled her nose. “Look, it dates from the twelfth century AD. Much too young.”

  Their food arrived, a spic
y lamb stew served on a sour injera pancake. It was delicious and they used strips of injera to claw up the meat.

  “The grog’s pretty special too,” said Jake. The national drink was tej, a honey wine served in glasses shaped like laboratory flasks.

  A Dutchman at the next table overheard him. “What are you drinking that crap for?” He was tanned and thick-necked, with greying ringlets greased back over his head.

  “When in Rome,” said Jake.

  “Each to their own, I suppose. You two here to work?”

  Jake and Florence exchanged looks.

  “Holiday,” she said.

  Their companion sneered. “Holiday? Why would anyone come to a dump like this for a holiday? Ach, I suppose the natives are sweet enough in a sort of childlike way. But their attempts at running a country are laughable, no?”

  Jake’s jaw clenched involuntarily. If this narrative continued he might say something he would regret.

  “I like this country,” he countered. “It defies expectation. If you believed what you read in the papers it would be some flyblown hellhole.”

  “Oh, Ethiopia has lots of bits like that,” said the man. “Take it from me. But it’s all so unnecessary – they just don’t make the best of what they’ve got here. I’m a consultant, and working with these people I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  Jake turned his back on the drinker.

  “For sure, man,” said their companion, riled now, spoiling for an argument. “I see lots of dancing and praying, but I don’t see any actual schools being built. They’re batshit mental, that’s the problem – even the smart ones. Did you know for example that every Ethiopian believes the Ark of the Covenant is kept in this country?”

  Jake turned to face him again.

  “That’s right.” The Dutchman snorted with laughter. “They think King Solomon sent it here to the Queen of Sheba, of all people.” He finished his beer and clicked his fingers at the waiter.

  Florence had stopped picking at her food. “Where is it kept?”

  “Some place called Axum, up in the far north. It’s a nice fairytale I suppose. But there’s a catch. Only one person alive has actually seen the Ark – this ancient monk guy who’s the guardian. Every other Ethiopian has to take it on blind faith.” He laughed again. “And there’s another problem with the story. This Axum place was built in the fourth century AD. But King Solomon lived, I dunno, a thousand years before that. Just think of it – all these Ethiopians worshipping some secret trophy which cannot possibly be the real thing.” He gave up on the waiter. “Ah, forget it, they just lost a sale. Adios my friends. Happy travelling.”

  Florence and Jake met each other’s eyes. Neither spoke; their food cooled slowly.

  Eventually the reporter raised a glass. “I think that’s what they call a break, old girl.”

  But even in that moment of euphoria the sadness of the country was bought home to them. Three barefooted children were eyeing up the food from a polite distance and Jake gestured to the unfinished pancake.

  That was all it took.

  Bang! The youngsters pounced with the fury of a great white, gobbling up the sustenance in fistfuls, each child afraid to slow down in case the others got an extra morsel. In seconds the feeding frenzy was over. The eldest snatched the last shred of injera, stuffing it into his mouth and gloating at the spasm of consumption, eyes like egg whites. Without a word they sprinted away. The display reminded Jake just where he was in the world; there was a lump in his throat.

  “That was intense,” he managed.

  Florence rolled her eyes. “Disgusting behaviour,” she said.

  Jake didn’t know how much longer he could put up with her.

  37

  Axum was in the northernmost tip of the country, a five-day journey by car, so they had no choice but to brave Air Ethiopia. The propeller-driven plane resembled a Lego toy. But once they were airborne air safety records were forgotten: this was true wilderness. The aircraft’s shadow was a midge on the landscape as the Great Rift Valley slipped below them, a cleft lip on the world. It was there that ape became man. They scudded over a silvery lake the shape of a Christmas tree. How long since human foot had trod its banks? Next Jake saw a tombstone of rock the size of a tower block embedded in the earth, like a prehistoric henge cast down from space. Soon the ground faded from sight, cloaked in a pall of dust that made it impossible to tell where earth ended and the sky began.

  To pass the time Jake retrieved Britton’s notes. The century-old pages were now dog-eared, but he had given up hope of finding anything useful in them. If Life of Constantine was a map, then the bundle accompanying it was a testament to delusion.

  “What are you doing?” Florence’s voice became sharp on the ‘do’ and rose on the ‘ing’, turning the question into a challenge.

  Jake ignored the hostility, immersing himself in the pages. Florence stared at the seat in front as he read, her head buffeted as the tiny aircraft skidded over the airstreams.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, despite himself. “If you were willing to suspend disbelief, some of Britton’s conclusions almost make sense. You can see why someone predisposed to mental illness would read something into this stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, this for a start. In 217 AD the Colosseum gets hit by lightning. It’s easy to imagine what a stir that must have made in a superstitious time. The Colosseum was built with treasure stolen during the sack of Jerusalem – it symbolized Roman power. The strike was seen as a warning. Within two decades Rome gets its first Christian emperor, Philip the Arab. Then voilà, lightning strikes the Colosseum again. It’s like the sky was grumbling. And what happens next?”

  “The Third Century Crisis,” said Florence. “Plague. Barbarians at the gates. Civil war after civil war. The Emperor Valerian suffered the indignity of being captured by the Persians, something totally unheard of.”

  “It says here the Persian King used him as a living footstool. When he got bored of that he had Valerian flayed alive.” Jake grinned. “Not ideal.”

  “There were sixteen emperors in as many years,” Florence went on. “Gallienus and Aurelian spent their entire reigns rushing across the empire fighting fires. The Goths were hammering on the door at one frontier, Persians at the other. Athens got destroyed by barbarians – the very birthplace of western civilization.”

  “And in 283 the Emperor Carus was actually killed by lightning,” Jake said. “While he was campaigning in Persia. To us, as much of a coincidence as Roger’s death. But to Roger while he was alive? Or to ordinary Romans in the third century? More evidence that the skies were angry.”

  “Evidence the skies had been snubbed by Philip the Arab,” said Florence. “Pagan Gods gave Rome a whole world. By taking the auspices the empire had become the greatest superpower ever known. Look how the Gods were repaid.”

  “And which emperor finally restores order?” asked Jake, handing her another page. “An emperor famous for his devotion to Paganism? An emperor who persecuted Christians without mercy?”

  “Diocletian,” Florence whispered.

  Jake shivered. For an instant it had all felt real and his dream returned to him in a spasm: the end of the Etruscans, foretold by thunder.

  “The Emperor Diocletian,” Florence repeated. “Who we think met Eusebius, when he visited Palestine. The perfect moment to convince Eusebius to become his man on the inside.”

  “But why was Eusebius up for it? If Christians were willing to be martyred in the blood-pits of Rome, a few honeyed words from the emperor are hardly going to convince him to abandon his faith.”

  “Well, if Diocletian could show him that the Disciplina Etrusca actually worked …”

  Jake guffawed at that; the dream retreated.

  “Nice one,” he said. “You know, I almost admire Roger’s intellect. Pulling the whole weird web together.”

  “Especially as first-hand sources for the Third Century Crisis are so rare,” said Fl
orence. “That so few manuscripts from the period survive tells its own story.”

  “It’s just a shame Roger’s version of history is a complete work of fiction, brilliantly embroidered though it may be. But even if you engage with his theory it makes no sense, any of it. If the Etruscans really could tell the future, ask yourself this. Why didn’t their civilization dominate the world? And if Rome somehow stole that power from the Etruscans, why did they lose a single battle? Why are we not at this moment speaking Latin and wearing togas?”

  38

  Jake tried not to make a habit of disobeying Foreign Office guidelines, so he stepped out of Axum’s matchbox airport with unease. They were close to the disputed zone between Ethiopia and Eritrea, where four backpackers had just been shot dead by bandits who had crossed the porous frontier. There was speculation that the killings were ordered by the Eritrean government; the Foreign Office was recommending against ‘all but essential travel’ to within ten kilometres of the border.

  Axum was the home of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. But this was no Vatican City. Lone camels clomped past shacks stained ruddy by the universal dust of Africa; there was a sense of the Wild West in the wind. A dozen obelisks shaped like stone electricity pylons dominated the town centre. Each stele was hewn from a single block of granite, circles and rectangles carved down the sides.

  “The steles of the Axumite rulers.” Florence’s eyes shone. “Each one erected to the memory of a dead king.”

  “I’ve never even heard of the Axumites,” Jake admitted.

  “It’s one of those civilizations which for some reason never permeated the public consciousness,” she said. “But it was one of the four great kingdoms in its day. Rome, China, Persia, Axum. They were literate too. Ge’ez is still the language of the Ethiopian Church.”

  One of the steles had toppled in the distant past and the colossus had fractured into five blocks, each the size of a minibus. The shattered rock was warm to the touch. A lizard scuttled away in fright.