The Seventh Scroll: A Novel of Ancient Egypt

by Wilbur Smith

  They came at last to the entrance to the cavern cathedral of St Frumentius. It was a circular opening like the mouth of a fish, but the surrounds of the portals were painted with a dense border of stars and crosses, and of saintly heads. The portraits were primitive, and rendered in ochre and soft earthy tones that were all the more appealing for their childlike simplicity. The eyes of the saints were huge and outlined in charcoal, their expressions tranquil and benign.

  A deacon in a grubby green velvet robe guarded the entrance, but when Tessay spoke to him he smiled and nodded and gestured for them to enter. The lintel was low and Nicholas had to duck his head to pass under it, but on the far side he raised it again to look about him in amazement.

  The roof of the cavern was so high that it was lost in the gloom. The rock walls were covered with murals, a celestial host of angels and archangels who flickered and wavered in the light of the candles and oil lamps. They were partially obscured by the long tapestry banners that hung down the walls, grimy with incense soot, their fringes frayed and tattered. On one of these St Michael rode a prancing white horse, on another the Virgin knelt at the foot of the cross, while above her the pale body of Christ bled from the wound of the Roman spear in his side.

  This was the outer nave of the church. In the far wall the doorway to the middle chamber was guarded by a massive pair of wooden doors that stood open. The three of them crossed the stone floor, picking their way between the kneeling petitioners and pilgrims in their rags and tatters, in their misery and their religious ecstasy. In the feeble light of the lamps and the blue haze of incense smoke they seemed lost souls languishing eternally in the outer darkness of purgatory.

  The visitors reached the set of three stone steps that led up to the inner doors, but their way was blocked at the threshold by two robed deacons in tall, flat-topped hats. One of these addressed Tessay sternly.

  ‘They will not even let us enter the qiddist, the middle chamber,’ Tessay told them regretfully. ‘Beyond that lies the maqdas, the Holy of Holies.’

  They peered past the guards, and in the gloom of the qiddist could just make out the door to the inner sanctum.

  ‘Only the ordained priests are allowed to enter the maqdas, for it contains the tabot and the entrance to the tomb of the saint.’

  Disappointed and frustrated, they made their way out of the cavern and back along the terrace.

  They ate their dinner under a sky full of stars. The air was still stiflingly hot, and clouds of mosquitoes hovered just out of range of the repellents with which they had all smeared their exposed skin.

  ‘And so, English, I have got you where you wanted to be. Now, how are you going to find this animal that you have come so far to hunt?’ The vodka was making Boris belligerent again.

  ‘At first light I want you to send out your trackers to work the country downstream from here,’ Nicholas told him. ‘Dik-dik are usually active in the early morning, and again late in the afternoon.’

  ‘You are teaching your grandpapa to skin a cat,’ said Boris, mangling the metaphor. He poured himself another vodka.

  ‘Tell them to check for spoor.’ Nicholas deliberately laboured his point. ‘I imagine that the tracks of the striped variety will look very similar to those of the common dik-dik. If they find indications, then they must sit quietly along the edge of the thickest patches of bush and watch for any movement of the animals. Dik-dik are very territorial. They won’t stray far from their own turf.’

  ‘Da! Da! I will tell them. But what will you do? Will you spend the day in camp with the ladies, English?’ He grinned slyly. ‘If you are lucky, you may soon not need separate huts?’ He guffawed at his own wit, and Tessay looked distressed and stood up with the excuse that she was going to the kitchen hut to supervise the chef.

  Nicholas ignored the boorish pleasantry. ‘Royan and I will work the riverine bush along the banks of the Dandera river. It looked very promising habitat for dik-dik. Warn your people to keep clear of the river. I don’t want the game disturbed.’

  They left camp the next morning in the glimmer of the dawn. Nicholas carried the Rigby rifle and a light day pack, and led Royan along the bank of the Dandera. They moved slowly, stopping every dozen paces to look and listen. The thickets were alive with the sounds and movements of the small mammals and birds.

  ‘The Ethiopians do not have a hunting tradition, and I imagine the monks never disturb the wildlife here in the gorge.’ He pointed to the tracks of a small antelope in the moist earth of the bank. ‘Bushbuck,’ he told her. ‘Menelik’s bushbuck. Unique to this part of the world. A much sought-after trophy.’

  ‘Do you really expect to find your great-grandfather’s dik-dik?’ she asked. ‘You seemed so determined when you discussed it with Boris.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he grinned. ‘I think the old man made it up. It should rather have been named Harper’s chimera. It probably was the skin of a striped mongoose that he used after all. We Harpers didn’t get on in the world by always sticking to the literal truth.’

  They paused to watch a Tacazze sunbird fluttering over a bunch of yellow blossoms on a creeper high above them in the canopy of the riverine forest. The tiny bird’s plumage sparkled like a tiara of emeralds.

  ‘Still, it gives us a wonderful excuse to fossick about in the bushes.’ He glanced back to make certain that they were well clear of the camp, and then gestured for her to sit beside him on a fallen treetrunk. ‘So, let’s get it clear in our minds what we are looking for. You tell me.’

  ‘We are looking for the remains of a funerary temple, or the ruins of the necropolis where the workers lived while they were excavating Pharaoh Mamose’s tomb.’

  ‘Any sort of masonry or stonework,’ he agreed, ‘especially some sort of column or monument.’

  ‘Taita’s stone testament,’ she nodded. ‘It should be engraved or chiselled with hieroglyphics. Probably badly weathered, fallen over, covered with vegetation – I don’t know. Anything at all. We are fishing blind in dark waters.’

  ‘Well, why are we still sitting here? Let’s start fishing.’

  In the middle of the morning Nicholas found the tracks of a dik-dik along the river bank. They took up a position against the bole of one of the big trees and sat quietly for a while in the shadows of the forest, until at last they were rewarded by a glimpse of one of the tiny creatures. It passed close to where they sat, wriggling its trunklike proboscis, stepping daintily on elfin hooves, nipping a leaf from a low-hanging branch, and munching it busily. However, its coat was a uniform drab grey, unrelieved by stripes of any kind.

  When it disappeared into the undergrowth, Nicholas stood up. ‘No luck. Common variety,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s get on.’

  A little after noon they reached the spot where the river issued from between the pink flesh-coloured cliffs of the chasm. They explored these as far as they were able before their way was blocked by the cliffs. The rock fell straight into the flood, and there was no foothold at the water’s edge that would allow them to penetrate further.

  They retreated downstream, and crossed to the far bank over a primitive suspension bridge of lianas and hairy flax rope that Nicholas guessed had been built by the monks from the monastery. Once again they tried to push on into the chasm. Nicholas even attempted to wade around the first buttress of pink rock that barred the way, but the current was too strong and threatened to sweep him off his feet. He was forced to abandon the attempt.

  ‘If we can’t get through there, then it’s highly unlikely that Taita and his workmen would have done so.’

  They went back as far as the hanging bridge and found a shady place close to the water to eat the lunch that Tessay had packed for them. The heat in the middle of the day was stupefying. Royan wet her cotton neckerchief in the river and dabbed at her face as she lay beside him.

  Nicholas lay on his back and studied every inch of the pink cliffs through his binoculars. He was looking for any cleft or opening in their smooth polished surfaces.r />
  He spoke without lowering the binoculars. ‘Reading River God, it looks as if Taita actually enlisted help to switch the bodies of Tanus, Great Lion of Egypt, and the Pharaoh himself.’ He lowered the glasses and looked at Royan. ‘I find that puzzling, for it would have been an outrageous thing to do in terms of his period and belief. Is that a fair translation of the scrolls? Did Taita truly switch the bodies?’

  She laughed and rolled over to face him. ‘Your old chum Wilbur has an overheated imagination. The only basis for that whole bit of story-telling is a single line in the scrolls. “To me he was more a king than ever Pharaoh had been.”’ She rolled on to her back again. ‘That is a good example of my objection to the book. He mixes fact and fantasy into an inextricable stew. As far as I know and believe, Tanus rests in his own tomb and the Pharaoh in his.’

  ‘Pity!’ Nicholas sighed and stuffed the book back in his pack. ‘It was a romantic little touch that I enjoyed.’ He glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up. ‘Come on, I want to do a recce down the other spur of the valley. I spotted some interesting ground up there whilst we were on the approach march yesterday.’

  It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the camp, and Tessay hurried out of her kitchen hut to greet them.

  ‘I have been waiting for you to return. We have had an interesting invitation from Jali Hora, the abbot. He has invited us to a banquet in the monastery to celebrate Katera, the eve of Timkat. The servants have set up your shower, and the water is hot. There is just time for you to change before we go down to the monastery.’

  The abbot sent a party of young acolytes to escort them to the banqueting hall. These young men arrived in the short African twilight, carrying torches to light the way.

  Royan recognized one of these as Tamre, the epileptic boy. When she singled him out for her warmest smile, he came forward shyly and offered her a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked from beside the river. She was unprepared for this courtesy, and without thinking she thanked him in Arabic.

  ‘Shukran.’

  ‘Taffadali,’ the boy replied immediately, using the correct gender of the response, and in an accent that told her instantly that he was fluent in her language.

  ‘How do you speak Arabic so well?’ she asked, intrigued.

  The boy hung his head with embarrassment and mumbled, ‘My mother is from Massawa, on the Red Sea. It is the language of my childhood.’

  When they set off for the monastery, the boy monk followed Royan like a puppy.

  Once more they descended the stairway down the cliff and came out on to the torchlit terrace. The narrow cloisters were packed with humanity, and as they made their way through the press, with the honour guard of acolytes clearing a way for them, black faces called Amharic greetings and black hands reached out to touch them.

  They stooped through the low entrance to the outer nave of the cathedral. The chamber was lit with oil lamps and torches, so that the murals of saints and angels danced in the uncertain light. The stone floor was covered with a carpet of freshly cut reeds and rushes, their sweet herbal perfume leavening the heavy, smoky air. It seemed that the entire brotherhood of monks were seated cross-legged on this spongy carpet. They greeted the entrance of the little party of ferengi with cries of welcome and shouts of benediction. Beside each seated figure stood a flask of tej, the honey mead of the country. It was clear from the happy, sweaty faces that the flasks had already done good service.

  The visitors were led forward to a spot that had been left clear for them directly in front of the wooden doors to the qiddist, the middle chamber. Their escort urged them to sit and make themselves comfortable in this space. As soon as they were settled, another party of acolytes came in from the terrace bearing flasks of tej, and knelt to place a separate pottery flask in front of each of them.

  Tessay leaned across to whisper, ‘Better you let me sample this tej before you try it. The strength and colour and taste vary in every place that it is served, and some of it is ferocious.’ She raised her flask and drank directly from the elongated neck. When she lowered the flask she smiled, ‘This is a good brew. If you are careful, you will be all right with it.’

  The monks seated around them were urging them to drink, and Nicholas raised his flask. The monks clapped and laughed as he tasted the liquor. It was light and pleasant, with a strong bouquet of wild honey. ‘Not bad!’ he gave his opinion, but Tessay warned him, ‘Later they will almost certainly offer you katikala. Be very careful of that! It is distilled from fermented grain and it will take your head off at the shoulders.’

  The monks were concentrating their hospitality on Royan now. The fact that she was a Coptic Christian, a true believer, had impressed them. It was obvious also that her beauty had not gone entirely unremarked by this company of holy and celibate men.

  Nicholas leaned close to her, and whispered, ‘You will have to fake it for their benefit. Hold it up to your lips and pretend to swallow, or they will not leave you in peace.’

  As she lifted the flask the monks hooted with delight and saluted her with their own upraised flasks. She lowered the flask again, and whispered to Nicholas.

  ‘It’s delicious. It tastes of honey.’

  ‘You broke your vow of abstinence!’ he chided her laughing. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Just a drop,’ she admitted, ‘and anyway I never made any vows.’

  The acolytes knelt in turn in front of each guest, offering them a bowl of hot water in which to wash their right hands in preparation for the feast.

  Suddenly there was the sound of music and drums, and a band of musicians filed through the open doors of the qiddist. They took up their positions along the side walls of the chamber, while the congregation craned expectantly to peer into its dim interior.

  At last Jali Hora, the ancient abbot, appeared at the head of the steps. He wore a full-length robe of crimson satin, with a gold thread-embroidered stole around his shoulders. On his head was a massive crown. Though it glittered like gold, Nicholas knew that it was gilt brass, and the multi-coloured stones with which it was set were just as certainly glass and paste.

  Jali Hora raised his crook, which was surmounted by an ornate silver cross, and a weighty silence fell upon the company.

  ‘Now he will say the grace,’ Tessay told them, and bowed her head.

  Jali Hora’s grace was fervent and lengthy, his reedy falsetto punctuated by devout responses from the monks. When at last he came to the end, two splendidly robed debteras helped Jali Hora down the stairs and seated him on his carved jimmera stool at the head of the circle of senior deacons and priests.

  The religious mood of the monks changed to one of festive bonhomie as a procession of acolytes entered from the terrace, each of them bearing upon his head a flat woven reed basket the size of a wagon wheel. They placed one of these in the centre of each circle of guests.

  Then at a signal from Jali Hora, acting in unison they whipped the lid off each basket. A jovial cheer went up from the monks, for each basket contained a shallow brass bowl that was filled from rim to rim with round sheets of the flat grey unleavened injera bread.

  Two acolytes staggered in from the terrace, barely able to carry between them a steaming brass pot filled with gallons of wat, a spicy stew of fat mutton. Over each of the bowls of injera bread they tipped the great pot and slopped gouts of the runny red-brown wat, the surface glistening with hot grease.

  The assembly fell on the food voraciously. They tore off wads of injera and scooped up the mess of wat with it, and then stuffed the parcel into their open mouths, which remained open as they chewed. They washed it down with long swallows from the tej flasks, before wrapping themselves another parcel of running wat. Soon every one of them was greasy to the elbow and their chins were smeared thickly, as they chewed and drank and shouted with laughter.

  The serving acolytes dumped thick cakes of another type of injera beside each guest. These were stiffer and less yeasty in taste, friable and crumbling, unlike the latex
rubber consistency of the thin grey sheets of the first kind.

  Nicholas and Royan tried to show their appreciation of the food without coating themselves with layers of it as the others were doing. Despite its appearance the wat was really rather tasty, and the dry yellow injera helped to cut the grease.

  The communal brass bowls were emptied in remarkably short order. Only the churned up mess of bread and grease remained when the acolytes came tottering in under the weight of another set of pots, this time filled to overflowing with curried chicken wat. This was splashed into the bowls on top of the remains of the mutton, and again the monks had at it.

  While they gobbled up the chicken, the tej flasks were replenished and the monks became more raucous.

  ‘I don’t think I can take much more of this,’ Royan told Nicholas queasily.

  ‘Close your eyes and think of England,’ he advised her. ‘You are the star of the evening. They aren’t going to let you escape.’

  As soon as the chicken was eaten, the servers were back with fresh pots, this time brimming with fiery beef wat. They dumped this on the remnants of both the mutton and the chicken.

  The monk in the circle opposite Royan emptied his flask, and when an acolyte tried to refill it, he waved the lad away with a shout of, ‘Katikala!’

  The cry was taken up by the other monks. ‘Katikala! Katikala!’

  The acolytes hurried out and returned with dozens of bottles of the gin-clear liquor and brass bowls the size of tea cups.

  ‘This is the stuff to be careful of,’ Tessay told them. Surreptitiously both Nicholas and Royan were able to dribble the contents of their bowls into the mat of reeds on which they were sitting, but the monks guzzled theirs down greedily.

  ‘Boris is getting his share,’ Nicholas remarked to Royan. The Russian was red-faced and sweating, grinning like an idiot as he downed another bowlful.

  Enlivened by the katikala the monks started playing a game. One of them would wrap a packet of beef wat with a sheet of injera, and then, as it dripped fat from his poised right hand, he would turn to the monk beside. The victim would open his mouth until his jaws were at full stretch, and the packet would be stuffed into it by his considerate neighbour. The morsel was, of course, as large as a human gape could possibly accommodate, and in order to engulf it the victim had to risk death by asphyxiation.