‘It would have been government agents. As I told you, they are constantly sending such people into Tigray to cause trouble. At night they cannot bomb us from the air so they make use of these sabotage squads in order to disrupt the traffic moving on the roads. Sometimes they succeed …’
Another question had occurred to me: ‘Why didn’t they carry on firing? We were sitting ducks up there.’
‘Too dangerous for them. Since they missed us with the first burst and since they were not very close to us, they would have been unwise to continue with the attack. There are a lot of TPLF fighters in this area. A prolonged exchange of fire would have attracted attention.’
‘Oh … I see.’
I rested my head wearily against the side window of the Landcruiser and thought how easily life could be stolen by a mindless bullet and how fragile we all were beneath our bluster and conceit.
At around three that morning, picking up speed on a metalled road, we drove by a field in which a tank lay derelict, its turret blown askew, its gun-barrel drooping impotently. Then, to our left, I saw the hulking ruins of an ancient building bathed in starlight. I was overtaken by an acute, almost poignant, sense of dejà vu and I asked: ‘Where are we?’
‘We are coming into Axum,’ answered Hagos. ‘We have just passed the Queen of Sheba’s palace.’
A few minutes later we entered the small town, turned right and left through the narrow streets, and then pulled to a halt in front of a walled enclosure draped with creeping vines and tropical flowers. While the others knocked on the gate to gain admission, I slipped unnoticed around the side of the Landcruiser, dropped to my knees and kissed the ground. It was, I knew, an extravagant and sentimental gesture. But somehow it felt right.
Strategy
In the morning I was awakened by bright sunlight streaming through the uncurtained window of the room that had been assigned to me. In the small hours, when we had arrived, everything had been in darkness, for there was no electricity in Axum. But now, as I stepped outside, I could see that we were lodging in a pleasant little guest house built around a patch of green lawn.
I ambled over to a terrace where some chairs were arranged. There, in a corner, a kettle was boiling promisingly on a stove fashioned out of a large oil can. Nearby was a kitchen in which two women, whom I judged to be mother and daughter, were chopping vegetables.
I was greeted with smiles and was almost immediately provided with a cup of sweet, scented tea. Then I sat down and collected my thoughts while I waited for the others to wake up.
The date was now Wednesday 16 January 1991. During the night that had just passed, the UN deadline for the withdrawal of Iraqi troops from Kuwait had expired – and I wondered, in a rather abstract way, whether World War III had broken out. Meanwhile, in just two days’ time, the Timkat ceremonies were due to begin here in Axum and I needed to have a strategy worked out before then.
I found myself curiously reluctant to march straight round to the Saint Mary of Zion church and to the sanctuary chapel. Strangely, having come all this way, those few final steps seemed the hardest of all to take. This was partly natural diffidence, partly superstitious dread, and partly because I felt that an early visit to the church of Saint Mary of Zion would alert the priests to my presence and would probably ensure that the true Ark would not on this occasion be carried out in the Timkat processions. It therefore seemed logical that I should hold back and keep a low profile until the beginning of the ceremony. Then, in the scrum of wild dancing that I knew would occur, I might find some opportunity to get close to the relic and to take a proper look at it.
There was, however, an argument against this strategy. Ever since my discussion in Jerusalem with the Falasha elder Raphael Hadane I had become aware that the real Ark might never be used in the Timkat processions – that a replica might be substituted for it while the genuine article remained safely inside the chapel. If this was so then clearly the sooner I introduced myself to the Axum priests the better. I would have nothing to gain by waiting and nothing to lose by being open and above board. Quite the contrary, in fact, because only by talking to the clergymen at great length would I have any chance of persuading them that I did not represent a threat, that I was sincere, and that I was a worthy candidate for admission into the presence of the Ark.
For these reasons, faced with irrevocable decisions that had to be made right away, I was in something of a quandary as I sat drinking my tea on that morning of 16 January.
In a little while a bleary-eyed Ed appeared from his room, clutching a short-wave radio to his ear.
‘Has the war started?’ I shouted.
‘Well no, actually. It hasn’t. The deadline’s passed but there are no reports of any fighting at all. Now what about some tea? Or coffee? Coffee will do. And some breakfast. Is there any of that around?’
While Ed was being catered for, Hagos also arrived – though not from his room. He had obviously been into town already because, in tow behind him, was a venerable bearded old fellow in flowing vestments.
‘This is my father,’ explained the TPLF official, making polite introductions all round. ‘He is a priest at Saint Mary of Zion church. I told him about your interest in the Ark of the Covenant and he said that he would like to meet you.’
An honour and a burden
I had, of course, talked to Hagos about my quest on several occasions during our long journey from Khartoum. I had learnt before we set out that he was a native of Axum but it had not occurred to me for a moment that he might have any connections with the church, let alone that his father would actually turn out to be a priest. Perhaps if I had known that I would have been more guarded in my remarks – but then again perhaps not. I had liked Hagos from the beginning and had not wanted to keep anything from him.
The end result was that any element of surprise that I might have retained had been removed, not out of design or malice on anyone’s part but as the result of a pure fluke. I decided, therefore, that there was no longer any point in attempting to be guarded or cloak-and-dagger about what I was here to do. Better by far to put all my cards on the table and accept the consequences, whether positive or negative.
I had a long discussion with Hagos’s father, who seemed intrigued by the notion that a foreigner should have come all this way in the hope of seeing the Ark of the Covenant.
‘And will I see it?’ I asked. ‘During the Timkat ceremonies? Do they use the real Ark or do they use a replica?’
Hagos translated my question. There was then a pregnant pause which the old man eventually broke with this reply: ‘On such matters I am not qualified to speak. You must talk to my superiors.’
‘But you know the answer, don’t you?’
‘I am not qualified to speak. It is not my responsibility.’
‘Whose responsibility is it?’
‘First and foremost you must meet the Nebura-ed, the most senior of all the priests in Axum. Without his blessing you will be able to do nothing. If he grants his permission then you must also talk with the guardian of the Ark …’
‘I was here before,’ I interrupted, ‘in 1983, and I met the guardian then. Is he still alive do you know? Or has someone else taken over from him?’
‘Unfortunately that one died, four years ago. He was very old. He named his successor to replace him and this new man is now at his post.’
‘And he always stays at the chapel where the Ark is kept?’
‘It is his burden that he may never leave the Ark. Do you know that his predecessor, the guardian whom you met, attempted to run away when he was told that he had been appointed?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes. He fled outside Axum, into the mountains. Other monks were sent after him to catch him. When they brought him back he still wanted to escape. He had to be chained at the chapel for many months before he fully accepted his responsibility.’
‘Chained, you say?’
‘Yes. Chained inside the
chapel.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it sounds like he really didn’t want the job. I would have thought it was a great honour to be appointed as guardian of the Ark.’
‘An honour? Yes, certainly. But it is also a heavy burden. After he takes up his post the chosen monk has no life outside the Ark. He exists to serve it, to burn incense round about it, to be before it constantly.’
‘And what would happen if it were ever taken out of the chapel – during Timkat, for example? Would the guardian go with it?’
‘He must stay close to it at all times. But you should speak to others about these matters. I am not qualified …’
I put several other close questions about the Ark, but all of them produced the same response from the old man – such matters were not his business, he couldn’t say, I would have to talk to someone more senior. Interestingly, however, he did tell me that government officials had come to Axum shortly before the town was captured by the TPLF and had attempted to remove the relic.
I asked: ‘How? I mean, what did they do? Did they try to go into the chapel?’
‘Not at first. They wanted to persuade us that the Ark should go with them to Addis Ababa. They said that there was fighting coming and that it would be safer there.’
‘And what happened?’
‘When they became forceful and aggressive we resisted them. They called soldiers, but we resisted them. The whole town heard what they were trying to do and there were demonstrations in the streets. Eventually they returned to Addis Ababa empty-handed. Soon afterwards, thanks be to God, Axum was liberated.’
I was aware that the father of a guerilla fighter was likely to be biased in favour of the TPLF. Nevertheless I asked: ‘Since the government forces left, have things improved here for the clergy, or have they got worse?’
‘Definitely things are better. In fact the situation in the churches is very good. We go to the church to pray when we like – as much as we like, day, night, evening, whenever we wish. Before, under the government, due to the curfew that they had imposed, we were not allowed to go to the church at night, or to go home from the church at night. If we went out from the church, even for fresh air, they came and took us to prison. But we don’t have to fear now. We can sleep safe in our homes and go to church every day like normal people, and feel safe. We don’t have to spend the night in the church for fear that we might be caught walking home at night. During the government’s time we never felt relaxed when we attended services. There was always fear, not knowing what might happen to us or the church. Now we practise our faith in peace.’
Croix pattée
Hagos’s father eventually left, promising that he would arrange a meeting for me with the Nebura-ed, the chief priest of the Saint Mary of Zion church. He did not advise that I should attempt to contact the guardian of the Ark before this meeting had taken place: ‘That might cause some bad feeling. Things should be done in the proper order.’
Although this strategy seemed to me to be full of potential pitfalls, I realized that I had little choice but to go along with it. I therefore decided, while waiting for an appointment with the Nebura-ed, that I would explore some of the archaeological sites which I had visited all too briefly in 1983 – and others that I had not been able to see at all.
I remembered that there was supposed to be an ancient carving of a lioness on a rock face near the quarries where Axum’s famous stelae had been cut in pre-Christian times. That carving had been out of bounds in 1983 because it had been located beyond the area controlled by the military garrison. Now, however, it was accessible.
While Ed went off with another TPLF official to film various sequences for his Channel 4 news story, I persuaded Hagos to take me to the quarries in the Landcruiser. This was a risky thing to do because of the danger of an air strike. However, we would be driving less than five kilometres and would be able to conceal the vehicle when we arrived.
We set off out of town past the so-called Queen of Sheba’s palace and soon came to a rock-strewn hillside. We parked in a gully, covered the Landcruiser with its camouflage tarpaulin, and then began to hike up the scree.
‘What do you think of my chances of persuading the priests to let me into the chapel to see the Ark?’ I asked as we walked.
‘Oh … they will not allow you to do that,’ replied Hagos confidently. ‘Your only opportunity will be during Timkat.’
‘But do you think they really do bring the Ark out at Timkat? Or do you think they use a replica?’
A shrug: ‘I don’t know. During my childhood I believed, and all my friends believed, that it was the true Ark rather than a replica which was carried at Timkat. We never questioned that fact. It was not even an issue for us. But now I am not so sure …’
‘Why?’
‘It does not seem logical.’
Hagos would be drawn no further on this subject and for the next fifteen minutes or so we climbed strenuously in complete silence. Then he pointed out a giant boulder across a ridge: ‘Your lioness is there,’ he said.
I had noticed that he had developed a slight limp. ‘What happened to your leg?’ I asked. ‘Did you sprain it?’
‘No. I was shot.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘It happened a few years ago, in a battle with government forces. The bullet passed through my shin, shattering the bone. Since then I have not been fit enough to participate in active service.’
We had come now to the boulder and Hagos led me round its side. There, although partially occluded by deep shadow, I could quite clearly make out the gigantic silhouette of a charging lioness carved in low relief. It was extensively eroded. Nevertheless it conveyed a lifelike sense of ferocity and sinuous grace.
I knew that Theodore Bent, a British traveller and amateur archaeologist who had visited Axum in the nineteenth century, had also seen this carving – which he had later described as ‘a very spirited work of art, measuring 10 ft. 8 in. from the nose to the tail. The running attitude is admirably given, and the sweep of the hind legs shows that the artist had thorough command of his subject.’ Bent had then added: ‘A few inches from the nose of the lioness is a circular disk with rays, probably intended to represent the sun.’1
I now examined this ‘circular disk with rays’, which turned out to consist of two pairs of elliptical incisions cut into the bare rock. If these incisions had been arranged around a watch-face then the top pair would have pointed, respectively, to 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock and the bottom pair to 4 o’clock and 8 o’clock. I therefore found it easy to understand Bent’s interpretation of the device: at first glance it did indeed look like a series of spokes – or rays – emanating outwards from a disk-shaped centre.
It was far from being that, however. Indeed the ‘circular disk’ that the traveller had described was an illusion. If he had bothered to trace the complete shape defined by the spaces between the elliptical incisions he would have found that the result was not a representation of the sun at all but of a croix pattée with arms that widened out from the centre point – in other words, a perfect Templar cross.
‘Hagos,’ I said, ‘am I seeing things or is that a cross?’
As I asked this question I ran my fingers around the outline that had immediately been so apparent to me.
‘It is a cross,’ affirmed the TPLF official.
‘But it shouldn’t be there. The lioness is definitely pre-Christian – so how come there’s this Christian symbol beside it?’
‘Who knows? Maybe someone added it later. There are other crosses, just like this one, at the site of King Kaleb’s palace.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ I said, ‘I think I would very much like to go and see them.’
The work of angels
I had visited Kaleb’s palace in 1983 and I knew that the ruins dated to the sixth century AD, the early part of the Christian era in Axum. I remembered that it was a hill-top fortress with deep dungeons and chambers
beneath.2 I did not, however, remember seeing any crosses there.
Now, as we drove back into town, I looked forward impatiently to exploring the palace again. In 1983 the Templars had held no significance for me. My more recent research, however, had raised the possibility that a contingent of knights could have come from Jerusalem to Ethiopia in search of the Ark of the Covenant at the time of King Lalibela (AD 1185–1211) and could later have served as bearers for the Ark itself.3 The reader will recall that I had found what looked like striking support for this theory in an eyewitness account given by the thirteenth-century Armenian geographer Abu Salih – an account that had spoken of the Ark being carried in Axum by men who were ‘white and red in complexion with red hair’.4
If those men had indeed been Templars, as I very strongly suspected, then it was reasonable to suppose that they might have left some mementos of their order behind in Axum. It therefore seemed to me at least possible that the oddly out-of-place croix pattée on the rock beside the carved lioness could have been put there by a Templar artist.
This particular type of cross, as I knew very well, was not one that was common or popular in Ethiopia: indeed in all my years of travels in that country the only place in which I had ever seen one had been on the ceiling of the rock-hewn church of Beta Maryam in the town of Lalibela – a town that had been the capital of the very king who I believed had brought the Templars to Ethiopia in the first place.5 Now I had found another croix pattée on the outskirts of Axum and, if Hagos was right, I was about to see several more in the ruins of King Kaleb’s palace – a structure that could well have been still standing and inhabited in the thirteenth century.
After driving past the grass area where the majority of Axum’s great stelae were located, we skirted the huge and ancient reservoir known as the Mai Shum. In local tradition, I remembered, this was supposed to have been the Queen of Sheba’s pleasure bath. Since the coming of Christianity, however, it had been used for the curious baptismal rituals associated with Timkat. Here, in two days’ time, the Ark was supposed to be brought in procession at the start of the ceremonies that I had come to witness.
The Sign and the Seal Page 55