by H. B. Moore
Omar stared at Dr. Stein. Seven oases?
Jade moved next to Omar and whispered, “That was in Dr. Lyon’s article.”
Dr. Stein continued, “It wouldn’t surprise me if this area was a pleasant one in antiquity. Perhaps it contained crystalline pools, refreshing groves of palms, and elegant, sturdy structures.” He looked at Lucas, who nodded. “Its geographical position provides an exclusive location—yet it is accessible to the frankincense trail. The ships bringing goods from Africa and the Eastern countries unloaded in the coastal town of Salalah and brought their luxuries by caravan by detouring the one hundred and seventy kilometers to Shisur for water supply.”
“A queen as great as she would have had a mausoleum built in her name,” Lucas said. “So it’s a mystery why the tomb is underground.”
“The reason may be twofold,” Dr. Stein said. “She may have done it for protection—to prevent looters from finding her. An even more compelling reason is that she didn’t want her story known for many generations.” He leaned forward, his eyes intent on the crowd. “Whatever the reason, those who built her tomb would have been put to death by one trusted man. That man took the secret of her burial place to his own grave.”
The scholar waved a hand toward the excavation site. “It’s a highly plausible conclusion, and that’s why the tomb is intact and artifacts teem along the walls.” He rubbed his hands together. “Questions?”
Every hand shot up.
Dr. Stein pointed to one.
“If she had wanted to keep her story hidden, as you say,” the reporter said, “could this place have been something other than what you described? Not a resort at all, but a desolate, forgotten town—making her disguise all that more complete?”
Stein stroked his bearded chin. “Perhaps.”
“Another name was found in the second tomb—that of Batal,” Lucas said. “We know the name derives from old Arabic, meaning ‘hero.’ ” He looked beyond the circle of people out into the darkening desert. “But to the people of Oman, there’s more meaning.”
“As some of you may be aware,” Stein said, “even in our modern world, Batal represents a warrior, commander, or competitor. Video games, comic books, and music have incorporated the name to represent strength and power. Much as the queen of Sheba has come to represent power in womanhood, ‘Batal’ is connected to powerful manhood. The English word ‘battle’ derives from the Arabic ‘Batal.’ ‘Batal’ is also another word for ‘conqueror.’ ”
“So the name Batal on the sarcophagus may not be a name at all, but a title,” Lucas added.
Dr. Stein nodded. “Exactly. It could also be a female.”
Hands shot up, but Lucas waved them off.
“Batal is feminine and masculine,” Dr. Stein continued. “In Arabic, it’s masculine, but there are many cities, feminine in nature, named Batal—in the Himalayas, Pakistan, Chile, and Serbia. Although carbon dating still needs to be done, so far the artifacts match with the tenth century BC.”
Some of the reporters clapped, and the sultan and the patriarch smiled. Omar shivered. Dr. Stein had all but confirmed his suspicions, and the stakes had just risen.
“Wait,” Stein cautioned. “There’s an incredible amount of Aramaic writing to be translated and interpreted. It will give us the greatest clarification. At this time, we believe we have discovered the tomb of a royal prince named Batal.” He looked at Lucas. “My colleague will now brief you on another discovery made not long ago in Ethiopia.”
Cameras snapped as Lucas stepped forward and cleared his throat. “A royal statue was found in Aksum, Ethiopia, recently. Two names were engraved on it: those of Azhara and Tambariah. The statue dates to the tenth century BC.”
Several in the audience began to murmur. Omar shifted on his feet, feeling goose bumps prickle his skin. Another Tambariah had been found?
Lucas continued, “In a tomb found in Northern Jerusalem that was recently bombed, a lineage of three kings appeared on the walls: that of Melech Turug, Melech Amariel, and Melech Tambariah. These three ruled in the region of Israel. The third—Tambariah—lived during the same era as King Solomon.”
Buzzing ran through the attendees. Omar walked around the group. He still hadn’t spotted Mia, and Alem was nowhere to be found either—he’d been missing from his original spot for ten minutes.
“Is Azhara the true name for the queen of Sheba? Was the queen an Ethiopian queen, an Egyptian princess, or a Hebrew bride?” Lucas asked the audience. “We don’t know the answers. But we do know that a ring was found inside the Jerusalem tomb that belonged to the queen of the South. It was later stolen in transit.”
Omar froze. He didn’t think anyone else but those in his undercover operation knew about the ring.
“The symbol upon the golden face is that of a flower intertwined with a snake. Undoubtedly many of you will recognize the symbol as belonging to the queen of Sheba. But the question becomes: Is it her ring?” Lucas paused, then said, “Perhaps the location where this ring was found will provide the answer . . . It was found inside the sarcophagus of King Tambariah.”
Hands shot up, and reporters spouted questions.
But Lucas waved away the questions. “This same symbol was found etched on another tomb wall, not a dozen meters from where we are.”
The entire audience started talking at once.
Stein spoke above the noise, and the voices hushed. “The serpent and the flower is the ultimate symbol of a powerful queen, with her womanhood represented by the flower and her masculine reign represented by the snake. Throughout time, antifeminists have called the queen of Sheba a devil incarnate, a demon, and an evil spirit born of a djinn mother come to torture the neat hierarchy of man’s dominion, her hairy legs and cloven feet reminiscent of the devil’s own. A ‘devil’s dame.’ ”
A few people laughed. The seven devils, Omar thought, the hair on his neck prickling. A shadow passed behind Lucas and Omar focused on it, sure it was Mia. I need to stay close to her so I can stop her from doing anything foolish.
Lucas and Dr. Stein started taking questions. Omar turned his attention to the patriarch, His Holiness. The man looked rather young for a pope. He was maybe in his early sixties. Omar was surprised the religious leader came with no bodyguards other than Levy. The man must have a lot of faith.
Omar tuned in to the reporters’ questions. “What’s been done to recover the ring of Sheba?”
“Rumor has it that it’s up for sale. Every effort is being made to recover it,” Lucas said.
Omar’s gaze was drawn to Levy. He could have sworn his boss’s face went a shade darker.
Dr. Stein gave a somber nod. “Whoever is caught selling this ancient artifact belonging to Israel is violating international law, and they will be prosecuted.”
“There may be some here who differ in opinion of which country the ring belongs to,” Lucas said with a smile.
Omar stiffened. Lucas was taking this way too far, pitting countries against each other.
“I’m only bringing up a debate that has already been started,” Lucas said. “If the ring were taken by the queen to Jerusalem, does the ring belong to Israel or to Oman?”
“Or Yemen?” shouted a reporter.
The audience started talking all at once. The sultan of Oman leaned toward the patriarch and said something. Omar watched the pair closely, then moved his gaze to al-Qadi. The director of GOAMM sat only a few paces from the sultan.
“How much?” another reporter called out over the din.
Lucas chuckled, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I don’t have the answer.” He looked at Stein, who shook his head.
Then the sultan stood, and everyone fell silent. “Perhaps our very own director of GOAMM can give us an idea of the value of such an artifact.”
Al-Qadi’s face went red, and Omar moved behind a group of people as the man t
urned to survey the crowd. He stood and fidgeted with his turban for a moment. “An exact price, I couldn’t say without analyzing the ring itself. But if one country were to purchase the ring from another, I’m sure the price would be more than fair with a large share of goodwill.”
The sultan beamed. “Very well said.”
Omar saw Rabbel stand up. Two men accompanied Rabbel as he left the media crowd. Omar scoured the perimeter, trying to see what had caused the men to leave so abruptly, and then he spotted Alem walking toward one of the SUVs.
What are you doing? Omar wanted to shout. Rabbel had obviously seen Alem and was now closing in. Omar slid out of place and made his way to the opposite side of the crowd.
The media droned on as Alem made a beeline toward the fleet. Omar’s heart sank. There was no way he could intercept Alem without attracting the attention of Rabbel.
Reaching the edge of the crowd, Omar walked from vehicle to vehicle, pausing behind each one. Alem hesitated at the first SUV, then walked around it. In a couple of minutes, he’d be surrounded by the men who’d nearly murdered him once before.
Just as Rabbel and his men approached Alem, Omar ran to the last vehicle—stopping a few meters away. By the time he peeked over the hood, all the men, including Alem, had their guns drawn, and Rabbel was speaking. Omar held his breath and listened.
“Who else knows about the poem?”
“No one,” Alem answered, his tone angry. “I want my grandmother’s letter back.”
Rabbel laughed and turned to his men. “He wants the letter from his nana.” His gaze turned steely as he focused on Alem. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the letter is gone, and now we must make sure that anyone who has seen the queen’s poem can never tell a soul.” He lifted his rifle, aiming straight at Alem’s head.
Alem’s hand shook, but he kept his pistol leveled.
“Three against one,” Rabbel said with a scoff. “I’ll give you one more chance, and I might spare your life. Who else knows about this poem?”
Alem’s hand wavered, but he didn’t speak.
“This can be very quick or very painful. Your choice,” Rabbel said.
Omar leaped from behind the vehicle just as Rabbel’s finger curled around the trigger. “Drop your guns. Then put your hands in the air.”
The three men whirled around, their guns still raised.
“Get behind the truck, Alem,” Omar ordered.
Instead, the Ethiopian scurried to Omar’s side. “We’re in this together,” Alem said.
“Omar?” Rabbel asked. “I should have known. I’ve never seen a Yemeni worker who could faint as you did.”
“Why, thank you. I’ve never seen a man who needed two men to back him up before.”
Rabbel’s face twisted into a smile. “You must be a loyal friend to come all this way and be willing to die for Alem.”
“No, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve read the poem about the queen. So have at least four other people in that crowd over there. You’ll have to kill a lot more than just Alem to keep your secret. Even a well-placed bomb won’t destroy all the evidence beneath us. You don’t have control over this excavation, and you’ll never be able to claim it as your own.”
Rabbel seemed to consider for a moment, his dark eyes intent on Omar. “In that case, we will turn this site over to you. But you must know, I don’t appreciate threats. Drop your gun and walk away.”
“I try to be a gentleman in most situations, but tonight it’s me first.” Omar raised his gun and pulled the trigger. Screams exploded from behind him. It took an instant for Omar to realize two things: first, his gun had jammed, and second, someone was popping off shots at the press conference.
“Run,” Omar shouted at Alem.
The media crews were in chaos. People were running everywhere, tripping over each other, some getting trampled. Omar grabbed Alem by the arm, and together they headed straight for the press tent as the others streamed in the opposite direction.
“Find Jade,” Omar yelled. “I’ll find Mia.”
Alem broke away from Omar and was instantly lost in the mayhem. Omar pushed his way through the panicked crowd. Then someone slammed into his injured shoulder. Pain seared through him, and he struggled for control while he scanned for Mia. Then he spotted Lucas coming toward him.
“Have you seen Jade?” Lucas shouted.
“No. Mia?”
“No.”
Another round of shots went off, and both Omar and Lucas dove for the ground. Omar looked up to see a man with a mask standing where Lucas had delivered his press conference.
Levy. In one hand, Levy held an assault rifle, in the other, Mia. Several meters to the left, the Omani sultan and al-Qadi huddled together, surrounded by a few bodyguards. The director was obviously playing it safe. He wasn’t going to acknowledge any of his seedy connections in front of the sultan.
“What should we do?” Lucas said.
“Find the patriarch.” Both men gazed across the prostrate forms.
“Who’s the guy in the mask?” Lucas asked. He buried his head as another shower of bullets erupted from Levy’s gun.
Levy screamed at some men to gather everyone together and to dump all the weapons in a pile.
“He’s the one who ordered Dr. Lyon’s death,” Omar said.
Lucas snapped his head. “How . . . who . . . ?”
“Everybody shut up!” Levy yelled. “I have only one demand. Then this will all be over.”
The noise stopped, and the only sound was the wind rattling the overhead tarp. “No one will be hurt tonight if you follow my instructions very carefully.” He nodded to the AWP fellows surrounding the patriarch. “His Holiness will stand.”
Slowly, the Coptic patriarch stood, his fine robes rumpled and layered with dirt. His face looked ashen.
“Search him for a package.”
The patriarch raised a hand. “No need.” He dug into a deep pocket and produced a small, square box. “Here it is.”
That’s the fake ring, Omar thought. Maybe Levy doesn’t know it’s a fake.
Then Levy said to Mia, “I saw you hand it over earlier, my love. I thought you would have been more discreet.” He shoved her forward. “Go get it.”
Omar’s stomach dropped as he watched Mia stumble, regain her balance, and walk with her chin lifted to the patriarch. She reached for it, and then the most extraordinary thing happened. The patriarch kissed Mia on the cheek.
Levy smiled as Mia returned. He yanked her next to him. “You’re coming with me too.” He pocketed the ring.
Mia struggled beneath Levy’s grasp, but he only tightened his hold. He shouted a final order to the crowd: “No one moves until my helicopter is out of sight.”
As if to echo that, a low hum erupted in the distance, and Omar strained to see in the darkness. At least half a dozen helicopters approached. A murmur ran through the crowd.
Out of the corner of his eye, Omar saw Rabbel moving along the perimeter, his rifle in hand. Time was running out. But whom was Rabbel searching for?
Desperately, Omar scanned for Rabbel’s target. Alem? Where was he? Rabbel stopped in the shadows just outside the tent and took aim. Omar twisted his head around and stared at the person Rabbel was targeting. The patriarch. Two thoughts flashed simultaneously through his mind: Mia saying, “The ring is very important to someone I care a lot about,” and the patriarch gently kissing her on the cheek as if in a heartfelt farewell.
Omar plowed through the jumble of bodies, throwing himself at the stunned patriarch. Omar covered the pope as a splay of bullets peppered all around them. There were more screams mixed with the approaching sound of the helicopters. But before Omar succumbed to his second bullet in less than twenty-four hours, he twisted around to see a large man fire in the direction of Rabbel.
Time seemed to stop as Omar watched Al
em charge through the sand, shooting not once but several times. The AWP men reacted after a second’s hesitation. Firing erupted from all directions. Levy’s voice rose to a high-pitched scream above the shouting and the helicopters that were nearly on top of them now.
Omar sensed the life of the man beneath him still pulsing, but as Omar raised himself from the patriarch, Levy turned and started running straight for them. If I’m not dead yet, I will be soon. Omar lifted his hands in weak defense of the sure fire of accurate bullets, but to his surprise, Levy pitched forward and fell onto his face. Two female attackers fell on top of Levy before he could get up and overpowered him. One woman knelt on his back and held his face against the ground, forcing him to inhale plenty of sand. The other pinned the man’s legs, and within moments, she’d tied a rope around his ankles. Levy struggled beneath the women, cursing at them to let him up. The woman holding his face against the ground threatened to shoot him if he didn’t stop moving. Mia, Omar realized. And Jade. They’d stopped Levy. It was over.
As Omar struggled to stand, pain and shock echoed through his body. Then his knees gave way, and blackness closed in.
CHAPTER
50
Ubar
959 BC
Nicaula opened the ornate metal box with her key. Inside lay the ring of Sheba. She lifted the heavy piece from its enclosure. The gold gleamed in the filtered sunlight of her room, and the intricate carving of the snake and flower seemed to move with fluidity.
When she met Batal tonight, she would give it to him as a symbol of their marriage.
Yes. She would marry him. In the eyes of the God of Israel, she would finally marry her love.
The pleasure started at her feet and radiated through her legs. She closed her eyes, imagining what Batal might wear tonight—a jeweled turban, alabaster robe, and gold dagger hanging at his belt. Her heart constricted with anticipation. She missed him already.
Nicaula smiled as her pulse increased its throbbing. She was ready to give her heart—at last. After replacing the ring in its box, she left her chambers and called to her servant. “Prepare my horse. I want to see the progress on the temple.”
