FATHER HOGAN CLIMBED the stairs of the Vatican Observatory with a mixture of curiosity and deep anxiety. It was the first time that Father Boni had summoned him since he’d brought him Antonelli’s translation of ‘The Book of Amon’. The old priest was sitting at his desk, his back to Father Hogan as he entered.
‘Sit down, Hogan,’ he said without turning. ‘What I have to tell you will take some time.’
Outside, the bells of Rome chimed the evening Angelus.
Father Boni got to his feet and walked, still without turning, to the window that opened onto Michelangelo’s dome.
‘I’ve finished reading “The Book of Amon”,’ he said, finally turning, and Father Hogan tried to hide his dismay. The old priest’s eyes were sunken into dark rings, and everything about him revealed deep suffering.
Father Hogan raised his hand to switch on the light but the old man stopped him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not yet. It’s not dark yet.
‘Listen, Hogan,’ he continued, ‘what I’ve learned from reading these pages is terrifying. Truly inconceivable. I would say it was all pure invention, if it weren’t for the radio signal. It’s changed, did you know that? The sequence is different now and much more complex. You must be wondering why I don’t just hand over the text so you can read it yourself. The fact is that it’s not easy to read. It’s long and complicated and Father Antonelli’s handwriting is practically illegible. What’s more, he’s used any number of abbreviations and palaeographic symbols in his transcription. But you must prepare to leave as soon as possible, if you’re ready to do what I ask, because time has run out. I will tell you tonight what is written in the text . . . if you trust me.’
‘You can begin whenever you like,’ said Father Hogan. ‘I’m listening.’
‘ “The Book of Amon”,’ began Father Boni, ‘is a kind of sacred book – you could call it a “Black Bible” – written by different hands in different eras, in an ancient language that resembles none of the languages we know. Father Antonelli has transcribed the text phonetically and written in a translation between the lines. I’m no philologist, so any information I give you will be partial, but my predecessor has recognized here and there – especially in the more recent parts – fleeting traces of Ethiopian and of Hamite as well, which hint at a very archaic form of Egyptian. In other words, the most recent parts of this text date back to a much earlier era than the oldest documents of our most ancient cultures.
‘The legendary founder of this civilization bears a name that can be identified with Tubalcain, who was descended directly from Cain himself. If this is true, if Antonelli’s transcription and interpretation are correct, Tubalcain was the first man to build a city, the first man to melt and forge metal, and therefore the first human being to make weapons.’
‘The evil side of human nature,’ mused Father Hogan. ‘So that was why Father Antonelli was in such anguish.’
‘Perhaps. But that’s not all. Listen. According to “The Book of Amon”, the sons of Tubalcain settled in an unidentifiable place called Delfud, but never forgot the home of their fathers. They swore they would find the way to force open the gates of Eden, which were guarded by an angel with a flaming sword. They vowed to make a weapon stronger and more powerful than that sword, and to challenge the guardian angel, defeat and humiliate him, so that they could take possession of the Tree of Knowledge. They yearned to understand and control the course of the stars and the forces that move the universe. To become like God.
‘The land of Delfud is described as a limitless terrain, where five great rivers with majestic currents flowed, where five great lakes, each as big as the sea, were inhabited by an infinity of scaly creatures, by crocodiles and hippopotamuses and enormous lizards. Great herds of animals came to drink at their shores: rhinoceroses and panthers, lions, elephants and giraffes, zebras and hartebeests and elands. In the sky flew enormous flocks of multicoloured birds. The hills were host to the unbridled galloping of raven horses with long rippling manes. A sea of grass rose and fell in the breeze like the surface of an emerald ocean, as far as the eye could see. In that sky the rainbow curved from south to north after a storm, when the last rays of the setting sun filtered through the last drops of summer rain. Myriad stars shone in that infinite vault on long, sweetly scented springtime nights.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Father Hogan. ‘You’re talking about paradise!’
‘I’m talking about the very origins of the earth, Hogan, when it was as yet uncontaminated . . . the power of nature still intact . . .’ Father Boni sighed. Then he continued his story. ‘At the centre of that boundless land stood a mountain and that’s where they began to build their city. They forged an indestructible metal which they used to cut rock, raising a city of powerful walls crowned by tall, impregnable towers. They gave life to a race of invincible warriors who garrisoned the frontiers of that vast land, armed with deadly weapons. Inside the city they created gardens laden with every sort of fruit, wide fields of wheat, vineyards and olive groves. Their tables overflowed with every sort of meat, with fragrant bread, with delicious fruits. Pleasure was the recompense of every labour and every craft, and men and women became experts in the refined art of giving and receiving pleasure indifferently from both sexes.
‘But there was a place, far from the city, that they kept under constant surveillance, generation after generation. A garrison manned that desolate and completely arid place, scorched by the sun in every season. It was there that – after the progenitors had been driven from Eden, naked, weeping and desperate – a barrier of basalt had burst from the ground, pushed by cyclopean forces, a mountain range that pierced the sky with the snowy peaks of its lofty volcanoes. This immense chain was eternally obscured by storm clouds shot through with lightning bolts, and the constant rumbling of thunder could be heard even at a great distance.
‘And when the menacing angel that guarded this barrier chose to bare his sword, a blinding light would rend the darkness of the night, a roar would shake the earth all the way to the four corners of the horizon, a scream sounding like hundreds of thousands of warriors lined up in battle would pierce the cloudbanks all the way to the seventh heaven and fall back upon the earth like a clamouring avalanche.
‘And yet the sons of Tubalcain never gave up their vigil, day and night, generation after generation. They called this desolate garrison the Fortress of Solitude. They watched and waited for the moment in which the watchfulness of the angel might abate, because they knew that only the force of God is indefatigable. And eternal.
‘And then, finally, came the night of the Scorpion . . .’
Father Boni fell still for a few moments with his head low. The room was plunged into total darkness and the only sound to be heard was the incessant signal that came from the stars, amplified by the silence. On the large slate that covered the wall, one could barely make out the gleam of the chalk that the hands of Ernesto Boni and Guglielmo Marconi had used to sketch out their astral calculations on a night of toil and fatigue.
Father Hogan understood that the effort of telling the story had worn the old priest out. Like a sailor in a storm, he was trying to haul in the sails of his spirit, ripped by hurricane-force winds. The syllogisms that had always nourished his mathematical mind had collapsed around him and he was frightened to find himself feeling more and more like the delirious old man they’d seen die alone and abandoned in a hospice in the middle of an Apennine forest.
It was cold in the observatory and the room was now a little lighter, thanks to the pale glow of the moon, but Father Hogan did not have the courage to switch on the light. The words he had just heard still echoed in the darkness.
Father Boni got up and went to the window, where his shiny bald head reflected the moon’s light.
‘Father Hogan,’ he said, ‘come here to the window. Why do you think we’ve been talking in the dark until now?’
‘I don’t know. I thought that you’d strained your eyes trying to decipher the text.’
‘No. You thought that what I’d discovered had so upset me that I’d turned into a creature of the darkness. Isn’t that so? A kind of bat who can no longer bear the light. No, don’t bother answering, I know it’s true. You’re an Irishman, Hogan, a dreamer, like your Yeats, like Joyce. We Latins are more rational, even . . . cynical, I’d say. Don’t forget that.’
‘Even the priests?’
‘In a certain sense. It’s the priests in Italy who’ve had to bear the weight of the Church’s political structure. A burdensome structure, to be sure, but indispensable. They’ve done so with courage and with extraordinary inventiveness, but they’ve also had to immunize themselves with a certain dose of cynicism. Politics is no joke. But come here. Look at the sky over there. That’s why we’ve been in the dark until now. What do you see?’
‘Constellations.’
‘Of course. See that one? That group of stars low on the horizon? That’s Scorpio, the constellation of the scorpion. That’s what “The Book of Amon” refers to. The constellation is about to enter into conjunction with the radio source that is transmitting our signal. This will conclude a cycle many thousands of years long and bring about an event of unimaginable portent.’
‘But what you’ve told me until now is mythology. It’s a powerful story, quite disturbing, but it’s doubtless a myth.’
‘Perhaps. But all myths conceal a historical truth, and the radio signal we’re receiving is certainly the product of the civilization that wrote this book. I can assure you of it.’ He walked over to the switch and turned on the light, then sat down again at his desk.
‘Make us some coffee, Hogan,’ he said, putting on his glasses. ‘We still have a long night ahead of us.’
7
‘THE GATE OF THE WIND,’ said El Kassem, pointing at something in the distance. ‘If our horses were not already so tired, we could get to Aleppo by midnight.’
Philip was soon able to make out the Roman arch of Bab el Awa and the glittering limestone slabs of the ancient Roman road that went from Antioch to Damascus. The landscape all around them was exceedingly dry and a steady wind swept the parched plains.
‘It never stops. This wind blows continually, day and night, winter and summer. That’s why it’s called the Gate of the Wind,’ said El Kassem, pointing to the monument in front of them. ‘What could pass through such a gate but the wind?’ he observed, as their horses went under the arch. ‘A gate without jambs and without doors . . . without walls . . .’ He turned back to look at it again. ‘A gate which opens onto nothing . . . in the middle of nowhere.’
‘It’s an arch,’ Philip tried to explain. ‘A Roman arch. It was built to celebrate the glory of a great empire of the past.’
El Kassem did not answer or turn again to look at Bab el Awa. He continued to ride distractedly, as if he were listening to the tread of his horse on the ancient road. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘because the glory of men is like the wind that comes and goes.’
Philip was struck by how the rays of the setting sun, nearly parallel now to the surface of the road, flowed like liquid gold on the ancient stones, smoothed by thousands of years of passage.
After a while, they passed close to a small camel caravan escorted by a group of men on horseback, dressed in unfamiliar style. One of the camels wore on his hump a canopy with muslin curtains, which were pulled aside for a moment as Philip passed and then quickly closed.
El Kassem seemed to notice nothing and insisted that they turn off the Roman road, as its hard paving was damaging the horses’ hooves. He pointed to a line of rolling hills to their left. ‘It will be dark soon. We’d best go up towards higher ground. It will be easier to keep watch on the territory and find shelter for the night.’
They spurred on their horses and reached a ridge on top of the low range that stretched out as far as the eye could see. El Kassem stopped then and gathered branches to build a fire, while Philip tied his horse and unstrapped the bags containing his things.
‘We still haven’t had a look at what Natalino gave us as we were leaving,’ he said, drawing close to the fire to see better and opening the case that was latched shut with a pair of leather straps.
There was everything in the world inside, a little bazaar: a wheel of sheep’s cheese, a packet of biscuits, a needle and thread, buttons, a switchblade knife, a ball of wire, a bar of jasmine-scented soap, a slingshot with steel pellets, a bag of gunpowder, some sugar and salt, petards and fireworks. He quickly moved the bundle away from the flames.
‘What’s in there?’ asked El Kassem.
‘Stuff that can explode. Fireworks, they’re called. They fly high up into the sky, leaving a long trail of light behind them, then they explode into millions of sparks of every colour. In Naples they make the best in the world.’
El Kassem seemed perplexed.
‘It’s a good idea, my friend. We might get separated or lose sight of each other in the desert. Using these, I can always signal to you where I am, even at a great distance.’
El Kassem shook his head. ‘A strange tribe, these Napo . . .’
‘Neapolitans. You’re right, El Kassem, they are a singular bunch. They’re like no one else in the world.’
Philip tried to imagine what thoughts had been going through Lino’s head as he put together that bizarre medley, but he concluded that no reasoning had gone into it. The old man had just rummaged through the drawers where he kept his small treasures and had gathered them all up into that little case to tide his young friend over on such a long journey. It was more precious than a jewel box in Philip’s eyes. He closed it and turned back towards his companion, but was surprised to see him throwing dust on the fire. El Kassem motioned for Philip to stay low and not make any noise.
Down below, just barely visible in the shadows descending on the valley, was the little caravan that they had passed before dusk on the Bab el Awa road. The silence was so deep that they could hear the grunting of the camels as they advanced with their slow gait, and the snorting of the guards’ horses. But El Kassem’s ears heard other sounds, his nostrils picked up other smells on the evening breeze. His eyes watched intensely in the semi-darkness that swallowed all shapes and colours in the hour preceding night.
He was stretched out beside Philip and suddenly gripped his arm. ‘Down there,’ he said, ‘behind that outcrop.’
A group of bedouins on horseback burst into a furious gallop from that very spot, raising a white cloud of dust which snaked through the valley in the direction of the little caravan.
The escort reacted with incredible swiftness. They pushed the camels and horses down to the ground and loosed a deathly barrage of fire. There weren’t many of them, but they obviously had powerful repeating rifles. The attackers scattered so as to offer less of a target and began to circle around the caravan in two separate groups. Despite their show of bravery, the defenders were not going to be able to hold out much longer.
Philip was keeping an eye on the camel with the canopy on its back. He saw a veiled figure slip out, certainly a woman. He could see that the men were trying to protect her at any cost, shielding her with their own bodies.
‘They’ve no hope,’ observed El Kassem, but even as he spoke he had already sprung to his feet and was heading towards his horse, prepared to lend his support.
‘Wait,’ said Philip, seized by a sudden inspiration. ‘Our help won’t make any difference. Let’s try Natalino’s artillery.’
He grabbed one of the fireworks, plunged it into the ground, trying to roughly calculate its trajectory, and lit the fuse. A whistle and a trail of fire ripped through the darkness and the colourful explosion that resulted threw the group of attackers into a panic. Philip fired nearly his whole arsenal, one piece after another, while El Kassem took shots with his rifle. The horses were crazed and disoriented by the noise and the blinding rain of sparks. They reared and kicked, then took off in every direction, pursued by the dense rifle fire of the defenders.
El Kassem leapt on
to his horse and set off after the fugitives, taking out a good number of them with his pistol first and then with his sword, a heavy scimitar in damascened steel. Philip hesitated an instant. The situation he found himself in was so different from his tranquil nights of study at the Sorbonne that it seemed like a dream to him. And as in a dream, where anything is possible and the sleeper always wakes up safe and sound, he too mounted his horse and headed off across the plains behind El Kassem.
He risked death immediately. One of the bedouins, noticing a certain lack of expertise in his riding ability, drew up alongside him and swiped at his side, slashing through his jacket and cutting his arm. Philip knew that all was lost as he felt the warm, sticky blood pouring down his side. He tried desperately to get away, shouting, ‘El Kassem!’
The warrior heard him, swerved abruptly and charged Philip’s pursuer. He crashed into the side of the bedouin’s horse and knocked it to the ground, then swooped down upon the horseman, who was trying to get back up on his knees, decapitating him with a clean blow of his scimitar. Philip’s stomach heaved as he saw the man’s head rolling between the horse’s legs, but he managed to control himself and took off towards the barricaded caravan, where a group of bedouins had broken through and were engaging the defenders in hand-to-hand combat. El Kassem bounded past him and threw himself into the fray, bringing down two adversaries with his scimitar and another with his dagger. Philip downed a fourth with a pistol shot and watched, stunned, as the man gasped for breath. He had killed a man, for the first time in his life.
Suddenly the assault was over. El Kassem and his wounded companion stood before the group of defenders, who finally put down their rifles. The woman who had been riding in the canopy got to her feet and walked towards Philip. Her face was covered and her right hand held a sabre but as she drew close she sheathed the weapon and removed her veil, tying it around his arm to stop the bleeding. Her unveiled face was incredibly beautiful, her skin dark and smooth as bronze.
The Tower Page 12
