The Tenth Saint

by D. J. Niko

  She had no doubt he was en route to Saudi Arabia. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel disappointed. She knew she would see him again.

  Over a pot of strong black coffee, she read the International Herald Tribune, the Times, and Le Monde. The headline in the Herald Tribune’s page-four article read, “Message from the Grave.” The deck: “Cambridge team uncovers fourth-century prophecy.” The Times featured the piece at the bottom of page one: “Ethiopia’s Tenth Saint: Could an AngloSaxon prophet have changed the course of a nation’s faith?” The article described Sarah, “the only daughter of Sir Richard Weston,” and Daniel, “the legendary American anthropologist,” less like scientists and more like Indiana Jones types willing to risk life and limb to uncover hidden treasure.

  Sarah cringed. She had always abhorred British journalists’ flair for the dramatic. Still, the piece was effective in that it could capture the attention of the public and make them read further, tricking them into actually learning something. The author obviously had gotten a hold of the inscriptions of King Ezana, including the one Matakala had shown her on their first encounter, and had further interviewed Ethiopian cultural and theological experts, raising the question that Gabriel was indeed the country’s tenth saint, the one who had delivered a message from God about the apocalypse. Sarah marveled at how much research the guy was able to do in such short time.

  The phone rang.

  “Sarah Weston,” she answered.

  “Darling, it’s about time.” Her father’s voice came across urgent and impatient. “Where on earth have you been? Why haven’t you picked up your phones or messages?”

  “Sorry, Daddy. I had a long night. Slept in a little. What’s the bloody emergency?”

  “I have news.”

  “Good news or bad?”

  “A bit of both, really. The police just found Matakala at his house in the highlands.”

  Sarah’s mood soared. “That’s brilliant. So he’s under arrest?”

  “Not so fast, darling. They found him at the bottom of the well in the back of the house.”

  Sarah dropped the newspaper.

  “He’d been dead several days. It was a nasty scene, from what I’m told.”

  “What? How?”

  ”Police are investigating with the help of our agents. Seems like an inside job. He had a wound to the head that preceded the fall. Someone must have knocked him unconscious and dragged him into the well.”

  “Surely Brehan knows something. Can’t you ask him?”

  “Brehan is the one who tipped us off to start with. Apparently he went to the house to deliver something and saw Matakala struggling with a white man. Says he got frightened and didn’t stick around to see what happened. Our deal, of course, was that if he led us to Matakala, we would let him go free. So we held up our end of the bargain and put him on a plane to the UK day before yesterday. Only he hasn’t been at his flat since we dropped him off there. Hasn’t touched his bank account either.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Probably doesn’t know what to do with himself in a civilized country, poor chap. Probably wandering around somewhere, lost and unable to communicate. But don’t worry, darling. All dogs return to their lair sooner or later.”

  “Sure.” She felt that familiar metallic taste rise in her throat. Her mind was suddenly crowded with thoughts of dread. “Do let me know if you hear anything. Cheers then, Daddy.”

  She hung up. Matakala’s killer was at large. Could he have been silenced by his so-called benefactor because he knew too much? Could Apocryphon have sought revenge because the inscriptions were brought to light?

  And Brehan … She didn’t buy the lost dog scenario for a minute. He knew more than he’d let on to Scotland Yard; she was sure of it. He likely had gone missing because he had something to hide.

  There was a heavy knock on her door.

  The panicked thumping of her heart resounded in her ears.

  A second, more furious knock followed.

  She frantically looked around the room. A heavy glass ashtray, the spent bottle of Dom Perignon— either could cause damage if called upon.

  An envelope appeared under the door, and she heard footsteps, which grew fainter.

  Slumping to the floor, she cursed her paranoia. After a few deep breaths, she mustered the courage to open the envelope.

  It was from the concierge desk.

  Mlle Weston,

  I have something that belongs with you. Meet me at 65 Quai d’Orsay, 22:00 sharp.

  Marie-Laure Olivier

  Sarah ignored the directive, certain it was a trap, until the second missive came.

  The prophecies said, “I was one of three.” I know who the second was.

  M-L. O.

  Twenty-One

  The church at 65 Quai d’Orsay was cold and eerie in the ghost light of the streetlamps. The sanctuary, a towering masonry structure on the left bank of the Seine, was framed by a tangle of leafless branches, harbingers of the Paris autumn. A gothic spire, enveloped in the patina of the ages, stood like a beacon to the faithful. A small sign at the entrance marked The American Church in Paris welcomed her.

  Sarah ascended the steps to the breezeway connecting the church’s two cloisters and stood behind a massive stone column to survey the surroundings. In the utter silence, her head buzzed with the rush of adrenaline, whether from the fear of walking into a trap or the anticipation of unlocking another piece of this puzzle, she did not know. She looked over her shoulder, checking once again if she was followed. She saw no one, not even the woman she was supposedly meeting.

  She stepped lightly toward the courtyard garden and stopped beneath a jasmine vine hanging over a stone bench. She closed her eyes and inhaled the intense perfume.

  “Sarah Weston?” A French female voice cracked the silence.

  With a start, Sarah turned to face a slim woman gazing intently at her.

  Madame Olivier was dressed in a fitted grey wool crepe dress with a black manteau draped over it. Her glossy black hair, twisted into a chignon held by a tortoise clip, framed her narrow face and fine features. Except for the creases around her eyes, her face was unlined and serene, as though she had not worried a day in her life. She extended a delicate hand. “I am Marie-Laure Olivier.”

  She sat on the bench and shot a few furtive glances around the courtyard. “We are alone.” She pulled out a silver case and offered a cigarette to Sarah.

  Sarah gladly accepted. She lit up and inhaled the menthol smoke. “Forgive my rudeness, but I am eager to learn the purpose of this meeting.”

  Marie-Laure nodded and exhaled a puff of smoke. “Before I tell you, I must give you a little background. It will help you understand.”

  Sarah gestured for her to continue.

  “My family has been in France since the twelfth century. My ancestors on my mother’s side lived in Paris for the most part. Some hailed from the south. My paternal ancestors are French and English. Myself, I’ve spent time in both countries. I went to boarding school in England. Kent College. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, of course. Some of my friends went there. Did you continue your studies in England?”

  “Actually, I studied all over. Art history in Florence, classical studies in Athens. I did the requisite couple of terms at the Sorbonne. I was more interested in travel and adventure than I was in a strict education. When I met my husband, I tossed it all aside to follow him. He was an historian working in West Africa. I could think of nothing more romantic. We lived in Cameroon and Mali for fifteen years, but then I got very ill and had to return to Europe. I have been in Paris since.”

  “Your family. What was their business?”

  Marie-Laure spoke openly. “They were landowners in the Middle Ages. As such, they amassed a great deal of wealth and were members of the aristocracy. Later, in the Renaissance years, some of my ancestors were scholars and literary figures. Men of letters. And in modern times, they have been industrialists, mostly in transpor
tation. They had the first automobile factories in France and later got into manufacturing airplanes.”

  “It must be wonderful to know so much about your forebears. I wish I knew half as much about mine. How have you managed to learn all this?”

  “My family kept meticulous records from very early on. But over the years, they were scattered and some were even lost. As the wife of an historian and a student of history myself, I took great interest in recovering and restoring these records and organizing them into an archive, not only for the benefit of my family but also for the greater good. You see, Sarah, some of my ancestors were very important to French history.” Marie-Laure assumed an enigmatic tone. “And others were deliberately erased from the history books.”

  Sarah was intrigued. “Was this deletion … just?”

  “I have my opinion.” She took a final drag and extinguished her cigarette in a flowerpot. “But you can be your own judge.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Marie-Laure took a book out of her black leather Birkin. Inside was a family tree. “My husband and I had produced this just before he died.” She ran her finger down the document and stopped in the year 1318. “Bernard de Bontecou,” she read. “Maternal ancestor, born 1318, died 1348. He was a shipping merchant in Marseilles who later moved to Paris, where he died during the Black Death. He opened trade routes between France and some of the Italian city-states and moved foodstuffs overseas. Apart from that, we don’t know much about him other than the fact that he moved to Paris in the thirteen forties and apparently let his brothers run the shipping empire he built. Those final years of his life were spent essentially in isolation. No one is sure why. What we do know is that he wrote several manuscripts.”

  She retrieved a spiral-bound notebook from her handbag and gave it to Sarah.

  Sarah read the title on the cover page. “Divination. By Bernard de Bontecou.”

  “Naturally, this is a copy,” Marie-Laure said. “The original was found in the Manoir de Vincennes, a family estate in the outskirts of Paris that has since been razed. In the late fourteen hundreds, a relative by the name of Lady Antoinette Colbert inherited the manor and set about restoring it. In the process, she found these handwritten manuscripts hidden behind the bricks of a fireplace. She was struck by their contents and proceeded to have them published at her own expense. The book circulated briefly until the church found out about it and deemed it heresy. They tracked down and burned every copy except the one Antoinette managed to smuggle out of the country to London. It is now in our family archives.” She again reached inside her handbag.

  Sarah looked around the courtyard. Nothing stirred. The building was illuminated with the faint pewter light of the waxing moon. A light breeze whistled over the rooftops. Marie-Laure handed her a small reading light, and she looked through the pages carefully. The first chapter was an entry about the Black Death, written in the future tense and titled “Man’s Divine Judgment.”

  Sarah felt a chill rake her skin. “I don’t understand. When was this written?”

  “In 1345. Three years before the plague struck France.”

  “How could he have known?”

  “At first I thought he had witnessed something like the plague during his trips to Italy and perhaps had guessed the disease would inevitably reach France. But as I read more of his writings, it became clear he had a different kind of foresight. Turn to page one hundred forty-six.”

  Sarah did. The chapter titled “The Great Power” was an account of modern America. She read, stunned at the degree of accuracy, especially in this passage:

  Marie-Laure showed her other chapters—”War” about the Holocaust and the Second World War and “The Two Towers” about the September eleventh attacks.

  Either this guy was truly prescient, or all of this was a forgery.

  “I realize you are a scientist,” the Frenchwoman said, “and as such you require proof. Our family archives will be opened to you should you wish it.”

  Sarah was flattered but puzzled. “Why would I want access? What is all this supposed to mean to me?”

  Marie-Laure turned to a page near the end of the book. “I thought you might find this interesting.”

  Sarah read the final and untitled passage, which described great fires and all-consuming smoke.

  “Does it sound familiar?” Marie-Laure asked.

  Sarah shook her head, stunned at the similarity between these writings and the words of Gabriel. Then she recalled Marie-Laure’s message: I know who the second was. “Are you saying Bernard was one of the three prophets?”

  “No. But I believe his lover was.”

  “His lover.”

  “All we know of her is her name: Calcedony. Bernard never spoke of her in his writings. The church has no record of a marriage. There were no children, apparently. It’s as if she never existed.”

  “Then how can you be sure she did?”

  ”We have a letter, written by Calcedony to Bernard as she awaited her execution. She was apparently arrested as a heretic and imprisoned under the authority of King Philippe VI and was hanged forty-eight hours later. She must have written this letter when she knew there was no hope for her, for what it contains …” Marie-Laure fell silent. “Sarah, no living person except me knows about this letter. It has been a dark secret in our family for centuries. Only one person at a time has been burdened with the knowledge of it, passing the torch only at the time of death. No one has really known what to make of it. Some have believed; others, no. For my part, I thought it was the desperate attempt of a tragic woman to save her hide by claiming she was someone she could not possibly have been. Or maybe it was merely a hallucination brought on by the lack of food and water, torture, or perhaps the early stages of plague. Anything but the truth. But now, after reading about your discovery … I fear the truth is exactly what this letter contains.”

  “Why fear the truth?”

  “When you read the letter, you will know. I will say no more. You must judge for yourself whether this is truth or rubbish. Whether there is any connection between your Gabriel and Calcedony.”

  Marie-Laure reached inside her manteau and pulled out a bundle of papers rolled into a scroll. “I hope it is the puzzle piece you have been seeking—for the sake of all of us.”

  Twenty-Two

  It was the eve of the twenty-third day of battle. A moonless night had fallen swiftly on the barren lands of Meroe, blanketing the sandy wasteland with darkness. The acrid scent of stagnant blood and rotting flesh choked Gabriel’s throat, and he fought back the instinct to gag. Death was everywhere, not least of all in the infirmary tent, more akin to a slaughterhouse than a place of healing. He made his way past the bloodied bodies that lay moaning in the darkness. He knew many wouldn’t make it through the night.

  A soldier moaned like a woman in childbirth and pleaded, “Let me die.”

  Gabriel checked his abdomen, where the sword had ripped the flesh from the sternum to the navel, to see if the bleeding had stopped. Two days earlier he had sewn the laceration with cotton thread spun by the elder women of the court and an iron needle, which he had designed and Hallas had forged before he rode to Meroe. That had stopped the bleeding, but now the wound was suppurating, the skin swollen like a milking goat’s udder. The infection was too advanced.

  “It will be better in the morning, friend,” Gabriel lied to comfort the soldier in his last hours. “Get some sleep.”

  He moved on to another victim, a stoic boy who was too young to be drafted into battle but had insisted on volunteering. He was thirteen, fourteen at most, but had the serene countenance of a man who had lived many lifetimes.

  “How’s that arm?” Gabriel removed the blood-soaked bandage to find exposed, weeping flesh. The boy’s forearm had been sliced off by a particularly sinister blade, and the bleeding would not relent in spite of the stitches Gabriel had put in earlier. He smeared the wound with fresh horse manure, which he’d used before to curb hemorrhage. It was risky—
the bacteria in the manure could do more harm than good—so he gave the young soldier a myrrh broth to prevent infection.

  “Tomorrow I’ll be ready to fight,” the boy said, “with thanks to you.”

  “I haven’t done anything. I am only a simple man trying to help.”

  “That’s not what the men say. They say you are a healer with divine powers. A holy man sent by the Lord of heaven to protect us from evil. They say you came down from the heavens to help us win this war and unify the lands of the Nile into one great, impenetrable empire.”

  Gabriel smiled and squeezed the boy’s hand. “You should rest. Big day tomorrow.”

  A few sleepless hours later, the dawn washed the sky in streaks of scarlet and saffron. It was an ominous beauty, heralding the advent of fresh bloodshed. Outside the tent, the troops were moving at a panicked pace, as if some malevolent force lurked beneath the sands. Gabriel approached a lieutenant readying his horse for battle.

  “Why are the men so restless, friend?”

  The soldier, a compact and muscular African with skin the color of tar, bowed his head: the standard greeting toward men of God. “This day will bring evil that we have never known. The men fear for their lives.”

  “Why is today different from any other day?”

  “Today we will be challenged by a regiment fiercer than any we have met thus far. Meroe has called for aid, and thousands of Nobatae are riding south as we speak. The horse and camel warriors. The Meroan military elite. Some are here already, fighting our troops at the northern edge of the battlefield.”

  ”Who are these Nobatae? Why fear them so?”

  “These warriors know not God nor king nor country. The Romans themselves trained the Nobatae and bestowed upon them a cache of weapons far more advanced than our own. But the Nobatae were not to be trusted. They turned against the Romans and proclaimed their independence. They rode in the tribal lands, unchecked and untamed. Soon they forged a partnership with the most wretched and ruthless tribe in all the Nile. The headless warriors we know as the Blemmyes.”