The Seventh Scroll tes-2

by Wilbur Smith

  about the consequences if he were to fail again. In the short time since

  he had made the acquaintance of Gotthold von Schiller, Nogo had come to

  fear him as he had never feared God or the Devil in the days of his

  priesthood. He realized that this raid was an opportunity to reinstate

  himself with the formidable little German.

  The jet Ranger was standing by, the pilot at the controls, the engines

  running and the rotors turning lazily, but it could not carry such a

  large number of fully equipped men. It would need four round trips to

  ferry them all down to the asse4bly point in the gorge. Nogo flew with

  the first flight, and took Nahoot Guddabi with him. The helicopter

  dropped them three miles from the monastery, in a clearing on the banks

  of the Dandera river, the same drop area as they had used for the raid

  on Quenton-Harper's camp.

  The drop area was just far enough from the monastery for the engine

  noise of the jet Ranger not to alarm the monks. Even if they did hear

  it, Nogo was banking on the probability that they were by this time

  thoroughly conditioned to the frequent sorties of the machine, and would

  not associate it with any threat to themselves.

  The men waited in the darkness, warned to silence and not even allowed

  by Nogo to smoke, while the jet Ranger ferried in the remaining

  troopers. When the last flight came in Nogo ordered his detachment to

  fall in, and led them in single file down the path beside the river.

  They were all trained bush fighters in top physical condition, and they

  moved swiftly and purposefully through the night.

  Only Nahoot was a soft urbanite, and within half a mile he was wheezing

  and whining for a chance to rest. Nogo smiled vindictively to himself as

  he listened to Nahoot's pathetic whispered pleas for mercy as he was

  prodded along by the men behind him.

  Nogo had timed his arrival at the monastery to coincide with the hour of

  matins and lauds, the break of day. He led his contingent down the cliff

  staircase at a trot.

  Their weapons were at high port, all the equipment was carefully muted

  so as not to clatter or creak, and their rubber-soled paratrooper boots

  made little noise on the stone paving as they hurried along the deserted

  cloisters to the entrance of the underground cathedral.

  From the interior echoed the monotonous chanting and drumming of the

  ceremony, punctuated at intervals by the higher treble descant of the

  abbot leading the service.

  Colonel Nogo paused outside the doors, and his men drew LA up in double

  ranks behind him. There was no need for orders for his briefing had

  covered every aspect of the raid.

  He looked the men over for a moment, then nodded at his lieutenant.

  The outer chamber of the church was empty, as the monks were gathered in

  the middle chamber, the qiddist.

  Nogo crossed the outer nave swiftly, with his detachment moving up close

  behind him. Then he ran up the steps to the wooden doors of the qiddist,

  which stood open. As he entered, his men fanned out in two files behind

  him and swiftly took up their positions along the side walls of the

  qiddist, their assault rifles cocked and locked, and with bayonets

  fixed, ing cover the kneeling congregation.

  and swiftly that it was some it was done so silently minutes before the

  monks gradually became aware of this alien presence in their holy place.

  The chanting and drumming died away, and the dark faces turned

  apprehensively towards the ranks of armed men. Only Jah Hora, the and

  happen ancient abbot, was unaware of anything untow ing. Completely

  absorbed in his devotions, he continued kneeling before re the doors of

  the maqdas, the Holy of Holies, his quavering voice the lonely cry of a

  lost soul.

  In the silence Co nel Nogo marched down the centre of the nave kicking

  the kneeling monks out of his way.

  When he came up behind Jah Hora he seized him by his skinny black

  shoulder and threw him roughly to the ground. The tinsel crown flew from

  his silvered pate and rolled across the slabs with a brassy clatter.

  Nogo, left him sprawling and turned to face the rows Of monks in their

  white shammw, addressing them imperioUsly in Amharic.

  "I am here to search this church and the or-her buildings of this

  monastery, on suspicion that there are dissident other bandits harboured

  here." He paused and rebels and surveyed the cowering holy men haughtily

  and threateningly. "I must warn you that any attempt to prevent my men

  performing their duties will be regarded as an act of banditry and

  provocation. It will be met with force."

  JaIi Hora crawled to his knees and then, using one of the embroidered

  hangings for support, Slowly hoisted himself to his feet. Still clinging

  to the tapestry of the Virgin and child, he gathered himself with an

  effort.

  "These are hallowed precincts," he cried, in a surprisingly clear and

  strong voice. "We are dedicated to the service and worship of almighty

  God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost."

  "silence? Nogo bellowed at him. He unbuckled the flap of the webbing

  holster on his hip and placed his hand threateningly on the grip of the

  Tokarev pistol it contained.

  at. "We are holy men in a

  )a1i Hora ignored the thre place of God. There are no shufta here. There

  are no lawthe most high, I breakers amongst US. In the name of God leave

  us to our prayers and our call upon you to be gone) to worship, and not

  to desecrate Nogo drew the pistol and in the same movement swung the

  black steel barrel into the abbot's face with a outh burst open vicious

  back-handed blow. jah Hora's like the rind of a ripe pomegranate; the

  red juice burst from front of his tattered his crushed lips and flooded

  down the velvet vestments. A low moan of horror went up from the ranks

  of squatting monks.

  Still clinging to the tapestry, Jah Hora kept his feet, but he was

  swaying and teetering wildly. He opened his shattered mouth to speak

  again, but the only sound that came from it was a high-pitched cawing,

  like that of a dying crow, and the blood splattered in bright droplets

  from his lips.

  Nogo laughed and kicked his legs from under him. Jah Hora. collapsed

  like a heap of dirty laundry and lay on the paving, groaning in his own

  blood and Spittle.

  "Where is your God now, you old baboon? Bleat to him as loud as you

  will, and he will never answer you,'

  Nogo, chuckled.

  With the pistol he gestured to his lieutenant across the church. He left

  six of his men guarding the monks, four at the doorway and one at each

  side wall. The others bunched up and followed him to the entrance to the

  maqdas.

  The doors were locked. Nogo rattled the ancient padlock impatiently.

  "Open this immediately, you old crow!" he shouted at ali Hora who still

  lay in a bundle, moaning and sobbing.

  "He is too far gone in senility," the lieutenant shook his head. "His

  mind has gone, colonel. He does not understand the command."

  "Break it open, then," Nogo ordered, "No, don't waste any more time.


  Shoot the lock away. The wood is rotten."

  Obediently the lieutenant stepped up to the door, and gestured his men

  to stand well clear. He aimed his AK-47 into the wood of the door lintel

  and fired a long, continuous burst.

  Dust and chips of wood and stone flew in a cloud, and fresh yellow

  splinters splattered the paving. The noise of gunfire and the whine of

  ricochets was deafening in the echoing hall of the qiddist, and the

  monks wailed and howled and covered their ears and their eyes where they

  knelt. The lieutenant stepped back from the shattered door. The black

  wrought-iron hasp and staple hung at an angle, the supporting woodwork

  almost shot through.

  "Break it down now!" Nogo ordered, and five of his men ran forward and

  put their shoulders to the sagging door. At their combined thrust there

  was a crackling, rending sound, and now the monks were screaming' Some

  of them had covered their heads with the skirts of their shammas so as

  not to have to witness this sacrilege;,others were tearing at their

  faces with their fingernails, leaving long bloody gouges down their own

  cheeks.

  "Again!" roared Nogo, and his men rushed the door once more, using their

  shoulders in unison. The lock was ripped away from its fastenings, and

  they pushed the massive door fully open and peered into the dim recesses

  of I the maqdas beyond. The chamber was lit only by a few smoky oil

  lamps.

  Now suddenly even these non-Christians were reluctant to cross that

  threshold into the holy place. They all hung back, even Tuma Nogo,

  despite his defiant Protestations of non-belief.

  "Nahoot!" He looked back over his shoulder at the bedraggled and still

  sweating Egyptian. "This is your job now. Herr von Schiller has ordered

  you to find the things we want. Come here."

  As Nahoot came forward, Nogo seized his arm and thrust him. through the

  doorway. "Get in there, oh follower of the Prophet. The Trinity of

  Christian gods cannot harm you.

  He stepped into the maqdas immediately after Nahoot and shone his torch

  around the low chamber. The beam of light danced over the shelves of

  votive offerings, sparkling on the glass and precious stones, on the

  brass and gold and silver. It stopped on the high cedarwood altar,

  lighting the Epiphany crown and the chalices, reflected from the

  communion plate and the tall silver Coptic cross.

  "Beyond the altar," Nahoot cried out with excitement.

  "The barred gateway! This is the place where the Polaroids were taken."

  He broke away from the group in the doorway and ran wildly across the

  chamber. Gripping the bars of the gate in his clenched fists, he peered

  between them like a prisoner sentenced to life imprisonment.

  "This is the tomb. Bring the light! His voice was a high-pitched and

  frantic scream.

  Nogo ran to join him, brushing past the damaskcovered tabot stone. He

  shone the torch through the bars of the gate.

  "By the sweet compassion of God, and the eternal breath of his Prophet,'

  Nahoot's voice sank from a scream to a whisper, "these are the murals of

  the ancient scribe.

  This is the work of the slave Taita." As Royan had done, he recognized

  the style and the execution immediately.

  Taita's brush was so distinctive, and his talent had outlasted the ages.

  "Open this gate!" Nahoot's tone rose again, becoming strident and

  impatient

  "Here, you men!" Nogo responded, and they crowded around the ancient

  structure, trying at first to rip it from the cavern wall by main

  strength. Almost at once it became apparent that this was a futile

  effort, and Nogo stopped them.

  "Search the monks' quarters!" he ordered his lieutenant. "Find me tools

  to do the job."

  The junior officer hurried from the chamber, taking most of the troopers

  with him. Nogo turned from the gate and studied the rest of the interior

  of the maqdas.

  The stele!" he rasped. "Herr von Schiller wants the stone above

  everything else." He played the torch beam, around the chamber. "From

  what angle was the Polaroid taken-'

  He broke Off abruptly, and held the light on the damask-covered tabot

  stone,- on which the velvet-cloaked tabernacle stood.

  "Yes," cried Nahoot at his shoulder. "That is it."

  Tuma Nogo crossed to the pillar with half a dozen strides and seized the

  gold-tasselled border of the tabernacle cloth. He pulled it away. The

  tabernacle was a simple chest carved from olive wood, glowing with the

  patina that priestly hands had imparted to the wood over the centuries.

  "Primitive superstitions," Nogo muttered contemptuously and, picking it

  up in both hands, hurled it against the cavern wall. The wood splintered

  and the lid of the chest burst open. A stack of inscribed clay tablets

  spilled out on to the cavern paving slabs, but neither Nogo nor Nahoot

  took any notice of these sacred items.

  "Uncover it," Nahoot encouraged him. "Uncover the stone."

  Nogo tugged at the corner of the damask cloth, but it caught on the

  angle of the pillar beneath it. Impatiently he heaved at it with all his

  strength, and the old and rotten material tore with a soft ripping

  sound.

  Taita's stone testament, the carved stele, was revealed.

  Even Nogo was impressed by the discovery. He backed away from it with

  the torn covering cloth in his hand.

  "It is the stone in the photograph," he whispered. "This is what Herr

  von Schiller ordered us to find. We are rich men., His words of avarice

  broke the spell. Nahoot ran forward, and threw himself on his knees in

  front of the stele. He clasped it with both arms, like a lover too long

  deprived. He sobbed softly, and with amazement Nogo saw tears streaming

  unashamedly down his cheeks. Nogo himself had considered only the value

  of the reward that it would bring. He had never thought that any man

  could long so deeply for an inanimate object, especially something so

  mundane as this pillar of ordinary stone.

  They were still posed like this, Nahoot kneeling at the stele like a

  worshipper and Nogo standing silently behind him, when the lieutenant

  ran back into the cavern.

  Somewhere he had found a rusty mattock with a raw timber handle.

  His arrival roused both men from their trance, and Nogo ordered him,

  "Break open the gate!'

  Although the gate was antique and the wood brittle, it took the efforts

  of several men working in relays to rip the stanchions out of. their

  foundations in the rock of the cavern wall.

  At last, however, the heavy gate sagged forward. As the workers jumped

  aside it fell with a shattering crash to the slabs, raising a mist of

  red dust that dimmed the light of the lamps and the electric torch.

  Nahoot was the first one into the tomb. He ran through the veil of

  swirling dust and once again threw himself to his knees beside the

  ancient crumbling wooden coffin.

  "Bring the light, he shouted impatiently. Nogo stepped up behind him and

  shone the torchlight on the coffin.

  The portraits of the man were three dimensional, not only on the sides,
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  but on the lid too. Clearly the artist was the same as the one who had

  executed the murals. The upper portrait was in excellent condition. It

  depicted a man in the prime of life with a strong, proud face, that of a

  farmer or a soldier with a calm and unruffled gaze. He was a handsome

  man, with thick blond tresses, skilfully painted as if by someone who

  had known him'well and loved him.

  The artist seemed to have captured his character, and then eulogized his

  salient virtues.

  Nahoot looked up from the portrait to the inscription on the wall of the

  tomb above it. He read it aloud, and then, with tears still backing up

  behind his eyelids, he looked down again at the coffin and read the

  cartouche that was painted below the portrait of the blond general.

  Tanus, Lord Harrab." His voice choked up with emotion, and he swallowed

  noisily and cleared his throat.

  This follows exactly the description in the seventh scroll.

  We have the stele and the coffin. They are , great and priceless

  treasures. Herr von Schiller will be delighted."

  "I wish I could believe what you say," Nogo told him dubiously. "Herr

  von Schiller is a dangerous man."

  "You have done well so far," Nahoot assured him. "It remains only for

  you to move the stele and the coffin out of this monastery to where the

  helicopter can fly them to the Pegasus camp. If you can do that, you

  will be a very rich man. Richer than you ever believed was possible."

  This spur was enough for Nogo. He stood over his men as they laboured

  around the base of the stele, digging in clouds of dust, levering the

  paving slabs out of their mooring. Finally they freed the foundation of

  the stele and between them lifted the stone out of the position in which

  it had stood for nearly four thousand years.

  Only once it was free did they realize the weight of the stone. Although

  slender, it was a solid half-ton weight.

  Nahoot went back into the qiddist and, ignoring the rows of squatting

  monks, pulled down a dozen of the thick woollen tapestries from the

  walls and had the troopers carry them back into the maqdas.

  He wrapped both the stele and the coffin in the heavy folds of

  coarse-spun wool. It was tough as canvas, and afforded the men who were

  to carry it a secure handhold.

  Ten of the burly troopers were able to lift and carry the stele, while

  three men were able to handle the wooden coffin and its desiccated