The Seventh Scroll tes-2

by Wilbur Smith

  contents. This left seven armed men free to provide an escort. Then the

  heavily burdened procession moved out through the ruined doorway of the

  Holy of Holies into the crowded central qiddist, As soon as the

  assembled monks realized what they were carrying away with them, a

  shocked babble Of voices, of lamentations and exhortations, rose from

  the squatting ranks of holy men.

  "Quied' Nogo roared. "Silence! Keep these fools quiet."

  The guards waded forward into the mass of humanity, clearing a passage

  for the treasures they were plundering, laying about them with boot and

  rifle butt, shouting at the monks to give way and to let the staggering

  porters through.

  The hubbub rose louder, the monks encouraging each other with their

  howls of protest, whipping themselves into a frenzy of religious

  outrage. Some of them leaped to their feet, defying the commands

  bellowed at them to remain seated. They crowded closer and closer to the

  armed troopers, clutching at their uniforms, chanting and whirling about

  them in a challenging display of mounting hostility.

  In the midst of this uproar, suddenly the spectral figure of Jali Hora

  reappeared. His beard and robes were stained with blood, his eyes were

  crazy, bloodshot and staring.

  >From his battered lips and ruined mouth issued a long, sustained

  shriek. The ranks of dancing monks opened to let him through, and he

  rushed like an animated scarecrow with his skirts flapping around his

  thin legs straight at Colonel Nogo.

  "Get back, you old maniac!" Nogo warned him, and lifted the muzzle of

  his assault rifle to fend him away.

  Jali Hora was far past any earthly restraint. He did not even check, but

  ran straight on to the point of the bayonet that Nogo was aiming at his

  belly.

  The needle'pointed steel stabbed through his gaudy robes and ran into

  the flesh beneath them as easily as a gaff into the body of a struggling

  fish. The point of the bayonet emerged from the middle of his back,

  pricking through the velvet cloak, all pinkly smeared with the old man's

  blood.

  Spitted upon the steel, Jali Hora wriggled and contorted, a dreadful

  squeal bursting from his bloody lips.

  Nogo tried to pull the bayonet free, but the wet clinging suction of the

  abbot's guts held the steel fast, and when Nogo jerked harder, Jah Hora

  was tossed about like a puppet, his arms flapping and his legs kicking

  and. dancing comically.

  There was only one way to free the blade of a bayonet that was trapped

  like this., Nogo slipped the rate-of-fire selector on the AK-47 to

  "Single Shot'. He fired once.

  The detonation of the shot was muffled by Jali Hora's body, but was yet

  so thunderous that for a moment it stilled the outcry of the monks. The

  high-velocity bullet tore down the entry track of the blade. It was

  moving at three times the speed of sound, creating a wave of hydrostatic

  shock behind it that turned the old man's bowels to jelly and liquidized

  his flesh. The suction that had held the bayonet was broken, and the

  blast of shot hurled Jah Hora's carcass off the point of the blade,

  flinging it into the arms of the monks who were crowding close behind

  him."

  For a moment longer the strained, unnatural silence persisted, and then

  it was shattered by a higher, more angry chorus of horror from the

  monks. It was as though they were compelled by a single mind, a single

  instinct. Like a flock of white birds they flew at the band of armed men

  in their midst and descended upon them, intent on retribution for

  murder. They counted no cost to themselves, but with their bare hands

  they tore at them, hooked fingers clawing for their eyes, seizing the

  barrels of the levelled rifles. Some of them even grasped the blades of

  the bayonets with their naked hands, and the razor steel sliced through

  -flesh and tendons.

  For a short while it seemed that the soldiers would be overwhelmed and

  smothered by the sheer weight of numbers, but then those troopers

  carrying the stele and the coffin dropped their loads and unslung their

  weapons, The monks crowded them too closely for them to swing the

  rifles, and they were forced to hack and stab with the bayonets to clear

  a space around them in which to do their work. They did not need much

  room, for the AK47 has a short barrel and compact action. Their first

  burst of fully automatic fire, aimed into the monks at belly height and

  point-blank range, scythed a windrow- through them.

  Every bullet told, and the full metal jacket ball whipped through one

  man's torso with almost no check, going on to kill the man behind him.

  By now all the troopers were firing from the hip, traversing back and

  forth, spraying the packed ranks of monks like gardeners hosing a bed of

  white pansies. As one magazine of twenty-eight rounds emptied they

  snapped it off and replaced it with another, fully loaded.

  Nahoot cowered behind the fallen pillar, using it as a shield. The roar

  of gunfire deafened and confused him. He stared around him and could not

  credit the'carnage he was witnessing. At such close range the 7.62 round

  is a terrible missile, which can blow off an arm or a leg as efficiently

  as an axe-stroke, but more messily. Taken in the belly, it can gut a man

  like a fish.

  Nahoot saw one of the monks hit in the forehead. His skull'erupted in a

  cloud of blood and brain tissue, and the gunman who had shot him laughed

  as he fired. They were all caught up in the madness of the moment. Like

  a pack of wild dogs that had run down their prey, they kept on firing

  and reloading and firing again.

  The monks in the front rows turned to flee and ran into those behind.

  They struggled together, howling with agony and terror, until the storm

  of bullets swept over them, killing and maiming, and they fell upon the

  heaps of dead and dying. The floor of the chamber was carpeted with the

  dead and the wounded. Trying to escape the hail of bullets the monks

  blocked the doorway, plugging it tight with their struggling white-clad

  bodies, and now the troopers standing clear in the centre of the qiddist

  turned their guns upon this trapped mass of humanity. The bullets socked

  into them and they heaved and tossed like the trees of the forest in a

  gale of wind. Now there was very little screaming; the guns were the

  only voices that still clamoured.

  It was some minutes before the guns stuttered into silence, and then the

  only sound was the groans and the weeping of the wounded. The chamber

  was filled with a blue mist of gunsmoke and the stink of burned powder.

  Even the laughter of the soldiers was silenced as they stared around

  them, and realized the enormity of the slaughter.

  The entire floor was carpeted with bodies, their shammas splashed

  and-speckled with gouts of scarlet, and the stone paving beneath them

  was awash with sheets of fresh blood in which the empty brass cartridge

  cases sparkled like jewels.

  "Cease firing!" Nogo gave the belated order. "Shoulder arms! Pick up the

  load! Forward march!'

&nb
sp; His voice roused them, and they slung their weapons and stooped to lift

  their heavy, tapestry-wrapped burdens.

  Then they staggered forward, their boots squelching in the blood,

  tripping over the corpses,. stepping on bodies that either convulsed or

  lay inert. Gagging in the stench of gunsmoke and blood, of bowels and

  guts ripped wide open by the bullets, they crossed the chamber.

  When they reached the doorway and staggered down the steps into the

  deserted outer chamber of the church, Nahoot saw the relief on the faces

  of even these battle hardened veterans as they escaped from the reeking

  charnel-house. For Nahoot it was too much. Never in his worst nightmares

  had he seen sights such as these.

  He tottered to the side wall of the chamber and clung to one of the

  woollen hangings for support; then, heaving and retching, he brought up

  a mouthful of bitter bile.

  When he looked around him again, he was alone except for a wounded monk

  who was dragging himself across the flags towards him, his spine shot

  through and his paralysed legs slithering behind him, leaving a slimy

  snail's trail of blood across the stone floor.

  Nahoot screamed and backed away from the wounded monk, then whirled and

  fled from the church, along the cloisters above the gorge of the Nile,

  following the group of soldiers as they ffarried their burdens up the

  stone staircase. He was so wild with horror that he did not even hear

  the approach of the helicopter until it was hovering directly overhead

  on the glistening silver disc of its spinning rotor.

  otthold von Schiller stood outside the front door of the Quonset hut,

  with Utte Kemper waiting a pace behind him. The pilot had radioed ahead

  while the jet Ranger was in flight, so all was in readiness to receive

  the precious cargo it was carrying.

  The helicopter raised a cloud of pale dust from the landing circle as it

  sank down to the earth. The long tapestry covered load it carried had

  not been able to fit into the cabin, and was strapped across the landing

  skids of the aircraft. The instant that the skids kissed the ground and

  the pilot cut back the throttle, Jake Helm led out a team of a dozen men

  to loosen the nylon retaining straps and lift the heavy bundle down.

  Between them the gang of overallclad workers carried the stele to the

  hut and eased it through the door. Helm hovered close at hand, issuing

  terse orders.

  A space had been cleared in the centre of the conference room, the long

  table pushed back against the wall.

  With extreme care the stele was laid there, and minutes later the coffin

  of Tanus, the Great Lion of Egypt, was laid beside it.

  Brusquely Helm dismissed the gang and closed and bolted the door behind

  them as they left. Only the four of them remained in the room. Nahoot'

  and Helm crouched beside the stele, ready to unwrap the woollen

  tapestry. Von Schiller stood at the head of it, with Utte at his side.

  "Shall we begin?" Helm asked softly, watching von Schiller's face the

  way a faithful dog watches its master.

  "Carefully," von Schiller warned him in strangled tones.

  "Do not damage anything." He was sweating in a sheen across his

  forehead, and his face was very pale. Utte edged rotectively closer to

  him,, but he did not glance in her direction. He was staring fixedly at

  the treasure that lay at his feet.

  Helm opened his clasp-knife and cut away the tasselled cords that

  secured the covering. As he watched, von Schiller's breathing became

  louder. It rasped in his throat like a man in the terminal stages of

  emphysema.

  "Yes," he whispered hoarsely, tthat's the way to do it." Utte Kemper

  watched his face. He was always like this when he made another

  significant addition to his collection of antiquities. He seemed on the

  verge of a seizure, of a massive heart attack, but she knew he had the

  heart of an OX.

  Helm came to the top end of the pillar and carefully opened a small slit

  in the cloth. He eased the point of the blade into this opening, and

  then ran it slowly down towards the base, like a zip fastener. The blade

  was razor sharp and the cloth fell away to reveal the inscribed stone

  beneath it.

  The sweat burst out like a heavy dew on von Schiller's skin. It dripped

  from his chin on to the front of his khaki bush jacket. He made a small

  moaning sound as he saw the carved hieroglyphics. Utte watched him, her

  own excitement mounting. She knew what to expect of him, when he was

  caught up in this paroxysm of emotion.

  "See here, Herr von Schiller." Nahoot knelt beside the obelisk and

  traced the outline of a broken'winged hawk with his finger. "This is the

  signature of the slave, Taita."

  "Is it genuine?" Von Schiller's voice was that of a very sick man,

  wheezing and gusty.

  "It is genuine. I will guarantee it with my life."

  "It may come to that," von Schiller warned him. His eyes were glittering

  with the hard brilliance of pate sapphires.

  This column was carved nearly four thousand years ago," Nahoot repeated

  stoutly. "This is the veritable seal of the scribe." He translated

  glibly and easily from the blocks of figures, his face shining with an

  almost religious rapture: "'Anubis, the jackal-headed, the god of the

  cemeteries, holds in his paws the blood and the viscera, the bones and

  the lungs and the heart that are my separate parts. He moves them like

  the stones of the bao board, my limbs serve him as counters, my head is

  the great bull of the long board'!--'

  "Enough!" von Schiller commanded. There will be time for more later. Go

  now. Leave me alone. Do not return until I send for you."

  Nahoot looked startled and scrambled to his feet uncertainly. He had not

  expected to be dismissed so abruptly in the moment of his triumph. Helm

  beckoned him, and the two of them went quickly to the door of the hut.

  "Helm," von Schiller called thickly after him, "make certain that nobody

  disturbs me."

  "Of course, Herr von Schiller." He glanced enquiringly at Utte Kemper.

  "No," said von Schiller. "She stay The two men left the room, and Helm

  shut the door carefully behind them, Utte crossed the room and turned

  the key. Then she faced von Schiller with her hands behind her and her

  back pressed to the door.

  Her breasts were thrust forward firm and pointed The nipples showed

  clearly through the thin cotton blouse, hard as marbles.

  "The costume?" she asked. "Do you want the costume Her own voice was

  tight and strained. She enjoyed this game almost as much as he did.

  "Yes, the costume," he whispered.

  She crossed the room and disappeared through the door into his private

  quarters. As soon as she was gone von Schiller began to undress. When he

  stood mother-naked in the centre of the room, he threw his clothing in a

  heap into one corner and turned to face the door through which she would

  return.

  Suddenly she stood in the doorway, and he gasped at the transformation.

  She wore the wig of tight Egyptian braids and over it the uraeus, the

  golden circlet with the hooded
cobra standing erect above her forehead.

  The crown was genuine, as old as the ages - von Schiller had paid five

  million Deutschmarks for it.

  "I am the reincarnation of the ancient Egyptian Queen Lostris," she

  puffed. "My soul is immortal. My flesh is incorruptible." She wore

  golden sandals from the tomb of a princess, and bracelets and finger

  rings and earrings from the same tomb. All were authentic royal relics.

  "Yes." His voice was choking, his face as pale as death.

  "Nothing can destroy me. I will live for ever," she said.

  Her skirt was diaphanous yellow silk, belted with gold and precious

  stones.

  "For ever," he repeated She was naked above the waist. Her breasts were

  big and white as milk. She cupped them in her own hands.

  "These have been young and smooth for four thousand years," she purred.

  "I offer them to you."

  She stepped out of the open golden sandals and her feet were slim and

  neat. She parted the frontal split in the yellow skirts and held it so

  that her lower body was exposed.

  All her movements were slow and calculated. She was a clever actress.

  "This- is the promise of eternal life." She placed her right hand on her

  dense honey-coloured pubic bush. "I offer it to you.

  He groaned softly and blinked the streaming sweat out of his eyes,

  watching her avidly.

  She undulated her hips, slowly and lewdly as an uncoiling cobra. She

  moved her feet apart and opened her thighs. With her fingers she spread

  the lips of her vulva.

  "This is the gateway to eternity. I open it for you., Von Schiller

  groaned aloud. No matter how often repeated, the ritual never failed.

  Like a man in a trance he moved towards her. His body was thin, dried

  out like a thousand-year-old mummy. His chest hair was a silver fuzz,

  the skin of his sunken belly was folded and wrinkled, but his pubic hair

  was dark and thick as the hair on his head.

  His penis was huge, out of all proportion to the skinny old frame from

  which it dangled. As she moved slowly to meet him it filled out and hung

  at a different angle, and of its own accord the wizened foreskin peeled

  back to reveal the massive purple head beneath it.

  "On the stele," he grunted. "Quickly! On the stone."

  She turned her back to him and knelt upon the stone, watching him over

  her shoulder as he came up behind her.