by Jack Du Brul
He knew he would never rise again. His head pounded fiercely, and he felt it would split at just the slightest touch. He reached over to touch Selome’s arm. Her skin felt like a dried-out parchment. Every fiber of his body craved water, but the last remnants of his rational mind knew it would never come.
“This is where we die,” Mercer mumbled into the dusty floor of the cavern. “I’m sorry.”
Selome rolled Mercer so she could study his face. Under the days of beard, his skin was gray and cracked. His lips were so blistered that his mouth looked like an infected wound. She saw her own concern reflected in his eyes, for she looked just as bad.
“I’ll read to you to pass the time,” Selome offered, and Mercer shot her a queer look, suspecting that she had finally fallen away from reality.
Yet as he watched, she grabbed a leather-bound book from the cave floor, resting it on her lap, and cracked it open to a random page. She stared at it blankly for just a second. “Hey, this is Shakespeare. It’s in Italian, but I’ll translate it for you.”
“What else?” He was too wasted to feel emotion other than the desperation of the near dead.
“What?”
“What else is in the cave?” Was it possible? A hope flared dimly in his mind.
Selome looked around their mausoleum. “Oh, God! Food! Water!” He could hear her crying.
The air in the cave tasted sweeter when she unstoppered a flask. When she held it to her lips, Mercer watched clear water dribble down her chin, softening the dried scabs on her lips and bringing moisture to her seared tongue. The sensation closed her eyes in ecstatic pain.
Mercer was overwhelmed. Not because the water would save his life; that wasn’t his first thought. That Selome would be saved was much more important than his own well-being. He wanted to take credit for getting her through this, but it was her own guts that had carried them, her uncomplaining determination to continue. Trying to inspire her with his strength, she’d turned around and done the same to him. Even as he faded into oblivion, he saw her half fill her mouth with water and press her lips to his, forcing his mouth open to allow a little water to pass into him. She drank again herself and then gave Mercer another mouthful. A minute later, he was unconscious, but his breathing evened and sounded less labored, a tiny but noticeable smile on his face.
The Monastery of Debre Amlak
An unfamiliar sensation brought Mercer awake, and it took him a moment to recognize what it was. A mattress! Oh, Jesus! Worn to little more than the thickness of a blanket and covered with sheets of the roughest cotton, it still felt as if he were resting on clouds. His whole body ached, his feet and legs especially. However, it was a reassuring pain that told him he was still alive. He shifted under the bedding; the blisters on his feet smeared open against the sheets. He gasped and shot up in bed, grabbing for his stinging heel. Instantly, his vision clouded over and his head swam. He collapsed back against the flat pillow, his sore feet all but forgotten.
Selome! Her image flooded his mind, and once again he struggled upright, his arms flailing to free himself from the sheets’ tangling embrace. He had to find her; nothing else mattered. Then he heard a voice and he looked to his right. The room was just large enough for the bed, a desk, and a chair. The walls were white and clean, the floors were bare and well swept, and through the single window he could see it was twilight. A crucifix above the desk was the room’s only decoration. A young boy dressed in a long robe stood at Mercer’s bedside. He spoke again in Tigrinyan, ignoring Mercer’s incomprehension.
“Selam,” Mercer finally croaked.
“Selam, Selam,” the youth greeted. “Kemayla-ha?”
The boy must have been asking about his condition. “Hmak.” Bad. It was one of the few words Mercer had learned.
“Shemay Tedla iyu,” the boy said, pointing at his chest. “Men shem-ka?”
Mercer understood the boy’s name was Tedla. He pointed to himself. “Mercer,” then added, “Selome?”
The boy gave a lengthy reply, but Mercer understood none of it. He let out a frustrated breath. Tedla poured water from a pewter pitcher and held it for him.
After draining the cup, Mercer settled under the coarse blankets and was asleep in moments. The next time he woke, he was alone and his room was dark except for a single candle burning on the desk. In its glow, he saw that a plate of fruit had been left for him. He had recovered enough to be hungry and reached for it, wolfing two man-goes and a banana before weakness overcame him and he was back asleep.
The candle had gone out when he regained consciousness again. A haunting sound echoed beyond his chamber. Mercer was disoriented, nearly panicked by the darkness, his own weakness, and the faint noise. Slowly his mind brought him back to the present, and his heart rate eased. He recognized the noise as a song, a chant. Then he remembered everything in a rush, the march through the desert, Selome’s finding the water in the cave. Fuzzy pictures flashed in his mind of men carrying him and Selome from the cave up a steep trail to an ancient building. He lay in the darkness and smiled, letting the monks at their midnight prayer serenade him back to sleep. They’d made it to the monastery!
When the sun woke him, Mercer had enough strength to lever himself out of bed and dress. His clothes had been laundered and lay in a bundle on the desk. He was surprised to find he needed to use the chamber pot sitting under the bed. At least his kidneys were still functioning.
Once in the hallway, Mercer began to weaken but he continued past several closed doors until he came to the refectory, a large cleared table dominating the room. He sat at one of the chairs and lay his head on the tabletop, his breath coming in uneven gasps. Selome. He needed to find her.
He must have passed out again because suddenly Tedla was taping at his shoulder and speaking to him gently. “Where is everybody?” Mercer asked.
Tedla held up a finger to indicate Mercer was to wait and scampered from the room. A minute later, he returned with another, older monk. There was a reassuring air about the man, a comforting quality that radiated trust. It wasn’t just the gray beard and the long dark robe. There was something behind his eyes that spoke of compassion and understanding.
“Selam,” Mercer greeted. “Do you speak English?”
“Selam. No. Italiano?”
Mercer shook his head. “Parlez-vous francais?”
“Un peu.” A little.
Mercer switched effortlessly into French, but he spoke too fast for the monk and had to slow. “My name is Philip Mercer. I’m a mine engineer working here in Eritrea.”
“Selome Nagast is awake for many hours, Monsieur Mercer. I know who you are. My name is Brother Ephraim.”
“How long have we been here?” Mercer could barely understand the monk through his thick accent.
“Last night was your second.”
Mercer had slept through nearly thirty-six hours! The Eritrean refugees would be reaching the mine soon; maybe they were already there. He felt his chest tighten with a new panic. “I need to leave.”
Ephraim spoke to his acolyte and Tedla ran off, leaving Mercer alone with him. It was clear that they would need a translator if they were to continue their conversation. Soon after, Selome entered. Her ordeal had dulled her eyes some, but she was still beautiful. The weight loss made her already high cheekbones more prominent and her eyes larger. Relief flushed through Mercer and he closed his eyes, opening them again to drink her in. When he tried to stand and meet her embrace, she held him to his chair, her arms twined around his neck, her cheek laid against his. “How are you?” she asked softly.
Before Mercer could reply, Brother Ephraim coughed, drawing their attention. Selome pulled away and adopted a demure attitude in front of the ascetic. He spoke for several minutes, Selome thinking through her translation before turning back to Mercer.
“Brother Ephraim is the monastery’s abbot and he welcomes us to Debre Amlak. He says it is highly irregular for a woman to be allowed within the compound, and he is concerned about o
ur relationship.” She spoke to Ephraim for a moment and then switched back to English. “I told him that you are a man of honor and I am a chaste woman who is promised to another.”
“You lied to a priest?”
“What should I have told him?”
“You shouldn’t have said I’m a man of honor, that’s all.” Mercer suppressed a grin. “Tell our host that any carnal thoughts in my condition are impossible. Thank him for his hospitality and for carrying us up from the cave and ask him how he managed to find us.”
“He says that the cave is his retreat from the monastery, a place for him to enjoy an even greater sense of solitude. He discovered us himself and went to get other monks to bring us here.”
“A retreat from a retreat?” Mercer wondered aloud, thankful nonetheless.
“He and I spoke yesterday when you were still unconscious, and I told him about our search for an ancient mine. He seemed to know all about it.”
“What, the mine?”
“That, yes, but us too. He acted as though he’d been expecting us, or at least you.”
“Don’t go mystical on me, Selome.”
“I’m just telling you what happened.” Selome was interrupted by Ephraim. The elder cleric spoke for a few minutes.
Mercer watched Selome’s reactions. Whatever the abbot was saying stunned her. She asked Ephraim a few questions before translating for Mercer’s benefit.
“Brother Ephraim was never meant to be the monastery’s abbot. He fell into the position by default when the monks returned home during the war. He told me this by way of explaining why he did what he did, why he read a book that was never meant to be seen again.”
“What are you talking about?”
Selome ignored Mercer’s questions. “There is a book here titled Shame of Kings. Ephraim said that only one other man has read it, Debre Amlak’s previous abbot, a man whose faith it destroyed. Ephraim says the former abbot died believing God’s punishment for his sacrilege was Eritrea’s years of struggle and suffering.
“Brother Ephraim read it a few weeks ago because another monk predicted that an ancient secret was about to be revealed and that someone would come to question the priests about it. I think he believes that someone is you.”
Feeling like cold death, Mercer didn’t know what to say. When he looked at Ephraim, he saw the priest was serious. It sent a superstitious shiver up his spine. “Why me?”
“For one thing, you and I are the first outsiders to visit this monastery in decades. Also, when I told him that you’re a miner, he said that your presence here and your professional skills make perfect sense when you consider the subject of the book.”
“My being a mine engineer relates to some old religious book?”
“The Shame of Kings is more of a history than a religious text; the chronicle of an ancient diamond mine in Eritrea first worked by the priests of King Menyelek. It’s the story of the mine we just discovered.”
“Menyelek, not Solomon?”
“Yes. He was the first-born son of the Queen of Sheba and Solomon, the King of Israel. The diamonds that Menyelek found are certainly the basis of the King Solomon’s Mine legend, only the fable was off by a generation.” She paused. “But there is something even greater at stake here.”
Mercer caught an undertone in Selome’s voice and remembered he’d felt that she had been holding something back from him. Something she’d known all along. And he knew he was about to find out what it was.
“The tale begins in another book, the Glory of Kings, which is the Ethiopian version of Sheba’s visit to Solomon. It’s a very different story from what is written in the Old Testament. You see, she was duped into sleeping with Solomon by a trick played on her by the King. Afterward, Sheba returned to Ethiopia with their baby, Menyelek, but the boy’s destiny was to return to Israel. He was twenty-two when he visited his father in Jerusalem. There, a high priest told Menyelek that God had commanded him to remove the Tabernacle of the Word of God and carry it back to Ethiopia, transferring the Seat of God from Israel to Africa.”
Seeing his bewilderment, she explained in simpler terms. “Solomon’s son stole the Ark of the Covenant from the Temple and spirited it back to his own kingdom.”
Mercer could not believe he’d heard correctly. “The Ark of the Covenant? That’s what this is all about?” He could tell that she hadn’t wanted to reveal any of this, and his anger mounted. This was what she’d been hiding from the beginning. “The diamonds are meaningless to you. You’re all after the Ark and think it’s hidden in the mine.”
“Yes. Defense Minister Levine’s agents are in Eritrea to find it and return it to Israel.” Selome’s voice took on a strident note, full of emotion and fear. “It will give him the moral authority to destroy the Dome of the Rock and erect the Third Temple.”
Mercer was thoughtful for a moment. “I’d make him Emperor for Life if he pulled off a feat like that. But the Ark of the Covenant? You can’t be serious. Selome, I’m not doubting your faith, but the Old Testament and this Glory of Kings aren’t historical fact. They’re stories.”
“So was the Iliad until Heinrich Schliemann used it as a reference book,” Selome countered hotly, “and discovered the city of Troy, a place many archaeologists said existed only in folklore. If you’ll hear me out, you’ll see Ephraim’s story lends credence to Levine’s plan.”
“How so?” he asked with little interest. This was too much to believe.
“Soon after returning to Ethiopia with the Ark, Menyelek became embroiled in a number of wars, expanding Ethiopian territory as far as India. The revenue from trade caravans weren’t enough to pay for his campaigns, so one of his priests, Azariah, told him of a mountain of diamonds far to the north of their capital.
“The Shame of Kings describes the discovery of this fabulous mountain and the history of the mining operation. The priests in charge used soldiers captured during Menyelek’s battles to do the actual work. After the wars had ended, the priests turned to slave labor brought from Kush, modern-day Sudan. According to the book, the conditions were terrible and the worst was yet to come. After a hundred years, the workers had exhausted the diamonds that could be recovered from the surface and they were forced to tunnel into the earth. At first they used pygmies because of their smaller stature, but they died quickly in the shafts. One passage of the Shame of Kings laments this, for it had seemed like a promising idea.”
“And it was still the priests using slaves to dig?”
“Yes.” Selome obviously didn’t want to continue, but she did, her voice heavy. “Because the pygmies didn’t work out, the mine’s overseers started using children. Boys and girls as young as six were herded into the mine, never to return. Female slaves were used as breeding stock to replenish the losses. It sounds like a system more cruel than what the Nazis did during the Holocaust, and the mine was in operation for over four hundred years. Countless tens of thousands of innocent lives were snuffed in a subterranean hell and the perpetrators of this atrocity were followers of Judaism.”
“Selome, it happened two thousand years ago.”
“Brother Ephraim says they were proud of what they did. Not only does the book describe some of the huge gems they found, but it also talks about the inhuman conditions and the practices used to get more work out of the children. If hate groups and anti-Semites found out that the first concentration camps were built by Jews, do you think it would matter how long ago it was? This can never be revealed!”
Mercer wanted to disagree, but he had a suspicion that she was right. Hate was an easy commodity to sell. “Okay, I’ll grant you the Shame of Kings is right about an ancient mine in northern Eritrea,” he conceded. “The awful working conditions ring true and I know using children in mines was a common practice until just a hundred years ago, but what does this have to do with Levine and the Ark?”
“Levine’s quest dates back two decades. He’s always been obsessed with holy relics, especially the Ark. When Operation Moses
rescued Ethiopian Jews in 1984, he had the refugees questioned about religious artifacts left in their home country. Rumor surrounded a particular church, St. Mary of Zion in Aksum, Ethiopia’s ancient capital. Some said the Ark was still there. Levine secretly sent a team of agents to break into the church, but they found nothing to convince them that it had ever been a resting place for the Ark.”
“And he still thought it was in Ethiopia?” he scoffed.
“Goddamn it, Mercer! It doesn’t matter if you believe this or not. Levine does, and as long as he’s holding your friend Harry, that’s all that’s important. Enough people have died in the past weeks to convince you that your doubts don’t mean anything.”
Mercer’s scientific background made him naturally skeptical, but he suddenly realized she was right. It was Levine’s motivation that mattered, not its validity. And even if he didn’t believe, he knew he shouldn’t close his mind to the possibilities. Hadn’t the Shame of Kings been correct about the mine? “I’m sorry, this is all so… Anyway, you were saying Levine thought the Ark was here.”
“Ethiopia is the oldest Christian country in the world and has Jewish ties that date back even further. Besides, he was certain it wasn’t in Israel. There isn’t much of our country that hasn’t been combed by archaeologists. Levine started to investigate some of the less-credible rumors the refugees brought with them. He learned that the Ark might have been on an island on Lake Tana but that also turned out to be a false lead. The only other reference he got to the Ark was a story about a golden chest placed in an ancient mine to help ward off an evil that was killing the workers long, long ago. When Levine saw the kimberlite pipe on the Medusa photographs, he was sure he’d find the mine the refugees spoke of. He also felt that somewhere near the pipe, he’d discover the Ark’s final repository.”
