The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur - Страница 57

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in a puddle of melted oil. The meagre light they provided was all that

there was, and it left the ceiling and the recesses of the chamber in

shadow.

As they crossed the floor towards the gates that closed off the maqdas,

Nicholas took two electric torches from his camera bag and handed one to

her. "New batteries," he told her, "but don't waste them. We may be here

all night."

They stopped in front of the doors to the Holy Of Holies. Quickly

Nicholas examined them. There were A, engravings of St.. Frumentius on

each panel, his head enclosed in a nimbus of celestial radiance and his

right hand lifted in the act of benediction.

"Primitive lock," he murmured, "must be hundreds of years old. You could

throw your hat through the gap between the hasp and the tongue." He

slipped his hand into the bag and brought out a Leatherman tool.

"Clever little job, this is. With it you do anything from digging the

stones out of a horse's hoof, to opening the lock on a chastity belt."

He knelt in front of the massive iron lock and unfolded one of the

multiple blades of the tool. She watched anxiously as he worked, and

then gave a little start as with satisfying clunk the tongue of the lock

slid back.

a Mis-spent youth?" she asked. "Burglary amongst your many talents?"

"You don't really want to know." He stood up and put his shoulder to one

leaf of the door. It gave with a groan of unlubricated hinges, and he

pushed it open only just wide enough for them to squeeze through, then

immediately shut it behind them.

They stood side by side on the threshold of the maqdas and gazed about

them in silent awe.

The Holy of Holies was a small chamber, much smaller than either of them

had expected. Nicholas could have crossed it in a dozen strides. The

vaulted roof was so low that by standing on tiptoe he could have touched

it with his outstretched fingertips.

or upwards the walls were lined with From the flo shelves upon which

stood the gifts and offerings of the faithful, icons of the Trinity and

the Virgin rendered in Byzantine style, framed in ornate silver. There

were ranks of statuettes of saints and emperors, medallions and wreaths

made of polished metal, pots and bowls and jewelled boxes, candelabra

with many branches, on each of which the votive candles burned providing

an uncertain wavering light. It was an extraordinary collection of junk

and treasures, of objects of virtue and garish bric-A-brac, offered as

articles of faith by the emperors and chieftains of Ethiopia over the

centuries.

In the centre of the floor stood the altar of cedarwood, the panels

carved with visionary, scenes of revelation and creation, of the

temptation and the fall from Eden, and of the Last judgement. The altar

cloth was crocheted raw silk, and the cross and the chalice were in

massive worked silver. The abbot's crown gleamed in the candlelight,

with the blue ceramic seal of Taita in the centre of its brow.

Royan crossed the floor and knelt in front of the altar.

She bowed her head in prayer. Nicholas waited respectfully at the

threshold until she rose to her feet again, and then he went to join

her.

"The tabot stoneV He pointed beyond the altar, and they went forward

side by side. At the back of the maqdas stood an object covered with a

heavy damask cloth encrusted with embroidered thread of silver and gold.

From the outline beneath the covering they could see that it was of

elegant and pleasing proportions, as tall as a man, but slender with a

pedestal topping.

They both circled it, studying the cloaked shape avidly, but reluctant

to touch it or to uncover it, fearful that their expectations might

prove unwarranted, and that their ..hopes would be dashed like the

turbulent river waters plunging into the cauldron of the Nile. Nicholas

broke the tension that gripped them by turning away from the tabot stone

to the barred gate in the back wall of the sanctuary.

"The tomb of St. Frumentius!" he said, and went to the grille. She came

to his side, and together they peered through the square openings in the

woodwork that was black with age. The interior was in darkness. Nicholas

prodded his torch through one of the openings and pressed the switch.

The tomb lit up in a rainbow of colour so bright in the beam of the

torch that their eyes took a few moments to adjust and then Royan gasped

aloud.

"Oh, sweet heaven!" She began to tremble as if in high fever, and her

face went creamy pale as all the blood drained from it.

The coffin was set into a stone shelf in the rear wall of the cell-like

tomb. On the exterior was painted the likeness of the man within.

Although it was badly faded and most of the paint had flaked away, the

pale face and reddish beard of the dead man were still discernible.

This was not the only reason for Royan's amazement.

She was staring at the walls above and on either side of the shelf on

which the coffin lay. They were a riot of colour, every inch of them

covered with the most intricate and elaborate paintings that had

miraculously weathered the passage of the millennia.

Nicholas played his torch beam over them in awestruck silence, and Royan

clung to his arm as if to save herself from falling. She dug her sharp

nails into his flesh, but he was heedless of the pain.

There were scenes of great battles, fighting galleys locked in terrible

combat upon the blue eternal waters of the river. There were scenes of

the hunt, the pursuit of the river horse and of great elephants with

long tusks of gleaming ivory. There were battle scenes of regiments

plumed and armoured, raging in their fury and blood lust.

Squadrons of chariots wheeled and charged each other across these narrow

walls, half obscured by the dust of their own mad career.

The foreground of each mural was dominated by the same tall heroic

figure. In one scene he drew the bow to full stretch, in another he

swung high the blade of bronze.

His enemies quailed before him, he trod them underfoot or gathered

together their severed heads like a bouquet of flowers.

Nicholas played the beam over all this splendid array of art, and

brought it to a stop upon the central panel that covered the entire main

wall above the shelf on which the rotting coffin lay. Here the same

godlike figure rode the footplate of his chariot. In one hand he held

the bow and in the other a bundle of javelins. His head was bare of any

helmet, and his hair flowed out behind him in the wind of his passage, a

thick golden braid like the tail of a lion. His features were noble and

proud, his gaze direct and indomitable.

Below him was a legen  in classical Egyptian hieroglyphics. In a

sepulchral whisper Royan translated them aloud:

Great Lion of Egypt.

Best of One Hundred Thousand Holder of the Gold of Valour Pharaoh's Sole

Companion Warrior of all the Gods May you live for ever!

Her hand shook upon his arm, and her voice choked and died away, stifled

with emotion. She gave a little sob, and then shook herself as she

brought herself back under control.

"I know this artist," she said softly. "I have spent five years studying

his work. I would know it anywhere." She drew a breath. "I know with

utter certainty that nearly four thousand years ago Taita the slave

decorated these walls and designed this tomb."

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