Aksum was a small city in the Tigray region situated in the north of Ethiopia, towards the border with Eritrea. It was the only place in the world where the Ark of the Covenant was openly claimed to be kept, and the curator’s notes had pointed in this direction. Natasha looked down on the land, pitted and scarred like the hide of a dinosaur that had died fighting. The plane lurched suddenly and nausea swept over her. She grabbed the arms of the seat.
“Are you okay?” Isac asked.
Natasha nodded but in truth she was struggling, although she wasn’t about to show it. Isac Abdel Rahim had grown up in her father’s house, the son of his most trusted bodyguard, so it was almost inevitable that he would become her own protection as the years went by. As children, they had fought each other in the yard, under the stern direction of their fathers and each had deep scars inflicted by the other. Yet Isac was the only man she truly trusted, and he had proved his loyalty repeatedly. Perhaps they felt a kinship as brother and sister, even though theirs had only ever been a relationship of violence. But how long could she keep this knowledge from him? Pregnancy wasn’t something you could hide for too long and he needed to know, so he could protect the baby as well as herself.
Natasha had found out for sure a week ago. She was only eight weeks pregnant, so it could still go wrong, but no one need know until she really started showing. Her breasts were larger but she was using that to her advantage, for it distracted the weak men around her. She had decided to finish this mission and then retreat with enough money to keep her for a long time. She would head to Asia, maybe Singapore, perhaps India. Countries with first-class hospitals where she would be hidden in the mass of people, the best treatment with no questions asked.
But did she even want to keep the baby? Natasha knew she was still struggling with that question. The father was Milan Noble, a Czech businessman, transformed into something hideous in the bone church of Kutna Hora, the curse of the Devil’s Bible made flesh. But his genetic stock was aristocratic and he had been a perfect male specimen before speaking the unholy words.
She had gone to Europe to learn from Milan about the Western assumption of power. In the Middle East, it was easy to take power by oppression, through fear, but Milan had a way of drawing it to himself, an innate nobility that made people want to follow him, and that was something she wanted. She used fear easily, but didn’t slip naturally into charismatic leadership. The baby would be the last piece she had of him. She shook her head at the glimmer of emotion. No, she would get rid of it as soon as this mission was finished, for it made her weak and she just couldn’t tolerate that.
She thought of what her father would have done at the news. He would have cursed and beaten her for becoming pregnant by a westerner, a white man, not someone of royal Egyptian blood. He would have called her a whore and banished her until the child was born, for she would have become a liability, someone to protect, instead of an asset who could fight. Finding the Ark of the Covenant had been his quest, the one thing he hadn’t achieved before his death, when the shades of the people he had killed had come for him in the night. Finding the Ark would be a kind of justice, a revenge for what he had turned her into, a way to show that she had surpassed him.
Natasha turned her attention back to the notebook they had taken from the Museum, flicking through the pages and examining the detailed research carried out by Dr Gamal. It seemed that the Ethiopians had been amongst the earliest converts to Christianity, and the Ethiopian Coptics still remained a separate church to the rest of the Christian Orthodox world. The Kingdom of Aksum even had its own language, Ge’ez, in which the sacred texts were written. But despite the claims of possessing the Ark and the rich cultural heritage of this land, the political troubles, poverty and violence meant that few Westerners came to investigate further.
The plane landed at Aksum Airport, bumping along a meager runway strip in the middle of a plain that stretched up towards the mountains beyond. A Range Rover sat on the tiny runway, waiting for them. Natasha pulled on her mirrored sunglasses and headed outside as Isac motioned two of their men to follow, for they only needed a small team for this initial incursion.
“Welcome to Aksum,” the driver greeted them with a warm smile and open arms. Isac stepped forward and spoke to the man in a hushed tone, giving him a wad of American dollars. Natasha and the other men stood silent as the man’s attitude changed and a glimmer of fear crept into his eyes. He took the roll of dollars, briefly thumbed through it and nodded.
“Of course, sir. I’ll take you there now.”
The tires of the old vehicle threw up a cloud of dust as they drove into Aksum, the eucalyptus trees lining the road providing scant shade from the Ethiopian sun. They passed a man in a white
gjellaba
leading a camel up the street, and a young girl in a mustard
shamas
herding three goats with a thin stick. Neither gave them a second glance, for this was a town on the edge of survival where eking out an existence took all the energy the residents had. Natasha couldn’t see how the Ark could possibly be here, for how could it have come from the gold plated temple of Solomon to this humble, poverty-stricken place? But she had to be sure.
Glancing to her left, Natasha noted a strange field dotted with granite obelisks that stretched tall into the cornflower sky. The driver saw her look and risked speaking.
“There are many mysteries here in Aksum. This field of obelisks contains the tallest single pieces of stone quarried in the ancient world, eclipsing those in Egypt.”
“What do they signify?” she asked.
“Perhaps they mark graves,” the driver replied, “but nothing is known for sure about them. Few scholars come here now.”
The Range Rover pulled up in front of the sanctuary of St Mary’s Church, contained within a walled compound at the centre of the town.
“The church of Mary of Zion was built in the fourth century, the earliest Christian church in sub-Saharan Africa.” The driver’s tourist explanation tailed off as he realized that no one was listening. Natasha stepped out into the dust and motioned for the men to follow her. Steps led up to the church and the whole complex was surrounded by a stone wall. A turreted guardhouse sat at either side of the main approach, but the guards who were once stationed there were long gone.
Olive trees provided patches of shade in the courtyard at the side of the church and Natasha could see a few monks sitting there, robes blending into the shadows. They didn’t rise to greet the visitors but watched their approach with faint interest. She decided to start gently and pulled a shawl over her head, an exhibition of modesty indicating respect for the religious tradition that ruled here. She could feel her gun in the small of her back and its presence soothed her, but sometimes getting what you wanted could be achieved without violence. After all, she didn’t want an international incident that mentioned the Ark until they were ready.
She walked slowly over to the monks. They wore faded purple robes, the color of aubergines that had sat in the sun for too long, and all had long, grey beards on old wrinkled faces. With eyes demurely cast down, Natasha spoke to the senior man.
“Father, I have come a long way to learn about the Ark of Zion and to pay my respects to the church.” She paused, then looked him in the eyes. “I have brought gifts for your community.”
She waved and Isac brought over a thick envelope stuffed with one hundred dollar bills. The old monk looked at the envelope and around at his brothers. One of them gave an imperceptible nod. The man spoke in halting English.
“We are pleased to welcome you here, my child. We appreciate your generosity.” He took the proffered envelope and slipped it into his robes. Natasha was faintly disappointed at how easily he had given in.
“What is it you would like to know?”
Natasha sat on a low wall, while Isac and the other two men stood further back.
“How did the Ark come to be here?” she asked.
The old monk took a deep breath. “The Ethiopian holy book, the Kebra Nagast, the Glory of Kings, states that when the Queen of Sheba went to Jerusalem to meet with King Solomon, she lay with him and became pregnant.” Around him, the other monks nodded their assent to the tale.
“Many years later, her son Menelik returned to Jerusalem to meet with his father and claim his inheritance, but the meeting didn’t go as planned. The son of the High Priest Azarius decided to steal the Ark and leave a replica in its place so he stole the Ark on the return to Ethiopia with Menelik. Because the Ark could strike down anyone whom it did not bless, it was decided that God willed the move. The Archangel Michael protected the Ark on the journey back and it has remained in Aksum ever since. The wings of the angels still rest upon its lid, for God is with us and has not deserted us.”
“Even throughout the wars and famine,” Natasha questioned, one eyebrow raised.
The monk nodded. “Even so.”
“And where is the Ark now?”
He pointed to a separate building behind and to the side of the main church. “It is in the Treasury. The Ark of Zion is locked in its own chest and there has been a guard on it throughout the millennia it has lain here. The brother who takes on the sacred duty to guard the chest lives with it and must never leave until he dies.”
Natasha looked at the Chapel of the Tablet, also known as the Treasury. It was square with ornate carved walls ringed by a rust-red metal fence taller than a man, keeping it separate within the sacred compound. Windows rimmed with turquoise dominated the square structure, while roundel decorations and carvings stood out in the walls, geometric shapes in the brick. On the roof, a small dome stood proud with an ornate cross reaching towards the sky, and a faded scarlet curtain hung over the entranceway to the shrine. It seemed a disappointing resting place for such a great relic.
Natasha had read in Gamal’s notes that the Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie had had the Ark moved there into the Treasury so that it would be more secure. She also knew that, because of the military conflict with nearby Eritrea, no one but the High Priest of the Church could view the Ark anymore, not even the President of Ethiopia himself.
“I would like to pray before the Ark, Father,” she said. Natasha knew that he understood what the money was for but he hesitated before speaking.
“Indeed, you can pray there,” he said, “but you will not see the Ark. It is only brought forth twice a year, on Epiphany and the Feast of St Mary of Zion.”
Natasha nodded. “Even so, I would like to pray before the shrine.”
“Of course, my child.”
He gestured to the youngest looking of the monks who got slowly to his feet. Natasha could see that these holy men would not be around for another generation, and whatever secrets they kept would die of old age. The man shuffled towards the Shrine and pulled a key from his belt. He unlocked the fence that walled off the Shrine and waved her inside, holding a hand up indicating that Isac and her men should stay outside.
Natasha stepped inside the gate, pushed through the velvet curtain and entered the shrine. Inside, it was stuffy and smelled of the man who had slept and eaten here for many years, overlaid with the heavy scent of incense. It was a cloying, sickly atmosphere with no sense of anything holy, not like the awe and wonder she felt when she encountered the ancient Egyptian temples. But she had to be sure of what the monks really kept in here, for Abasi Gamal had never been able to look inside the sanctuary of the shrine. He had never examined what they had and the questions in his notebooks remained unanswered.
“Tadiyass,” a voice called the Amharic formal greeting quietly in the darkness. It was the Guardian of the Ark.
“Tadiyass,” Natasha said in return, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light she could see the outline of a man sitting on a chair at the back of the shrine. He guarded a doorway over which hung another curtain. In front of him was a thin railing and cushions for kneeling penitents. Natasha walked forward, affecting a modest pose as would become a woman in supplication to her God. She knelt before the altar and as she did so she pulled her knife from the ankle sheath and hid it behind the long folds of her shawl.
Natasha began to whisper a prayer under her breath, not to the Christian God but to her ancestors and the warrior gods of Egypt. The monk leaned forward as if trying to catch her words and she fleetingly wondered what it must be like shut in here for so long, with no hope of respite. Was it worth the reward in the afterlife?
She needed to get the man to come closer so she forced a cough, and then again, wheezing with the in-breath. The monk rose, perhaps to bring her water and she slumped onto the rail, feigning the need for his help. As soon as he was within reach she grabbed his hand, gripped a pressure point and twisted his arm, rising into the hold so that he couldn’t escape. With the other hand, she pulled the knife and held it to his throat.