The Tenth Saint (23 page)

Matakala smirked. “They didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“Someone far more powerful.”

“You, obviously.”

Her intention was to flatter him. It worked.

“Obviously.” Matakala stood and walked to the window, gazing at his roses.

“And these important people you work with?”

“Let’s just say my benefactor is the money behind this operation and I’m the brains. He was willing to pay anything for the prophecies. I had the expertise and ingenuity to give him what he wanted … using whatever means possible.”

Sarah fell silent, trying to process all that she had just heard.

“I don’t get it,” Daniel said. “What does this guy want with the prophecies? Is it a trophy for his mantle? An ego thing?”

He turned to Daniel. “No, no, Dr. Madigan. It’s nothing of the kind. He wishes to see the prophecies destroyed. The information they contain could be misinterpreted. That could be very damaging.”

“Damaging to what? Or whom?” Daniel pressed.

“Ah, but that’s the million-dollar question, as you Americans say.” He laughed and turned to Sarah. “Are you ready to make a phone call?”

“Sarah, no,” Daniel said. “He’s bluffing. He will never let us out of here alive.”

She looked Matakala in the eye. “I think he’s a man of his word.”

“I said I will let you leave here and I meant it, Dr. Madigan.” Matakala handed Sarah the phone. “Whenever you’re ready, my dear.”

“Don’t do it, Sarah.”

“No, Danny. I have to believe him. This is our only chance.” She took the phone from Matakala’s hands.

“Remember, Dr. Weston. Don’t try anything foolish. A gun is pointed at your back at this very moment.”

Sarah turned around and saw Brehan, indeed armed, standing behind them.

“All I need to do is give Brehan the signal, and he will shoot to kill.”

With shaky hands, Sarah put the phone on speaker and dialed the number of Dr. Simon’s private office line.

After the usual seven rings, the familiar gruff voice answered the phone. “Stanley Simon here.”

“Hello, Professor. It’s Sarah Weston calling.”

“Sarah. My word. Where have you been? We’ve all been worried sick about you. Your father has been searching the whole of Ethiopia for you.”

She struggled to keep her voice from breaking. “Everything is jolly good. I have been in good hands. Tell my father I’m dying to come home.”

Matakala made circles in the air with his index finger, signaling her to get to the point.

“Listen, Professor, I have some good news. I have translated the inscriptions.”

“Have you indeed?”

“I will explain it all when I see you. Suffice it to say we weren’t on the right track. Our supposed prophet was indeed a holy man, a missionary by the name of Sumerius.” Her eyes darted to Matakala, who nodded his approval. “His writings were merely descriptions of Christian life in fourth-century Aksum. It wasn’t the revelation I was hoping for.”

”Do go on.”

Sarah proceeded to read the fake translation word for word.

“Well. I hate to say I told you so. This makes perfect logical sense. Right, then. When will you be home? We have much to talk about, young lady.”

“In a few days’ time, I should think.”

Simon let out a chuckle. “Prophecies. The tenth saint. You do have an imagination, my girl. Now leave that god-awful place and get back to England.”

“Indeed. I do fancy a pint right about now. Goodbye, Professor.” Sarah clicked the phone off and let it drop on the table.

Matakala clapped. “An excellent performance. And now for my end of the bargain.” He nodded to the masked man. “As I said, I am releasing you. Brehan will drive the two of you away.”

“And our belongings?” Daniel said.

Matakala stood to leave the room. “Those have been destroyed, I’m afraid. Anyway, you won’t be needing them where you’re going. Good-bye, Doctors. It’s been a true pleasure.”

Sarah turned to Daniel. “What do you suppose he meant by that?” she whispered.

He leaned in. “I told you I don’t trust this guy. I don’t believe for a minute the monk is driving us to safety.”

Brehan motioned them to follow him and led the way to a battered, dusty Suzuki of eighties vintage. They ducked into the backseat, their hands still bound. Brehan engaged the safety locks on the back doors and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Where are you taking us?” Sarah asked in Amharic.

He turned to face her, and she was revolted by the sight of his singed face peeking through the eyeholes of the mask. His eyes were encircled by charred flaps of skin, and his eyelashes and eyebrows had been burnt off.

“Too many questions,” he said with an ugly slur that revealed the extent of his injury, “for a dead woman.”

Fifteen

M
uza was even more filthy and chaotic than Gabriel had imagined. Bare-chested port hands from the East, their ribs protruding, pushed carts filled with sacks of spices and grain. At the traders’ bazaar, veiled women picked through piles of lemons to find the juiciest specimens. Roving merchants, ragged and stinking of sweat and camel dung, haunted the streets vending their “quality” frankincense from the Qara Mountains. Miserable souls, some missing eyes, others with lopped-off legs, sat in their own waste and begged for bread. Still, the place was beautiful to Gabriel’s eyes.

The last portion of his journey across the desert had been grueling. He was convinced that had it not been for the people in the passing caravan who had taken mercy on him and given him bread and water, he would not have seen this day. Now he had arrived at last, in the port city that only days ago had seemed so far away as to be an illusion.
Muza.
He repeated the name in his mind to assure himself the place was real. Loath to press his luck, he made haste toward the docks to catch the next
baghlah
across the sea. In his rush, he nearly toppled over an old man selling spices. The small pouches, sewn together in rows and draped over the man’s arms and around his neck, fell to the ground.

“Sorry,” Gabriel instinctively said in English. He caught his gaffe and repeated his apology in the Semitic dialect.

The merchant, his face as dry as old leather, studied the stranger and spoke.

Gabriel didn’t understand the words but hoped the man was the friendly sort. He asked, reinforcing with hand gestures, “Which way to the port? To the boats that leave for the west bank of the sea?”

The man grinned, revealing a row of misshapen, decaying teeth. “You know the Bedouin language,” he said approvingly and continued in a dialect so close to the nomadic tongue it rang familiar to Gabriel’s ears. “You are a long way from the desert. What do you seek in Muza?”

“I am a pilgrim. A nomad like the Bedouins, but I do not belong to their tribe, so I must move on.”

“What tribe do you belong to?”

”I know no country, no kin. I strayed into the harsh lands of the Rub’ al Khali. I would not be alive if not for the Bedouins. They cared for me and gave me shelter. They were my friends.”

“The nomads, they are good people. My ancestors came from the desert. The wandering life is very hard. It makes a boy a man.” He waved his hand. “Ah, it was not for me. Me, I like to see people, hear noise. It makes me feel alive.”

Gabriel nodded his sympathy for the self-fashioned city dweller. Though city life was a distant memory for him, it was deeply embedded in his consciousness. “I understand you, my friend. Where do you make your home?”

The merchant gestured toward the medina. “In there. I have a bedroll inside the spice shop of my brother. He gives me spices in the morning, and I go find customers.” He held up a belt of pouches. “You want pepper? Myrrh? Frankincense? Best in South Arabia.”

“No, thank you, my friend. I have no money.”

“And how do you plan to take the boat across the sea?”

“I am hoping I can work. Put up sails, clean the deck.”

The merchant let out a laugh that made his abdomen quake. “Hope all you want, but if you don’t have money, the captain will not take you. You need three drachms. Though for the life of me, I don’t know why anybody would pay to make that journey. The sea is swollen this time of year. The wind is coming from the east in great gusts. Some of the boats have capsized. You should stay in Muza for a while and wait for the waters to be calm again.”

“You are very wise.” Gabriel had no intention of waiting for better weather, but he thought it unnecessary to share his plans with the old man. He did beseech him for one last piece of advice. “Tell me, friend, how can a stranger earn three drachms?”

The merchant scratched his head. “You can try the metalsmith. Maybe he has use for someone to sweep shavings off the floor. But the wages will be paltry. It will take a long time to save the money you need, especially since you will have to spend some of it to eat. You’re skin and bones, my friend. And you look like you’ve been trod upon by a camel.”

Gabriel had no idea what he looked like to the old man, so he raised his hand to feel the scars from his encounter with the Himyarites. His brow was cut and covered with dried blood, and his lips were swollen, blistered, and drier than cured meat. A good deal of sand was embedded in the wiry strands of his beard. Suddenly self-conscious, he bowed to the man and turned to walk away.

“Wait,” the man called behind him. “My sister-in-law is a very good cook. At least come tonight for a meal.”

”I couldn’t—”

“Nonsense. It is very rude to refuse the hospitality of an Arab.”

That night Gabriel feasted on goat stew and couscous. With the merchant and his brother’s family, he sat at a low table draped with embroidered cotton cloth. A fire burning in the hearth warmed them. The walls of the place were made of hay and stone bound by a sand mortar with tiny slits for ventilation. Beneath them, the compacted sandy soil of the arid Arabian lands was covered with trampled kilims in fading shades of indigo and saffron and the deep red of crushed beetles. Everything smelled of rancid goat milk and feces, but it was shelter and for that Gabriel was grateful.

The merchant’s brother spoke of his business, complaining that things were not going well. He also complained about the pains and swelling in his joints, and Gabriel was certain he was describing arthritis.

Unsure of the customs in this part of Arabia, Gabriel didn’t speak much for fear of saying the wrong thing. He did, however, feel a deep urge to repay these people’s kindness. After dinner, he asked the merchant for a pinch of his quality frankincense, a few leaves from the olive tree in the courtyard, and a mortar and pestle.

The man complied, and Gabriel concocted a paste. “Give this to your brother. Tell him to put it on his aching joints tonight. Tomorrow morning he will feel like a young man.”

The man laughed in disbelief.

The next morning in the town square, Gabriel saw the merchant.

“It is a miracle,” the man said. “You are a healer of the highest order. You and I, we can be rich. I will give you the materials, and you make the stuff. We will sell it and split the profits.”

“I will help you, but I don’t want your money, my friend. It won’t help me where I am going. All I need is three drachms for the boat captain. After that, it is all yours.”