The Tenth Saint (8 page)

Daniel leaned toward Sarah. “Sorry to cut you off,” he whispered. “Things here happen at a different pace is all. It’s very rude to talk business at the table. Just trust me.”

She rolled her eyes. She was well aware of the protocol; she just didn’t have the patience for it.

For the next two hours, the three talked about everything—world politics, Daniel’s adventures in the desert around Qaryat al-Fau, the weather in London—except the inscriptions. They tucked into the injera, a large, sour crepe the waiter had unrolled over their tray table, tearing pieces to use in lieu of utensils to pick up bite-sized portions of spicy stewed chicken, called
doro wat,
lentil salad, spiced goat cheese, and chickpea fritters. The only piece of flatware on the table came with the final course. It was an ivory-handled knife with a curved tip meant to cut slices off a hunk of raw beef, the local delicacy.

After they had their fill, Rada rubbed his hands together and flashed a toothy smile. “Now for some coffee.”

Sarah was relieved the meal was almost over and they could cut to the chase.

They moved to another room, where the floor was layered with patches of grass. A woman draped from head to ankle with white cotton gauze shawls sat on the grass. Over a coal fire, she tossed a pan to and fro until the coffee beans inside were roasted. With motions none too swift, she ground them with mortar and pestle. She put the crushed beans in a clay pot with water and let the brew percolate for a good ten minutes. She might as well have poured tar into the tiny china cups; it was that dark and viscous.

Sarah swirled the liquid in her mouth. She expected it to taste like petrol, so she was stunned at the smooth, nutty taste. She upended the cup to show her approval and within moments felt her heart racing from the caffeine. It was just as well. She wouldn’t have slept that night anyway.

Afterward, the three walked to Rada’s office. The humidity of summer had settled into the concrete city. It was always like this after the rain: sticky and thick enough to leave a mist of raw earth and dust on one’s skin. They still spoke nothing of the reason for their visit.

Sarah thought maybe this was a waste of time until, at the office, Rada said, “Tell me, what can I do for you?”

“Very well, old friend,” Daniel said. “My colleague and I need your help. We have found something. Some inscriptions—”

”In Aksum?”

“Yes. Inside a tomb.”

Rada laced his fingers and put his hands to his mouth.

“We found the tomb in a sealed cave near Dabra Damo. There were no personal effects, only a simple wooden coff—”

“We can’t go into too much detail about the project,” Sarah interrupted, “as I’m sure you understand. We just need to know if you can translate this language.” She tossed a batch of photos onto the desk in front of Rada: close-ups of a portion of the text.

Rada studied the characters and glanced up, obviously excited. “This is an ancient language that no longer exists. I believe it’s a variation of Safaitic, a type of Semitic dialect. It was spoken in Arabia about two thousand years ago, by nomads mostly.” He fixed his eyes on Sarah, then Daniel. “You said you found this in Aksum?”

Daniel nodded.

“Impossible. That dialect was never spoken here.” Rada picked up a magnifying glass for a closer look at the inscriptions. He sat back and slipped into silence, shaking his head.

“I see your wheels turning, old boy,” Daniel said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“This is only a theory, but the nomads of the Syro-Arabian Desert often went to the settlements in the Negev, or south to Ubar, to trade their livestock. It’s not preposterous to think some slipped away from their tribes and made their way west to Egypt and eventually down to Nubia and Aksum in search of better fortune.” He looked closer. “Most Safaitic inscriptions that have been found are accounts of nomadic life. The people who spoke these dialects were simple tribal folks, so at the very least this could provide great insight into early goat herding and camel races.” He issued another high-pitched laugh.

Daniel chuckled.

Sarah understood the joke was merely a tension breaker, but it annoyed her nonetheless. “Mr. Kabede, can you or can you not help us?”

Daniel opened his mouth, but she quieted him by raising her hand.

Rada shrugged. “I could possibly translate some of this. But the only person who can really help you is the one who holds the stone.”

Daniel looked at her. She knew he was thinking the same thing: there had to be a key to translating the ancient languages of the region, the equivalent of Egypt’s Rosetta Stone.

“And where is this stone?” Daniel asked.

“It is locked away in the catacombs of a church near Lalibela. Yemrehana Krestos. That’s the rumor anyway. Nobody has seen it. It’s very closely guarded by the local priests. Like the Ark of the Covenant.”

“Mr. Kabede, you said you could translate some of this, yes?” Sarah said. “How long would it take you?”

“Give me a few days to look into it. Very little has been written about this dialect. I’ll need to do some research. But I can’t promise anything.”

Sarah, loath to trust anybody, reluctantly left the photos.

By the time they got to the Hilton, it was eight in the evening. Sarah told Daniel she would see him first thing in the morning for the drive back to Aksum, then retreated to her room. She secured the dead bolt and turned on the light.

On the floor next to her feet lay a white envelope. For a moment she thought about not opening it, figuring it was a notification from the hotel about the next morning’s checkout. But the envelope was oddly shaped and the paper thicker than most hotels’ stationery.

She tore the envelope open and found a card stamped with the insignia of the Ministry of Culture, beneath which were the words Office of the Director, Antiquities Division. On it was typed a curious message:

Dear Dr. Weston,

Welcome to Addis Ababa. We have some things to discuss which pertain to your project. Please meet me at the Sheraton Addis, penthouse suite, this evening. Come alone.

She couldn’t make out the signature but assumed it was the director’s. The clandestine nature of the note perplexed her. Why wouldn’t the director go through proper channels if he required a meeting? But it would wreck her plans to make an enemy of the Ministry, especially now, since they controlled her permits.

She pulled herself together and went downstairs to summon a cab.

The gates opened, and the driver pulled in to the motor court of Addis’ top hotel. Outside the gates, the streets were dirty, the houses crumbling. Beggars populated the sidewalks. Inside was a different story. Sarah couldn’t believe the incongruity of the place. It was a shrine to opulence that stood in blatant disregard of its surroundings. Massive fountains were lit in a succession of neon colors, and spouted columns of water danced to Western music piped into underwater speakers.

The lobby was a study in European elegance, with inlaid marble floors, Oriental rugs, and crystal chandeliers hanging from tray ceilings. Fat African patriarchs— politicians, traders, minor royalty—populated the silk-covered antique sofas, alternately laughing and roaring their opinions behind a blue veil of cigar smoke.

Sarah strode toward the front desk and told the clerk she was meeting someone at the penthouse suite.

“Mr. Matakala has been expecting you, miss.” The clerk picked up the phone to announce Sarah’s presence, then bowed politely. He showed Sarah to the elevators, inserted a card key, and punched the PH button. When the doors opened, he pointed to the room labeled Presidential Suite.

She stuffed a few birr into the clerk’s hand and walked across the hallway to the mahogany double doors.

“Welcome, Dr. Weston,” a man dressed in butler’s clothes said in perfect English as he held open the door. “We’ve been expecting you.”

The suite was larger than her flat in London and certainly more ornate.

“Please wait here,” the man said, pointing to a pair of reproduction Queen Anne chairs in the sitting room. “May I bring you a cold refreshment?”

“No, thank you. But kindly let your master know I am in a bit of a hurry.”

“Mr. Matakala will be with you shortly.” The butler bowed and took his leave. An echo filled the room as his hard-soled shoes hit the marble floor.

Sarah wondered if her host intended for her to be impressed. She wasn’t. She had grown up with the finer things, so luxury never affected her, least of all the gaudy opulence of the nouveaux riches. She was far more impressed by authenticity, in people and in objects.

True to the butler’s promise, Andrew Matakala appeared a few minutes later. A slender man who seemed to be in his early forties, he cut a dashing figure, dressed in a smartly tailored pinstripe suit with an Hermès necktie decorated with a pattern of small stirrups and crops. His café au lait skin and fine features—a small, angled nose, thin lips, and high cheekbones—gave him a regal appearance. His straight black hair was parted on the side and neatly slicked back. He looked more Arabic than Ethiopian.

It was rare for African bureaucrats, particularly in a poor country like Ethiopia, to be so highly compensated as to enjoy tailored suits—his was obviously Savile Row—and expensive neckties. The possibility that he engaged in shady side deals crossed her mind, but she didn’t let the thought settle.

“Dr. Sarah Weston, at last we meet. Andrew Matakala.” He offered his hand, his British accent indicating he had probably been educated abroad. “I’m truly sorry for bringing you here at such an hour. It’s very good of you to come.”

His manner was a bit too slick for her taste, rather like the pretentious rich foreigners’ with whom she had studied at Cambridge. They had always seemed to overcompensate for their lack of Englishness, as if that were a folly. She decided to keep an open mind but play her cards close. “Anything for the Ministry,” she said, smiling. “I trust you will tell me what this is about?”

“You Britons always cut to the chase.” He straightened his tie. “Very well, then. But rather than tell you, I will show you. Follow me.”

Matakala led Sarah to the dining room, where he had set up projection equipment. He opened a laptop and brought up an image of a granite throne, then zoomed in on the inscription. “This is Greek.” He turned to her. “But you know that.”

“An Aksumite king’s throne?” She was intrigued.

“Indeed. This was erected by King Ezana late in the fourth century, toward the end of his reign. He raised several of these throughout the empire, as you well know.”

“Ah, yes. The postbattle monuments that paid homage to the gods and told of the king’s heroics.”

“We Ethiopians like to think of them as our earliest history books. So little is known from that period; these inscriptions are like windows to our past.”

“Why are you showing me this particular inscription?”

“It is of consequence to you and your expedition. And of even greater consequence to us.”

She crossed her arms. “Go on.”

Matakala scrolled up to the beginning of the script and translated it to English. “By the might of the Lord of heaven, who in the sky and on earth holds power over all beings, Ezana, son of Ella Amida, Bisi Halen, king of Aksum, Himyar, Raydan, Saba, Salhin, Tsiyamo, Beja, and of Kasu, king of kings, never defeated by the enemy.” He pointed at the screen. “This is a record of the king’s battle in Meroe against the Noba people. I won’t bore you with all the details.” He opened the next image. “This is the part that should be of interest to you. If I may?”