Текст книги "The Seventh Scroll"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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SEVENTH SCROLL

By: Wilber Smith

Synopsis:

A fading papyrus, nearly four thousand years old. Within it lie the

clues to a fabulous treasure from an almost forgotten time. ... a riddle

that becomes a savage battle across the unforgiving terain of North

Africa. When her husband is brutally murdered , Beautiful half-English,

half-Egyptian Royan Al Simmu is forced to seek refuge in England. With

eminent archaeologist Nicholas Quenton-Harper she can pick up the pieces

of her shattered life and find the courage to return to Ethiopia. For

Duraid. For the long dead slave Taita. And for the dreams of an ancient

Pharaoh ... Because others will stop at nothing to claim the prize as

their own.

This edition published 1996 by Pan Books

ISBN 0 330 34415 3

Copyright ( Wilbur Smith 1995

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Once more this book is for my wife Danielle.

Despite all the happy loving years we have spent together I feel that we

are only just beginning.

There is so much more to come.

The dusk crept in from the desert, and shaded the dunes with purple.

Like a thick velvet cloak it muted all sounds, so that the evening was

tranquil and hushed.

From where they stood on the crest of the dune they looked out over the

oasis and the complex of small villages that surrounded it. The

buildings were white with flat roofs and the date palms stood higher

than any of them except the Islamic mosque and the Coptic Christian

church.

These bastions of faith opposed each other across the lake.

The waters of the lake were sparkling. A flight of duck slanted down on

quick wings to land with a small splash of white close in against the

reed banks.

The man and the woman made a disparate couple. He was tall, though

slightly bowed, his silvering hair catching the last of the sunlight.

She was young, in her early thirties, slim, alert and vibrant. Her hair

was thick and curling, restrained now by a thong at the nape of her

neck.

"Time to go down now. Alia will be waiting." He smiled down at her

fondly. She was his second wife. When his first wife died he thought

that she had taken the sunlight with her. He had not expected this last

period of happiness in his life. Now he had her and his work. He was a

man happy and contented.

Suddenly she broke away from him, and pulled the thong from her hair.

She shook it out, dense and dark, and she laughed. It was a pretty

sound. Then she plunged down the steep slip-face of the dune, her long

skirts billowing around her flying legs. They were shapely and brown.

She kept her balance until halfway down, when gravity overwhelmed her

and she tumbled.

From the top he smiled down on her indulgently.

Sometimes she was still a child. At others she was a grave and dignified

woman. He was not certain which he preferred, but he loved her in both

moods. She rolled to a halt at the bottom of the dune and sat up, still

laughing, shaking the sand out of her hair. "Your turn!" she called up

at him. He followed her down sedately, moving with the slight stiffness

of advancing age, keeping his balance until he reached the bottom.

He lifted her to her feet. He did not kiss her, although the temptation

to do so was strong. It was not the Arab way to show public affection,

even to a beloved wife.

She "straightened her clothing and retied her hair before they set off

towards the village. They skirted the reed beds of the oasis, crossing

the rickety bridges over the irrigation canals. As they passed, the

peasants returning from the fields greeted him with deep respect.

"Salaam aleikum, Doktari! Peace be with you, doctor." They honoured all

men of learning, but him especially for his kindness to them and their

families over the years.

Many of them had worked for his father before him. It mattered little

that most of them were Moslem, while he was a Christian.

When they reached the villa, Alia, the old housekeeper, greeted them

with mumbles and scowls. "You are late. You are always late. Why do you

not keep regular hours, like decent folk? We have a position to

maintain."

"Old mother, you are always right," he teased her gently. "What would we

do without you to care for us?" He sent her away, still scowling to

cover her love and concern for him.

They ate the simple meat on the terrace together, dates and olives and

unleavened bread and goat's milk cheese. It was dark when they finished,

but the desert stars were bright as candles.

"Royan, -my flower." He reached across the table and touched her hand.

"It is time to begin work." He stood up from the table and led the way

to his study that opened out on to the terrace.

Royan Al Simma went directly to the tall steel safe against the far wall

and tumbled the combination. The safe was out of place in this room,

amongst the old books and scrolls, amongst the ancient statues and

artefacts and grave goods that were the collection of his lifetime.

When the heavy steel door swung open, Royan stood back for a moment. She

always felt this prickle of awe whenever she first looked upon this

relic of the ages, even after an interval of only a few short hours.

"The seventh scroll," she whispered, and steeled herself to touch it. It

was nearly four thousand years old, written by a genius out of time with

history, a man who had been dust for all these millennia, but whom she

had come to know and respect as she did her own husband. His words were

eternal, and they spoke to her clearly from beyond the grave, from the

fields of paradise, from the presence of the great trinity, Osiris and

Isis and Horus, in whom he had believed so devoutly. As devoutly as she

believed in another more recent Trinity.

She carried the scroll to the long table at which Duraid, her husband,

was already at work. He looked up as she laid it on the tabletop before

him, and for a moment she saw the same mystical mood in his eyes that

had affected her. He always wanted the scroll there on the table, even

when there was no real call for it. He had the photographs and the

microfilm to work with. It was as though he needed the unseen presence

of the ancient author close to him as he studied the texts.

Then he threw off the mood and was the dispassionate scientist once

more. "Your eyes are better than mine, my flower," he said. "What do you

make of this character?"

She leaned over his shoulder and studied the hieroglyph on the

photograph of the scroll that he pointed out to her. She puzzled over

the character for a moment before she took the magnifying glass from

Duraid's hand and peered through it again.

"It looks as though Taita has thrown in another cryptogram of his own

creation just to bedevil us." She spoke of the ancient author as though

he were a dear, but sometimes exasperating, friend who still lived and

breathed, and played tricks upon them.

"We'll just have to puzzle it out, then," Duraid declared with obvious

relish. He loved the ancient game. It was his life's work.

The two of them laboured on into the cool of the night. This was when

they did their best work. Sometimes they spoke Arabic and sometimes

English; for them the two languages were as one. Less often they used

French, which was their third common language. They had both received

their education at universities in England and the United States, so far

from this very Egypt of theirs. Royan loved the expression "This very

Egypt' that Taita used so often in the scrolls.

She felt a peculiar affinity in so many ways with this ancient Egyptian.

After all, she was his direct descendant.

She was a Coptic Christian, not of the Arab line that had so recently

conquered Egypt, less than fourteen centuries ago. The Arabs were

newcomers in this very Egypt of hers, while her own blood line ran back

to the time of the pharaohs and the great pyramids.

At ten 'clock Royan made coffee for them, heating it on the charcoal

stove that Alia had prepared for them before she went off to her own

family in the villa . They drank the 9 sweet, strong brew from thin cups

that were half-filled with the heavy grounds. While they sipped, they

talked as old friends.

.. For Royan that was their relationship, old friends. She had known

Duraid ever since she had returned from England with her doctorate in

archaeology and won her job with the Department of Antiquities, of which

he was the director.

She had been his assistant when he had opened the tomb in the Valley of

the Nobles, the tomb of Queen Lostris, the tomb that dated from about

1780 BC.

She had shared his disappointment when they had discovered that the tomb

had been robbed in ancient times and all its treasures plundered. All

that remained were the marvelous murals that covered the walls and the

ceilings of the tomb.

It was Royan herself who had been working at the wall behind the plinth

on which the sarcophagus had once stood, photographing the murals, when

a section of the plaster had fallen away to reveal in their niche the

ten alabaster jars. Each of the jars had contained a papyrus scroll.

Every one of them had been written and placed there by Taita, the stave

of the queen.

Since then their lives, Duraid's and her own, seemed to have revolved

around those scraps of papyrus. Although there was some damage and

deterioration, in the main they had survived nearly four thousand years

remarkably intact.

What a fascinating story they contained, of a nation attacked by a

superior enemy, armed with horse and chariot that were still alien to

the Egyptians of that time. Crushed by the Hyksos hordes, the people of

the Nile were forced to flee. Led by their queen, Lostris of the tomb,

they followed the great river southwards almost to its source amongst

the brutal mountains of the Ethiopian highlands.

Here amongst those forbidding mountains, Lostris had entombed the

mummified body of her husband, the Pharaoh Mamose, who had been slain in

battle against the Hyksos.

Long afterwards Queen Lostris had led her people back northwards to this

very Egypt. Armed now with their own horses and chariots, forged into

hard warriors in the African wilderness, they had come storming back

down the cataracts of the great river to challenge once more the Hyksos

invader, and in the end to triumph over him and wrest the double crown

of upper and lower Egypt from his grasp.

It was a story that appealed to every fibre of her being, and that had

fascinated her as they had unravelled each hieroglyph that the old slave

had penned on the papyrus'

It had taken them all these years, working at night here in the villa on

the oasis after their daily routine work at the museum in Cairo was

done, but at last the ten scrolls had been deciphered – all except the

seventh scroll. This was the one that was the enigma, the one which the

author had cloaked in layers of esoteric shorthand and allusions so

obscure that they were unfathomable at this remove of time. Some of the

symbols he used had never figured before in all the thousands of texts

that they had studied in their combined working lives. It was obvious to

them both that Taita had not intended that the scrolls should be read by

any eyes other than those of his beloved queen. These were his last gift

for her to take with her beyond the grave.

It had taken all their combined skills, all their imagination and

ingenuity, but at last they were approaching the conclusion of the task.

There were still many gaps in the translation and many areas where they

were uncertain whether or not they had captured the true meaning, but

they had laid out the bones of the manuscript in such order that they

were able to discern the outline of the creature it represented.

Now Duraid sipped his coffee and shook his head as he had done so often

before. "It frightens me," he said. "The responsibility. What to do with

this knowledge we have gleaned. If it should fall into the wrong hands

He sipped and sighed before he spoke again. "Even if we take it to the

right people, will they believe this material that is nearly four

thousand years old?"

"Why must we bring in others?" Royan asked with an edge of exasperation

in her voice. "Why can we not do alone what has to be done?" At times

like these the differences between them were most apparent. His was the

caution of age, while hers was the impetuosity of youth.

"You do not understand," he said. It always annoyed her when he said

that, when he treated her as the Arabs treated their women in a totally

masculine world. She had known the other world where women demanded and

received the right to be treated as equals. She was a creature caught

between those worlds, the Western world and the Arab world.

Royan's mother was an English woman who had worked at the British

Embassy in Cairo in the troubled times after World War II. She had met

and married Royan's father, who had been a young Egyptian officer on the

staff of Colonel Nasser. It was an unlikely union and had not persisted

into Royan's adolescence.

Her mother had insisted upon returning to England, to her home town of

York, for Royan's birth. She wanted her child to have British

citizenship. After her parents had separated, Royan, again at her

mother's insistence, had been sent back to England for her schooling,

but all her holidays had been spent with her father in Cairo. Her

father's career had prospered exceedingly, and in the end he had

attained ministerial rank in the Mubarak government. Through her love

for him she came to look upon herself as more Egyptian than English.

It was her father who had arranged her marriage to Duraid Al Simma. It

was the last thing that he had done for her before his death. She had

known he was dying at the time, and she had not found it in her heart to

defy him. All her modern training made her want to resist the

old-fashioned Coptic tradition of the arranged marriage, but her

breeding and her family and her Church were against her. She had

acquiesced.

Her marriage to Duraid had not proved as insufferable as she had dreaded

it might be. It might even have been entirely comfortable and satisfying

if she had never been introduced to romantic love. However, there had

been her liaison with David while she was up at university. He had swept

her up in the hurly-burly, in the heady delirium, and, in the end, the

heartache, when he had left her to marry a blonde English rose approved

of by his parents.

She respected and liked Duraid, but sometimes in the night she still

burned for the feel of a body as firm and young as her own on top of

hers.

Duraid was still speaking and she had not been listening to him. She

gave him her full attention once more. "I have spoken to the minister

again, but I do not think he believes in me. I think that Nahoot has

convinced him that I am a little mad." He smiled sadly. Nahoot Guddabi

was his ambitious and well-connected deputy. "At any rate the minister

says that there are no government funds available, and that I will have

to seek outside finance.

So, I have been over the list of possible sponsors again, and have

narrowed it down to four. There is the Getty Museum of course, but I

never like to work with a big impersonal institution. I prefer to have a

single man to answer to.

Decisions are always easier to reach."None of this was new to her, but

she listened dutifully.

"Then there is Herr von Schiller. He has the money and the interest in

the subject, but I do not know him well enough to trust him entirely."

He paused, and Royan had listened to these musings so often before that

she could anticipate him.

"What about the American? He is a famous collector," she forestalled

him.

"Peter Walsh is a difficult man to work with. His passion to accumulate

makes him unscrupulous. He frightens me a little."

"So who does that leave?" she asked.

He did not reply, for they both knew the answer to her question.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the material that littered the

work table.

"It looks so innocent, so mundane. An old papyrus scroll, a few

photographs and notebooks, a computer printout. It is difficult to

believe how dangerous these might be in the wrong hands." He sighed

again. "You might almost say that they are deadly dangerous."

Then he laughed. "I am being fanciful. Perhaps it is the late hour.

Shall we get back to work? We can worry about these other matters once

we have worked out all the conundrums set for us by this old rogue,

Taita, and completed the translation."

He picked up the top photograph from the pile in front of him. It was an

extract from the central section of the scroll. "It is the worst luck

that the damaged piece of papyrus falls where it does." He picked up his

reading glasses and placed them on his nose before he read aloud.

"'There are many steps to ascend on the staircase to the abode of Hapi.

With much hardship and endeavour we reached the second step and

proceeded no further, for it was here that the prince received a divine

revelation. In a dream his father, the dead god pharaoh, visited him and

commanded him, "I have travelled far and I am grown weary. It is here

that I will rest for all eternity."" Duraid removed his glasses and

looked across at Royan, "'The second step". It is a very precise

description for once. Taita is not being his usual devious self."

"Let's go back to the satellite. photographs," Royan suggested, and drew

the glossy sheet towards her. Duraid came around the table to stand

behind her.

"To me it seems most logical that the natural feature that would

obstruct them in the gorge would be something like a set of rapids or a

waterfall. If it were the second waterfall, that would put them here-'

Royan placed her finger on a spot on the satellite photograph where the

narrow snake of the river threaded itself through the dark massifs of

the mountains on either hand.

At that moment she was distracted and she lifted her head. "Listen!" Her

voice changed, sharpening with alarm.

"What is it?" Duraid looked up also.

"The dog," she answered.

"That damn mongrel," he agreed. "It is always making the night hideous

with its yapping. I have promised myself to get rid of him."

At that moment the lights went out.

They froze with surprise in the darkness. The soft thudding of the

decrepit diesel generator in its shed at the back of the palm grove had

ceased. It was so much a part of the oasis night that they noticed it

only when it was silent.

Their eyes adjusted to the faint starlight that came in through the

terrace doors. Duraid crossed the room and took the oil lamp down from

the shelf beside the door where it waited for just such a contingency.

He lit it, and looked across at Royan with an expression of comical

resignation.

"I will have to go down-'

Duraid," she interrupted him, "the dog!'

He listened for a moment, and his expression changed to mild concern.

The dog was silent out there in the night.

"I am sure it is nothing to be alarmed about." He went to the door, and

for no good reason she suddenly called after him.

"Duraid, be careful!" He shrugged dismissively and stepped out on to the

terrace.

She thought for an instant that it was the shadow of the vine over the

trellis moving in the night breeze off the desert, but the night was

still. Then she realized that it was a human figure crossing the

flagstones silently and swiftly, coming in behind Duraid as he skirted

the fishpond in the centre of the paved terrace.

"Duraid!" She screamed a warning and he spun round, lifting the lamp

high.

"Who are you?" he shouted. "What do you want here?" The intruder closed

with him silently. The traditional full-length dishdasha robe swirled

around his legs, and the white ghutrah headcloth covered his head. In

the light of the lamp Duraid saw that he had drawn the corner of the

headcloth over his face to mask his features.

The intruder's back was turned towards her so Royan did not see the

knife in his right hand, but she could not mistake the upward stabbing

motion that he aimed at Duraid's stomach. Duraid grunted with pain and

doubled up at the blow, and his attacker drew the blade free and stabbed

again, but this time Duraid dropped the lamp and seized the knife arm.

The flame of the fallen oil lamp was guttering and flaring. The two men

struggled in the gloom, but Royan saw a dark stain spreading over her

husband's white shirt front.

"Run!" he bellowed at her. "Go! Fetch help! I cannot hold him!" The

Duraid she knew was a gentle person, a soft man of books and learning.

She could see that he was outmatched by his assailant.

"Go! Please! Save yourself, my flower!" She could hear by his tone that

he was weakening, but he still clung desperately to his attacker's knife

arm.

She had been paralysed with shock and indecision these few fatal

seconds, but now she broke free of the spell and ran to the door.

Spurred by her terror and her need to bring help to Duraid she crossed

the terrace, swift as a cat, and he held the intruder from blocking her

way.

She vaulted over the low stone wall into the grove, and almost into the

arms of the second man. She screamed and twisted away from him as his

outstretched fingers raked across her face, and almost broke free, but

his fingers hooked in the thin cotton stuff of her blouse.

This time she saw the knife in his hand, a long silvery flash in the

starlight, and it goaded her to fresh effort. The cotton tore in his

grip and she was free, but not quickly enough to escape the blade. She

felt the sting of it across her upper arm, and she kicked out at him

with all the strength of panic and her hard young body behind it. She

felt her foot slam into the softness of his lower body with a shock that

jarred her knee and ankle, and her attacker cried out and fell to his

knees.

Then she was away and running through the palm grove. At first she ran

without purpose or direction. She ran simply to get as far from them as

her flying legs would carry her. Then gradually she brought her panic

under control. She glanced back, but saw nobody following her.

As she reached the edge of the lake she slowed her run to conserve her

strength, and she became aware of the warm trickle of her own blood down

her arm and then dripping from her finger-tips.

She stopped.and rested her back against the rough hole of one of the

palms while she tore a strip of cloth from her ripped blouse and

hurriedly bound up her arm. She was shaking so much from shock and

exertion that even her uninjured hand was fumbling and clumsy. She

knotted the crude bandage with her teeth and left hand, and the bleeding

slowed.

She was uncertain of which way to run, and then she saw the dim

lamplight. in the window of Alia's shack across the nearest irrigation

canal. She pushed herself away from the palm trunk and started towards

it. She had covered less than a hundred paces when a voice called from

the grove behind her, speaking in Arabic, "Yusuf, has the woman come

your way?"

immediately an electric torch flashed from the darkness ahead of her and

another voice called back, "No, I have not seen her."

Another few seconds and Royan would have run full into him. She crouched

down and looked around her desperately. There was another torch coming

through the grove behind her, following the path she had taken. It must

be the man she had kicked, but she could tell by the motion of the torch

beam that he had recovered and was moving swiftly and easily again.

She was blocked on two sides, so she turned back along the edge of the

trail. The road lay that way. She might be able to meet a late vehicle

travelling on it. She lost her footing on the rough ground and went

down, bruising and scraping her knees, but she jumped up again and

hurried on. The second time she stumbled, her outthrust left hand landed

on a round, smooth stone the size of an orange. When she went on she

carried the stone with her; as a weapon it gave her a glimmer of

comfort.

Her wounded arm was beginning to hurt, and she was driven by worry for

Duraid. She knew he was badly wounded, for she had seen the direction

and force of the knife thrust. She had to find help for him. Behind her

the two men with torches were sweeping the grove and she could not keep

her lead ahead of them. They were gaining on her – she could hear them

calling to each other.

She reached the road at last, and with a small whimper of relief climbed

out of the drainage ditch on to the pale gravel surface. Her legs were

shaking under her so that they could hardly carry her weight, but she

turned in the direction of the village.

She had not reached the first bend before she saw a set of headlights

coming slowly towards her, flickering through the palm trees. She broke

into a run down the centre of the road.

"Help me!" she screamed in Arabic. "Please help me!'

The car came through the bend and before the headlights dazzled her she

saw that it was a small, darkcoloured Fiat. She stood in the centre of

the road waving her arms to halt the driver, lit by the headlights as

though she were on a theatre stage. The Fiat stopped in front of her,

and she ran round to the driver's door and tugged at the handle.

"Please, you must help me."

The door was opened from within, and then was thrown back with such

force that she staggered off-balance.

The driver leapt out into the roadway and caught her by the wrist of the

injured arm. He dragged her to the Fiat and pulled open the back door.

"Yusuf! Bacheed' he shouted into the dark grove. "I have her." And she

heard the answering cries and saw the torches turn in their direction.

The driver was forcing her head down and trying to push her into the

back seat, but she realized then that she still had the stone in her

good hand. She turned slightly and braced herself, and then swung her

fist with the stone still clenched in it against the side of his head.

It caught him squarely on the temple.

Without another sound he dropped to the gravel surface and lay

motionless.

Royan dropped the stone and pelted away down the road, but she found

that she was running straight down the path of the headlights, and they

lit her every movement.

The two men in the grove shouted again and came up on to the gravel

roadway behind her, almost shoulder to shoulder.

Glancing back, she saw them gaining on her swiftly, and she realized

that her only chance was to get off the road and back into the darkness.

She turned and plunged down the bank. Immediately she found herself

waist-deep in the waters of the lake.

In the darkness and the confusion she had become disorientated. She had

not realized that she had reached the point where the road skirted the

embankment at the water's edge. She knew that she did not have time to

climb back on to the road, and she knew also that there were thick

clumps of papyrus and reeds ahead of her, that might give her shelter.

She waded out until the bottom sloped away steeply under her feet, and

she found herself forced to swim. She broke into an awkward

breast-stroke, hampered by her skirts and her injured arm. However, her

slow and stealthy movements created almost no disturbance on the

surface, and before the men on the road had reached the point where she

had descended the bank, she reached a dense stand of reeds.

. She eased her way into the thick of them and let herself sink. Before

the water covered her nostrils she felt her toes touch the soft ooze of

the lake bottom. She stood there quietly, with just the top of her head

above the surface and her face turned away from the bank. She knew her

dark hair would not reflect the light of a probing torch.

Though the water covered her ears, she could make out the excited voices

of the men on the road. They had turned their torches down towards the

water and were shining them into the reeds, searching for her. For a

moment one of the beams played full on her head, and she drew a deep

breath ready to submerge, but the beam moved on and she realized that

they had not picked her out.

The fact that she had not been seen even in the direct torchlight

emboldened her to raise her head slightly until one ear was clear and

she could make out their voices.

They were speaking Arabic, and she recognized the voice of the one named

Bacheet. He appeared to be the leader, for he was giving the orders.

"Go in there, Yusuf, and bring the whore out."

She heard Yusuf slipping and sliding down the bank and the splash as he

hit the water.

"Further out," Bacheet ordered him. "In those reeds there, where I am

shining the torch."

"It is too deep. You know well I cannot swim. It will be over my head."

"There! Right in front of you. In those reeds. I can see her head."

Bacheet encouraged him, and Royan dreaded that they had spotted her. She

sank down as far as she could below the surface.

Yusuf splashed around heavily, moving towards where she cowered in the

reeds, when suddenly there was a thunderous commotion that startled even

Yusuf, so that he shouted aloud, "Djinns! God protect meV as the flock

of roosting duck exploded from the water and launched into the dark sky

on noisy wings.

Yusuf started back to the bank and not any of Bacheet's threats could

persuade him to continue the hunt.

"The woman is not as important as the scroll," he protested, as he

climbed back on to the roadway. "Without the scroll there will be no

money. We always know where to find her later."

Turning her head slightly, Royan saw the torches move back down the road

towards the parked Fiat whose headlights still burned. She heard the

doors of the car slam, and then the engine revved and pulled away

towards the villa.

She was too shaken and terrified to make any attempt to leave her

hiding-place. She feared that they had left one of their number on the

road to wait for her to show herself.

She stood on tiptoe with the water lapping her lips, shivering more with

shock than with cold, determined to wait for the safety of the sunrise

before she moved.

It was only much later when she saw the glow of the fire lighting the

sky, and the flames flickering through the trunks of the palm trees,

that she forgot her own safety and dragged herself back to the bank.

She knelt in the mud at the water's edge, shuddering and shaking and

gasping, weak with loss of blood and shock and the reaction from fear,