country. But according to Coptic mysticism, there was a tenth saint. We had no proof of this until we saw the inscription on this stele. It’s all there, etched in stone: the man to whom the stele refers was made a saint by the Ethiopian church a good century before any of these nine men walked our lands.”
Sarah interrupted. “What do you know about this tenth saint?”
“According to legend, he wasn’t Ethiopian; he was from the West. That’s conjecture, but it’s all we know.” He leaned forward. “Dr. Weston, we need your help.”
Sarah knew what was coming. She gritted her teeth and let him talk.
“We believe what you have found is the tomb of our tenth saint.” His gaze hardened. “I cannot emphasize enough the significance of this individual to our religion. We …” He raised a loose fist to his lips. “Let me put it another way. As a guest of our government, you have certain rights. No one disputes that. We are prepared to grant you a state-subsidized labor force in order to hasten your excavation of the royal necropolis, but we must insist that this particular find be turned over to the Ministry.”
Sarah’s face burned, but she spoke calmly. “Presuming I cooperate, what will the Ministry do with it?”
“The saint belongs to the sacred ground of Dabra Damo Mountain. We intend to return him to his gravesite and seal the tomb. We will then turn everything over to the church. Those are the wishes of our bishop, and we are obligated to abide by them.”
“And wipe out the historical record,” she said with an ironic smile.
“I know this is not the way of the West, Doctor. But it is how things are done in Ethiopia.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I don’t recommend it. It would be unwise to challenge the powers at play here.”
“Mr. Matakala, first of all, I am not challenging anybody. I am completely within my rights to be here.” The moment felt surreal, as if someone else were talking through her as she watched the scene unfold. “Secondly, my first and only commitment is to science. My job, if you didn’t know, is to research and document ancient history through remains such as these. I don’t care if the tomb in question is of Jesus Christ himself. That would not stop me from excavating the truth; it would compel me to do so. You see, Mr. Matakala, just as you believe the devout have a right to keep their holy man buried in silence, I believe the people have a right to know their past. So I’d say it’s your will against mine.”
“Be careful, Doctor. You don’t know whom you’re up against.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I suggest you give some thought to our request— if you want to continue working in Ethiopia, that is.”
Sarah nodded and briskly turned toward the door.
“Oh, Dr. Weston?” Matakala called. “Have you ever seen this?”
Sarah stopped and took a deep breath. She turned to face him.
The ideogram from the burial site filled the projection screen.
Against a tide of emotions, she struggled to keep an expressionless face.
“This is the symbol of an ancient religious brotherhood. Its members will stop at nothing to protect what is theirs.”
She fixed her gaze on his.
Matakala closed the laptop. “Around here, people only get one warning. If I were you, I wouldn’t squander it.”
Five
D ays wax and wane, winters give way to spring, and famines claim the lives of the weak, but tribal life persists as it always has, earnestly and without ceremony. The way of the nomad is to accept everything as it comes: there is no anticipation for better days, no longing for the unrequited, no despair for loss. The day-to-day existence is hard enough without such complications. Egoism is a luxury the nomad cannot afford, not when there are goats to milk, sheep to shear, camels to saddle, bread to bake, children to feed, blankets to weave, night skies to interpret, seasons to predict, music to play by the campfire.
Days go by mostly without event; nothing, at
Sarah interrupted. “What do you know about this tenth saint?”
“According to legend, he wasn’t Ethiopian; he was from the West. That’s conjecture, but it’s all we know.” He leaned forward. “Dr. Weston, we need your help.”
Sarah knew what was coming. She gritted her teeth and let him talk.
“We believe what you have found is the tomb of our tenth saint.” His gaze hardened. “I cannot emphasize enough the significance of this individual to our religion. We …” He raised a loose fist to his lips. “Let me put it another way. As a guest of our government, you have certain rights. No one disputes that. We are prepared to grant you a state-subsidized labor force in order to hasten your excavation of the royal necropolis, but we must insist that this particular find be turned over to the Ministry.”
Sarah’s face burned, but she spoke calmly. “Presuming I cooperate, what will the Ministry do with it?”
“The saint belongs to the sacred ground of Dabra Damo Mountain. We intend to return him to his gravesite and seal the tomb. We will then turn everything over to the church. Those are the wishes of our bishop, and we are obligated to abide by them.”
“And wipe out the historical record,” she said with an ironic smile.
“I know this is not the way of the West, Doctor. But it is how things are done in Ethiopia.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I don’t recommend it. It would be unwise to challenge the powers at play here.”
“Mr. Matakala, first of all, I am not challenging anybody. I am completely within my rights to be here.” The moment felt surreal, as if someone else were talking through her as she watched the scene unfold. “Secondly, my first and only commitment is to science. My job, if you didn’t know, is to research and document ancient history through remains such as these. I don’t care if the tomb in question is of Jesus Christ himself. That would not stop me from excavating the truth; it would compel me to do so. You see, Mr. Matakala, just as you believe the devout have a right to keep their holy man buried in silence, I believe the people have a right to know their past. So I’d say it’s your will against mine.”
“Be careful, Doctor. You don’t know whom you’re up against.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I suggest you give some thought to our request— if you want to continue working in Ethiopia, that is.”
Sarah nodded and briskly turned toward the door.
“Oh, Dr. Weston?” Matakala called. “Have you ever seen this?”
Sarah stopped and took a deep breath. She turned to face him.
The ideogram from the burial site filled the projection screen.
Against a tide of emotions, she struggled to keep an expressionless face.
“This is the symbol of an ancient religious brotherhood. Its members will stop at nothing to protect what is theirs.”
She fixed her gaze on his.
Matakala closed the laptop. “Around here, people only get one warning. If I were you, I wouldn’t squander it.”
Five
D ays wax and wane, winters give way to spring, and famines claim the lives of the weak, but tribal life persists as it always has, earnestly and without ceremony. The way of the nomad is to accept everything as it comes: there is no anticipation for better days, no longing for the unrequited, no despair for loss. The day-to-day existence is hard enough without such complications. Egoism is a luxury the nomad cannot afford, not when there are goats to milk, sheep to shear, camels to saddle, bread to bake, children to feed, blankets to weave, night skies to interpret, seasons to predict, music to play by the campfire.
Days go by mostly without event; nothing, at
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