For Amina.
She clutched the papers in one hand and, heart pounding, walked toward the altar where the monk busied himself replacing candles.
Keeping a polite distance, she cleared her throat.
“Excuse me?” Though she spoke quietly, her raspy voice still reverberated against the walls.
From behind the lamp, the monk glanced at her, his black eyebrows knitted together as he held the bottom of a fresh candle steadily in the hot liquid wax of a stub. His expression showed mild curiosity, disguising any hint of aversion he might have to her disheveled appearance.
“I’m an archaeologist.” She took one step forward, holding out the pages. “I’ve been trying to translate this document, but I don’t have access to any material that would help. I was hoping that maybe someone from the library could assist me.”
Wordlessly, the monk stepped closer and gently took the papers between dirt-stained fingertips. The corners of his lips turned downward as his eyes darted back and forth. His free hand tugged at the end of his long, graying beard.
Her voice shaking with the worry he would turn her away, she continued, “I got quite a bit translated on my own, but my memory isn’t good enough for the whole thing.” She hoped that would be enough to indicate that she didn’t intend to stay long or intrude.
“I’m a gardener.” He held them back out to her with a shake of his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Her shoulders drooped as she took the documents. Strike one.
“But.” The monk held up a finger. “I know someone who might.”
CHAPTER 37
Black robes swished with each step. The monk walked in front of Leila, leading her out of the church, then down the cobblestones, heading for one of the buildings built into the fortress wall.
“What did you say your name was?” the monk asked.
“Leila Sterling. I’m currently working with Dr. Adel Soliman in Saqqara.” They strolled under one of the wooden walkways attached to the wall, and the monk opened a door, the hinges screeching as it swung.
“Ah yes. I believe I have heard of Dr. Soliman.” He waved for her to enter.
She stepped into a foyer, the walls also plain white, this time with a narrow wooden shelf that wrapped all the way around the room.
“Please wait here one moment.” The monk pulled the door shut using both hands. “I will see if Father Marcus is available to assist you further.”
Leila nodded and wandered around the hall, studying the pictures on the shelving. Most of them depicted scenes from the story of Moses, the colors faded and browned as if they had been propped there and ignored since the Middle Ages.
Time seemed to slow down as she waited. A faint aroma of freshly baked bread drifted into the foyer and tortured her senses, reminding her she couldn’t even remember when her last meal was. To distract herself, she walked in slow circles around the room’s perimeter. She was on her fifth turn when two sets of footsteps clicked on the mosaic tiles. She turned to see the monk had been joined by another in identical black robes and brimless black cap, except his hair and beard were all white and a pair of glasses sat on the bridge of his nose.
“This is Father Marcus,” the monk said, gesturing to the newcomer. “He is one of our librarians and would gladly take a look at your documents.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile as the monk departed, leaving her with Father Marcus. Once again she unfolded the papers, her hunger pains momentarily forgotten. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call ahead and make an appointment. I don’t normally do this.”
Father Marcus nodded. “Brother Justus tells me you need help translating a document?”
He pushed his glasses to the top of his nose as he examined the pages. After a moment, he turned and waved for her to follow.
“Tell me what you know about this so far.”
As they walked down a hallway, she recounted the origin of the document, leaving out the gritty details of its journey. And the fact she wasn’t supposed to have it. Father Marcus simply listened and nodded, not once taking his eyes off the hieroglyphics.
She was finished with her story by the time they reached a door which stood open to a wooden staircase leading downward. Father Marcus started down the stairs without comment, the wood creaking under each step.
“This is only one of the rooms,” he called up to her.
She started to follow, but jolted to a stop at the top of the stairs with a soft gasp. The bookshelves in the library spanned over two floors with a wooden walkway for access to the top. Glass cases were placed throughout the room, protecting the more fragile books and manuscripts. She took in a deep breath through her nose, basking in the musky scent of ancient books.
“The first record of manuscripts on this location is from the fourth century, when there was only a small chapel,” Father Marcus explained as she slowly descended the steps after him. “The monastery wasn’t constructed until the mid-sixth century. By the seventh century, the monastery was producing manuscripts of its own. We have over three thousand documents in eleven different languages. And many in languages still unknown.”
Leila stopped in front of one of the glass cases and studied the gigantic book inside. It was at least two feet long and another foot thick. It lay open to a page with gilded medieval lettering that sparkled under the lights.
“We are working on digitalizing as many parchments and papyri as possible,” Father Marcus went on, placing the papers on a table. “It is tedious work, but the best way to preserve them. Despite our care, they will continue to deteriorate over time. The more we can scan, the better. The computers also help us decipher more of the texts. Sometimes they are too hard to read with the naked eye, but computers can pick up more than we knew was there.”
Leila’s mouth hung open as she listened. What a fascinating job this would be. Wordlessly, she wandered toward the table, unable to tear her gaze away from the overflowing bookshelves. She caught herself before she walked straight into a cart stacked full of what looked like more modern encyclopedias.
She glanced up at Father Marcus sheepishly, but he simply pulled out a chair at the table, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “I will bring you some material. Then we can get to work on your text.”
• • •
Night had fallen over Saint Catherine Town. He stepped out of a fast-food shop and strolled down the street paved in slush. Keeping his left shoulder as stiff as possible, he pulled a city map from his pocket with his right hand.
Despite his slow movements, white hot-pain shot through his shoulder. He grimaced involuntarily as the sensation throbbed in his arm, warming his blood, feeding his hate.
The gunshot wound had rendered him nearly useless. He was able to stumble to his jeep and slow the bleeding with makeshift bandages. Drenched in a hot sweat, he’d managed to drive the rest of the way to Saint Catherine, where his upper arm was stitched up.
His wound was deep—he was lucky the bullet had missed the bone. The nurses were curious, the doctor pressed him for an explanation, but with a slip of some cash, the questions stopped. Now he could refocus.
If I were an archaeologist in Saint Catherine, where would I go?
