Elisha's Bones Part 12

"What brings you two-three-to Lalibela?"

I see a wall come up, but it's of the general kind. I think he actually missed my earlier reference to our having similar purposes. He thinks this is a random meeting. I see Sarah smirk- an indication that, unlike her companion, she heard my every word.

"We're doing a fluff piece for Archaeology Quarterly Archaeology Quarterly on the churches," he lies. "They wanted it for their December issue, to run before Christmas, but I wasn't available until now." on the churches," he lies. "They wanted it for their December issue, to run before Christmas, but I wasn't available until now."

I offer an interested nod, but I almost feel badly that I haven't given him sufficient time to come up with a more believable prevarication. There isn't a periodical in the world that would send an archaeological team halfway around the world to conduct noninvasive research that could be accomplished with existing records. That's throwing money into a stiff wind.

"Sounds interesting," I say in what I hope is taken as patronization.

He looks embarra.s.sed and, even worse, Sarah appears discomfited for him.

"Why are you here, Jack?" Brown redirects.

"Would you believe that I'm working for a billionaire, who's hired me to hunt for religious artifacts?" I grin and shake my head. "What a way to spend my winter break, huh?"

I don't know who is more incredulous: Brown, who has been blindsided, or Esperanza. I'm not looking forward to what words she will use on me later, once we're alone. Sarah, on the contrary, has a twinkle in her eye that tells me she put it together as soon as she saw me. I give her a wink, and the gesture is not lost on Espy.

The brilliant Dr. Brown Billings is speechless, and despite the fact that the man has never done me a disservice, I am tickled by the whole encounter. At some point, perhaps even today, he will find out that I'm no longer in Reese's employ, and yet we're far beyond even the billionaire's reach.

"Who do you think Reese is paying more?" I prod.

The comment earns a laugh from Sarah, one that pulls red to Brown's cheeks. I'm enjoying myself-until I catch Espy's eye. I have a feeling that I'm going to pay dearly for the last five minutes.

CHAPTER 14

The place where the rocks and stones cry out.

I know that the biblical allusion is poetic rather than literal, but as Esperanza and I stand on the edge of a forty-foot drop-off, looking down on the roof of a nine-hundred-year-old church carved from a single piece of granite, I would be hard-pressed to think of another place on the planet that better embodies that description.

The rock-hewn churches of Lalibela are among the architectural marvels of the world, and they're among the short list of things I've seen which a.s.sure me that, under the right circ.u.mstances, man can accomplish anything he sets his mind to. It's early morning, the breeze is blowing through the valley, and there are few sounds to interrupt us. Espy and I might as well be standing at the edge of the earth for the sense of almost alien beauty that rises from the granite cathedrals.

"It's unbelievable," Espy whispers.

I'm in perfect agreement, especially considering the tools the medieval Christians had to work with; but I'm also cognizant of time. I have no idea how many days Brown and his team have already put in. And I'm certain that Reese now knows we survived that unpleasantness in San Cristobal.

"Ready?" I start down the narrow steps, themselves carved out of the rock, my hand trailing along its cold surface. It's like walking into a canyon, with sheer cliff faces rising up on either side. The ancient quarry workers began with trenches, pulling granite out to, in some places, a depth of forty feet. And like Rembrandt, only on a ma.s.sive scale, they formed the lines of the churches, hollowed out the insides, and cut doorways and windows.

Espy and I are descending to Bete Medhane Alem, the largest of the churches. When we reach the base, it's easier to appreciate the scale of the structure. Several freestanding pillars support the roof, also framing an intricately latticed doorway. The ancient artisans formed perfectly round pillars, cutting out the rock behind them, maintaining precise dimensions from top to bottom.

Even though there are already a large number of visitors in town, I see only a handful of people awake and eager to see the sites. The resident monk is out front, his colorful robes a counterpoint to the muted rock. He holds a long prayer staff and appears ready to outlast the day in that one spot if need be.

He greets us with a broad smile. Another man then appears at our side, gesturing at our feet. I've been warned about the shoes, so I slip them off and hand them over, Espy following my lead. I give the man a small tip and head toward the entrance.

"What is he going to do with our shoes?" Espy says, glancing back over her shoulder as the man to whom she has entrusted her pricey togs disappears.

"They'll be waiting for us on the other side."

She looks less than convinced but follows me in.

The interior is modeled after a basilica, and as I walk deeper into it, I count five naves. I can't think of many churches this size with that number. There are more than thirty square pillars supporting a cornice, and Espy runs a hand along one of them. There are places that appear to be rubbed smooth-likely by the hands of countless visitors over the centuries. There's a lot to take in and I'm trying to oblige, but I can't move too quickly; I have to trust my gut to see something my eyes might pa.s.s over.

I'm drawn to the frescoes. Most of them are badly damaged, and it bothers me that they haven't been preserved. The parts I can see appear to be the recounting of biblical scenes. Yet several rock carvings have, by their nature, navigated the pa.s.sage of time with more integrity. There's more than one theme to the carvings, but I fixate on the animals. I see representations of at least eight different animals, and I can't decipher any connecting thread between them. I have Alem'nesh's dragon in my mind, trying to tie it to something, but I feel handicapped by having no idea what I'm looking for.

There are eleven churches, each with its many details, carvings, and murals. And I'm presupposing that what I'm searching for is something that's visible to the naked eye. That could be a risky premise yet I have nothing else to go on, and I have to believe that as much as it pained Alem'nesh to confide in me, I don't think he would send me out here with no hope of finding something.

We spend perhaps a half hour inside, while other visitors come and go around us. When we leave, it's through a tunnel connecting to Bete Maryam-the first of the churches to find its liberation from the rock. It is much like Bete Medhane Alem, but with its own peculiarities such as the windows, which were carved in odd shapes, allowing the light to fall on the Holy of Holies and on the tabot that rests there.

Another half hour pa.s.ses and neither Espy nor myself are struck by anything out of the ordinary. There's the very real possibility that we've walked right by whatever it is we are here to discover. I'm not sure what I was thinking, how I thought we could visit this place and find what we're looking for without the months-perhaps years-of exhaustive research that something like this necessitates. Esperanza must catch the souring of my mood because she leaves her perusal of a Maltese cross to link her arm in mine.

"Two down, nine to go. I'd call that progress."

Although I appreciate the gesture, I do not share her optimism. "You know as well as I do that we could have already missed it."

"You're right, we could have. But the way I see it, a few weeks ago I was home writing a grant proposal. Now I'm on the other side of the world, in a nine-hundred-year-old rock church, and I have no idea where my shoes are."

"I see your point," I say with a smile. Before I can say anything else, another person enters Bete Maryam and I turn, expecting to see a small group being led about by a private tour guide. Instead, I spot Sarah, who sees us at the same time. When she reaches us, she is almost out of breath.

"I knew you were in this section but I didn't know which church," she says.

"How did you know we weren't over on the eastern side?" Espy asks, her tone frosty.

"Because we're we're on the eastern side," Sarah answers. "Besides, I saw your shoes outside. Cole Haan Air Gabis? You were wearing them last night. Very nice." on the eastern side," Sarah answers. "Besides, I saw your shoes outside. Cole Haan Air Gabis? You were wearing them last night. Very nice."

Espy's eyebrows shoot up. "Thanks. You know, I almost didn't buy them. They just seemed too extravagant."

"I know, but they're comfortable, aren't they?"

"Excuse me, ladies . . ." It's fine if they want to chitchat about fas.h.i.+on, but Sarah has sought me out for a reason.

She gives Espy an apologetic shrug.

"I just wanted to tell you that a man named Gregory Hardy arrived thirty minutes ago. He works for Reese."

I nod. "We've met."

"Brown told him you were here and-" She stops, appearing unsure where to take this. "Look, Jack, I don't trust him. He's a lot more dangerous than he lets on."

I exchange looks with Espy, who gives me a grim smile.

I release a sigh, thankful that Sarah cared enough to warn me, yet irritated that we might have another obstacle to contend with before we're finished here.

"You're right. He is dangerous." I put my hand on her shoulder and lean in closer, locking eyes. "But he's not here for you. Or Brown. So go back and do your job and be careful. You'll be fine."

"I don't doubt that," she says. "It's you I'm worried about. When Hardy heard that you're here, he didn't seem happy about it. And he does carry a gun."

"Thanks for the warning, Sarah," I say. "I'll be careful, too."

She nods, and then a smile touches her eyes. "Just so you know, Brown is bothered enough about your being here that it might be him, and not Hardy, that you need to watch out for."

That prompts a laugh. I give her shoulder a squeeze and then, with as charming a smile as I can muster, ask, "Since we're being forthcoming, can you tell me why Miles is here?"

"Nice try, Dr. Hawthorne," she says with a chuckle. There's something in her expression that is new-that I would not have seen had this conversation taken place five years ago. It's open compet.i.tion, a fierce desire, a need to win. It's unfortunate we're no longer working together, because I like this version a lot more.

"You can't blame me for trying."

"It'll be more fun if you earn it," she says. Suddenly she turns serious, looks down at her feet, then back up, and her eyes are glistening. "I never told you how sorry I was about Will."

She leans in and leaves a kiss on my cheek, and then she's gone.

I'm not sure how long I stand there, how many ticks pa.s.s before I can think a coherent thought. When I finally reengage, I find that Espy is watching me, and there is nothing there but muted grief, something we didn't get the chance to bear together.

Oddly enough, I don't feel like sprinting away; a brisk walk will do. I think that might be progress. It's as I'm searching for something to say that will extract me from the present moment that suddenly Esperanza slaps herself in the head.

"I'm an idiot," she says with a vehemence usually reserved for pointing out my my failings. failings.

At my questioning look she says, "Alem'nesh said to look for the dragon, right?"

"Right."

"I don't think we're looking for a dragon so much as we're looking for a saint." At my blank expression she continues, "See, that's why you should have been raised Catholic. At least then you'd know your saints."

"And I would have had real wine at church. I still don't follow."

"Alex, I'll take saints who are popular in Ethiopia and who have also killed a dragon, for two hundred dollars."

She's enjoying this and, once again, her amus.e.m.e.nt comes at my expense. I'll be the first to admit that my knowledge of saintly lore is thin. I shrug my shoulders in surrender.

"There's even a church named after him," she says. When she takes my hand to lead me out of the tunnel, I'm beyond exasperated. The glint I see in her eye tells me that she's well aware of this, even as it tells me there's not a thing I can do about it.

If it had been any more obvious, the flame from the dragon's mouth would have singed my hair. Espy and I are standing in the nave of Bete Giyorgis, the Church of St. George. It's the newest of the churches, and the most finely executed. Looking down on it from above, one can see the church was fas.h.i.+oned in the shape of a Greek cross. Its interior is less ornate than those of its older cousins, but the structure itself possesses a stateliness absent from the others.

Espy has filled me in on the particulars, and what she has told me does not jog anything in my memory. I'm reasonably certain that my knowledge of the lives and times of Christian saints is so spa.r.s.e that I have never heard the story of how St. George killed the dragon. Espy, on the other hand, knows all the details, down to the name of the lance-Ascalon-that George used to slay the beast. She learned her catechism as a child and it has come back to serve us well.

There are more people around than were here when we began, but Espy and I still have a measure of privacy. Few visitors linger for more than a minute or two; there are so many churches to see before the flies become unbearable. The church stands as a testament to the saint, for his image is pervasive in the minimalist decoration.

We are still faced with the question of where to start but, buoyed by Espy's revelation, we have our investigative second wind. What adds to my enjoyment is that Brown, Sarah, and Miles are on the wrong side of the compound. What I try to avoid considering is the possibility that Esperanza is wrong and that the other team is working with hard evidence rather than conjecture. My thoughts go, again, to Miles Lincoln. How does his specialty fit here?

St. George's has its share of artwork-which is the province of Miles-including a lovely relief over the doorway, and some carvings. What I'm most drawn to, however, are the murals that bring color and character to the walls. There are several, of varying sizes and subject matters, though most of them feature St. George in one fas.h.i.+on or another. There is one, in a prominent spot on the wall, that stands out from the others; I noticed it when I walked in, and I stare at it for a full minute, trying to convince myself that it can't be as obvious as this. It's a representation of the saint slaying the dragon, jabbing his lance into the neck of a beast that does not seem as formidable as the dragons I remember from childhood stories. This animal is no larger than the horse on which George sits.

"Esperanza."

She follows my line of sight and gives a perfunctory nod once her eyes play over the mural. Both of us move closer to the painting, neither of us sure what we're looking for.

It's two minutes, perhaps three, before I come to realize that we're out of our depth. I could attempt an interpretation of the symbolism, but I don't have the background to make that worthwhile. There are things in the mural that could be representative of ideas or events. The man in the white robes in the bottom left corner, right next to the skull, could be a reference to the resurrection story in Second Kings. An image in one of the left panels appears to show someone secreting something. It's subjective, unless you know what you're looking at, and how the symbols were understood when painted. Processual symbolic a.n.a.lysis is not among my areas of expertise.

"I guess this is why Brown needs Miles," I say.

No response from Espy. When I look at her, it is to see that she's focused on the mural. Her eyes are not moving.

"What's that?" she asks after a time.

Without waiting for an answer, she closes the distance to the mural and sets a finger on what appears to me to be a squiggle or smudge over the shoulder of an angel. It looks like part of the background-a tree root, a bush. Espy traces a line that I can't see, her finger picking a path amid the painting's white noise. She mutters something to herself and takes a half step away from the wall, leaving her hand on whatever it is that's caught her attention. I watch as she studies this section of the picture with an intensity I've never seen her display, even when we were trying to translate the symbols in the temple. I remain still, fearful of breaking her concentration. Another few minutes pa.s.s before I see her lock on to something and, when she does, she breathes a triumphant sigh.

"It's Teutonic," she says. Her hand moves across the mural, two fingers coming to rest on another squiggle. She looks back, glowing. "These are Teutonic letters. Jack, they're hiding in plain sight."

I've always trusted Esperanza, and I have no reason to doubt her now. On the contrary, I'm near giddy at her discovery. Except I wonder how it could be that of the hundreds of thousands of visitors who have pa.s.sed through here over the centuries-noted scholars among them-not one has discovered this. I must look more skeptical than I imagine because Espy's glow turns to a frown.

"Whoever painted this made the letters part of the background; they're almost indistinguishable from the rest of the painting." She shakes her head. "We don't need Miles. They need a linguist."

I move to her side. While I'm familiar with several languages, each of them has gone part and parcel with my work. If I haven't worked a dig in some country, or if a particular language is not in common use in archaeological parlance, it's doubtful I could even offer a simple greeting in the tongue. Espy, though, devours languages with a voracious appet.i.te. She's the expert here.

"All right," I say, "we have Teutonic letters. What now?"

Esperanza steps away from the wall and, hands on hips, takes in the whole of the painting. "They can't be randomly placed. There has to be a legend somewhere."

"But who's to say that a legend wouldn't exist separate from the mural?"

"Be quiet."

"Excuse me?"

"I can't think with you talking."

I know when I'm licked, so I do what will move us forward: I remain silent.

Espy studies the mural for a long while, walking around to change perspective. I'm doing my own a.n.a.lysis, looking for something to help us locate and organize Espy's Teutonic letters, when she steps in front of me. We're both at the part of the picture where St. George is delivering the deathblow to the dragon, driving Ascalon through its neck. I lean over Espy's shoulder, drawn by the lance itself. To me it looks more like a staff, a walking stick, because of the irregular notches.

It seems the thought comes to both of us at the same time.

"I need a straightedge," Espy says, and I think it takes every fiber of her being to keep from shouting.

I understand and start hunting through the church for something that will work, but everything I see is nailed down or bolted to something. Then I remember the monk.

"I'll be right back," I call as I run out the door. Outside, it takes some convincing before the monk decides it's all right for me to borrow his prayer staff. When I get back inside, there's a tour group studying the murals, and so we have to wait until they leave before we can test our theory.

I find the first of the Teutonic letters and guesstimate the corresponding notch on the lance. When I line up the prayer staff and it runs through the letter, a rush of exultation threatens to take my knees out from under me. I have to make certain, so I perform the experiment with the second letter, with an identical result.

Success breeds urgency. We've done what should have been impossible within our narrow time frame, and it would anger me to have the other team walk in while we're transposing letters. I stand ready with the staff as Esperanza pulls a notepad and pen from her jacket pocket.