overexposed or rendered the subject too dull, or for some other reason
she was not satisfied, she asked him to repeat the shot.
After almost two hours' work they had a complete set Of Polaroids, and
Nicholas packed his cameras away and brought out the roll of art paper.
Working together, they stretched it over one face of the pillar and
secured it in place with masking tape. Then he started at the top and
she at the bottom. Each with a black art crayon, they rubbed the precise
shape and form of the engravings on to the sheet of blank paper.
"I have learned how important this is when dealing with Taita. If you
are not able to work with the original, then you must have an exact
copy. Sometimes the most minute detail of the engraving may change the
entire sense and meaning of the script. He layers everything with hidden
depths. You have read in River God how he cons' ers himself to be the
riddler and punster par excellence id and the greatest exponent of the
game of bao that ever lived. Well, that much of the book is accurate.
Wherever he is now, he knows the game is on and he is revelling in every
move we make. I can just imagine him giggling and gether with glee."
rubbing his hands to
"Bit fanciful, dear girl." He settled back to work. "But I know what you
mean."
The task of transferring the outline of the designs on to the blank
sheets of art paper was painstaking and monotonous, and the hours passed
as they laboured on hands and knees or crouched over the granite pillar.
At last Nicholas stepped back and massaged his aching back.
"That does it, then. All finished."
a She stood up beside him. "What time is it?" she asked, and he checked
his wristwatch.
"Four in the morning. We had better tidy up in here.
Make certain we leave no sign of our visit."
"One last thing," Royan said, tearing a corner off one of the sheets of
art paper. With it she went to the altar where the abbot's crown lay.
Quickly she taped the scrap of paper over the blue ceramic seal in the
centre of the crown, and filled it with a rubbing of the design of the
hawk with a broken wing.
Just for luck," she explained to him, as she came back to help him fold
the long sheets of paper and pack them back in the bag. Then they
gathered up the shreds of discarded masking tape and the empty film
wrappers that he had strewn on the stone slabs.
Before they covered the granite stele with the damask cloth, Royan
caressed the stone panels of script as if to take leave of them for
ever. Then she nodded at Nicholas.
He spread the cloth over the pillar and they adjusted the folds to hang
as they had found them. From the threshold of the brass-bound door they
surveyed the maqdas for the last time, then he opened the door a rack
"Let's go!" She squeezed through and he followed her out into the
qiddist of the church. It took him only a few minutes to slide the
tongue of the lock back into place.
"How will we get out through the main doors?" she asked.
"I don't think that will be necessary. The priests obviously have
another entrance from their quarters directly into the qiddist. You very
seldom see them using the main gates." He stood in the centre of the
floor, and looked around carefully. "It must be on this side if it leads
directly into the monks' living quarters-' he broke off with a grunt of
satisfaction. "Aha! You can see where all their feet have actually worn
a pathway over the centuries." He pointed out a smooth area of dished
and worn stone near the side wall. "And look at the marks of grubby
fingers on the tapestry over there." He crossed quickly to the hanging
and drew a fold aside. "I thought as much." There was a narrow doorway
concealed behind the hanging.
"Follow me."
They found themselves in a dark passageway through the living rock.
Nicholas flashed his torch down its length, ? A
but he masked the bulb with his hand to show only as ,much light as they
needed. "This way."
The passage turned at right-angles and ahead they could make out a dull
illumination. Nicholas switched off the torch and led her on.
Now there was the smell of stale food and humanity, and they passed the
doorless entrance to a monk's rock cell. Nicholas flashed his torch into
it. It was deserted and bare. A wooden cross hung on the wall with a
truckle bed below it. There were no other furnishings. They went on past
a dozen others which were almost identical.
At the next turning of the passage Nicholas paused.
He felt a tiny draught on his cheek, and the taste of fresh air on his
tongue. "This way he whispered.
They hurried on, until suddenly Royan grabbed his shoulder from behind
and forced him to stop.
"What-' he began, but she squeezed his shoulder to silence him. He heard
it then, the sound of a human voice, echoing eerily through the
labyrinth of passageways.
Then came a weird haunting cry, that of a soul in agony, wailing and
sobbing. They crept forward, trying to make their escape before they
were discovered, but the sounds grew stronger as they went on.
"Dead ahead," Nicholas warned her in a whisper. "We are going to have to
sneak past."
Now they saw soft yellow lamplight spilling from the doorway of one of
the cells into the passage. There came another heart-rending female cry
that echoed down the passage and froze them in their tracks.
"That's a woman's voice. What is happening?" Royan breathed, ut he
shook his head for silence and led her on.
They had to pass the open door of the lit cell. Nicholas edged towards
it with his back flattened to the opposite wall. She followed him,
keeping close and clinging to his arm for comfort.
As they looked into the cell the woman cried out again, but this time
her voice blended with that of a man.
It was a duet without words, but racked with all the feral agony of a
passion too fierce to be borne in silence.
In their full view a couple lay naked upon the truckle bed. The woman
lay spread-eagled, holding the man's hips between her uplifted knees.
Her arms wound hard around his back, upon which each separate muscle
stood out proudly and gleamed with sweat. He thrust down into her
savagely, his buttocks bunching and pounding with the force of a great
black battering ram.
She rolled her head from side to side as another incoherent cry was torn
from her straining throat. It seemed too much for the man above her to
bear, and he reared back like a flaring cobra, his pelvis still locked
to hers, but his back arched like a war bow. Spasm after spasm gripped
him. The sinews in the back of his legs were stretched to snapping
point, and the muscles in his back fluttered and jumped like separate
living creatures.
The woman opened her eyes and looked directly at them as they stood
transfixed in the doorway, but she was blinded with the strength of her
passion. Her eyes were sightless, as she cried aloud to the man above
her.
Nicholas drew Royan away, and they slipped down the passageway and out
on to the deserted terrace. They stopped at the foot of the staircase,
and breathed the sweet cool night air that was perfumed by the waters of
the Nile.
"Tessay has gone to him,'Royan whispered softly.
"For tonight at least,'Nicholas agreed.
"No," Royan denied. "You saw her face, Nicky. She belongs to Mek Nimmur
now."
The dawn was flushing the serrated crests of the escarpment to the
colours; of port wine and roses when they reached camp and separated at
the door to Royan's hut.