The Seventh Scroll

This is the work of the slave Taita." As Royan had done, he recognized

the style and the execution immediately.

Taita's brush was so distinctive, and his talent had outlasted the ages.

"Open this gate!" Nahoot's tone rose again, becoming strident and

impatient

"Here, you men!" Nogo responded, and they crowded around the ancient

structure, trying at first to rip it from the cavern wall by main

strength. Almost at once it became apparent that this was a futile

effort, and Nogo stopped them.

"Search the monks' quarters!" he ordered his lieutenant. "Find me tools

to do the job."

The junior officer hurried from the chamber, taking most of the troopers

with him. Nogo turned from the gate and studied the rest of the interior

of the maqdas.

The stele!" he rasped. "Herr von Schiller wants the stone above

everything else." He played the torch beam, around the chamber. "From

what angle was the Polaroid taken-'

He broke Off abruptly, and held the light on the damask-covered tabot

stone,- on which the velvet-cloaked tabernacle stood.

"Yes," cried Nahoot at his shoulder. "That is it."

Tuma Nogo crossed to the pillar with half a dozen strides and seized the

gold-tasselled border of the tabernacle cloth. He pulled it away. The

tabernacle was a simple chest carved from olive wood, glowing with the

patina that priestly hands had imparted to the wood over the centuries.

"Primitive superstitions," Nogo muttered contemptuously and, picking it

up in both hands, hurled it against the cavern wall. The wood splintered

and the lid of the chest burst open. A stack of inscribed clay tablets

spilled out on to the cavern paving slabs, but neither Nogo nor Nahoot

took any notice of these sacred items.

"Uncover it," Nahoot encouraged him. "Uncover the stone."

Nogo tugged at the corner of the damask cloth, but it caught on the

angle of the pillar beneath it. Impatiently he heaved at it with all his

strength, and the old and rotten material tore with a soft ripping

sound.

Taita's stone testament, the carved stele, was revealed.

Even Nogo was impressed by the discovery. He backed away from it with

the torn covering cloth in his hand.

"It is the stone in the photograph," he whispered. "This is what Herr

von Schiller ordered us to find. We are rich men., His words of avarice

broke the spell. Nahoot ran forward, and threw himself on his knees in

front of the stele. He clasped it with both arms, like a lover too long

deprived. He sobbed softly, and with amazement Nogo saw tears streaming

unashamedly down his cheeks. Nogo himself had considered only the value

of the reward that it would bring. He had never thought that any man

could long so deeply for an inanimate object, especially something so

mundane as this pillar of ordinary stone.

They were still posed like this, Nahoot kneeling at the stele like a

worshipper and Nogo standing silently behind him, when the lieutenant

ran back into the cavern.

Somewhere he had found a rusty mattock with a raw timber handle.

His arrival roused both men from their trance, and Nogo ordered him,

"Break open the gate!'

Although the gate was antique and the wood brittle, it took the efforts

of several men working in relays to rip the stanchions out of. their

foundations in the rock of the cavern wall.

At last, however, the heavy gate sagged forward. As the workers jumped

aside it fell with a shattering crash to the slabs, raising a mist of

red dust that dimmed the light of the lamps and the electric torch.

Nahoot was the first one into the tomb. He ran through the veil of

swirling dust and once again threw himself to his knees beside the

ancient crumbling wooden coffin.

"Bring the light, he shouted impatiently. Nogo stepped up behind him and

shone the torchlight on the coffin.

The portraits of the man were three dimensional, not only on the sides,

but on the lid too. Clearly the artist was the same as the one who had

executed the murals. The upper portrait was in excellent condition. It

depicted a man in the prime of life with a strong, proud face, that of a

farmer or a soldier with a calm and unruffled gaze. He was a handsome

man, with thick blond tresses, skilfully painted as if by someone who

had known him'well and loved him.

The artist seemed to have captured his character, and then eulogized his

salient virtues.

Nahoot looked up from the portrait to the inscription on the wall of the

tomb above it. He read it aloud, and then, with tears still backing up

behind his eyelids, he looked down again at the coffin and read the

cartouche that was painted below the portrait of the blond general.

Tanus, Lord Harrab." His voice choked up with emotion, and he swallowed

noisily and cleared his throat.

This follows exactly the description in the seventh scroll.

We have the stele and the coffin. They are , great and priceless

treasures. Herr von Schiller will be delighted."

"I wish I could believe what you say," Nogo told him dubiously. "Herr

von Schiller is a dangerous man."

"You have done well so far," Nahoot assured him. "It remains only for

you to move the stele and the coffin out of this monastery to where the

helicopter can fly them to the Pegasus camp. If you can do that, you

will be a very rich man. Richer than you ever believed was possible."

This spur was enough for Nogo. He stood over his men as they laboured

around the base of the stele, digging in clouds of dust, levering the

paving slabs out of their mooring. Finally they freed the foundation of

the stele and between them lifted the stone out of the position in which

it had stood for nearly four thousand years.

Only once it was free did they realize the weight of the stone. Although

slender, it was a solid half-ton weight.

Nahoot went back into the qiddist and, ignoring the rows of squatting

monks, pulled down a dozen of the thick woollen tapestries from the

walls and had the troopers carry them back into the maqdas.

He wrapped both the stele and the coffin in the heavy folds of

coarse-spun wool. It was tough as canvas, and afforded the men who were

to carry it a secure handhold.

Ten of the burly troopers were able to lift and carry the stele, while

three men were able to handle the wooden coffin and its desiccated

contents. This left seven armed men free to provide an escort. Then the

heavily burdened procession moved out through the ruined doorway of the

Holy of Holies into the crowded central qiddist, As soon as the

assembled monks realized what they were carrying away with them, a

shocked babble Of voices, of lamentations and exhortations, rose from

the squatting ranks of holy men.

"Quied' Nogo roared. "Silence! Keep these fools quiet."

The guards waded forward into the mass of humanity, clearing a passage

for the treasures they were plundering, laying about them with boot and

rifle butt, shouting at the monks to give way and to let the staggering

porters through.

The hubbub rose louder, the monks encouraging each other with their

howls of protest, whipping themselves into a frenzy of religious

outrage. Some of them leaped to their feet, defying the commands

bellowed at them to remain seated. They crowded closer and closer to the

armed troopers, clutching at their uniforms, chanting and whirling about

them in a challenging display of mounting hostility.

In the midst of this uproar, suddenly the spectral figure of Jali Hora

reappeared. His beard and robes were stained with blood, his eyes were

crazy, bloodshot and staring.

>From his battered lips and ruined mouth issued a long, sustained