After a few minutes he had succeeded only in creating a superficial hole, no more than a hand’s breadth into the stubborn soil. He bit his lip in frustration. He couldn’t even be sure he was digging in the right place. Dracup retraced his steps to the sundial and measured out another seven paces. It brought him to the same spot. With a sigh of resignation he resumed the laborious task of softening the earth with the edge of the spade. Sweat ran down his back as he worked, and soon his shirt was soaked through. To add to his discomfort it began to rain, lightly at first but then more persistently. Dracup cursed as he toiled away until he realized the rain was beginning to work for him, rather than against him. The more soil he exposed, the more effective the softening rain became.
Thirty minutes later he was standing at the side of a muddy pit several feet deep. Panting, he stood back to assess his handiwork. He heard the thrum of an engine accelerating past the house. Somewhere out towards the city a siren’s wail rose and fell. Dracup returned to his work, probing with the spade into the thick mud. Farrell remained out of sight. Dracup hoped he was awake, then realized he had never actually seen the American sleep; he seemed to be on perpetual alert.
The spade hit an unyielding portion of his hole, returning a hollow sound that made Dracup jump in surprise. He threw the spade aside and got down on his hands and knees, scrabbling to clear the detritus away from whatever he had uncovered.
Five minutes later he had exposed the rectangular shape of what appeared to be the lid of a metallic container. Several minutes’ more effort and he had cleared space enough to get his hands under the container and free it from its bed of earth. It was heavier than he expected for its size, but eventually he gained enough purchase to lift it out and set it down carefully beside its former resting place. Dracup sat, exhausted on the damp grass, feeling the rain trickle down his mud-spattered face. He was about to signal Farrell to give him a hand when some intuition made him change his mind.
The box opened easily, and Dracup shone his pencil torch into its depths. Within lay the object from Theodore’s sketch. Elated, Dracup pulled the perished covering aside. Beside it, also wrapped in what appeared to be some kind of waterproof cloth, was a smaller square parcel. Dracup stole a furtive look towards the house. He flashed the torch in a prearranged signal. For a moment there was nothing, then Farrell’s torch pierced the darkness. Good. He had time. Dracup uncovered the smaller parcel and extracted the contents.
He peered at it, running the beam across its surface. It was a wax writing tablet, similar to those he had seen in museums and on boyhood excursions to Roman villas, but clearly modern because it was inscribed with that familiar hand he knew belonged to Theodore. But now was not the time for a lengthy perusal. He rewrapped the tablet and placed it carefully in his coat pocket, then quickly replaced the lid and signalled to Farrell for assistance. As he waited for the agent he marvelled at Theodore’s provision; he was gaining a healthy respect for his grandfather. What better way to preserve a buried message than to inscribe it on wax? Theodore had been neither fool nor lunatic, but something had happened to him, something destabilizing. Dracup watched Farrell’s noiseless approach. He patted his pocket protectively. Whatever Theodore had intended to communicate, Dracup wasn’t prepared to share it with Potzner’s team. Not yet.
Chapter 12
They were assembled in the great chamber. Ruth held Natasha’s hand and waited for Kadesh to make his entrance. She was nervous. He had mentioned a matter of discipline, but it was not the usual practice of the Korumak Tanri to air such things in public. Over and over her mind was repeating like a mantra: It is not our way. It has never been our way. The chanting began, quietly at first, like a gentle wave breaking on a distant shore, then louder, growing in volume until the whole chamber was filled with the resonance of song and subtle drum beat. Ruth felt her heart pounding and joined in with the familiar words.
She looked at Natasha. Her eyes were closed and she was swaying gently with the lilting rhythm. Her growing attachment to the girl gave her new concerns, concerns that overrode even the unwelcome forebodings she had experienced since their arrival. It should be a time of rejoicing, but the unsettled atmosphere was distracting. She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt so exposed, so unprotected. Furthermore, the directness with which she had spoken to Kadesh frightened her. She hadn’t believed herself capable of such boldness. But she knew the truth. She hesitated in her recital of the ancient verses and bowed her head low, allowing the knowledge to run free in her mind. It will never be. He does not want me. He wants someone else.
She raised her head before anyone noticed her distraction and caught Jassim’s eye. He smiled at her reassuringly. At least she had her brother to offer some measure of sympathy. But he was a man, and as such could not enter into discussions of intimacy, of passion, of longing. And, like everyone else, he was under Kadesh’s authority.
She felt a tug on her sleeve and found Natasha’s face looking up at her. “I’m thirsty.”
“We have to wait, ’Tash. Kadesh will speak with us soon.”
“Don’t call me that. Only my mummy and daddy call me that.”
Ruth bent and whispered, “What would you like me to call you?”
“I don’t know. Just Natasha.”
“All right. But we must be quiet now.” Ruth pointed. A procession had entered the chamber. She recognized most of the male acolytes, led as usual by Kadesh. There was one dressed in red, the traditional colour of celebration, walking beside him. She stood on tiptoe to identify him. It was Ibrahim, her cousin. She knew of his long absence, of his training under Kadesh’s guidance. Next to Mukannishum, he was the favoured son. She pursed her lips and wondered at the purpose of the assembly. A matter of discipline.
The cortège had reached the centre of the chamber. Kadesh held up his arms. Silence fell immediately, and his commanding voice rang out. “Our legacy has been returned to us and it is right and proper to celebrate. For decades our plans have been laid; our people have been sent forth to integrate and befriend, to work alongside and to learn; to listen and to emulate. To become as one with our offenders. It has been a long journey — a journey fraught with many obstacles and setbacks. But we have overcome by our patience, by our commitment and by our obedience to Him who is eternal. And your praises are heard by the most high God. It is He who commands us, not I. It is He who is judge, not I. It is He who watches over us to see that we have not fallen into half-heartedness or worldliness. We must remain set apart, a holy people. He alone has guided our hands and has brought us to this moment of triumph.”
The chamber erupted into applause. Ruth felt the words warming her soul. She forgot her misgivings and clapped her hands wildly to the beat of the acolytes. Our legacy has returned. That is all that matters. I must put my feelings aside for the good of the community. It is right and proper.