The Lost Testament (12 page)

Angela Lewis often found that her subconscious mind was rather good at solving problems that her conscious mind for some reason had failed to cope with.

When she’d read Ali Mohammed’s e-mail the previous day, she knew she’d seen or read the partial name
ef bar he
somewhere else but, like a library with no filing cards or index system, she simply couldn’t retrieve it from her memory. Her searches on the Internet hadn’t helped either. But almost as soon as she got up that morning, she had remembered exactly where to look.

While Bronson was still in the shower, tunelessly singing some awful pop song from the seventies, she opened up her laptop and carried out a couple of swift searches, both of which yielded somewhat sparse results. But at least she now had something to send out to Ali in Cairo, which might help him in his work. Her best guess at the significance of
ef bar he
was that it was the middle section of the Hebrew name
Yusef bar Heli
, and that alone made the parchment quite an important find. But it was the inclusion of the name of the Judean town of Tzippori—assuming Ali Mohammed had read the word correctly—that suggested the relic could potentially be a discovery of great importance.

The only names that had been associated with that particular individual were purely apocryphal, with virtually nothing in the historical record to support any of them. However, it was widely believed that the individual had spent at least some time in Tzippori. Depending upon which source was consulted, the man had either been called
Yusef bar Heli
—or
Yusef ben Heli
, both
bar
and
ben
translating as “the son of”—or
Yusef bar Yacob
or
Yusef ben Yacob
. The man’s father had most probably been named either Heli or Yacob—the historical record was unclear on that point—though his own name, Yusef, was fairly well established. If the parchment was contemporary with this man’s life, and if the fragment of the name did in fact refer to this specific individual, historians might for the first time be able to establish something of the man’s family tree. And if that proved to be possible, the ramifications could be simply astonishing.

If Angela was right, that single piece of parchment sitting in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo could be one of the most significant finds since the Nag Hammadi Codices or the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Almost sobbing in terror, Husani fumbled for the second bolt and pulled it back. He wrenched open the door, slamming it back against the frame and the wall beside it. He dashed into the street outside and started running for his life.

As he did so, he heard heavy footsteps behind him, pounding across the wooden floor of the house, and then the sudden crack of a pistol shot, the bullet crashing into the wall of the house on the opposite side of the road, a bare couple of meters behind him. Shards of stone flew around him as he ran, a couple nicking the skin of his face.

Husani was sufficiently familiar with pistols to realize he was still within accurate range of the killer’s weapon, and the next shot, he knew, could bring him down. Without breaking his stride, he swung his right arm back toward his house, clicked off the safety catch on his own weapon and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. He couldn’t aim the pistol properly, but he didn’t care about that. All he was trying to do was scare the other man enough to make his escape.

Another shot rang out, but the bullet missed him, again hitting the wall of a house on the street, and then a group of men stepped into view from a side alley, just a few meters in front of him. They’d obviously heard the sound of the shots and were peering about them cautiously, clearly wondering what was going on.

Instantly, Husani slid the pistol into his trouser pocket, out of view of the men, and dodged around them. As he did so, he risked a glance behind him. The man who’d shot at him was running down the street in pursuit, but was about fifty meters back. In that briefest of instants, Husani saw that his pursuer had also tucked his weapon out of sight.

The group of men had stopped in the street and were staring at the spectacle unfolding in front of them, as Husani fled down the street, the other man running hard after him.

Husani dodged right into an alleyway, then almost immediately left, down one that was even more narrow. These were his streets, a part of Cairo he knew well. What he didn’t know was whether or not his pursuer was also a local, a man who might have an equally comprehensive knowledge of the area.

The alleyway was unusually quiet, with nobody in evidence, which wasn’t what Husani had expected—or wanted. He knew that safety lay in numbers, in being able to lose himself in the crowds. There was another crack from behind him, as the killer risked one more shot at his prey, but as both the shooter and his target were running hard, accurate shooting was impossible. That, at least, was what Husani was hoping as he dodged and weaved his way down the narrow passage.

The alleyway ended at a blank wall, but a few meters before he reached it there was a narrow opening to the left, which Husani sped down, scattering a pile of cardboard boxes from one side of it as he did so, hoping that might delay his pursuer slightly. But still he could hear the pounding of footsteps behind him. And if anything they seemed to be getting closer.

At the end, a kind of safety beckoned, a crowd of people milling about in a small square. He burst out of the alley, immediately turned right and increased his speed, forcing his way through the crowd.

In a country where almost nobody moved quickly, a running man was bound to attract attention: two men doubly so. As Husani pushed his way through the melee, he registered the expressions on the faces of men he was passing, expressions that ran the gamut of emotions from shock to amusement.

On his left, Husani saw an old man pushing a handcart, loaded with sacks of some kind of produce. He reacted instinctively, spinning around behind the cart and tipping it over in one fluid moment.

The old man bellowed his rage, but Husani simply ran on, now with a couple of other men who’d seen the incident starting to chase him as well. That would have muddied the waters, he hoped, and the overturned cart might give him a few more seconds’ breathing space. And he needed that, because now his breath was coming in short gasps. His lungs felt as if they were on fire and there was a sudden sharp, stabbing pain in his side from his exertions.

In amongst the agitated crowds, Husani dodged and dived, weaved and ducked, but his movements were slower and more labored than before, and he knew he’d have to stop soon or he’d just collapse. When he’d skirted around another large group of people, he halted abruptly and looked back. He was sure the man was back there somewhere, but at that moment he couldn’t see him.

Husani seized the opportunity, and ran over to a small store on the right-hand side of the street. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him and retreated to the back wall, the proprietor looking at him curiously.

Husani glanced at him, and made the first excuse that came into his head.

“My wife’s lover,” he panted. “Chasing me. Trying to kill me.”

The store owner nodded in sympathy, suggesting that perhaps he too had had experience of such matters.

“Use the back door,” he said, and gestured behind the counter. “Through here.”

Husani didn’t hesitate.

“
Shokran
,” he replied simply, “thank you.” Then he stepped behind the counter and out into another narrow alleyway that ran behind the row of shops.

He looked both ways, but it was deserted. He turned and headed back the way he’d come, paralleling the street he’d run down, and walking quickly. Then he took the first cross-passage he came to, putting as much distance between himself and the killer as he could. Husani glanced back frequently, but saw no signs of pursuit, and after five more minutes he was convinced he’d made good his escape. He was now just one more middle-aged man wearing Western clothes in a city with a population of about twenty million people. Finding him now, Husani knew, would be significantly more difficult than tracking down a needle in a haystack.

At last he allowed himself to relax, and began walking a little more briskly. He didn’t want to be late for his appointment with Ali Mohammed.

Husani sighed with relief, and for the first time since he’d sat down in the corner of the small café he released his grip on the butt of his pistol. Approaching the building was the familiar and somewhat rotund figure of Ali Mohammed, a battered brown leather briefcase tucked under one arm. Husani stepped to the door and waved to attract the man’s attention. Moments later, the scientist stepped inside the café and sat down in the chair opposite Husani, a puzzled frown on his face.

“You have brought the parchment?” Husani asked, the tone of his voice betraying his concern.

Mohammed nodded and pointed at the briefcase, which he’d placed on the vacant chair beside him.

“Of course I have. It’s in there, along with the photographs I’ve been taking to try to reveal more of the text, and a memory stick containing copies of the pictures. But why the sudden change of plan?”

For a moment, Husani toyed with the idea of explaining exactly what had happened to the previous owner of the piece of parchment, but decided that would be a bad idea, at least for the moment. He suspected that the scientist lived in a somewhat cloistered world, divorced from the harsh reality of life on the streets of Cairo, and the knowledge that a vicious killer was roaming the city looking for the relic tucked inside the briefcase beside him would comprehensively ruin not only his day but possibly the rest of his year.

It was better, he reasoned to himself, simply to make an excuse, even though he already knew that that would require him to sit through another lecture.

“I won’t bother you with the details, Ali, but I have to go away unexpectedly, and I want to take the relic with me when I leave. That’s why I’m in such a hurry.”

A tall and excessively thin Arab, his face burned almost black by the sun and wearing a white
thawb
, the long tunic that is the traditional dress for Arab men, approached their table, a grubby white cloth held in his left hand. Husani and Mohammed both ordered coffee and glasses of water, Mohammed a small selection of sweet cakes, and the waiter retreated.

“So what have you found?”

“First, I need to explain a little about the parchment itself,” Mohammed said.

Husani stifled his impatience. Although he knew that time was crucial, he also needed to hear everything that the scientist could tell him about the relic.

“You probably noticed,” Mohammed began, “that the parchment is dark brown in color. That’s an indication of its age, because when it’s freshly prepared parchment is almost pure white. Unfortunately, simply looking at the color does not enable a researcher to estimate the likely age of the object, because the speed of the color change depends upon the conditions in which the parchment has been kept. The temperature, the humidity, amount of sunlight and so on. It will last longest if it is stored in a dark and very dry place and at a fairly constant temperature, although the temperature is not as important as the relative humidity.

“The color change of the parchment is one factor, and the ink is the second. Although the writing on the object now looks brownish in color, originally it would have been a deep black, and very easy to read against the white parchment. Because the writing is obviously Latin, it’s reasonable to assume that the text was written by a Roman or perhaps by a scribe employed by the Romans, and so the ink used would most probably have been a form of
atramentum
.”

Mohammed raised his hand to forestall Husani’s obvious question.

“That isn’t actually any one particular type of substance,” he said. “The Latin word simply means a black-colored medium, so in Roman times an
atramentum
could be produced from cuttlefish ink, for example, or soot from a chimney or charcoal from a fire, the pigment then being mixed with water. Using soot or charcoal gave rise to a type of ink known as carbon black, for obvious reasons. Different sorts of
atramentum
could be used for other purposes, not just writing, such as dyeing leather or in painting, but the type used for writing became known as
atramentum librarium
.”

“Presumably that was the origin of the English word ‘library’?” Husani asked, pleased to have some faintly intelligent comment, however oblique, to add to the discussion.

“Yes, though indirectly. In Latin,
librarium
came to mean a ‘chest of books or scrolls,’ and the word was then absorbed into Old French in about the fourteenth century as
librairie
, meaning a ‘collection of books.’”

“So is the type of ink important?” Husani asked, eager to get the explanation back on track.

Mohammed nodded decisively.

“Yes, because of how you should then treat the parchment or material. A later type of ink was known as iron gall ink, which was made from entirely different materials, and because the two inks have very different characteristics and origins, it’s important to establish which type has been used, so that the correct conservation methods can be employed. I’m quite sure that in the case of this piece of parchment, because of its age and because of the use of Latin on it, that the writing was done with a form of
atramentum
, an ink made from some type of carbon.

“The other good thing about this parchment is that it looks as if it was only used once, which is actually slightly unusual. Preparing parchment from the skin of an animal, usually a sheep or a goat, was quite a long and complicated process, and it was very common in ancient times for a parchment to be used multiple times. When this was done, the parchment was kno
wn as a palimpsest.”

“How did they rub out the original writing?” Husani asked.

“The method used is actually hinted at by the name, because it’s derived from two Greek words that mean ‘scraped again.’ The parchment would be rubbed smooth to remove as much of the old ink as possible, and to prepare the surface to be written on again. And although this process appears to completely erase the original writing, at least to the naked eye, traces of it usually remain and can be seen when the relic is examined in a laboratory. The original letters can serve to partially obliterate the later writing.”

“You mean that one set of words that you can’t read can obscure another set that you also possibly can’t read?”

Mohammed nodded.

“That’s a somewhat crude way of putting it, but it’s a reasonably accurate statement. But in the case of your parchment, that’s not a problem. The difficulty with this relic is much simpler. It’s a matter of trying to decipher the faded and dark brown letters that have been written on a piece of parchment that has now aged to virtually the same color.

“Fortunately, we have a couple of tools that can help us in our quest. We’ve known for a long time that shining an ultraviolet light on the parchment and then photographing it with a high-resolution camera can reveal erased or hidden letters. The ultraviolet light makes the parchment fluoresce—it actually emits a bluish light—and that contrast enables us to make out the words. And particularly with inks derived from some form of carbon, we’ve found that photographing the relic using infrared light can also work well.”

“And so that’s what you did?” Husani asked, feeling some relief that the lecture appeared to be approaching its conclusion.

“That is indeed what I did,” Mohammed confirmed. “I used both techniques, in fact, and both produced positive results. I won’t get them out of the briefcase to show you, because the parchment is delicate and shouldn’t be exposed to bright sunlight. And you really need to study the photographs using a magnifying glass to be able to decipher the text. I haven’t tried to read it myself—I had only just completed taking the photographs when you rang, and I only had time to print copies of them before coming out to meet you—but quite clearly more of the words are visible in the pictures than we could see on the parchment itself, though by no means all of them. Hopefully you’ll be able to decipher enough of it to work out what the text is describing.”

Husani nodded his thanks and slid an envelope containing a number of banknotes across the table to the scientist.

“Thanks a lot, Ali,” he said. “Can I take the briefcase as well?”

Mohammed nodded.

“I expected that you would want to do that, so I brought one of my old ones.”

Husani took the briefcase from his companion and placed it on his lap. Then he made a decision, leaned forward and gestured for Mohammed to do the same.

“I suggest,” he said, in a quiet but forceful voice, “that you forget all about me and this parchment. You may have heard about the murder of a market trader here in Cairo, a man named Mahmoud Kassim.”

Mohammed nodded again. It seemed as if Husani had actuall
y been one of the last people in the city to learn about the man’s death.

“I bought the parchment from him, and I think it’s most likely that he was tortured to make him reveal where it was. The man I believe killed him broke into my house less than an hour ago, and I only just managed to get away from him. That’s why I’m leaving Cairo today, as soon as I can, and that’s why you shouldn’t tell a living soul that you’ve even seen the relic, and certainly don’t admit to anyone that you did any work on it.”

Beneath his tan, Mohammed had turned pale, and almost immediately glanced nervously around him, as if expecting to see knife-wielding murderers emerging from the crowd on all sides.

“I knew nothing of this when I handed you the relic,” Husani insisted, “and I only heard about the killing this morning. I will tell nobody that you have had anything to do with it, but please be careful and watch your back for the next few days. I’m getting out of the city as quickly as I can.”

Mohammed suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable, his glance sliding past his companion rather than looking him in the face, and Husani picked up on it immediately.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Who have you told?”

“It was just a professional inquiry,” Mohammed stammered. “I sent an e-mail to somebody I know at the British Museum in London, just asking about the proper names I could read.”

“Did you tell him what the relic was, that it was an ancient parchment?”

“It’s a ‘her,’ actually, not a ‘him,’ and I did explain something about it. I don’t think it’s important, though, and when Angela replied, she said that the names didn’t mean anything to her.”

Husani nodded.

“If this woman contacts you again, I suggest you tell her nothing, just say the relic was removed by the owner or that you could read nothing else on it, something like that. The fewer people who know about this object the better, at least until I find out what’s really going on.”

“And how will you achieve that?” Mohammed asked.

“That should be easy,” Husani replied. “It’s not the parchment itself that is important. That’s just an old piece of animal skin. It has to be what’s written on it, and thanks to you I should now be able to read a lot more of it. Once I’ve managed to decipher and translate the text, I’ll have a much better idea of why somebody decided poor Mohmoud had to die.”