The rope consisted of leather strips tied together with granny knots, dangling from a dry-stone guardhouse far above. As Jake looked upwards the cliff seemed to topple towards him by degrees.
“Are we really going to trust our lives to this thing?” he said.
“Is good rope,” said Berihun. “Very strong.”
A monk grinned and yanked the line with both hands. It held.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” said Jake, resting his palms against the rock. “I’m not a big fan of heights.”
“You must,” Florence replied.
“Why?”
She turned away. “Because I need you. I’ve needed you all along. Why else would I let you tag along this far? Ok, happy now? Has your ego been massaged enough?”
Jake looked up again, blowing air into both cheeks. “All right then. Let’s do this.”
The monk tied the rope around Florence’s waist and whistled through his fingers. Instantly it became taut and she was plucked off the ground like a sprat on a hook. A minute later she disappeared through the door of the outhouse and the rope snaked back to earth. There was a sense of unreality as Jake was lifted clear of terra firma. He scrabbled at the rockface to keep steady, trying not to think about the rope snapping or the monks loosing their grip.
Just keep going. Just keep going.
As quickly as it began, the ordeal was over. Jake grasped for a handhold and hauled himself into the guardhouse – the doorstep was pebble-smooth. He found himself in a grotto cut into the cliff. An old man in combat fatigues slouched against the rock, AK cradled in his lap. The guard peered at Jake’s hands, which were trembling like an Alzheimer’s patient.
“You ok?” said Florence.
He gave her a shaky thumbs up. “Yep, home and dry.”
Their ascent had been watched.
*
The Monastery of Debre Damo stood amid olive and cherry trees, and the scent of blossom hung in the air. It mingled with a smell Jake couldn’t put his finger on – something herbaceous, a little wild. The church itself was a hunch of masonry held together by beams protruding from the walls at each end; a bell jangled listlessly in the breeze. A monk wearing white robes and a black fez glanced at them before returning to his Codex. The bible was hand-written, the saints’ names inked in scarlet. The monk read each name aloud, raising a knuckle to his forehead. With each clank of the bell the relaxation flowed through him more deeply, and Jake felt his shoulders loosen. For a crazy moment he fantasized about staying here, to hell with the world and the Disciplina Etrusca.
“What are we waiting for?” said Florence. “Let’s go inside.”
“Just … two minutes, ok?”
“Jake!” Her voice lashed at him like a whip. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
The journalist abandoned his daydream and stepped into the cool of the church. The first room was plastered and painted with naive religious figures, and Florence set about them, examining each scene for a hidden meaning. A young monk produced a bible and showed Jake the pictures – only to become distracted by a line of scripture and begin mumbling it to himself, suddenly far away.
“There’s nothing here,” Florence hissed. “Let’s go further in.”
They stepped into a panelled room, the timber black with age; each panel bore a religious scene and a few letters in Ge’ez. They worked in silence, checking the walls methodically, Florence releasing the occasional ‘humph’. But there was nothing to be found. Finally she said, “There’s shit-all here.”
The profanity jarred him in those surroundings, and Jake rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“Holy fuck,” he said.
“What?”
“Florence – look up.”
The ceiling was swathed in Etruscan.
It was as if a night sky full of stars had revealed itself after weeks of cloud. The characters stretched from wall to wall, hundreds of them: this was twice the length of the Istanbul inscription. And at the far side two Roman numerals had been carved. Florence moaned, staggering slightly. Jake was oblivious to her. The world eddied around him. His mouth had fallen open and the little finger on his left hand trembled.
“It’s real, isn’t it?” he said.