The Tenth Saint by D. J. Niko

with hatred. He thumped his chest thrice and held up his fists. He pointed to another figure that showed two men fighting hand to hand. He clenched his teeth and ran his hand across his throat, a gesticulation that was unmistakable.
    The figures, combined with Da’ud’s gestures and wild-eyed delivery, told the story of revenge, the taking of one life to avenge another. The boy before him might have been young but not too young to spill blood for justice. Gabriel was at a loss for words.
    Da’ud continued, pointing to another row of figures. His eyes were blank as he told the last part of the story. He pointed to a piece of sharp stone on the ground, picked up the flint, and handed it to Gabriel.
    Gabriel protested, but Da’ud’s hard expression told Gabriel he’d better acquiesce. He put his hand on the young Bedouin’s shoulder. The two exchanged glances, a silent understanding between men. They were not so different after all.

Six
    S arah sat at her desk, staring out the window of her cabin at the ceaseless downpour that had kept her crew inside the past three days. The wet season had finally arrived in Aksum.
    Two weeks had passed since their trip to Addis, and she was still trying to make sense of the events. She kept thinking of the inscription on the Ezana throne: My medicine man placed himself between my body and the lance-blade and fell in my place. The king’s narrative was consistent with the wound on the entombed man’s rib cage. Could this be the tenth saint? Was that why the warning was etched on the coffin?
    She had spent the time indoors researching the battle at Meroe, hoping for any clue about the king’s medicine man, but had found nothing. The only evidence of his existence, as far as she could tell, was what Matakala had shown her.
    The brotherhood to which Matakala had alluded also weighed on her mind. She and Daniel had both placed calls to colleagues at Cambridge, Rutgers, and elsewhere, but the responses had come back empty. Either this sect was extremely well guarded or it didn’t exist at all. She hoped for the latter.
    She picked up a letter from among her pile of papers. It was from Matakala, on official Ministry of Culture letterhead, and had arrived by certified post shortly after their return to Aksum.
    Dear Dr. Weston,
    I enjoyed our meeting the other night and look forward to a mutually cooperative relationship.
    I trust you have had the time to evaluate my proposal. Please call my office in the next forty-eight hours with your reply.
    Most sincerely,
    Andrew Matakala
    The deadline had come and gone, and she hadn’t answered. She was determined to stand her ground, whatever the consequences. Still, she wanted to know more about her adversary. She poured herself a glass of Ethiopian tej and drew back on her harsh Rothman cigarette. Technically, she’d quit two years ago, but she needed whatever help she could muster.
    “Weston here.” The voice was a source of both comfort and angst.
    “Hello, Daddy.” She drew the smoke deep into her lungs and exhaled.
    “Darling, are you smoking? Don’t tell me you’re so weak willed you’ve gone back.”
    Sarah felt the pang but brushed it aside. “Not now, Daddy. I need your help. There’s someone I want you to check out for me. A man by the name of Andrew Matakala. I need to know who he is, where he was educated … whatever you can tell me about him.”
    “Is this your new beau, darling?”
    “I’m being serious. It’s someone I ran into in Addis. He works for the Ministry of Culture, but there’s something about him I don’t trust.”
    “Oh, Sarah, are you sure you’re not being paranoid? This isn’t your overactive imagination speaking, is it?”
    There he went again, dismissing her as if she were a child. She regretted calling him. “Listen, if it’s a big deal, forget about it. I’ll get the information some other way.”
    “Let me see what I can do. But it will take some time. I have an agenda full of meetings,