'They say the old man is over a hundred years old,' Boris whispered to
Nicholas.
Two white-robed debteras brought forward a stool of African ebony, so
beautifully carved that Nicholas eyed it acquisitively. He guessed that
it was probably centuries old, and would have made a handsome addition
to the museum collection. The two debteras took Jah Hora's elbows and
gently seated him on the stool. Then the rest of the company sank to the
earth in a congregation around him, their black faces lifted towards him
attentively.
Tessay sat at his feet, and when her husband spoke she translated
quietly for him into Amharic. 'It is a great pleasure and an honour for
me to greet you again, Holy Father.'
The old man nodded, and Boris went on, 'I have brought an English
nobleman of royal blood to, visit the monastery of St. Frumentius.'
'I say, steady on, old boy!, Nicholas protested, but all the
congregation studied him with expectant interest.
'What do I do now?' he asked Boris out of the corner of his mouth.
'What do You think he came all this way for?' Boris grinned maliciously.
'He wants a gift. Money,'
'Maria Theresa dollars?' he enquired, referring to the centuries-old
traditional currency of Ethiopia, 'Not necessarily. Times have changed.
jali Hora will be happy to take Yankee green-backs.'
'How much?'
'You are a nobleman of royal blood. You will be hunting in his valley.
Five hundred dollars at least.'
Nicholas winced and went to fetch his bag from one of the mule panniers.
When he came back he bowed to the abbot and placed the sheaf of currency
in his outstretched, pink-palmed claw. The abbot smiled, exposing the
yellow stumps of his teeth, and spoke briefly.
Tessay translated for him, 'He says, 'Welcome to the monastery of St.
Frumentius and the season of Timkat.' He wishes you good hunting on the
banks of the Abbay river.'
Immediately the solemn mood of the devout company changed. They broke
out in smiles and laughter, and the abbot looked expectantly at Boris.
'The holy abbot says it has been a thirsty journey,' Tessay translated.
'The old devil loves his brandy,' Boris explained, and shouted to the
camp butler. With some ceremony a bottle of brandy was brought and
placed on the camp table in front of the abbot, shoulder to shoulder
with the bottle of vodka in front of Boris. They toasted each other, and
the abbot tossed back a dram that made his good eye weep with tears, and
his voice husky as he directed a question at Royan.
'He asks you, Woizero Royan, where do you come from, daughter, that you
follow the true path of Christ the Saviour of man?'
'I am an Egyptian, of the old religion,' Royan replied.
The abbot and all his priests nodded and beamed with approval.
'We are all brothers and sisters in Christ, the Egyptians and the
Ethiopians,' the abbot told her. 'Even the word Coptic derives from the
Greek for Egyptian. For over sixteen hundred years the Abuna, the
bishop, of Ethiopia was always appointed by the Patriarch in Cairo. Only
