The Cairo Codex (10 page)

Ahead of her, a large basin, formerly used for blessings during the Epiphany, was now boarded over. At the end of this long hall was the baptistery. The nave, or center of the church, was separated from the side aisles by marble pillars with arches and columns that supported the timber roof. In the pews, two elderly women kneeled in prayer.

Justine noticed with disappointment that figures once carved in detail on the columns were only barely discernable now. Adorning the right wall were icons of religious subjects dating to medieval times, including Christ’s birth, miracles, baptism, and resurrection. During a recent renovation of the church, a carving of the Last Supper had been added showing Jesus sitting with his disciples at an ancient Egyptian offering table.

She slid into an empty pew near the center of the church. Ahead of her, an elevated marble pulpit embossed with ebony and ivory rested on ten columns. The sanctuary screen was decorated with large crosses and delicately chiseled with scrollwork. At the entrance, she’d picked up a small booklet written by the resident priest that described the art scenes throughout St. Sergius. Two-by-fours rested loosely on the rafters, most likely used for cleaning paintings in the dome. Justine looked up to admire the panel engraving known as “The Flight into Egypt.” The now-famous painting illustrated Mary on a mule, wearing a crown and holding Jesus, followed by Joseph and a woman reported in the booklet to be Mary of Magdalene. A strange depiction, she noted, as it was generally accepted that Mary of Magdalene was a contemporary of Jesus.

This impressive edifice would not have existed 2000 years ago. She imagined Mary sitting as she herself sat today . . . right here beside her.
What was it like then
? What would she have been thinking about? Was she concerned about her children, her marriage, the health of her family? What about the Romans? And Herod’s army? Were they a real threat? Or were her thoughts more mundane . . . like what to serve for dinner? At the time Mary had lived in the cave below this church, the Great River Nile had been close by, and in the far distance had been the hills known as Muqattum. Would there have been a bench here? A fire pit?
What was it like to live in a foreign land and try to carve out a life for your family?

Like the other churches, the synagogue, and the mosque in Babylon, St. Sergius was an active place of worship. Only a few scattered people sat here now, but in less than an hour hundreds of parishioners would crowd into the church to receive absolution from their priest; women with covered heads would file into the western narthex. While the Prophet Mohammed was blamed for making the headscarf a modern-day habit, it was in fact an ancient tribal custom that preceded even the Christians. Older Christian women still wore headscarves to church.
What is it about hair?

Justine decided she would join the congregation after her visit to the crypt, the entrance to which was behind the altar area, beneath the choir room. As she entered the crypt area, she found a young docent who introduced himself as Michael.
A good Christian name.
He was lean, with a restrained air and a long-sleeved plaid shirt buttoned to the top; within the stone walls of the church, the air was cool.

“I understand the Holy Family lived here,” Justine said, running a hand along the banister at the top of the crypt stairwell.

“You have found it,” responded Michael with a delight that made her suspect she was his first visitor of the day. “The Holy Family came here from Palestine. Their last stop before coming to Babylon was Mataria, which is now in Shoubra. They stayed here for six months and then traveled south. They took a boat downriver at the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Maadi.” He spoke with the cadence of someone reading a prepared script. “It is known that they traveled to Assuit from Maadi.”

When he took a short breath, Justine said kindly, “Thank you. I appreciate the information.” In fact, she knew that since the Nile had not been far from this church two thousand years ago—certainly not more than a few hundred feet—the port at Maadi, being a mile or so west, would have been underwater then. She chose not to say so. Much like the painting of The Flight into Egypt, there were nebulous areas where challenge would not be welcome here. “Are you a volunteer here? Do you live nearby?”

“I volunteer every Sunday, Miss. And grew up just over there,” he said, pointing to the east.

“The church must appreciate your work. Tell me, how long was the Holy Family in Egypt?”

An expression of pride flickered across the docent’s face. “They journeyed in Egypt for three and a half years. Then the Angel Gabriel appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, ‘Take your son and go home, go out of Egypt. The man who would kill your son is now dead.’” By quoting Matthew, Michael had provided the definitive answer.

Justine nodded. “I have heard that the Muslims tell another story. They think the Holy Family stayed in Egypt for a longer time. What do you think?”

“This is what our church teaches, my lady.” Michael’s voice tightened with impatience. “Oral history is important here. Many churches and monasteries have been built on the sites where the family stopped and stayed for short visits. The Roman soldiers were chasing them because they’d fled with the Messiah. This history was confirmed when the Virgin Mary appeared to the Patriarch Theophilus, Bishop of Alexandria, in the fourth century.” His confidence grew as he picked up the momentum of his story. “Our Lady told the bishop about the journey of the Holy Family and where they had stopped along the way. Our priest says the bishop had the good sense to find out many things from the Virgin.”

“He did indeed. I have not heard the story of the Patriarch before. You are very fortunate to have this history,” she acknowledged with a smile. “May I go in now?”

“Certainly, my lady.” His performance over, he stepped out of her way, and she descended the thirteen worn steps to the marble floor of the crypt below, thinking,
What happened two thousand years ago in this anointed cave?

As the cool crypt air brushed against her warm neck, she imagined the day ahead. It was particularly beautiful outside. The Nile had glistened like scattered diamonds as she’d stepped out of the Metro and glanced to the west. What would she do with the rest of her day? Perhaps a stroll at the Ghezira Club, followed by a frosty hibiscus near the pool? A visit to the new Cairo Opera House?

The earthquake hit with such force that its memory would stay with Justine for decades to come, inhabiting her dreams like an unwelcome stranger. Nearly crushed by falling debris, smothered in darkness and sandstone dust, her consciousness clung to those last moments before her adrenaline caused her to fight back, to prevent herself from being buried alive in the crypt . . .

When the second aftershock passed and the ground stilled, she forced herself to sit up. Thankfully, the columns had held. A searing pain in her head made her wince. Something wet dripped into her left eye, trickling into the corner of her mouth. Tasting the salt of blood, she lifted her fingers to her head and discovered a jagged gash. Her hair was growing wet with the blood. Was there a possibility she would pass out? She had to get out of here before that happened.

She dug ferociously, then crawled gingerly through the new opening she’d created in the plaster pilings. Had she lost something? She turned back and reached for the canvas bag that held her camera and—

A sharp sensation seared her right leg. She shuddered.
I’ve been cut badly, but I’m not feeling much pain now. It will come.
A groan sounded above her, and she forced herself to focus, moving on her knees toward where she thought the entrance was—or, at least, had been. She had to reach the stairs before the beam above her collapsed.

Fallen plaster was layered like crackers around sections of caved-in Corinthian cornices. Ahead of her, a welcome stream of fresh air entered her nostrils, along with the musty smell of mildew. Finally, her right hand touched the bottom of a step, and she nearly cried out with relief. She slowly eased herself upward, ignoring the shooting pain in her ribcage. A small beam of light began to dance sporadically around the crypt. On the sixth step, several two-by-fours secured by fallen plaster and bricks blocked her way.

“Are you there, my lady?” a man’s voice yelled down. “Are you all right?” The flicker of light grew stronger, illuminating the steps above.

“I’m here! Help me, Michael,” she screamed back. As she watched, Michael began to unwedge the two-by-fours, a flashlight balanced in one hand. In short order he’d cleared enough space to provide a narrow passage out of the crypt. He took her hand and pulled her toward him. Justine held on tightly to steady herself, fighting back the dizziness, her foot seeking the top step.

“I think we can get out this way,” he said, his voice trembling as he took in the gash on her head, her hands, the blood running onto her ankle. He led her into the well of the church. Shattered amber chandeliers and panels from the dome lay across smashed pews. One of the Corinthian columns leaned against another. Plaster and dust were beginning to settle and filter the meager light coming in from outside. In one of the untouched corners of a pew, an elderly woman in a scarf and long, dark paisley dress sat frozen in place, sobbing and praying aloud. Her wrinkled features moved closer together until her eyes were but small slits, reminding Justine of an apple doll she’d had as a child.

“Please, let’s go, ma’am. The church may collapse any minute,” Michael begged in Arabic. The old woman turned toward Michael and reluctantly nodded, slowly standing. He and Justine each took hold of an arm, gently ushering the old woman toward the door. Thank God the full church service had not yet begun.

As they stepped out into the narrow passageway, made narrower by fallen debris, Justine asked, “Where are the others?”

“Many ran when the building began to shake. Our people are afraid of God’s wrath,” he said.

“And you came back for me?” Justine was as astounded as she was grateful. He nodded. “Thank you,” she said simply. A wave of nausea momentarily moved through her and she fell silent, her leg and head throbbing. The elderly lady was nearly white, her skin matching the whites of her wide-open eyes. They all ducked under the remaining archway and proceeded down the cobblestone alleyway. Collapsed walls of sandstone and layers of plaster and glass made their progress slow. The huge window on the antiquities shop had shattered into the passageway; life-sized statutes of the Egyptian gods Anubis and Horus had tumbled out into the walkway. The gods loomed large before them, as though chastening them for centuries of neglect. As they passed the statues, the old woman cried out in renewed terror.

Several minutes later, the three of them emerged into the chaos of Mars Girgius Street. A few tour buses were still sitting in the usual places. People screamed and ran as a smaller aftershock jarred the street. A part of the outer wall of Old Cairo had caved in upon itself, as had many of the buildings that lined the north side of the street. Two small cafés were no longer visible. Screaming sirens filled the air. Above, an innocent blue sky with powder-puff clouds seemed unaware that the earth was collapsing.

Justine suggested to Michael that he stay with the older woman. “I will find my way back,” she said, although she had no idea how she would. Certainly the Metro was no longer an option.

“No, my lady, we must stay together. You are hurt and it’s not safe,” Michael insisted, holding tightly to both women’s arms.

“I thank you for saving me, Michael. I don’t know what I would have done without you, but I will go now.” She touched him gently on the cheek. She was not sure why she needed to separate herself from the pair, but she found herself almost as unnerved by the old woman’s hysteria as by the threat of another aftershock. She turned east and hobbled toward the cluster of black-and-white taxis. There were no drivers in sight. Cars sped frantically along Mars Girgius.

“You’re hurt,” shouted a voice from across the busy street. Justine turned to see a man racing toward her from Amr Ibn al-As Mosque. “Justine, it’s Mohammed!” the man exclaimed.

Mohammed. Mohammed
, she repeated to herself. With a start, she recognized Nadia’s Mohammed from the felucca. The Apple T-shirt. Their meeting seemed so long ago.

Examining her torn skirt, cut leg, and bleeding hands, as well as the blood matting her hair, Mohammed took hold of both of Justine’s shoulders. “I’m taking you back to the hotel. It’s right on my way home. I live in Mohandeseen, and fortunately Lulu and the kids are at her mother’s in Alex.”

His obvious concern was comforting. Relief flooded through Justine, and she began to cry softly.

“I’m not sure which streets are open, but we’ll give it a try,” Mohammed said, the timidity of two nights before now gone. Justine slipped into the passenger seat of his waiting Fiat. The engine responded on the first try and Mohammed slowly pulled into the panic-stricken traffic.

“Were you in Babylon this morning?”

She nodded, then winced.
Not a good idea.
“I went to see the crypt under St. Sergius. I was there when the earthquake hit.”