‘This is not the first time we have been attacked. It has become a form of diversion for young people. It is not their fault, in my opinion, but they are frustrated and easily led astray.’
Makana and Sami had to make an effort to keep up with the priest, who moved with lithe, athletic grace.
‘You can’t blame people for being concerned,’ Sami said to his back. ‘These murders have created an atmosphere of panic.’
‘That is exactly my point.’ Father Macarius spun on his heel to face them. ‘There is a need for calm thinking, rationality, but the government is taking a back seat. It is almost as if this unrest is of no concern to them.’
Sami was scribbling furiously in his notebook. ‘Are you accusing the government of turning a blind eye to the persecution of Christians in this country?’
Father Macarius smiled. ‘I said nothing of the kind, so please do not quote me as having said that. I merely ask the question of why nothing more is being done to catch the person responsible for these murders.’
‘And if the murderer is a Christian?’
Father Macarius turned his gaze on Makana. ‘The law must apply to all, regardless of their beliefs.’
The interior of the church was dark and cool. Bands of sunlight spilled through the hatched screens that covered the upper windows. A high gallery ran along both sides of the walls, culminating in a square tower that rose up at the far end. The air was laden with dust. The building was in a state of collapse by the look of it. Held together by heavy wooden scaffolding, timbers, rope, nails and a good deal of faith.
The noise of the crowd outside was diminishing.
‘They are growing bored,’ said Father Macarius. ‘Now their minds turn to other things. Their stomachs are hungry and a glass of tea would be nice after all that shouting.’
‘A lot of people would not take being attacked in such a good-natured way,’ said Sami.
‘I refuse to be bullied into retreating to the dark ages.’ Macarius gestured about him. ‘I built this church from a ruin. That was my promise to Pope Shenouda. Give me a place to stand, I said, and I shall build a tower to God. I did that and I shall defend it with my life.’
A large wooden screen ran along one wall. On it a series of small panels gleamed darkly like pearls inset in the brown, smoky wood. Icons. Flashes of gold paint, light and varnish brought the religious images alive.
‘We have been here for centuries,’ said the priest. ‘The Coptic church is living history, a connection to the ancient world of the pharaohs.’
Sami nodded and pointed. ‘What’s this one?’
‘Saint Anthony.’
The air carried the tarry smell of old wood, death and stale perspiration. The whitewashed walls bore the smudges of passing hands. Even the light seemed somehow to have arrived here from another century. The priest led the way along the display, pointing out the figures in the paintings.
‘Saint Nilus of Sinai, who prophesised the apocalypse; St Amun, named of course after the Egyptian God; St John the Small; St Shenouda.’ He ticked them off with a finger as they moved.
‘All of them were hermits, weren’t they?’
Father Macarius spoke over his shoulder without looking in Makana’s direction.
‘This church is dedicated to those who took themselves off into the desert in order to commune with God. It is the tradition to which I belong.’
‘You are a monk, then? Which monastery?’
‘It’s of no consequence,’ shrugged Father Macarius as he turned, his eyes lingering on Makana for a moment. ‘Wadi Nikeiba. It no longer exists.’
They moved on until they came to the last wooden panel in the display. The paintings seemed to merge, blending into a constellation of suffering. It made Makana tired just to think of all that pain. But this last one intrigued him. Two figures shared a frame the colour of blood.
‘My namesake,’ explained the priest tersely. ‘Macarius the Great.’
‘What about the figure next to him?’
‘Ah . . . that is the Seraph.’ Macarius studied Makana carefully. ‘You are not a religious man.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Does it matter?’ Makana glanced at the priest and noted a faint gleam of satisfaction.
‘You are sure that God does not exist?’
‘He may well exist, but I’d like to see evidence of his goodness.’
A smile played on the priest’s lips. ‘You would like to believe in a benevolent God?’