Adebowale laughed. “Impossible. I was born in this desert. I have spent more time here than anywhere else in the world, including my homeland. I know this weather as though it was a part of me, an extension of my arms and legs, and I can tell you there’s no storm coming tonight.”
“Good.” Zara smiled, feeling somewhat reassured. Perhaps it was a hoax after all — even if a very good one. “Look. I’m going out into the sand dunes for an hour or so to collect my thoughts. Make plans to move the book to Matan al-Sarra Air Base. I’ll contact the buyer tonight and make sure he’s got a plane waiting for us there. I’ll need to examine it at a laboratory before I can confirm its authenticity.”
“Yes, Doctor — the men will be ready, I promise.”
“Good. Can you personally guard the book and make certain no one enters my tent until I return?”
Adebowale bowed his head, reverently. “As you wish, Doctor.”
“I mean it, don’t leave this to any of your men — it’s too important.”
Adebowale looked at her warmly. “Do not worry, Doctor. I will protect it with my life.”
Zara turned to walk out of the camp and hoped to hell Adebowale’s words wouldn’t come back to haunt her.
Chapter Ten
Zara climbed the first sand dune and headed south. It was dark. She knew it was dangerous to walk far from the camp by herself, but needed to be on her own. The discovery had single handedly confirmed the basis of the theory on which she’d built her entire academic career, and at the same time, shown her how far she was from acquiring the equation. She had long argued that even if Nostradamus did in fact see the future, there was no way he could determine an accurate way of measuring the time of the events. It would be like walking into a cinema and watching a single scene. Without seeing what came before, you couldn’t determine the time or date of that event.
She reached the peak of the second sand dune. Zara paused long enough to glance at the makeshift camp that had been her home for the past three months. Her final attempt at finding the book. The campfires burned brightly. She could hear the loud, boisterous laughs, of many of the men who labored for her — they sounded so happy.
Her eyes continued searching past the camp to the dark horizon. No other lights burned. The sea of sand turned into darkness. She breathed deeply — perhaps Nostradamus was lying. There was no sign that anything bad was going to happen to the camp or her people. The thought was crazy. She was on an archeological expedition. No one in their right mind really believed Nostradamus really left a book that yielded unimaginable power in the desert — did they? Did she? She asked herself.
Zara turned and continued down the next sand dune, all sixty feet of it. She climbed the third followed by the fourth. Breathing deeply as her feet lifted off the sinking sand as quickly and as lithely as they stepped, she slowly gained height in the massive mountain of sand. She was Queen of the Sahara and she didn’t fear the walk through the desert sands.
It wasn’t until the fourth sand dune she began to laugh. At the crest she looked back at the camp, now at least two miles away. The light from the camp was prominent. There was no risk of losing it altogether, but the Saharan desert was a dangerous place. Even in the night, the extreme weather changes and sudden sand storms had lethal outcomes.
What was she thinking?
There was no way Nostradamus could see the future. He wasn’t any more of a Seer than she was. The thought was impossible. There had to be a better explanation. Besides, even if he was right, and there was going to be an attack on the camp tonight — why would she walk across the desert without any food or water? The concept was absurd. She would die of exposure, thirst, and stupidity within a day or two.
She needed to get away and collect her thoughts — that’s all.
Out of range of the laughter and merriment from the camp, Zara found the silence comforting. Even if this was the biggest hoax, she could be funded for years of research before she proved it. The myriad of stars reassured her that there was a purpose in everything in the universe. No matter how important. This was simply what she needed to do with her life. Zara wondered what her financial backer would say when he heard about her discovery. Would he continue funding her search? It might take years to achieve it, but the results would be worth it.
Would he believe in the Nostradamus Equation?
She thought about that for a few moments. Comforted by the silence, Zara opened the old codex. Skipped the first page letter addressed to herself by Nostradamus’s own hand. She made a mental note to check the handwriting with documented letters by the master Seer.
There were three versions of Nostradamus’s long-term predictions, named, Les Prophecies. The most complete surviving version being an omnibus edition that was published after his death in 1568. In that account there was one unrhymed and 941 rhymed quatrains, grouped into nine sets of 100 and one of 42. Each group was identified as Centuries.
She stared at the first real page of what Nostradamus described as the most dangerous book in the world — and swore loudly.
Centuries VII
Zara quickly read the first few quatrains. Feeling a terrible sense of wasted time. They were identical to the ones she’d read years earlier. Centuries VII could be purchased anywhere around the world. It was most notable of all the Centuries collections because unlike the rest of collections, which included one hundred individual quatrains, it contained just 42.
1.
The arc of the treasure deceived by Achilles,
the quadrangle known to the procreators.
The invention will be known by the Royal deed;
a corpse seen hanging in the sight of the populace.
2.
Opened by Mars Arles will not give war,
the soldiers will be astonished by night.
Black and white concealing indigo on land
under the false shadow you will see traitors sounded.
3.
After the naval victory of France,
the people of Barcelona the Saillinons and those of Marseilles;
the robber of gold, the anvil enclosed in the ball,
the people of Ptolon will be party to the fraud.
Zara stopped reading. It was all for nothing. She wanted to cry, but nothing would come out. The entire thing was an elaborate hoax. There was nothing powerful or special about the book she’d discovered. It was no more than a decorative version of Les Prophecies. She quickly skipped through the rest of the pages.
Why would my father do this to me?
How many generations of lies?
She was angry and swore profusely as she flicked the remaining pages with merciless speed, splintering the four hundred year old paper as though it were a pile of scrap. Zara stopped short of throwing the book in the sand and paused.
Because this version contained the missing quatrains of Centuries VII, numbered 43-100.
Chapter Eleven