Hacking Timbuktu Trade cloth - 2010 - 1st Edition

Summary

Excerpt

Prologue

Timbuktu, 14th century

Blind and silent as a mole, Akonio Dolo crawled toward the gold. It was a tight squeeze, but Akonio didn’t mind. He loved his tunnel. He had enjoyed planning it, he had enjoyed digging it, and most of all he had enjoyed stealing gold through it.

The silence was broken by footsteps in the mosque above. That had to be Sheikh al-Qadi, high professor of Timbuktu, arriving to sing the morning call to prayer. Akonio Dolo lay still and listened to the soft, unhurried footfalls of the sheikh.

The call to prayer began, but to Akonio’s surprise the voice did not belong to Sheikh al-Qadi. It was far deeper and richer than al-Qadi’s voice, and it reverberated down through the earth in a way that made the boy’s spine tingle with pleasure.

"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!"

"God is great," breathed Akonio, and he wriggled forward again. God is great. The quality of the new caller’s voice was extraordinary—pure yet powerful, a voice to get even the most impious student out of bed at dawn. Not that there were many impious students in Timbuktu. Only one, according to Sheikh al-Qadi. He had always said that Dolo the Dogon would come to no good.

"Come to prayer, come to prayer.

Come to success, come to success."

"Come to success," breathed Akonio Dolo, edging ever closer toward the vault at the end of the tunnel. He knew what awaited him in that vault: a wall of pure gold two ingots thick. A year and a half ago the wall had been nine ingots thick, but Akonio had been working hard. So far he had stolen almost two million mithqals of gold, making him the second richest person in the whole of Mali at the age of only seventeen! It was a beautiful heist. So long as the wall remained intact on the guards’ side, no one would realize there was a single mithqal missing.

"God is great! God is great!

There is no god but God!"

A tiny shower of earth fell from the tunnel roof onto the back of Akonio’s neck. The boy thief frowned. Above him the voice of the prayer caller rumbled louder still.

"Prayer is better than sleep!

Prayer is better than sleep!"

A clump of earth fell onto the tunnel floor behind Akonio, and he glanced round in surprise. "Don’t let me down, tunnel," he whispered. "These past two hundred nights I’ve found no fault in you. Don’t waver now."

The tunnel replied by dumping a heavy shower of dirt on his head.

It’s the vibrations caused by the new caller’s voice, thought Akonio. That voice is going to bury me alive! He began to wriggle forward with a new urgency, legs kicking back and forth, fingernails scrabbling on the dirt floor.

"In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful," sang the caller, and a whole section of roof collapsed on Akonio’s legs. He flailed desperately to free himself, and when at last his feet came loose, he crawled ahead at breakneck speed, blinking against a rain of laterite. He could not be far from the end of the tunnel. Any moment now he would feel the welcome draft of the vault.

"Guide us to the straight path, the path of those whom You have favored, not of those who have incurred Your wrath, nor of those who have gone astray."

WHUMP! The tunnel roof collapsed completely, knocking all the breath out of the boy’s body. Instinctively Akonio turned his head face-down to make a tiny pocket of air under nose and mouth. He tried to arch his back against the weight on top of him, but it was no good. He was pinned from head to toe, as helpless as the butterflies that lined al-Qadi’s study walls. The pocket of air would last for what—five shallow breaths? Ten at most.

The caller had stopped his recital. He must have heard the subsidence and felt the floor of the prayer room dimple and pucker beneath his feet—enough to make even the most fervent caller pause for thought.

All around Akonio Dolo the earth throbbed with the words of the Book. "Praise be to God, Lord of the Universe, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Sovereign of the Day of Judgment." With his final breaths Akonio couldn’t help wondering what judgment God would pass on him. Would God agree with Sheikh al-Qadi’s assessment? I always knew that Dolo the Dogon would come to no good.

Akonio wept. Sheikh al-Qadi disliked him only because he slept in class. But God knew all the facts—God knew how hard it was for a boy to stay awake in class after a busy night of tunneling. And God knew that the theft was not Akonio’s fault. It was inevitable! What kind of fool stacked gold nine ingots thick from floor to ceiling and wall to wall in a vault dug out of earth? They were simply asking for someone to tunnel in. It would have been rude of Akonio not to have stolen the gold!

The boy took another feeble breath. Who was he trying to kid? He was a miserable thief. He knew it, God knew it, end of story. And at that moment he couldn’t help but wonder: If you’re already buried, is it too late to repent?

The boy thief pricked up his ears. What was that? The heavy clink of gold on gold, muted but unmistakable. Someone was dismantling the wall of ingots in the vault. The guards had heard the tunnel collapse and were coming to investigate.

"Look at this!" The voice was not far away from where Akonio lay. "This pile is only two ingots thick!"

"No! It should be nine."

"There’s a gap where the gold should be."

"Can you get in?"

"I think so."

Akonio’s heart pulsed weakly against the earth below. His air supply was exhausted. He was going to die.

"There’s some kind of tunnel here! It looks like it’s collapsed!"

"That explains the sound we heard."

"There’s a lot of loose earth. I’ll just try and—wallaahi!!!!"

"What is it?"

"Fingers! I’ve found fingers!"

"Thieving fingers, I’ll be bound. Wait there, Yusuf, we’ll come and help you."

Working together, the guards scrabbled to remove the body of the thief from its tomb, clearing earth from hands, arms, head, and shoulders. The youngest guard gave a sudden cry of recognition.

"It’s the Dogon boy! It’s Akonio Dolo!"

"I don’t believe it," said another. "All this time, he’s been stealing gold from right under our noses."

"Grab his armpits. Let’s get him out of here."

The guards yanked the boy out of his hole and manhandled him through the wall of gold, up the steps, and out into the open air.

They laid him down by the eastern wall of the great Sankore mosque. This mosque was the beating heart of Timbuktu University. It was built entirely of mud brick, except for one hundred fifty short cedar sticks protruding at regular intervals from the walls and minaret, sticks that served as scaffolding for the annual repairs to the flawless façade. Akonio Dolo looked very small next to the magnificent building.

The guards stood around the body, unsure of their next step.

"We should wash it and prepare it for burial," said one.

"We should cut off its hands," said another.

"That’s not for us to decide," said a third. "We’ll wait here for Sheikh al-Qadi."

The sheikh was already on his way. White robes billowed around him as he hurried to where the guards stood.

"It’s Dolo the Dogon!" exclaimed the sheikh. "Why is he so dirty?"

"He’s dead."

"Dead! How so?"

"The tunnel collapsed on top of him."

"What tunnel?"

"The tunnel he used for stealing gold."

A muscle in the sheikh’s jaw twitched. "You mean he actually got some?"

"More than some. He got hundreds of ingots."

"What? Where did he put it all?"

"We don’t know."

The sheikh spun round to face the rising sun and tore his outer robe from top to bottom. "Betrayed by one of our own!" he cried. Sheikh al-Qadi was a dignified man, and the guards were surprised by this sudden display of passion.

"Quickly!" cried the sheikh. "Go and search the boy’s room!"

When the guard came back, he said, "A camel saddle, a few clothes—and this." He held out a wad of paper.

"Introduction to Magic Squares," read the sheikh, "by Abu al- Kabari." He riffled the pages and threw them petulantly to the ground. "It’s nothing," he muttered. "An old mathematics treatise from the university library."

If only you knew, thought Akonio Dolo.

Akonio Dolo was not quite dead; at least he didn’t think he was. He breathed in slowly through earth-caked nostrils and felt his lungs fill with air.

"Look!" said a voice. "Look there! Am I going mad, or do dead Dogon breathe?"

Akonio recognized the voice. It was one of the university doctors. Don’t check my pulse, he thought. Don’t check my pulse. He heard footsteps in the sand, felt the doctor kneel down beside him, felt two gentle fingers on his wrist. Play dead, he thought. Play dead, play dead.

"He’s still alive," said the doctor.

Here goes. Akonio Dolo opened his eyes, sprang to his feet, and rent the heavens with a bloodcurdling Dogon war cry. The doctor yelped and fell over backward.

In front of Akonio stood a dozen guards, three tutors, a magistrate, and a growing crowd of students. Behind him, solid and impenetrable, loomed the east wall of the mosque.

The time for playing dead was past. The time had come to die properly. Snorting earth and blood from his nostrils, Akonio strode forward, and the crowd shrank back in alarm.

It was Sheikh al-Qadi who broke the Dogon’s spell. "What are you waiting for?" he roared. "Seize him!"

As the guards surged forward, Akonio Dolo turned and ran full tilt toward the wall of the mosque. He leaped high, grabbed the lowest of the cedar sticks, and muscled up until he was standing on top of it. Up and up he climbed from stick to stick, faster and faster, a dazzling combination of leaps, swings, and muscle-ups.

"Look at him go!" exclaimed the magistrate.

"He’s a born climber," murmured the doctor. "A true Dogon."

"Students!" cried the sheikh. "Form an inner and an outer circle all around the mosque. Quickly! Don’t let him get away!"

The students scattered to obey, but all the while they kept their eyes fixed on their clambering classmate. Silhouetted against the lightening sky and flowing like water up the minaret, he seemed somehow heroic—a solitary soul on his way to heaven.

"Guards!" cried the sheikh. "Don’t stand there like donkeys. Climb up and bring the Dogon down!"

Slowly, awkwardly, the guards began to pick their way up the wall in pursuit of Akonio Dolo.

The boy thief had already reached the pinnacle of the minaret. He squatted on top, rested his chin on his hand, and gazed at the sun as it climbed above the horizon. The east side of the minaret turned a glorious rose red.

"Dolo!" roared the sheikh. "What did you do with the gold?"

Akonio tore his gaze away from the rising sun and looked down at the sheikh. "I took it to Dogon country," he called. "It took me six separate journeys to shift it all!"

The sheikh raised his hands imploringly toward the minaret. "Where did you hide it, Akonio?"

"In the cliffs of Bandiagara! In a secret chamber nineteen ghalva northeast of Tireli."

Sheikh al-Qadi turned to the doctor and whispered, "Go and tell the stable boy to prepare the fastest stallion."

"You’ll need the key!" shouted Akonio.

"And where is that?"

"The key can only be found by a Dogon. It takes a Dogon to know a Nommo!"

"Talk sense, boy!"

"Fine!" Akonio Dolo stood up on the pinnacle of the minaret. "How’s this for sense? God is great!"

"He’s going to jump!" yelled the doctor, starting forward.

Akonio lifted his arms high above his head. "Professor al- Qadi!" he shouted. "You were right all along! You always did say I would come to no good!"

"Akonio!"

It was too late. The boy kicked off the minaret and straightened his body into a headlong dive. Like monkey bread from a baobab tree he fell, and like monkey bread he broke open on the ground.

Sheikh Ahmed al-Qadi ibn Abdullah kneeled down next to the boy. The doctor kneeled on the other side and shook his head. This time there was no need to take a pulse.

Al-Qadi shrugged off his torn outer garment and laid it gently over the body. "Seventeen years old," he murmured. "Am I to blame, doctor?"

"Certainly not. He did this to himself."

"We should bury him straightaway."

"Of course."

"What’s a Nommo?"

"I have no idea."

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