_ Chapter 2 - London
Raindrops raced chaotically down the window pane where Ian stood looking out on a grey sky. He stared broodingly at the tiny crumbs of water sliding in stalls and starts down the glass, gathering strength as they huddled with like-minded molecules until they finally gathered the critical mass that sent them plunging headlong to the ground. The rolling black clouds he watched through the ordered chaos of the drizzle splattered pane had blotted out a beautiful summer day in London. Normally, this would have been enough to dampen his spirits, but today his mood was an unusual mixture of melancholy and mirth.
Ian turned away from the window, stared at the wooden lockbox sitting on the table and reached in his pocket for the key. This was what had buoyed his spirits. Yesterday’s discovery had reignited his desire to complete a personal quest and renewed his enthusiasm. And yet staring out the window at the storm, he felt that the water falling from the heavens meant to douse his new-found fervor. Memories of the dreary overcast day when his wife, Patricia, had passed away threatened to come rushing in like a flood removing the silt that had accumulated in his soul over the last two years and finally buried the grief of separation. For two years, he had muddled through his classes and shelved all his projects until time and numbness interred his sorrow.
He fingered the key in his hand. What’s the point if Patricia’s not here to share it with? It was a negative train of thought and he knew it wouldn’t take him anywhere worth going. He had been down that track before, had lived there for almost two years. He saw another train of thought going the opposite way and, with the desperation of a homeless hobo, he hopped unto it instead. Your misery doesn’t honor her memory. Get on with your life. There was a fresh pot of Ceylon tea on the table and the whole afternoon to examine this miraculous find, the first lead he had had in years. But this train was suddenly thrown off track by a ringing doorbell. Ian sighed. Intrusion. Again. He sat motionless contemplating whether or not to answer it. A voice from the other side made up his mind for him.
“Ian, it's me, Judith.”
One could hardly hope for a more charming intrusion. He walked quickly to the door, slipped the deadbolt and opened it in a crack.
“Judith? I had no idea I was expecting you.” The feigned reproach made her smile.
“Were you expecting someone else?” she rejoined. “If you were, I need to know now.”
Ian was accustomed to her directness.
“Of course not. Who would a grumpy old professor like me be expecting on a Saturday afternoon?”
He moved aside and opened the door. She entered like a cloud of honeysuckle and jasmine, hung her umbrella in the entry and slipped off a purple rain coat to reveal a sleek black dress that hugged a body toned by constant exercise. She was forty-nine going on thirty-five almost fifteen years his junior.
“I'm surprised you braved the rain. It’s been pouring,” he said trying to move the conversation to something safe and neutral while he tried to clear the fog that always descended on his mind when he was with her.
“It’s rain, Ian, and I'm Irish.”
If he hadn’t know her better, the austerity dripping from her voice like a leaky roof would have felt like a slap in the face. It was all the harder to take coming from a creature of such surpassing beauty and it wasn’t just her sparkling blue eyes, her lily white skin or her curly locks of thick, black hair; it was her intellectual passion and boundless curiosity.
“You didn’t think a little water falling from the sky could keep me from our weekly tea, did you? Besides, I’m dying to know what you found. It was awfully cruel of you to run off without me. Sending me a text on your way to the airport was absolutely heartless.”
She smiled as she said it, her way of driving the knife edge of her displeasure even deeper.
“Well, I only found out at the last minute myself. A friend of Charles heard about it from a bookseller in Amsterdam. Charles was in London, so he called for tea and told me I should move on it immediately. I was on the evening plane. If I’d had more forewarning, maybe I could have arranged something.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t, knowing how much I love Amsterdam. Oh well, it can’t be helped. I hope you have some tea on.”
“As a matter of fact I do,” he replied. She was already heading towards the kitchen.
“Well, are you going to tell me whether your week away from me was worth it?”
“Amsterdam was incredible. So vibrant, so full of energy and life.”
“Did it make you feel younger than I do?”
Ian felt his cheeks getting hot. She continued. “Did you find anything in our field?”
“Our field…” His voice trailed off. “What could I find in our field? Our field is a dead end. If there is one thing I have often regretted, it is my choice of a field.”
Her gasp literally sucked the oxygen out of the air.
“Ian, you can’t be serious. History is a sacred trust. The future of civilization lies with those who have the keys to the past. We are the guardians.”
“Are you sure that isn’t just a mantra we keep chanting to our narcissistic egos in an attempt to put a good face on our irrelevance? History is important. It's Byzantine history that isn’t. Think about it. Babylon predates the Byzantine Empire by one thousand years and wrote its history on clay tablets, yet there are more Babylonian sources than there are documents from the Byzantine Empire. Research requires sources, Judith, and we have none to speak of. Besides, you are hardly in the field anymore.”
“Once a historian, always a historian. I was chosen to be the UK special representative on the UN Committee for the Protection and Promotion of Diversity in Cultural Expression because of the perspective gained by studying history. What is it you’re always saying? ‘History and philosophy are the prerequisites for policy and therefore politicians.’ I'm sure you said it better.”
“True enough.”
“So, the trip was a waste?”
“Not exactly. I was able to purchase a collection of personal correspondence ranging from 1604 to 1738. They are mostly Dutch and Spanish, but there are a couple of interesting pieces in Aljamiado. I’ll need to have them translated.”
“What makes you think that might be relevant?”
“According to the bookseller, they were part of a private collection held by a Morisco descendant. He refused to provide further details.”
“That sounds promising. Anything else?”
“Strangely enough, I also found a couple of Byzantine manuscripts.”
“I hope you were able to obtain them.”
“Yes, I was. Thanks to Charles, I was the first buyer to show up. It was weird though. If you recall, at the last three sales I went to, someone beat me to the punch every time, purchasing everything of interest before I was even able to view them. Well, thanks to Charles, this time I got there first. Still, when I arrived the seller said he had only just published the details of the sale on the Internet and had received an offer almost immediately to buy everything - sight unseen for the full asking price. He only agreed to sell them to me because he had not yet responded to their email.”
“Excellent!” Her enthusiasm charged the air with electricity. “I know how disappointed you were when somebody else beat you to the last couple of purchases. Maybe these letters will hold some clue.”
“Maybe, but I'm beginning to wonder who these people are? It's not normal.”
“Probably just some collector. You don’t seem so excited,” she remarked as he poured her a cup of tea.
“The personal letters may prove interesting, but the manuscripts are known works. They bring nothing new to the field, and what we need is something new. The Roman Empire continued in the East for one thousand years after it had fallen in the West, and yet the northern Barbarians left more in Rome than was able to survive in Constantinople. Where are the archives of one of Earth’s greatest empires? Less than two thousand works have survived the ravages of time and tyranny, and we must content ourselves with hashing them over and over and over again.”
“We all share the same frustration, Ian, but there is nothing for it. We shall continue to labor on quietly in our little corner of academia unappreciated and unknown. I used to resent it too, but not anymore, especially when I can work with you.”
“It has been fun working together, but you spend most of your time sipping champagne. You rub shoulders with power-brokers in government, education and business at conventions and conferences aimed at ensuring the values of the world's peoples do not result in conflict that leads to war. The problem is most of the people you work with have no sense of value. Unless, of course, we mean the vain desire to be respected by their valueless colleagues. I, on the other hand, content myself with trying to ensure that the facts of the past are passed down to the next generation and occasionally indulging in a bit of historic sleuthing.”
“Sleuthing? That is the most pathetic attempt at humility I’ve heard in quite some time. More published journal articles than anyone in the department for, what is it, twelve years running? You have won two awards for distinguished history teaching on two different continents, three international awards for scholarly research and you’ve been nominated Historian of the Year twice in Britain. Sleuthing indeed!”
He smiled. It was meant to hide the shock he felt at how much she knew about his accomplishments. It didn’t work.
“You think I haven’t researched everything about you? I do not easily give away my affection and certainly not to some dark horse. I love your mind, your passion and your boundless curiosity.”
“Is that all?”
“And your blue eyes.”
She sensed the all-to-familiar look of melancholy detachment settle over his eyes like a fog, turning them from cerulean blue to gray. She wasn’t going to let this happen again.
“What is the locomotive of human history?”
“Is this an exam?”
“Of sorts.”
“Power, of course.”
“True, but let’s give it some nuance. Conquest, Ian. Conquest pure and simple. And, not just for men but for women like me too. The thrill of victory, the sense of challenge, this is what fuels the human race. And women thrive on it as much as men do. I have never laid siege to a city and failed to enter triumphant.”
Her lips pursed in a seductive pout, and she fluttered her eyelids to enhance the impact of her words. He stared into her eyes and she held his gaze. Then, he felt her hand touching his on the table and slowly the blue changed to sea green, her hair lightened until it was strawberry blonde, and he was startled to find himself looking at Patricia. The waking vision of his late wife startled him. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
“Ian, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you hiding, Ian?”
“It was just a flashback of sorts.”
“Of Patricia?”
“Yes, Judith, of Patricia.”
He opened his eyes and looked back across the table. The same blue eyes were still staring back at him, but they were squinting ever so slightly, taut with resolve.
“She was a wonderful woman, Ian. You were a lucky man. Lucky to have had so many years with her. Lucky to have found a true soul mate. You should be thankful and cherish her memory, but, Ian, she is gone now. As historians, our job may be poking about the past, but you can’t live there. Everything there is dead. Love and life happen in the present. You’ve got many years ahead of you. Give yourself a chance. Allow yourself to love your work again. I’m sure Patricia would want you to move on. If the tables had been turned, wouldn’t you have wanted her to move on too?”
The question caught him off guard and the answer which flew to his mind like a lightning bolt startled his modern sensibilities. No, I wouldn't. I would want her to go on loving me forever. What is love if it is not eternal?
“I don’t know how to answer that question, Judith. I guess I'm just not ready.”
She caressed his hand.
“I understand and I'm here for you. Besides,” she smiled again. “I enjoy the adventure, the mystery, how you keep stringing me along. The chase is just as fun as the catch. Now, let’s get back to our dismal corner of history.”
Ian sighed and forced another smile.
“The worst thing of all,” she said exuberantly, “is the lack of respect we get.” He noted her attempt to lighten the mood. “Even the name is an insult: Byzantine history indeed. Only here in the west. To all the eastern peoples, it was and still is called the Roman Empire. The empire of Rome that survived the fall of Rome by a thousand years.”
“All that is water under the bridge now. Still, it is a shame that the quarrel between the Catholic and Orthodox should have ended by sacrificing one of the great cities of the world to an even more foreign culture. For eight hundred years, Constantinople held the Eastern flank of Europe and kept the warriors of the crescent from overrunning Europe. For eight hundred years, they fought a losing battle against an enemy with vastly superior resources. They bled out slowly, and then they were abandoned by the West at their hour of greatest need, giving the Turks one of the most geo-politically sensitive locations in the world straddling Europe and Asia.”
“Politics, Ian. The politics of culture and religion. Why would the Papal puppets of the West come to Constantinople’s aid against the Muslims? The Orthodox Christians were potential rivals for the allegiance of their subjects while the Muslims were merely the enemy. The spirit of Cain is part and parcel of any religion. Why am I my brother’s keeper?” Only an ex-Catholic could have said it with a cynicism as sour as that in Judith's voice.
“The armies of the Pope invaded Constantinople under the guise of the Fourth Crusade, ostensibly on a mission to repel Muslim armies and bring aide to Christians. Instead, they sacked the capital of the empire weakening it even further and contributing to its eventual demise. The Reformation came too late and Constantinople, which had formed a bulwark against the rising tide of Islam for over eight hundred years, was allowed to be destroyed by the most committed jihadists of all time – the Turks from Central Asia. Maybe the West thought the Turks would rid them of the Orthodox plague and that they would then drive out the Turks and retake the city.”
“Or, maybe they just didn’t care. Whatever the case, it was a strategic miscalculation if there ever was one. It almost led to the defeat of Christendom, and it took four hundred and fifty years to free the European peoples, many of them Catholic, from the Ottoman yoke.”
He sat his tea down on the table, walked into the study and returned carrying one of the two manuscripts he had purchased. Judith’s face lit up as he placed it reverently on the table in front of her.
“Αποδείξεις Ιστοριών,” she said softly.
“Yes, Proofs of Histories. Proof that the victor does not always write history.”
Her smile was sardonic. “Ah yes, Laonicus Chalcondyles. And who can argue with his contention that the conquest of Constantinople was analogous to the fall of Troy. It was a dark vision heralding four hundred and seventy years of Ottoman rule.”
“Like Jeremiah, a prophet of despair. Constantinople fell to the Crescent hordes and the Anatolian bastion of Christianity was lost forever. The Orthodox were almost entirely subjugated to Islam, the West shrunk, and a blood red moon rose on the Bosphorus.”
“You paint such a dreary picture, Ian.”
She gingerly opened the manuscript.
“This copy is particularly valuable,” continued Ian. “It is a very early copy.” Judith carefully opened the book and began to turn the pages. He furrowed his brow as he lifted his teacup to his lips and then sat the cup back down without taking a sip. He had spent his life studying the history of the Byzantine Empire, and now the same questions that had tormented historians and philosophers for years were gnawing at the corners of his mind, like a terrier worrying a bone. Why? No, not why. How? How could the experience of a Byzantine historian like Laonicus Chalcondyles be such a perfect mirror of what men and women throughout the centuries and around the globe in dozens of cultures and religious systems had endured down through the ages? How had history gotten into this rut of ruin and rubble, allowing religion to be an instrument of havoc and horror? Why had most of the unending stream of humanity flowing from the loins of men and women been destined for misery and hardship at the hands of imperial taskmasters? Why was oppression the hallmark of humanity? How could the few rule the many with such impunity for so long? With almost four thousand years of recorded history to work with, why were the mistakes of history still being repeated? The questions had always been as troubling as the answers were elusive. He thought back to the conference held at his own university, King’s College London, in January 2009 entitled “Authority in Byzantium”. Why is man so determined to rule his neighbor?
He watched Judith flip through the manuscript. He had examined it thoroughly before writing out the check on his retirement account, and had only convinced himself to splurge by remembering what Patricia had always said, “Passion pays no heed to price tags.” It was not in the best of condition. Much of the binding had deteriorated from excess humidity. Many of the pages were completely detached and had been haphazardly stuffed between other pages. Still, it was a prize find.
“This is wonderful, Ian. It needs some attention, but valuable nevertheless.”
“Well, I had planned to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening restoring at least some sense of dignity by putting these loose leaves back where they belong. Would you like to help?”
“I’d love to,” she said softly.
He picked up the manuscript and led her into his study, where she grabbed the stereo remote and turned on her favorite jazz station. For the next hour and a half, they arranged the loose leaves in numerical order. It was an enjoyable exercise punctuated by conversation that was professional and stimulating, directed almost entirely by the different passages they spotted on the pages of a book that not one person out of ten million had ever even heard of. He felt a twinge of guilt for finding so much pleasure in the rarified air of her presence.
As they neared the end of the book, where the pages were in particularly bad condition, he realized that two of the pages were stuck together. Experience had taught him better than to try and peel them apart. He walked over to a cabinet of dark oak behind his desk and rummaged around until he found a small box.
“What is that?” asked Judith when she saw something resembling a large ballpoint pen with a cord.
“It is a micro steamer. It’s very handy when trying to separate pages.”
He had performed this surgical procedure dozens of times. Judith watched intently as he set to work, but five minutes later, he still hadn’t persuaded the pages to forego their stubborn embrace.
“Maybe we should just leave those and come back to it later,” suggested Judith. The same thought had crossed his mind and been immediately banished. Defeat was not an option.
“I thought you enjoyed a challenge?” he teased gently. “But if you have somewhere you need to be, I can continue on my own.”
A wry smile slowly bloomed on her face.
“Would you like that?”
“No,” he responded just a bit too hastily. “I just don’t want you to get bored. It shouldn’t take long now. The imperceptible expansion and contraction caused by the application of heat and humidity should force the pages to loosen their grip soon.”
“Then, books must be very unlike humans. Byron says a sultry climate has the opposite effect on us.”
She never misses an opportunity.
“Actually I do have to leave in about twenty minutes. I promised Mother I’d stop by for dinner.”
Ian turned back to his work. Ten minutes later, they were no closer to getting the pages apart than when they had begun.
“This is the darnedest thing I've ever come across. I’ve never seen two pages adhere to one another so tightly.”
He unplugged the device, put it back in its box and stood there puzzled.
“Turn on that light,” Judith said, pointing to an elegant art nouveau lamp on the other end of the desk. Ian reached over and switched it on. Judith held the page vertical to the book and flipped it back and forth.
“Am I seeing things or do the edges of these two pages seemed to be slightly discolored? It is like an irregular border about a centimeter wide along all three sides.”
Ian held the manuscript under the lamp.
“I believe you’re right.” He was irritated at himself for being so inattentive and not noticing it earlier. He stood there for a minute and then turned abruptly, strode into the kitchen and pulled out a two-million-candle emergency flashlight. He turned off the overhead lights and switched on the flashlight.
“What are you doing?” she asked curiously.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he held the flashlight up to one side of the page and looked at the other side to see how much light would penetrate. What he saw only served to pique his curiosity.
“Do you see that?” he asked. “There is noticeably more light coming through the outer edges than there is penetrating the middle. In fact, the demarcation is a perfectly straight line, but it doesn’t correspond to the width of the discolored border.”
He moved the flashlight back and forth looking for clues that would help him.
“It’s probably just a loose leaf, folded in half and stuck between the two pages,” ventured Judith.
He turned the overhead lights back on and sat down to nurse his teacup.
“I would say you were right except for the uniform, discolored border you pointed out and the fact that we can’t get the pages apart. What if…” but he never finished the thought. There was no need. Instead, he headed straight for the bathroom.
“Ian, what are you doing?”
He returned carrying his shaving kit. He had kept his father’s straight-edge razor in that bag for nearly twenty years and thanks to Gillette Inc. and its many imitators he had never found opportunity to use it until now.”
“Ian, are you going to tell me what is going on?”
“The uniform discoloration can only be one thing. The intentional application of some chemical substance to each of the three sides.”
“You mean it was glued?”
“Exactly, which means that whatever is between those pages wasn't meant to be found.”
He held the page straight up, perpendicular to the book and the razor sliced effortlessly through the thick paper along the binding to detach the two pages completely. He examined the edge he had just cut and his suspicions were immediately confirmed. He could see that the paper was not stuck together there. He held the pages horizontally in front of him and blew gently to force them apart; then he took a pair of tweezers out of his shaving kit and gently slid a piece of paper out from between the pages like he was pulling it out of an envelope.
Judith let out a low whistle. He laid the paper down on the desk in front of them. Judith knew, and Ian hoped that they were looking at a clue.
“It looks like Arabic, doesn't it?” asked Judith.
“I’m not sure, but that would be my guess.”
“This is incredible.”
The script was flowing and ornate, written with a dark, high-quality ink. The instincts of a man who had spent most of his life in research swung into action and questions began racing through his mind. Why had it been so carefully hidden inside an ancient manuscript? Who had put it there and when? Who had written it and to whom? What was it about? More questions without answers. Ian glanced at the clock.
“Well, you had better be going. Your mother doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Oh, we stumble on a perfectly delightful mystery, something that could be a clue and you show me the door.”
“The mystery will still be here tomorrow.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“If you like.”
“I’d take you up on it, but my daughter’s new play opens tomorrow night and I promised I’d be there.”
“Don’t worry. It'll be our mystery and we'll solve it together.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Prof. O’Brien, but it will have to wait until I return from Brussels.”
“The attacks in Germany?”
“Yes. The UN has asked three members of our committee to participate in the diplomatic meetings. We'll also be meeting with a delegation from the US led by Senator Tom Giovanni. They want to use the incident to show that this is no time for Europe to get cold feet. We must move forward with the interfaith dialogue initiative immediately.”
He walked her to the door; she gave him a peck on the cheek and squeezed his hand.
“Thank you for a lovely time, Ian.”
“Give my love to your mother.”
“I think I’ll just keep it for myself,” she rejoined with a smile.
Ian walked back to his study and stared at the piece of paper sitting on the desk. This was an enigma to be sure. As he sat down at the computer and his fingers began flying over the keyboard, he could almost feel the years falling off in the youthful joy of discovery.
The next time he looked at the clock it was almost midnight. He sighed. He still had to put the finishing touches on a paper he was presenting at a conference on Byzantine history Wednesday morning. For him, sleep was a wretched necessity, proof of a world gone wrong. Still, without it, he knew he would be worthless the next day when he needed a clear mind to work on his presentation. Time to turn in, he said sternly to himself.
It was the same game every night. Ian would patter around the apartment trying to put off going to the bedroom where his wife, Patricia, had succumbed to breast cancer two years ago. He knew it was childish, foolish even for a grown man. Yet, her absence from that room more than any other reminded him of the hole she had left in his life. That had been their private sanctuary and now the bedroom was a bittersweet place he dreaded entering. He would probably never get used to her absence, but a man had to sleep, and so here he was again alone with himself.
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Raindrops raced chaotically down the window pane where Ian stood looking out on a grey sky. He stared broodingly at the tiny crumbs of water sliding in stalls and starts down the glass, gathering strength as they huddled with like-minded molecules until they finally gathered the critical mass that sent them plunging headlong to the ground. The rolling black clouds he watched through the ordered chaos of the drizzle splattered pane had blotted out a beautiful summer day in London. Normally, this would have been enough to dampen his spirits, but today his mood was an unusual mixture of melancholy and mirth.
Ian turned away from the window, stared at the wooden lockbox sitting on the table and reached in his pocket for the key. This was what had buoyed his spirits. Yesterday’s discovery had reignited his desire to complete a personal quest and renewed his enthusiasm. And yet staring out the window at the storm, he felt that the water falling from the heavens meant to douse his new-found fervor. Memories of the dreary overcast day when his wife, Patricia, had passed away threatened to come rushing in like a flood removing the silt that had accumulated in his soul over the last two years and finally buried the grief of separation. For two years, he had muddled through his classes and shelved all his projects until time and numbness interred his sorrow.
He fingered the key in his hand. What’s the point if Patricia’s not here to share it with? It was a negative train of thought and he knew it wouldn’t take him anywhere worth going. He had been down that track before, had lived there for almost two years. He saw another train of thought going the opposite way and, with the desperation of a homeless hobo, he hopped unto it instead. Your misery doesn’t honor her memory. Get on with your life. There was a fresh pot of Ceylon tea on the table and the whole afternoon to examine this miraculous find, the first lead he had had in years. But this train was suddenly thrown off track by a ringing doorbell. Ian sighed. Intrusion. Again. He sat motionless contemplating whether or not to answer it. A voice from the other side made up his mind for him.
“Ian, it's me, Judith.”
One could hardly hope for a more charming intrusion. He walked quickly to the door, slipped the deadbolt and opened it in a crack.
“Judith? I had no idea I was expecting you.” The feigned reproach made her smile.
“Were you expecting someone else?” she rejoined. “If you were, I need to know now.”
Ian was accustomed to her directness.
“Of course not. Who would a grumpy old professor like me be expecting on a Saturday afternoon?”
He moved aside and opened the door. She entered like a cloud of honeysuckle and jasmine, hung her umbrella in the entry and slipped off a purple rain coat to reveal a sleek black dress that hugged a body toned by constant exercise. She was forty-nine going on thirty-five almost fifteen years his junior.
“I'm surprised you braved the rain. It’s been pouring,” he said trying to move the conversation to something safe and neutral while he tried to clear the fog that always descended on his mind when he was with her.
“It’s rain, Ian, and I'm Irish.”
If he hadn’t know her better, the austerity dripping from her voice like a leaky roof would have felt like a slap in the face. It was all the harder to take coming from a creature of such surpassing beauty and it wasn’t just her sparkling blue eyes, her lily white skin or her curly locks of thick, black hair; it was her intellectual passion and boundless curiosity.
“You didn’t think a little water falling from the sky could keep me from our weekly tea, did you? Besides, I’m dying to know what you found. It was awfully cruel of you to run off without me. Sending me a text on your way to the airport was absolutely heartless.”
She smiled as she said it, her way of driving the knife edge of her displeasure even deeper.
“Well, I only found out at the last minute myself. A friend of Charles heard about it from a bookseller in Amsterdam. Charles was in London, so he called for tea and told me I should move on it immediately. I was on the evening plane. If I’d had more forewarning, maybe I could have arranged something.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t, knowing how much I love Amsterdam. Oh well, it can’t be helped. I hope you have some tea on.”
“As a matter of fact I do,” he replied. She was already heading towards the kitchen.
“Well, are you going to tell me whether your week away from me was worth it?”
“Amsterdam was incredible. So vibrant, so full of energy and life.”
“Did it make you feel younger than I do?”
Ian felt his cheeks getting hot. She continued. “Did you find anything in our field?”
“Our field…” His voice trailed off. “What could I find in our field? Our field is a dead end. If there is one thing I have often regretted, it is my choice of a field.”
Her gasp literally sucked the oxygen out of the air.
“Ian, you can’t be serious. History is a sacred trust. The future of civilization lies with those who have the keys to the past. We are the guardians.”
“Are you sure that isn’t just a mantra we keep chanting to our narcissistic egos in an attempt to put a good face on our irrelevance? History is important. It's Byzantine history that isn’t. Think about it. Babylon predates the Byzantine Empire by one thousand years and wrote its history on clay tablets, yet there are more Babylonian sources than there are documents from the Byzantine Empire. Research requires sources, Judith, and we have none to speak of. Besides, you are hardly in the field anymore.”
“Once a historian, always a historian. I was chosen to be the UK special representative on the UN Committee for the Protection and Promotion of Diversity in Cultural Expression because of the perspective gained by studying history. What is it you’re always saying? ‘History and philosophy are the prerequisites for policy and therefore politicians.’ I'm sure you said it better.”
“True enough.”
“So, the trip was a waste?”
“Not exactly. I was able to purchase a collection of personal correspondence ranging from 1604 to 1738. They are mostly Dutch and Spanish, but there are a couple of interesting pieces in Aljamiado. I’ll need to have them translated.”
“What makes you think that might be relevant?”
“According to the bookseller, they were part of a private collection held by a Morisco descendant. He refused to provide further details.”
“That sounds promising. Anything else?”
“Strangely enough, I also found a couple of Byzantine manuscripts.”
“I hope you were able to obtain them.”
“Yes, I was. Thanks to Charles, I was the first buyer to show up. It was weird though. If you recall, at the last three sales I went to, someone beat me to the punch every time, purchasing everything of interest before I was even able to view them. Well, thanks to Charles, this time I got there first. Still, when I arrived the seller said he had only just published the details of the sale on the Internet and had received an offer almost immediately to buy everything - sight unseen for the full asking price. He only agreed to sell them to me because he had not yet responded to their email.”
“Excellent!” Her enthusiasm charged the air with electricity. “I know how disappointed you were when somebody else beat you to the last couple of purchases. Maybe these letters will hold some clue.”
“Maybe, but I'm beginning to wonder who these people are? It's not normal.”
“Probably just some collector. You don’t seem so excited,” she remarked as he poured her a cup of tea.
“The personal letters may prove interesting, but the manuscripts are known works. They bring nothing new to the field, and what we need is something new. The Roman Empire continued in the East for one thousand years after it had fallen in the West, and yet the northern Barbarians left more in Rome than was able to survive in Constantinople. Where are the archives of one of Earth’s greatest empires? Less than two thousand works have survived the ravages of time and tyranny, and we must content ourselves with hashing them over and over and over again.”
“We all share the same frustration, Ian, but there is nothing for it. We shall continue to labor on quietly in our little corner of academia unappreciated and unknown. I used to resent it too, but not anymore, especially when I can work with you.”
“It has been fun working together, but you spend most of your time sipping champagne. You rub shoulders with power-brokers in government, education and business at conventions and conferences aimed at ensuring the values of the world's peoples do not result in conflict that leads to war. The problem is most of the people you work with have no sense of value. Unless, of course, we mean the vain desire to be respected by their valueless colleagues. I, on the other hand, content myself with trying to ensure that the facts of the past are passed down to the next generation and occasionally indulging in a bit of historic sleuthing.”
“Sleuthing? That is the most pathetic attempt at humility I’ve heard in quite some time. More published journal articles than anyone in the department for, what is it, twelve years running? You have won two awards for distinguished history teaching on two different continents, three international awards for scholarly research and you’ve been nominated Historian of the Year twice in Britain. Sleuthing indeed!”
He smiled. It was meant to hide the shock he felt at how much she knew about his accomplishments. It didn’t work.
“You think I haven’t researched everything about you? I do not easily give away my affection and certainly not to some dark horse. I love your mind, your passion and your boundless curiosity.”
“Is that all?”
“And your blue eyes.”
She sensed the all-to-familiar look of melancholy detachment settle over his eyes like a fog, turning them from cerulean blue to gray. She wasn’t going to let this happen again.
“What is the locomotive of human history?”
“Is this an exam?”
“Of sorts.”
“Power, of course.”
“True, but let’s give it some nuance. Conquest, Ian. Conquest pure and simple. And, not just for men but for women like me too. The thrill of victory, the sense of challenge, this is what fuels the human race. And women thrive on it as much as men do. I have never laid siege to a city and failed to enter triumphant.”
Her lips pursed in a seductive pout, and she fluttered her eyelids to enhance the impact of her words. He stared into her eyes and she held his gaze. Then, he felt her hand touching his on the table and slowly the blue changed to sea green, her hair lightened until it was strawberry blonde, and he was startled to find himself looking at Patricia. The waking vision of his late wife startled him. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
“Ian, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you hiding, Ian?”
“It was just a flashback of sorts.”
“Of Patricia?”
“Yes, Judith, of Patricia.”
He opened his eyes and looked back across the table. The same blue eyes were still staring back at him, but they were squinting ever so slightly, taut with resolve.
“She was a wonderful woman, Ian. You were a lucky man. Lucky to have had so many years with her. Lucky to have found a true soul mate. You should be thankful and cherish her memory, but, Ian, she is gone now. As historians, our job may be poking about the past, but you can’t live there. Everything there is dead. Love and life happen in the present. You’ve got many years ahead of you. Give yourself a chance. Allow yourself to love your work again. I’m sure Patricia would want you to move on. If the tables had been turned, wouldn’t you have wanted her to move on too?”
The question caught him off guard and the answer which flew to his mind like a lightning bolt startled his modern sensibilities. No, I wouldn't. I would want her to go on loving me forever. What is love if it is not eternal?
“I don’t know how to answer that question, Judith. I guess I'm just not ready.”
She caressed his hand.
“I understand and I'm here for you. Besides,” she smiled again. “I enjoy the adventure, the mystery, how you keep stringing me along. The chase is just as fun as the catch. Now, let’s get back to our dismal corner of history.”
Ian sighed and forced another smile.
“The worst thing of all,” she said exuberantly, “is the lack of respect we get.” He noted her attempt to lighten the mood. “Even the name is an insult: Byzantine history indeed. Only here in the west. To all the eastern peoples, it was and still is called the Roman Empire. The empire of Rome that survived the fall of Rome by a thousand years.”
“All that is water under the bridge now. Still, it is a shame that the quarrel between the Catholic and Orthodox should have ended by sacrificing one of the great cities of the world to an even more foreign culture. For eight hundred years, Constantinople held the Eastern flank of Europe and kept the warriors of the crescent from overrunning Europe. For eight hundred years, they fought a losing battle against an enemy with vastly superior resources. They bled out slowly, and then they were abandoned by the West at their hour of greatest need, giving the Turks one of the most geo-politically sensitive locations in the world straddling Europe and Asia.”
“Politics, Ian. The politics of culture and religion. Why would the Papal puppets of the West come to Constantinople’s aid against the Muslims? The Orthodox Christians were potential rivals for the allegiance of their subjects while the Muslims were merely the enemy. The spirit of Cain is part and parcel of any religion. Why am I my brother’s keeper?” Only an ex-Catholic could have said it with a cynicism as sour as that in Judith's voice.
“The armies of the Pope invaded Constantinople under the guise of the Fourth Crusade, ostensibly on a mission to repel Muslim armies and bring aide to Christians. Instead, they sacked the capital of the empire weakening it even further and contributing to its eventual demise. The Reformation came too late and Constantinople, which had formed a bulwark against the rising tide of Islam for over eight hundred years, was allowed to be destroyed by the most committed jihadists of all time – the Turks from Central Asia. Maybe the West thought the Turks would rid them of the Orthodox plague and that they would then drive out the Turks and retake the city.”
“Or, maybe they just didn’t care. Whatever the case, it was a strategic miscalculation if there ever was one. It almost led to the defeat of Christendom, and it took four hundred and fifty years to free the European peoples, many of them Catholic, from the Ottoman yoke.”
He sat his tea down on the table, walked into the study and returned carrying one of the two manuscripts he had purchased. Judith’s face lit up as he placed it reverently on the table in front of her.
“Αποδείξεις Ιστοριών,” she said softly.
“Yes, Proofs of Histories. Proof that the victor does not always write history.”
Her smile was sardonic. “Ah yes, Laonicus Chalcondyles. And who can argue with his contention that the conquest of Constantinople was analogous to the fall of Troy. It was a dark vision heralding four hundred and seventy years of Ottoman rule.”
“Like Jeremiah, a prophet of despair. Constantinople fell to the Crescent hordes and the Anatolian bastion of Christianity was lost forever. The Orthodox were almost entirely subjugated to Islam, the West shrunk, and a blood red moon rose on the Bosphorus.”
“You paint such a dreary picture, Ian.”
She gingerly opened the manuscript.
“This copy is particularly valuable,” continued Ian. “It is a very early copy.” Judith carefully opened the book and began to turn the pages. He furrowed his brow as he lifted his teacup to his lips and then sat the cup back down without taking a sip. He had spent his life studying the history of the Byzantine Empire, and now the same questions that had tormented historians and philosophers for years were gnawing at the corners of his mind, like a terrier worrying a bone. Why? No, not why. How? How could the experience of a Byzantine historian like Laonicus Chalcondyles be such a perfect mirror of what men and women throughout the centuries and around the globe in dozens of cultures and religious systems had endured down through the ages? How had history gotten into this rut of ruin and rubble, allowing religion to be an instrument of havoc and horror? Why had most of the unending stream of humanity flowing from the loins of men and women been destined for misery and hardship at the hands of imperial taskmasters? Why was oppression the hallmark of humanity? How could the few rule the many with such impunity for so long? With almost four thousand years of recorded history to work with, why were the mistakes of history still being repeated? The questions had always been as troubling as the answers were elusive. He thought back to the conference held at his own university, King’s College London, in January 2009 entitled “Authority in Byzantium”. Why is man so determined to rule his neighbor?
He watched Judith flip through the manuscript. He had examined it thoroughly before writing out the check on his retirement account, and had only convinced himself to splurge by remembering what Patricia had always said, “Passion pays no heed to price tags.” It was not in the best of condition. Much of the binding had deteriorated from excess humidity. Many of the pages were completely detached and had been haphazardly stuffed between other pages. Still, it was a prize find.
“This is wonderful, Ian. It needs some attention, but valuable nevertheless.”
“Well, I had planned to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening restoring at least some sense of dignity by putting these loose leaves back where they belong. Would you like to help?”
“I’d love to,” she said softly.
He picked up the manuscript and led her into his study, where she grabbed the stereo remote and turned on her favorite jazz station. For the next hour and a half, they arranged the loose leaves in numerical order. It was an enjoyable exercise punctuated by conversation that was professional and stimulating, directed almost entirely by the different passages they spotted on the pages of a book that not one person out of ten million had ever even heard of. He felt a twinge of guilt for finding so much pleasure in the rarified air of her presence.
As they neared the end of the book, where the pages were in particularly bad condition, he realized that two of the pages were stuck together. Experience had taught him better than to try and peel them apart. He walked over to a cabinet of dark oak behind his desk and rummaged around until he found a small box.
“What is that?” asked Judith when she saw something resembling a large ballpoint pen with a cord.
“It is a micro steamer. It’s very handy when trying to separate pages.”
He had performed this surgical procedure dozens of times. Judith watched intently as he set to work, but five minutes later, he still hadn’t persuaded the pages to forego their stubborn embrace.
“Maybe we should just leave those and come back to it later,” suggested Judith. The same thought had crossed his mind and been immediately banished. Defeat was not an option.
“I thought you enjoyed a challenge?” he teased gently. “But if you have somewhere you need to be, I can continue on my own.”
A wry smile slowly bloomed on her face.
“Would you like that?”
“No,” he responded just a bit too hastily. “I just don’t want you to get bored. It shouldn’t take long now. The imperceptible expansion and contraction caused by the application of heat and humidity should force the pages to loosen their grip soon.”
“Then, books must be very unlike humans. Byron says a sultry climate has the opposite effect on us.”
She never misses an opportunity.
“Actually I do have to leave in about twenty minutes. I promised Mother I’d stop by for dinner.”
Ian turned back to his work. Ten minutes later, they were no closer to getting the pages apart than when they had begun.
“This is the darnedest thing I've ever come across. I’ve never seen two pages adhere to one another so tightly.”
He unplugged the device, put it back in its box and stood there puzzled.
“Turn on that light,” Judith said, pointing to an elegant art nouveau lamp on the other end of the desk. Ian reached over and switched it on. Judith held the page vertical to the book and flipped it back and forth.
“Am I seeing things or do the edges of these two pages seemed to be slightly discolored? It is like an irregular border about a centimeter wide along all three sides.”
Ian held the manuscript under the lamp.
“I believe you’re right.” He was irritated at himself for being so inattentive and not noticing it earlier. He stood there for a minute and then turned abruptly, strode into the kitchen and pulled out a two-million-candle emergency flashlight. He turned off the overhead lights and switched on the flashlight.
“What are you doing?” she asked curiously.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he held the flashlight up to one side of the page and looked at the other side to see how much light would penetrate. What he saw only served to pique his curiosity.
“Do you see that?” he asked. “There is noticeably more light coming through the outer edges than there is penetrating the middle. In fact, the demarcation is a perfectly straight line, but it doesn’t correspond to the width of the discolored border.”
He moved the flashlight back and forth looking for clues that would help him.
“It’s probably just a loose leaf, folded in half and stuck between the two pages,” ventured Judith.
He turned the overhead lights back on and sat down to nurse his teacup.
“I would say you were right except for the uniform, discolored border you pointed out and the fact that we can’t get the pages apart. What if…” but he never finished the thought. There was no need. Instead, he headed straight for the bathroom.
“Ian, what are you doing?”
He returned carrying his shaving kit. He had kept his father’s straight-edge razor in that bag for nearly twenty years and thanks to Gillette Inc. and its many imitators he had never found opportunity to use it until now.”
“Ian, are you going to tell me what is going on?”
“The uniform discoloration can only be one thing. The intentional application of some chemical substance to each of the three sides.”
“You mean it was glued?”
“Exactly, which means that whatever is between those pages wasn't meant to be found.”
He held the page straight up, perpendicular to the book and the razor sliced effortlessly through the thick paper along the binding to detach the two pages completely. He examined the edge he had just cut and his suspicions were immediately confirmed. He could see that the paper was not stuck together there. He held the pages horizontally in front of him and blew gently to force them apart; then he took a pair of tweezers out of his shaving kit and gently slid a piece of paper out from between the pages like he was pulling it out of an envelope.
Judith let out a low whistle. He laid the paper down on the desk in front of them. Judith knew, and Ian hoped that they were looking at a clue.
“It looks like Arabic, doesn't it?” asked Judith.
“I’m not sure, but that would be my guess.”
“This is incredible.”
The script was flowing and ornate, written with a dark, high-quality ink. The instincts of a man who had spent most of his life in research swung into action and questions began racing through his mind. Why had it been so carefully hidden inside an ancient manuscript? Who had put it there and when? Who had written it and to whom? What was it about? More questions without answers. Ian glanced at the clock.
“Well, you had better be going. Your mother doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Oh, we stumble on a perfectly delightful mystery, something that could be a clue and you show me the door.”
“The mystery will still be here tomorrow.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“If you like.”
“I’d take you up on it, but my daughter’s new play opens tomorrow night and I promised I’d be there.”
“Don’t worry. It'll be our mystery and we'll solve it together.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Prof. O’Brien, but it will have to wait until I return from Brussels.”
“The attacks in Germany?”
“Yes. The UN has asked three members of our committee to participate in the diplomatic meetings. We'll also be meeting with a delegation from the US led by Senator Tom Giovanni. They want to use the incident to show that this is no time for Europe to get cold feet. We must move forward with the interfaith dialogue initiative immediately.”
He walked her to the door; she gave him a peck on the cheek and squeezed his hand.
“Thank you for a lovely time, Ian.”
“Give my love to your mother.”
“I think I’ll just keep it for myself,” she rejoined with a smile.
Ian walked back to his study and stared at the piece of paper sitting on the desk. This was an enigma to be sure. As he sat down at the computer and his fingers began flying over the keyboard, he could almost feel the years falling off in the youthful joy of discovery.
The next time he looked at the clock it was almost midnight. He sighed. He still had to put the finishing touches on a paper he was presenting at a conference on Byzantine history Wednesday morning. For him, sleep was a wretched necessity, proof of a world gone wrong. Still, without it, he knew he would be worthless the next day when he needed a clear mind to work on his presentation. Time to turn in, he said sternly to himself.
It was the same game every night. Ian would patter around the apartment trying to put off going to the bedroom where his wife, Patricia, had succumbed to breast cancer two years ago. He knew it was childish, foolish even for a grown man. Yet, her absence from that room more than any other reminded him of the hole she had left in his life. That had been their private sanctuary and now the bedroom was a bittersweet place he dreaded entering. He would probably never get used to her absence, but a man had to sleep, and so here he was again alone with himself.
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