Chapter 5
A LETTER FROM THE PAST
Elmer Galway and David Green were sitting facing each other in a cluttered office on the third floor of Green’s rare book shop in West London. They were separated by a glass-top table; a single object, wrapped in a piece of cloth, sat on it. Outside it was already dark at three o’clock in the afternoon and a fine drizzle was falling. It was equally dark inside the room, except for a floor lamp that spilled its cone of yellowish light on the table.
They had been together for fifteen minutes, and up to that point Green had been doing most of the talking. He had told the professor all about Señor Alfonso Lopez de Burgos, a Spaniard who was in London on a business trip and who had come to the shop the day before, bringing with him an ancient book that he wished to have appraised with the intention of selling it. The book in question was the object lying on the table, and Green would very much appreciate Galway’s expert opinion as to its origin and authenticity, as well as its possible historical value. Time was of the essence because Sr. Lopez de Burgos was leaving the next day for Hamburg, where he also intended to have the book evaluated. The Spaniard obviously believed that he had in his possession a valuable item and was shopping around in search of the highest bidder. No, Sr. de Burgos was not one of his regular clients, Green informed Galway, in answer to his question.
Leaning forward, Galway picked up the covered book from the table and carefully removed the wrapping cloth. He was wearing white cotton gloves, a standard procedure for handling ancient objects in order to prevent further damage and at the same time protect the handler from mold and other potentially toxic substances. He deposited the piece of cloth on the table and began to examine the manuscript.
The “book” consisted of a dozen or so loosely bound six-by-nine-inch parchment sheets, with a front cover but with no back cover or title page. Its condition was fairly good, considering that it had probably survived a fire, as evidenced by the charred edges of the pages. It was written entirely in ancient Arabic, a language with which Galway had some familiarity from his own work on classical history. From the eighth to the thirteenth century, while most of Western Europe was decimated by epidemics, famine, and wars, Arab scientists and philosophers rescued Antiquity’s cultural heritage from oblivion thanks to their translations into Arabic of the works of Plato, Aristotle, Euclid, Archimedes, Ptolemy, Plotinus, and many other great thinkers. These Arabic versions—covering a wide range of subjects and genres, from philosophical discourses and literary creations to scientific treatises and technical manuals—were often augmented with the translator’s own contribution in the form of commentaries or additions. While the great majority of the original Greek sources written on papyrus were lost, most of their Arabic translations survived and provided modern scholars with an invaluable tool for the study of the golden age of Greek culture and civilization.
“And how did Sr. de Burgos come into possession of this manuscript?” asked Galway without lifting his eyes from the book.
“He mentioned that it had been in the family for many years but couldn’t give any specifics. He comes from the city of Córdoba, where some of his ancestors lived as far back as the Middle Ages, when the city was under Moorish rule.”
“Córdoba was once the capital of Moorish Spain and the center of an independent caliphate.” It was the history professor speaking, this time taking his eyes off the book to look at Green. “The greatest Arabian philosopher in the West and famous commentator of Aristotle, Ibn-Roshd, better known as Averroes, was born in Córdoba. The city reached the peak of its splendor in the middle of the tenth century. At the time it was a leading intellectual center, and it possessed one of the largest and richest libraries in Europe.”
“Are you suggesting that this Arabic manuscript may actually come from Moorish Córdoba?” asked Green without much enthusiasm. He had examined the book and tentatively dated it not older than the sixteenth century but he had little idea of its content; all he knew was what Sr. de Burgos had told him: that it was an Arabic translation of an ancient Greek manuscript, a tale or an epic of some sort. “From what the client told me,” he went on, ignoring the fact that Galway had not answered his previous question, “the book might have found its way into the Lopez de Burgos family through one of his ancestors in the Middle Ages. But I don’t think so; the parchment doesn’t look to me nearly old enough for that.”
But Galway was no longer listening to Green. He had begun deciphering the Arabic text with the help of a magnifying glass. The handwriting was relatively easy to read, but the black ink, most likely iron gall, had eaten away the parchment at certain places. Green sensed that the professor was now focusing all his attention on the manuscript and decided not to disturb his concentration. He just sat there, deep in his own thoughts, and from time to time glanced at Galway, who was showing increasing excitement as he skimmed through the book, apparently only trying to get the general sense of the text. The telephone on Green’s desk rang twice before Sandra answered the call from the reception desk, but neither man seemed to take notice.
Almost fifteen minutes went by before Galway at last closed the book, slowly put the magnifying glass back in his pocket, stared at Green from over the rim of his reading glasses, and in a deliberately calm voice said: “If this is what I think it is, you are being given the chance to acquire a most extraordinary document.”
Galway’s words clearly took the antiquarian bookseller by surprise. He appeared more bewildered than pleased by what he had heard and could only manage a weak “Why . . . what do you mean?” in response.
“This manuscript is most likely a letter,” Galway began to explain, “and what its author tells is a story all right but not a mythological epic, as a superficial reading of the text might suggest. To the trained eye of someone with the proper knowledge of pre-Socratic Greek history and capable of some minor extrapolations to fill the gaps, however, what I’m holding in my hands is an eyewitness account of the death of the great philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras and the end of his inner circle of followers known as the early Pythagoreans.”
Green remained silent, as if expecting the professor to go on. “To be sure, Pythagoras’ name does not appear anywhere in the text,” Galway resumed, “but this is consistent with the practice among his disciples who, out of reverence, never pronounced the philosopher’s name. Moreover, the fact that Pythagoras is not named suggests that the author is one of his followers, and also that his account was only intended for internal consumption, so to speak, which is in line with the shroud of secrecy that the Pythagoreans maintained on matters concerning the fellowship.” He took off his reading glasses before proceeding. “Naturally, this is only an Arabic translation of the Greek manuscript, dating probably from the thirteenth century—or perhaps even a copy of the translation. Whatever the case, if the author is telling the truth and if the document is authentic—two big ‘ifs,’ I grant you—we now know that Pythagoras perished in the fire set by an angry mob to the house where he and his followers were gathered in the city of Croton, in what is now southern Italy. The reasons for them being there and the name of the instigator of the attack are given, and I’m sure that a thorough analysis of the text—I have only managed to decipher the gist of it—will reveal many other details, until now unknown to historians, regarding the circumstances surrounding the philosopher’s death and the fate of his surviving disciples.” He gently tapped the ancient parchment with his cotton-covered finger-tips as he said: “It would be impossible to exaggerate the historical significance of this document. The oldest extant accounts of this tragic event, believed to have taken place at around 500 BC, date from the middle of the fourth century AD—almost nine hundred years after the fact—and some versions have Pythagoras surviving the fire and fleeing to Metapontum where he supposedly died many years later.”
“What do you want me to do, then?” asked Green, already recovered from the initial shock.
“For the moment, it is essential that you buy some time. Tell Sr. de Burgos that you’re interested in the book but that you need more time to study it and to have some tests performed on the parchment and the ink; but don’t give him reason to believe that his manuscript may be a historical bombshell lest the asking price should be multiplied twentyfold. In the meantime, I’ll prepare a complete translation as soon as possible. You’ve got a copy on paper, haven’t you?”
“Sure,” said Green, nodding. To avoid exposing the parchment to the light and heat generated by a photocopying machine, he had photographed it using a digital camera that required no flash, and had printed a computer-enhanced copy of each of the twenty-two pages that made up the book. He then remembered having noticed something peculiar as he photographed the last page. The back cover was missing, but that was not unusual in very old books. It was something else. “Are any pages missing?” he put the question to Galway with a sudden excitement in his voice.
The professor had already begun wrapping the book back in its enveloping linen cloth. “It’s possible; the adhesives on the spine binding are quite dry and as a result some pages may have become loose and fallen off, but you know that better than I,” Galway said, a bit puzzled by the question.
“I mean, are there any pages missing at the end?” insisted Green. “It’s hard to tell. Since the protective back cover is missing, the last page is covered with various residues and accretions, and it’s practically illegible,” said Galway as he removed the cloth once again and began examining the back of the manuscript. Green, who by now was standing beside him, pointed his finger at the spine. “There, have a look at the edge of the spine with your magnifying glass.” Galway did as instructed. “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed, “It’s been cut clean!”
It did not take them long to piece together a likely explanation for their discovery. The original book had been separated into two, more slender, “half-books” by cutting the spine lengthwise. That might explain the absence of a back cover, which presumably had remained attached to the second half. Then, the edge of the remaining spine had been roughed up and dyed to make it appear worn out and to conceal the fact that it had been cut; finally, the last page had been scraped off and soiled to render it illegible. They were convinced that a closer examination of the parchment would confirm their theory. As to the reasons for the “surgical” operation, they could only speculate.
Green offered his conjecture: “I suspect that Sr. Lopez de Burgos believes that two ancient half-books are worth more than a whole one—which is probably true, I’m afraid.”
“If so, this is a case of the whole being less than the sum of its parts,” said Galway with a smile; and, more seriously, he added: “If our guess is correct, what happened to the other half of the document?”
“It might have already been sold. . . .”
“True, but it might not have been recognized for what it really is, especially without the first part. I wonder what else the author had to say, since what we’ve got seems to contain the main episode of the story. We’ll probably know more after I complete the translation. I’ll get down to it right away and hopefully shall be able to send it to you by Monday.”
“That would be great, but my more immediate concern is Sr. de Burgos. What if he wants an estimate by tomorrow morning, when he is supposed to come to the shop? He may insist on taking the book with him to Hamburg.”
“You’ll have no choice but to stick to your line: you’re interested in his manuscript but you need more time before you can put a price tag on it. Let him decide what to do next. I’m afraid it’s no longer in your hands.”
When Elmer Galway arrived home, well past 10 o’clock that night, he was too excited to go to sleep and decided to start working on the translation of the manuscript right away. He changed, prepared himself a fresh pot of tea, and sat down at his desk, with Slipper sprawled on the faded Oriental carpet at his feet.
Before getting down to work, he checked his voice mail. There was a message from Bradley Johnston, who wanted to see him about his Canadian visitor but would be out of town until Monday; there was also a call from the veterinarian’s office reminding him that Slipper was due for his annual shots; and there was the following recorded message from David Green: “Elmer, it’s David. Sr. de Burgos called. Someone broke into his hotel room and he no longer wishes to take the book with him to Hamburg. He wants me to keep it in my safe until he comes back next week. Thought you’d be glad to hear we have a few more days to complete the evaluation. Looking forward to receiving the translation.”