Chapter 7
A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
Sir Ernest James Galway died peacefully in his sleep on November 28, 1997, the eve of his ninety-fourth birthday. The famous archaeologist lived alone in a semi-detached house with a small garden at the back, situated not far from the center of Cardiff. A housekeeper, who came on Fridays, discovered the old man’s body in his bed and communicated the sad news to his sons.
By most standards, Ernest Galway’s life had been a full and happy one. Born in London in 1903, he was too young to serve his country in the Great War and too old for combat duty during World War II. He had traveled extensively and enjoyed a long and brilliant career as an archaeologist and explorer, during which he had received a multitude of prizes and distinctions. His married life had been less successful, but he had stayed on good terms with his former wife after their divorce, and had never lost contact with his two sons, John and Elmer. These had now come to pay him a final visit.
On Tuesday, after the funeral, Elmer and John went through their father’s belongings. The old man had long given away to museums and universities most of the ancient artifacts and other objects of archaeological value he had collected over the years. Among those he had kept were several brightly colored African masks and shields which decorated one of the walls of his study. On his desk and in a filing cabinet they found records of his numerous trips and expeditions: photographs, notes, letters, drawings, maps, contracts, receipts, and so forth. They knew that their father had been working on his memoirs, a project he had undertaken a few years ago. He used an old Macintosh LC to type the manuscript, a printed version of which, identified as “Chapters 1–14, 3rd draft,” they found in one of the desk’s drawers.
Ernest Galway’s attorney, Robert Harris, a friend of the family, was the executor. The terms of the will were straightforward: John and Elmer inherited in equal parts all his possessions, except for a sum of 5,000 pounds, kept in a special account, which was to be donated to the South Wales Archaeological Society. There was one special clause: Should he die before his memoirs had been published, all related documents, preliminary drafts, computer files, etc., were to be entrusted to Elmer, who could then dispose of them as he wished. Before leaving Cardiff, Elmer made arrangements to have these documents and his father’s computer sent to Oxford.
In the afternoon, Elmer called Green and learned about Sr. de Burgos’ story and the upcoming auction. For his part, Galway told Green that the Pythagorean book appeared to be the Arabic translation of a letter from one disciple of Pythagoras to another. “As far as I can tell,” he said, “after performing a preliminary philological analysis—comparing vocabulary, style, abbreviations, and so on with reliable sources—the Arabic text was written around the twelfth–thirteenth century.”
“That checks,” interrupted Green. “I just got the results from the laboratory tests on the parchment and the ink: with 90 percent certainty, they concluded that it dates from sometime between the early twelfth and the middle thirteenth century.”
“Excellent,” said Galway, and then: “Also, I believe that the translation is probably a copy, for there are some errors that a translator wouldn’t have made but could easily occur when a scribe is merely copying in a mechanical fashion—this doesn’t detract from the value of the book, though. Besides relating the circumstances of Pythagoras’ death, the author also claims to be in possession of a document written by Pythagoras himself, which, he writes, ‘must be protected at all costs.’ This is another historical shocker, for all authorities on ancient Greece are unanimous: Pythagoras did not leave behind any writings. Only after the philosopher’s death, fearing that their master’s teachings might be lost forever, did some of his disciples write a collection of abstracts and commentaries. So, if a manuscript in Pythagoras’ own hand really existed—most likely a papyrus scroll—it would be a document of exceptional historical value. Moreover, one is left to wonder what might have prompted him to write it, for he refrained from putting his discoveries in writing lest they should fall into the hands of the impure. What could have been so important to warrant abandoning his principle against the written word?”
Galway believed that the pages missing from de Burgos’ book may not be mere embellishments and might throw some light on the fate of Pythagoras’ scroll.
“Did you ask de Burgos if he had photocopied the book?”
“No, as a matter of fact I didn’t. But I presume he would have told me if he had.”
“Why don’t you ask him, just in case? I’d be surprised if the Franciscans didn’t make a copy of it for their archives. They are compulsive record-keepers.”
Galway expected to finish the translation by Thursday. He would then e-mail it to Green, together with a short summary to accompany the Notice of Auction.
“As you would understand,” he told Green, “I wish to retain copyright to the translation and eventually submit an annotated version of it for publication in some prestigious journal. But I’ll wait to see if we can obtain the missing pages, or photocopies of them. In the meantime, the text I’ll send you is ‘for your eyes only,’ as they say in that James Bond movie.”
Green then asked Galway whether the Ashmolean Museum might be interested in purchasing the Pythagorean book. “Perhaps, but I doubt they could outbid all those wealthy private collectors.”
On Wednesday, Galway was back at his office in Oxford and began to clear the backlog of e-mail and voice mail messages accumulated during his absence. He then asked Bradley Johnston to drop by—he had some news for him.
Johnston first told Galway about Irena Montryan’s visit and her interest in manuscripts from Pythagoras’ time for her exhibition. Talk about coincidence, thought Galway, and then he said: “Well, after you hear what I have discovered you’ll be able to tell that young lady from Canada that there’s a chance she might get what she’s looking for.” And, after a slight hesitation, he added: “But warn her not to get her hopes too high.”
The professor seemed to imply that Johnston was now in charge of dealing with Irena’s request, which suited his former student just fine, happy to be given a reason to stay in touch with her.
When Galway got home that evening, he was greeted by an excited Slipper jumping all over him. The poor animal had not yet completely recovered from the four days he had spent in the kennel while his master was away. “I know you missed me,” he said to the dog, pinching both his cheeks and gently shaking his head. “I missed you too, old boy.”
He had difficulty falling asleep. Questions kept popping up in his mind. Even if Pythagoras really did write something on a papyrus, what were the chances that the scroll still existed 2,500 years later? Rather slim, really, although much older Egyptian papyri had been found in relatively good condition. “Must be protected at all costs,” the author of the ancient letter had written. Perhaps extraordinary precautions had been taken to preserve the papyrus from the ravages of time—and from undesirable human hands. Would that mean that the precious scroll was hidden somewhere, maybe so well hidden that it would never be found? But if it existed at all, the scroll must have been written for someone, for what would be the point of writing it if no one could ever read it? Had Pythagoras intended it as some sort of time capsule, to be discovered and its contents revealed at some point in the future? And if so, when exactly and for what purpose?
Galway realized that there was only one way to find out: embarking on a search for Pythagoras’ manuscript, even if there was only a remote probability of success. As if reaching this conclusion had released the tension that was keeping him awake, he immediately fell sound asleep.