referring to. Ian flipped over four pages to a related entry.
September 3rd 1736, It is now two weeks since I sent the printer a letter informing him of my unwillingness to part with the Spanish translation in my possession. Now, for the last three days, I have been shadowed on the street by two men. I could swear one of them was present at my meeting in Amsterdam.
Ian turned the page to read the last entry Sale ever made about the manuscript.
September 29th 1736, I saw the two shadows again today in the market. This evening, Mr. Callamy informed me that several foreigners have been making discreet inquiries about me. I am more convinced than ever that this is a matter of State. It is imperative that I find out more. In the meantime, I must take measures to protect it.
A little less than one month later, Sale had been stricken with the fever and died. Within thirty years, his manuscript had disappeared forever; only a half-finished copy survived and it had remained hidden until 1974 in a private library in Australia.
Ian closed the diary, stood up in the center of the room and allowed his eyes to focus on nothing in particular until the whole room became somewhat fuzzy. He could imagine then that the books which lined the walls from floor to ceiling were actually a mural or wall paper instead of real books. This was the library of a historian, his private collection. It had taken years to build and was his most prized material possession. He gazed upon the books which chronicled the story of mankind’s triumph over the cruelty of the natural world, how he had tamed nature and transformed it into a farm, banishing hunger and deprivation, how he had created alphabets to facilitate communication and trade, creating the leisure time necessary to meditate upon and express sublime spiritual truth in art and literature. It was the story of mankind’s triumph.
It was also a story penned in the blood of people from every tongue and tribe. The tale of humanity’s fatal flaw, the irresistible allure of power, and the horrifying violence employed to obtain and keep it. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to fly back through the pages of history and shuddered at the terror man had visited upon his brother. Horrors and suffering too vile to utter were buried in the volumes before him, silent testimony to the existence of evil.
His cell phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Judith.
“Hello, Judith.”
“Hi. How goes the sleuthing?”
“No progress yet. Too busy working on my presentation for the conference.”
“You don’t fool me, Ian O’Brien. You could lecture on any facet of Byzantine history without a moment’s forewarning, and you’ve been working on this for weeks.”
“Well, I was just considering a short break to do some background reading on the symbol at the top of the page, but I honestly haven’t spent any time on it yet. The first thing I’ll need is some help with the Arabic. I assume it is a Morisco document.”
“Must be. Have you met Dr. Brown from the Mediterranean Studies department?”
“At King’s College?”
“This will be his first term.”
“I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him. How do you know him?”
“Remember how they asked me to fill in for Dr. Humphries on the search committee while she was undergoing yttrium treatments for stage-three liver cancer. The man’s credentials are excellent, top notch scholar, already published in several journals, and classical Arabic was a special field of interest. Dr. Peacock over at University College London was his advisor.”
“Well, that would be helpful indeed. I shall stop by his office on Monday.”
“No need to rush. You promised this would be a team effort, remember. I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“I won’t solve anything without you, just a little preliminary investigation and fact-gathering . . .”
“I’ll call you when I get back.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
CHAPTER 5
A NKARA,
September 3rd 1736, It is now two weeks since I sent the printer a letter informing him of my unwillingness to part with the Spanish translation in my possession. Now, for the last three days, I have been shadowed on the street by two men. I could swear one of them was present at my meeting in Amsterdam.
Ian turned the page to read the last entry Sale ever made about the manuscript.
September 29th 1736, I saw the two shadows again today in the market. This evening, Mr. Callamy informed me that several foreigners have been making discreet inquiries about me. I am more convinced than ever that this is a matter of State. It is imperative that I find out more. In the meantime, I must take measures to protect it.
A little less than one month later, Sale had been stricken with the fever and died. Within thirty years, his manuscript had disappeared forever; only a half-finished copy survived and it had remained hidden until 1974 in a private library in Australia.
Ian closed the diary, stood up in the center of the room and allowed his eyes to focus on nothing in particular until the whole room became somewhat fuzzy. He could imagine then that the books which lined the walls from floor to ceiling were actually a mural or wall paper instead of real books. This was the library of a historian, his private collection. It had taken years to build and was his most prized material possession. He gazed upon the books which chronicled the story of mankind’s triumph over the cruelty of the natural world, how he had tamed nature and transformed it into a farm, banishing hunger and deprivation, how he had created alphabets to facilitate communication and trade, creating the leisure time necessary to meditate upon and express sublime spiritual truth in art and literature. It was the story of mankind’s triumph.
It was also a story penned in the blood of people from every tongue and tribe. The tale of humanity’s fatal flaw, the irresistible allure of power, and the horrifying violence employed to obtain and keep it. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to fly back through the pages of history and shuddered at the terror man had visited upon his brother. Horrors and suffering too vile to utter were buried in the volumes before him, silent testimony to the existence of evil.
His cell phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Judith.
“Hello, Judith.”
“Hi. How goes the sleuthing?”
“No progress yet. Too busy working on my presentation for the conference.”
“You don’t fool me, Ian O’Brien. You could lecture on any facet of Byzantine history without a moment’s forewarning, and you’ve been working on this for weeks.”
“Well, I was just considering a short break to do some background reading on the symbol at the top of the page, but I honestly haven’t spent any time on it yet. The first thing I’ll need is some help with the Arabic. I assume it is a Morisco document.”
“Must be. Have you met Dr. Brown from the Mediterranean Studies department?”
“At King’s College?”
“This will be his first term.”
“I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him. How do you know him?”
“Remember how they asked me to fill in for Dr. Humphries on the search committee while she was undergoing yttrium treatments for stage-three liver cancer. The man’s credentials are excellent, top notch scholar, already published in several journals, and classical Arabic was a special field of interest. Dr. Peacock over at University College London was his advisor.”
“Well, that would be helpful indeed. I shall stop by his office on Monday.”
“No need to rush. You promised this would be a team effort, remember. I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“I won’t solve anything without you, just a little preliminary investigation and fact-gathering . . .”
“I’ll call you when I get back.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
CHAPTER 5
A NKARA,
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