eastern Persia appeared in some European capital, posted from Damascus or Tunis and privately printed according to his instructions.
And at least once a year a dozen new species of desert flowers would be described, the discoveries invariably genuine. So although he continued to be feared and disliked even when far from home, the English botanical community had no choice but to admire his accumulated research.
Yet in fact Strongbow was spending very little time on botany. Instead, unexpectedly, he had turned his vast powers of concentration to the study of sex, an endeavor that eventually would bring about the fall of the British Empire.
But that was of no concern to Strongbow. What was important to him was the startling discovery he made in a Sinai cave after only a few years in the Middle East, that the lost original of the Bible actually existed, a secret he would share with only one other man in his century.
With that discovery began Strongbow’s forty-year search for the Sinai Bible and his lifelong speculations about what the mysterious lost original might contain, of all his legacies to the twentieth century the one that would most intrigue and baffle his sole child and heir, the idealistic boy one day to become a gunrunner named Stern.
2 Wallenstein
Men tend to become fables
and fables tend to become
men.
B EFORE BEING KILLED AT the order of the Habsburgs, a former Czech orphan named Wallenstein had twice risen to become the all-powerful Generalissimo of the Holy Roman Empire during the religious slaughter known as the Thirty Years War.
A variety of enemies had hunted the fugitive through the mists of northern Bohemia, but when finally trapped the halberd driven through his chest was held by an English captain commanded by an Irish general. The year was 1634 and that killing, followed by the specter of an eagle, which in Arab lore traditionally lives a thousand years, brought to the Mediterranean the apparent ancestor of the man who would one day undertake the most spectacular forgery in history.
While he lived and scavenged, Generalissimo Wallenstein had immersed himself so excessively in astrology that everyone in his family detested stars—with one exception, an indolent nephew who believed in nothing else. Therefore the morning the nephew learned of his famous uncle’s death he immediately rushed to consult his local wizard.
The wizard had been up all night nodding in his observatory. He was on his way to bed but he couldn’t turn away his most important client. Wearily he laid out his charts and tried to come to some conclusion. By the time he did he was falling asleep.
Bribes, screamed the nephew. Can they save me? Should I flee?
Eagles, muttered the wizard.
The Wallenstein nephew leapt from his chair.
Flight. Of course. But where to?
I’m sorry, all else is unclear.
Wallenstein shook the wizard by his beard but the old man was already snoring. He galloped back to his castle above the Danube where his confessor, a Jesuit in the habit of dropping by for a glass of wine at noon, was waiting. He saw that the nephew’s left eyelid was drooping, a sure sign of profound agitation. Having traveled widely for his order, he suggested Wallenstein unburden himself. As the nephew talked the priest calmly emptied their bottle of wine.
Shqiperi, he murmured at length. An excellent vintage, my son.
What’s that? asked Wallenstein, peering out from under his drooping eyelid.
I said this is a remarkably fine vintage.
No, that other word you used.
You mean the ancient name the Albanians used for their country? Thought to have meant eagle originally? Certainly an old race, the Albanians, who have survived because their land is mountainous and inaccessible. Probably they once identified themselves with the eagles of the place.
The Jesuit seemed unsurprised as Wallenstein dropped to his knees and confessed he had never believed in stars. There was a further exchange, after which the priest praised the
And at least once a year a dozen new species of desert flowers would be described, the discoveries invariably genuine. So although he continued to be feared and disliked even when far from home, the English botanical community had no choice but to admire his accumulated research.
Yet in fact Strongbow was spending very little time on botany. Instead, unexpectedly, he had turned his vast powers of concentration to the study of sex, an endeavor that eventually would bring about the fall of the British Empire.
But that was of no concern to Strongbow. What was important to him was the startling discovery he made in a Sinai cave after only a few years in the Middle East, that the lost original of the Bible actually existed, a secret he would share with only one other man in his century.
With that discovery began Strongbow’s forty-year search for the Sinai Bible and his lifelong speculations about what the mysterious lost original might contain, of all his legacies to the twentieth century the one that would most intrigue and baffle his sole child and heir, the idealistic boy one day to become a gunrunner named Stern.
2 Wallenstein
Men tend to become fables
and fables tend to become
men.
B EFORE BEING KILLED AT the order of the Habsburgs, a former Czech orphan named Wallenstein had twice risen to become the all-powerful Generalissimo of the Holy Roman Empire during the religious slaughter known as the Thirty Years War.
A variety of enemies had hunted the fugitive through the mists of northern Bohemia, but when finally trapped the halberd driven through his chest was held by an English captain commanded by an Irish general. The year was 1634 and that killing, followed by the specter of an eagle, which in Arab lore traditionally lives a thousand years, brought to the Mediterranean the apparent ancestor of the man who would one day undertake the most spectacular forgery in history.
While he lived and scavenged, Generalissimo Wallenstein had immersed himself so excessively in astrology that everyone in his family detested stars—with one exception, an indolent nephew who believed in nothing else. Therefore the morning the nephew learned of his famous uncle’s death he immediately rushed to consult his local wizard.
The wizard had been up all night nodding in his observatory. He was on his way to bed but he couldn’t turn away his most important client. Wearily he laid out his charts and tried to come to some conclusion. By the time he did he was falling asleep.
Bribes, screamed the nephew. Can they save me? Should I flee?
Eagles, muttered the wizard.
The Wallenstein nephew leapt from his chair.
Flight. Of course. But where to?
I’m sorry, all else is unclear.
Wallenstein shook the wizard by his beard but the old man was already snoring. He galloped back to his castle above the Danube where his confessor, a Jesuit in the habit of dropping by for a glass of wine at noon, was waiting. He saw that the nephew’s left eyelid was drooping, a sure sign of profound agitation. Having traveled widely for his order, he suggested Wallenstein unburden himself. As the nephew talked the priest calmly emptied their bottle of wine.
Shqiperi, he murmured at length. An excellent vintage, my son.
What’s that? asked Wallenstein, peering out from under his drooping eyelid.
I said this is a remarkably fine vintage.
No, that other word you used.
You mean the ancient name the Albanians used for their country? Thought to have meant eagle originally? Certainly an old race, the Albanians, who have survived because their land is mountainous and inaccessible. Probably they once identified themselves with the eagles of the place.
The Jesuit seemed unsurprised as Wallenstein dropped to his knees and confessed he had never believed in stars. There was a further exchange, after which the priest praised the
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