A Deceit to Die For (6 page)

“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, and conferences aimed at ensuring the values of the world’s peoples do not result in conflict that leads to war.”

“That is not a bad thing,” she rejoined.

“No, of course not. The problem is most of the people you work with have no sense of value.”

“Their work would be impossible without yours.”

“Maybe. Whatever the case, I must be content 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 a long 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 and your passion.”

“Is that all?”

“And your blue eyes.”

She sensed the all-too-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.

“Tell me, Ian. What is the locomotive of human history?”

“Am I sitting for an exam?”

“Just play the game with me.”

“Power, of course.”

“True, but let’s give it some nuance. Conquest, Ian. It’s 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.”

“Come on, Ian! We can’t get close if you don’t open up.”

“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’s 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. She continued.

“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. History has come full circle. Southeastern Europe once again is faced with a growing threat from the Middle East.”

“You can’t be serious, Ian.”

“I am.”

“But, we have the U.N. Things are different now.”

“I know you disagree, but you are blinded by your EU aspirations to the reality there. But, we’ve discussed this before.”

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. “Laonicus Chalcondyles. 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, the 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. Ian furrowed his brow as he lifted his teacup to his lips and then set 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. He watched Judith flip through the manuscript, but his mind was far away.

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 had examined the manuscript thoroughly before writing out the check on his retirement account, and had only convinced himself to splurge when he remembered 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 rearranged the loose pages, putting them back in 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.”

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.