“You or your son will know him. It is destiny. If he brings this to Venice, the city where I live, he will have riches beyond his wildest dreams once he demands and receives the other half of the document. I only beg you to be careful in deciding who that person ought to be.”
My father could never refuse any request, and without further questioning, he accepted this document—yes, this one in your hands—and enjoined his guards to keep it with his own most valuable possessions. He ordered that anyone who opened the package without his permission should be put to death immediately.
And as time moved forward relentlessly, Marco Polo went away and my father died. The story was kept alive for a while, but was forgotten, like other stories. It is only after I met you, Haji, that I remembered it, and the very fact that the story came back to my memory is a sign that you must be that person.
I therefore request that you take this with you. It belongs to you and we have only been custodians. Go in fair winds, and when you reach this place, Venice, meet the descendants of Marco Polo and claim what is yours.
I accepted his gift humbly, though I was quite unsure about what it was. I kept it aside and we continued our discussions.
Finally, it was time for me to travel to China, which I did. Those matters I have described in Al-Rihla. Read it again and again and learn about the world, my son. Remember that even the Prophet had enjoined us to seek knowledge, if even as far away as in China. If you can, travel. If you cannot, read Al-Rihla.
I travelled first to Chittagong, which I did not much care for, though I was happy with the slave girl I purchased there. I also met a holy man who could see into the future, quite like the Qadi in Alexandria and Sheikh Al-Murshidi, and who was at least one hundred and fifty years old. I learned there that some men had indeed conquered time, difficult as it might be to believe.
I was repelled by the customs and practices of the heathen Chinese. They eat pigs and dogs and their conduct is, on the whole, not to my liking. I travelled to Peking, too, to meet the descendants of Kublai Khan. Along the way, I heard stories again of this man, Marco Polo.
While in China, I suffered from a period of sickness. I stayed in bed in Quanzhou and prepared to return to my homeland. I learned that a ship was soon to set out to Sumatra and I resolved to travel on that ship. But while I lay gathering my strength I decided to open the package that the Zamorin had gifted to me.
I saw immediately that it was much older than most things I had encountered. I could not read the language, though I thought that some of the letters looked familiar. But I could certainly tell that I had with me half of a map, for at the bottom were unmistakable signs. I felt sure it was a map to some treasure, and it occurred to me that if I found the left half (I had the right half), I could indeed see the entire map. I would need to learn what the words meant, of course, but I felt sure that would be possible. It must be an extraordinary treasure, something beyond gold and gems. But what?
I returned to Morocco through Yemen and Persia, the story of which you will find in Al-Rihla, so carefully written by Ibn Juzayy. I had no wish to return to Delhi and meet the unpredictable Mohammad Bin Tuglaq, who could shower me with gold coins or have me sawn in half, depending entirely upon his mood. But shortly thereafter, I travelled southward. For me, who has travelled so far, it is impossible to stay at home. I have always said, never travel the same road twice.
I travelled on the Niger River5 and had many strange experiences, with unusual people. I travelled initially with a group of merchants from Sijilmasa, though we went our separate ways later. The salt mines at the Taghaza oasis and the hippopotami in the river, the wise men and the barbarians—the experiences again demonstrated that there is no end to strangeness in this world. I finally reached Mali. The date of my arrival at Mali was 14th Jumada I, 753.
As a Qadi, I was able to enjoin many to be true to Islam. With others I failed. However, I was always given respect, and I gave manuscripts that I had brought with me to many libraries along the way. I saw that the people of Mali respected learning and forced their sons to memorize the Quran, as well as books of law and other matters, by chaining them cruelly. In some places, I was surprised to see small rooms hollowed out of the huge baobab trees, and there certain valuable manuscripts were stored. When the people seek knowledge, the job of the Qadi becomes easier, even if all the customs, such as the nakedness of women, are not to one’s liking.
As you also know, I fell sick during this period when I ate some yams that had been cooked carelessly. I resolved to return to Fez, but could not do so easily. There was also some rumour gathering speed that the Black Plague was impending. I had seen its effect in Damascus and was aware of how quickly the disease could kill thousands. In Damascus, the Jews, Christians, and Muslims had all come together to pray to God, but yet the plague had swept through the city. Further, Mansa Sulayman, the King, was not as strong as his brother, and Negro tribes from the southwest were in a state of tension with him. If I fell into the wrong hands, I would be killed, without a doubt, as they are suspicious of white Arabs.
Under the circumstances, I resolved to travel quickly and so, as was the local custom, buried my own most valuable manuscripts at the Sankore Mosque of Timbuktu, built by Musa I, hoping to come back later and claim them. I gave instructions to the learned Negro Qadi of the mosque to hold my manuscripts for my return. And I left Mali via Gao in haste on 22nd Muharram of the year 754. It was a marvellous return journey, though some parts were again very arduous.
Alas, it seems clear now that it will not be possible for me to return to Timbuktu. My time is approaching fast, and while I have acted and recorded my travels in detail, my age and health will not allow me to undertake another journey in the desert.
I tell you this, my son, because the half-manuscript I was given by the Zamorin of Calicut is also amongst those that I left behind in Timbuktu. My understanding of the document was increased after years of studying it and seeking guidance from other scholars and Qadis who knew the language of the infidels. I am sure it is safe because the people there respect learning and books, and will not destroy any documents even if they do not understand them. They are very proud of being black and look down upon us for being white and raw, but at the same time, their respect for learning exceeds their ignorance. If you have a book, it is considered more valuable than gold, and you may also know that there is so much gold in Mali, no one thinks about it. Yet, surprisingly, the location of the gold mines is kept secret. Did you know, my son, that the King of Mali, Mansa Sulayman, is the younger brother of the fabled emperor Mansa Musa, who went to Mecca with thousands of citizens, slaves, and wives through Cairo? Mansa Musa gave away enormous amounts of gold to everyone along the way and returned empty-handed, though not perturbed, because he brought back with him scholars and books, declaring them to be of greater value. I pray that you too are gifted with such wisdom. The designs of some of the mosques in Timbuktu are the result of the blessed knowledge of the architects he brought back with him from Mecca.
At the library of the Sankore Mosque, I have read many books such as the astronomy commentary by Muhammad bin Sa`īd bin Yaḥya al-Sūsī al-Marghitī, The Ethical Treatment of Animals by Ismā`īl bin Bāba bin Sīdi Muhammad al-Ntishāi” ī, and The Principles of Jurisprudence by `Abd al-Qādir bin `Abd al-Karīm al-Wardīghī al-Khayrānī al-Shafshāwnī. All knowledge is welcomed in Timbuktu. It is a remarkable place, truly blessed by Allah.
Go forth then, my son, and as soon as you can, take a caravan to the Sankore Mosque of Timbuktu in Mali, and find the manuscript quickly. It came into my hands by accident but left them because of carelessness and haste. Prevail upon the Qadi there to hand over my books and manuscripts to you. Find, too, the other half in Venice and thereafter find the treasure that is promised. Take the help of the Guardians of the Letter. They live only for you and for this noble purpose.
AbūʿAbd al-Lāh Muhammad ibn ʿAbd al-Lāh l-L
awātī ṭ-Ṭanǧī ibn Baṭūṭah
19 Safar 770 A.H.
4 A Gift to Those Who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling
5In the Rihla, Ibn Batuta surprisingly mistakes the Niger river for the Nile
Journey to Venice and the Vatican
Sherlock Holmes had commented bitterly and often upon the propensity of the public to demand, in the first instance, tales of apparently extreme evil, almost as an appetizer, to be then followed in the next instance by a sequence of highly logical steps that ensnared the perpetrator. This was a matter of some wearying significance for a chronicler like me, for whom the onerous task of detailing the activities of a very great man must involve objectivity and attention to detail rather than distraction by the hysterical demands of a shallow public that can only be satisfied by bloodshed in a book.
Yet, the fact is that the cases involving such depravity were few and far between. For the most part, the cases involved attending to a quirk in human behaviour and smoothing of a misunderstanding, which if not addressed quickly, could likely become a more serious matter. Avoiding a catastrophe was more satisfying intellectually than running about looking for men or women who committed a grievous act and thought they could get away with it. That is the reason that Holmes avoided interacting with the public as far as possible and let me write the stories that won him so much admiration. He would read my drafts with amused contempt, offering an occasional correction or suggestion. But he refused to be drawn into a dialogue with the public, of whom he had a poor opinion.
I mentioned that Holmes did not die at Reichenbach. I shall now elaborate.
I have listened to many theories on what happened at the Falls. All seem compelling. I could not disagree with any idea advanced because, after all, there was no sign of Holmes for months. There was the letter and there were the clear signs of a scuffle at the edge.
A single point has always been overlooked: there were no witnesses.
Let me go back to the time when Signore Rozzi came to meet us in January. Holmes had asked him to return to Venice and to let him know if Conway had anything new to say. I had returned to my home and did not meet Holmes again till later in April when he came to visit me and persuaded me to travel with him to Switzerland. That is when he spoke of Moriarty.
As we travelled to the continent, Holmes spoke in a subdued voice.
“Watson, we have not spoken lately of the affair of Signore Rozzi. Let me remind you that Wiggins had observed two Arabs watching the museum. He felt that someone had ordered the watch, but could not provide a name. Were you aware, Watson, that Conway had been set upon very badly a few days ago?”
“No!” I gasped. “I do not recall reading about it in The Times!”
“For good reason, Watson. Please do not assume that if something does not appear in The Times it has not happened at all! Since when is that paper the final word on any matter?”
He continued. “I specifically told Lestrade to arrange that the press would be in the dark. I am convinced that Moriarty is involved and it has to do with the half-parchment. My suspicion is that Moriarty has even more specific information on the possible nature of the parchment than we do, and was waiting for Conway to finish his inquiry and extract the meaning as best as he could.
“Note two things. One, that Conway was using a copy of the parchment, while the original is with me. And two, that Moriarty possibly concluded that it was best for him to have an expert do the work for him before he acquired the translation. Once he was done, Conway was of no consequence. So the attempt at murder, which went awry. Why? Because I had told Wiggins to guard Conway. I had also visited Conway very discreetly in early April and had a productive conversation with him. I happen to be well acquainted with his brother, so an introduction was not a problem. He had translated the half-manuscript to the best of his ability, yes, but on my request had deliberately introduced a couple of errors as a safeguard, just in case inimical forces felt the need to act. The errors would have considerably confused the reader. The copy was indeed stolen when Conway was attacked. But he had the good sense to keep the real translation elsewhere and he gave it to me. And as it happens, he had received a letter from Signore Rozzi at about the same time, saying he was indisposed and therefore not in a position to travel to London for the meeting scheduled for the twentieth.
“Yes, the time has come to travel to deal with Professor Moriarty, Watson, particularly given the broad hints that Conway, in his limited knowledge, could give me about the contents.”
“But what of the contents, Holmes?” I had asked, my curiosity aroused.
Holmes shook his head. “In case we get the other half and are able to translate it, the entire meaning is likely to take us into another realm of understanding of the laws of physics, Watson. I will not burden you with sensitive information that would put you at risk.”
***
The public knows the “facts” about the events leading to the grim battle at the edge of the Reichenbach Falls. Since Holmes had not confided in me, I too was taken in by the evidence as it was, and came to the conclusion that I had lost my friend forever. This matter greatly exercised me and caused me profound sorrow for an extended period.
Much later, Holmes told me that he had already written the famous “good-bye letter,” which he placed on a ledge, prior to arriving at the falls. He thereafter arranged for further evidence of a scuffle. He left the area before I could return but not before he attracted the attention of Professor Moriarty, who chased him. But Holmes had a significant advantage and he vanished into the mountains, from where he watched me and other rescuers arrive at the falls and arrive at an incorrect conclusion. Professor Moriarty obviously hid, too. Holmes had managed to shake him off.
Then he hiked his way across the border to Italy, touching little villages along the way. The Alps were very remote in any case, an ideal refuge. He reached Lugano, Bergamo, Verona, and then Venice after several days, travelling incognito.
When he reached Venice, Holmes disguised himself as a stout professor, claiming to be visiting from Grenoble. He feared, rightly, that Moriarty was on the lookout. The reach of the man was extraordinary and it would be only a slight exaggeration to say that everything and everyone was somehow connected by a thread back to him.
Holmes went to the Venice Museum.
At the main desk, he asked in French if he could visit Signore Antonio Rozzi. “I am Professor Olivier Picart from Grenoble,” he said.
The two guards looked at each other. Finally one spoke.
“Monsieur, we are sorry, you cannot meet Signore Rozzi.”
“Perhaps he is busy. Would you oblige me by taking my card and asking when I might visit him? I have a message from his friend Professor Charpentier at Grenoble.”
“I am sorry, Monsieur, it is impossible.”
“But why?”
“Because, Monsieur, Signore Rozzi is dead.”
Holmes was shocked and showed it.
“What? Dead? When?”
“Just two days ago, Monsieur. He was murdered in his office in the evening. If you wish I will find out if you can see Signore Batista, who used to work as his deputy.”
“Merci.”
A guard departed and came back in a few minutes, asking Holmes to accompany him. They went through a couple of long rooms with high ceilings and plenty of exhibits, and then they turned a corner into a rather secluded and quiet alcove. The guard knocked on one of the doors and pushed it open.
Signore Batista was at his desk, a pale, short, middle-aged man with black hair, obviously still in the throes of shock. He was slim and wore a gray jacket over a white shirt. He was unremarkable except for his rather large ears.
Sherlock Holmes stepped in and extended a hand. “Signore Batista, I am Professor Olivier Picart from Grenoble.”
“Professor Picart,
welcome. I am Vincenzo Batista. I was the assistant to Antonio Rozzi. Please sit down.”
“I am very sorry. The guard told me. This is very bad news. As you would say, Tragico! Tragico!”
“Si,” sighed Signore Batista. “Tragico! It is unfortunate, very unfortunate. But how can I help you, Professor Picart?”
“I am visiting Italy on holiday. His friend Professor Charpentier at Grenoble asked me to visit the museum and convey his regards.”
“Ah, I thank you. The name is not familiar, but then Signore Rozzi was well travelled and knew many people. His special interest was the preservation of ancient manuscripts.”
“That is right. And Professor Charpentier has a similar strong interest. In fact, he has a particular interest in Marco Polo.”
Signore Batista clicked his tongue in mild irritation. “Ah yes, he is very popular, Marco Polo. Everything in Venice is named after him! Everything happens under the shadow of his great name, si. Signore Rozzi himself was a specialist on Marco Polo and wrote many monographs on various aspects of Marco Polo’s travels.”
“Indeed? Professor Charpentier mentioned to me that Signore Rozzi had visited him in January while travelling to London and hoped to do so again in April. But he did not visit him, and so Professor Charpentier was worried. He asked me to inquire and conveyed his best wishes.”
“He had not been keeping well for some time. I was worried about him. He did not rest at all and seemed to be worried about something. But I did not expect him to be murdered.”
“How did it happen? What do the polizia say?”
“Someone hit him violently on the head in his office,” Signore Batista gestured to show the blow. “Over the past several weeks, he was busy trying to translate some ancient documents. It is not clear if anything was stolen, say the polizia. We have lost a great scholar, si.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 4