by Tom Pollack
Fortunately, though, there was still a lot more to do in Alexandria than pray. At the first opportunity, Cain approached Eratosthenes, recently appointed by Ptolemy III as the chief librarian. Before their initial meeting, Cain had discreetly inquired into his background. By all accounts, Eratosthenes was a polymath: poet, mathematician, athlete, astronomer, and geographer. He had calculated the circumference of the earth. He had created a detailed map of the Nile. The people Cain talked to wondered what the man hadn’t accomplished.
“Please show me your charts, Philo,” Eratosthenes said when the two men convened in the new map room of the library. Cain had introduced himself as Philo, the great-nephew of Callias, whose sabbatical, he regretfully reported, had ended in Rome after a long terminal illness.
“These are extraordinary!” the erudite librarian exclaimed. Eratosthenes invited Cain to meet with his slightly older colleague Archimedes. Over a lavish meal in the communal dining room of the Mouseion, the three men discoursed on a wide range of topics: physics, astronomy, engineering, and the scientific method. At a neighboring table, a collection of scholars were engaged in animated discussion. Cain recognized the language as Hebrew. While it was not at all unusual to hear foreign tongues and accents in Alexandria, he wondered about the presence of such a large delegation in the Mouseion.
“Are these distinguished visitors?” he asked Eratosthenes, gesturing discreetly in the group’s direction.
“Yes, Philo, they are. They are engaged in a remarkable project that enjoys His Majesty’s patronage. About seventy in number, these scholars aim to expand the audience for the Hebrew Scripture by translating it into Greek. It is a book about their God, and the creation of the world. It is also, I am given to understand, a manual of conduct.”
Having just seen the Serapeum temple, which also enjoyed the patronage of His Majesty, Cain was bewildered.
“King Ptolemy, then, remains open to many different faith traditions?” he inquired.
“Oh, indeed, yes! Our city cannot hope to be a beacon for the world if we close ourselves off. I am convinced that these scholars will make a mark. There is already a nickname for the text they are preparing. Since there are about seventy of them, their book will probably be known as the Septuagint.”
Cain’s ready appreciation of the Greco-Roman pun on the word for “seventy” was not lost on Eratosthenes. More importantly, his cartographic abilities signaled that he would be a valuable addition to the ranks at the Mouseion. Just as Zenodotus, years earlier, had offered Cain a fellowship there, Eratosthenes eventually broached the subject of institutional affiliation.
“I can promise you, Philo, that King Ptolemy Euergetes lives up to his name,” the librarian told him several months later. “He is a philanthropist who creates good works. I have recommended to his council that you be appointed a fellow of the Mouseion. That is, if you are willing.”
With an amused sense of déjà vu, Cain declared himself ready to accept the appointment.
***
The years passed happily for Cain. Cartography was his primary interest, but the efforts of the Hebrew translators also intrigued him. The group worked slowly but methodically. For their initial effort, translation into Greek of the Pentateuch, the five books of Moses, they had budgeted twenty-five years. Although some of the scholars could be abrasive, haggling over petty religious sticking points, they eventually settled their differences.
The linguistic proficiency of “Philo” attracted the attention of the translators, and they regularly invited him to attend their seminars. They were working backward within the Pentateuch, starting from the time of the first entry by the Hebrews into the promised land of Canaan. Reflecting on his painful departure from Egypt, Cain was intrigued to learn of the exploits of the refugee slaves during their own exodus. As he encountered the Hebrews’ endless complaints during their desert wandering of a mere forty years, he felt a certain sense of pride in his own resiliency during his own time of wandering.
Cain couldn’t help but wonder at the richness of the historical detail that Moses, the putative author of these books, had retained. How could these accounts have accurately survived for over one thousand years? He knew well from his career as a bard how easily facts became blurred as oral tradition attempted to hand them down. Yet the book contained a description of the plagues of Egypt that matched his experience exactly.
However, as the scholars neared the end of their journey and began to work on the book they called Genesis, his fascination was inexorably replaced by mounting discomfort. Encountering the story of Joseph in the last portion of Genesis, Cain was reminded how his own greed during the time of the plagues had backfired on him before Pharaoh—in sharp contrast to Joseph’s altruistic leadership during an earlier famine in Egypt. The accounts of Noah and his descendants after the great flood induced a tide of depression in Cain. How could God have showered these people with blessings and divine promises after their many misdeeds, and yet cursed him with such extremes of loneliness and isolation? And the lurid description of the flood itself only heightened his somber memories.
Cain needed an escape from these bitter recollections. He decided to avoid the Hebrews’ sessions and busy himself in his maps. Gradually, his good humor returned.
***
Several months later, as he was strolling in the halls of the library, Cain encountered a young Hebrew scribe.
“Philo! We have missed you. Where have you been all this time?”
“I apologize for my absence. I am afraid Eratosthenes has been a bit of a slave driver with me lately,” Cain fibbed.
“Well, you must be with us at tomorrow’s celebration. Our work is complete! Your many contributions should be honored alongside all those of our group.”
Cain could not bring himself to decline the invitation, so the next afternoon he gingerly entered the room where the scholars were holding their festivities. Accepting a goblet of wine from the young scribe who had greeted him the day before, Cain strolled the perimeter of the room as the boisterous group exchanged congratulations. Just then, Mordechai, the leader of the translators, noticed his presence. Encircling Cain’s shoulders with his right arm, he brought him into the midst of their gathering.
“To our esteemed colleague, Philo!” he toasted. “Who else has enriched our efforts with such skill and nuance?”
Cain smiled and accepted the accolade as the gathered scholars raised their goblets in appreciation. Perhaps he would be able to relax and enjoy himself at the party. But his feelings quickly changed when he overheard a dialogue between two of the scholars a few paces away.
“My view, as you know Ezra, is that the murderer was treated too leniently. We have chronicled far more severe consequences for lighter offenses than Cain’s evil deed.”
“Yes, Shimon, but you must admit that Yahweh did us a great favor by ridding our forefathers of the bastard’s presence. It would have ruined their own agriculture to spill his accursed blood alongside Abel’s.”
“Fair enough. But Cain’s death goes unrecorded!” Shimon growled with a raised fist. “I still would find it a comfort to know he was not blessed with the long lives of Adam, Noah, and Methuselah.”
The room swirled as the sound of his name reached Cain’s ears for the first time in a millenium. These men all knew of his crime! His deeds were recorded in the Hebrew Scripture and were being spread throughout the world. But they had no idea of the irony of their remarks, nor the true scope of his punishment.
“Philo, where are you going? Are you ill?” Mordechai called, but Cain was already fleeing the room.
***
Cain secluded himself completely over the next several weeks until the Hebrews had departed Alexandria. But tortured night after night by tormented dreams about his past, he sorely lamented his return to the library and yearned for new horizons.
One morning, fate provided the answer. As he was strolling across the quadrangle outside the main library, he was intercepted by a delegation o
f half a dozen foreign visitors from the East.
The group’s leader, attired in stylish and colorful silk clothes, bowed low. A tall, thin man about fifty years old, he spoke fluent Greek and Egyptian. Cain instantly recollected that he had encountered this man before—at a dinner party hosted by Eratosthenes two years ago, but they had only exchanged pleasantries. From his garb and demeanor, this foreigner was certainly a person of some consequence.
“Esteemed sir,” said the leader. “I am sincerely hoping that this detainment is not awkward for you. We should have dispatched advance notice. I am Kwok-se.”
Cain bowed in reciprocation. “Of course. I remember well our prior meeting, Kwok-se. May I know the purpose of your return to Alexandria?” he inquired.
“We are on a trade mission, honored sir. But my patron has asked me to seek you out. I have written to him about your unexcelled abilities in map and chart making, and he now earnestly desires your presence.”
“And who is your patron, if I may ask?”
Kwok-se’s poise faltered, shocked as he was by the ignorance of this westerner, but he quickly recovered himself.
“He is the First Emperor of China, honored sir. He is known in many courts and many cities. His name is Qin Shihuangdi, may that name be forever praised!”
Like Kwok-se, the others in the delegation smiled and placed their hands over their hearts.
“Your emperor desires my presence, you say?” inquired Cain, with more than a trace of curiosity. “How could I be of service to him?”
“If I may call you Philo, sir, I should inform you that His Imperial Highness wishes to construct accurate maps of all the world. In particular, his will is that a giant map of the western world be hung in the royal throne room so that he may study it at any time. He also has plans to commission a huge globe made of precious gems and gold to be placed in the royal burial chamber.”
“He is anticipating death soon?” Cain asked.
“Oh, no! His Imperial Highness is building a kingdom that will last ten thousand years. Whatever this kingdom’s extent in time, he has found a potion of immortality that will allow him to rule eternally! There is no doubt about this fact.”
Cain’s curiosity was piqued. Never, even among the ancient pharaohs, had he heard about another man so convinced of his own immortality.
“And suppose I should agree,” he hazarded. “How would we travel to meet with your patron?”
Kwok-se waved his hand, in courteous dismissal of such naïveté. “On the Silk Road, of course!” he exclaimed.
Two weeks later, Cain submitted his resignation from the faculty of the Alexandrian Mouseion.
The East beckoned.
CHAPTER 46
Naples, Italy: Present Day
“THIS IS CAPTAIN SCIROCCO from the flight deck,” said the voice over the Global Express’s public address system. “We have begun our initial descent into Naples. The tower has informed me that we are the last flight that will be permitted to land this morning, due to a mild eruption of gas and ash from Mount Vesuvius. The weather in Naples is sunny, with a temperature of seventy-five degrees. We should be on the ground in thirty minutes.”
Having slept comfortably through the flight, Giovanni Genoa accepted a glass of 1996 Barolo from Sharon. Spotting her from the rear of the cabin, Archibald Walker rattled the ice in his crystal tumbler, his now familiar signal for Sharon to mix him a fresh gin and tonic. As Rudolph Schmidt was making his way back to his seat from the restroom at the rear of the cabin, Walker hailed the attorney genially.
“Will you join me in one for the road?” Walker asked. “After all, the sun is nearly over the yardarm!”
Schmidt paused and then, ordering a Perrier and lime, sat down in the seat adjacent to Walker.
“Smooth flight. Very comfortable. And these jets are so quiet,” he observed.
“Yes, they’re the top of the line, I’m told,” agreed Walker. “Now tell me, Mr. Schmidt, what is the outlook for title transfer of the archaeological site from Renard Enterprises to the Getty? We at the museum are eager to get started.”
“Unfortunately, Dr. Walker, the Italian land transfer laws are extremely complex. You might even call them Byzantine. Surveys, indemnities, non-objection certificates, transfer taxes, national heritage depositions—that sort of thing. We might find this taking sixty to ninety days, or even longer.”
For the second time that morning, chagrin overwhelmed Walker. He had been caught off guard when Silvio disclosed on the phone that Amanda had entered the chamber. Now, nervously fingering his purple signet ring, he wondered if Luc Renard was also intending to undercut him. “Mr. Renard led me to believe that everything could be wrapped up by tomorrow. We have already scheduled the press conference,” he reminded Schmidt.
“Yes, I know, I know,” the lawyer replied smoothly. “But you can’t expect Mr. Renard to be bothered with the legal niceties. There will be no harm, at any rate, in announcing the company’s intention to donate the site to the Getty.”
“Well, I would very much hope so,” said Walker in a sulky tone. “Otherwise, I might just as well have spent the weekend in the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
Just then, Luc Renard strolled down the aisle, smiling expansively. “Ready for the big moment, Dr. Walker?”
“It will certainly be an historic occasion for the Getty, Mr. Renard,” Walker answered. “Only Mr. Schmidt here informs me that the transfer—”
Renard broke in, shooting Schimdt a glance. “There, there, dear Doctor. You know from experience that things proceed at their own pace in Italy. After all, it was only under Mussolini that the trains ran on time. Rest assured, we’ll get it done as soon as we can, and you will have top billing for the new discovery. You certainly deserve it.” Walker smiled in acknowledgment as Luc continued down the aisle and Schmidt returned to his seat. Fastening his seat belt, the Getty’s man of the hour finished his cocktail and willed a measure of confidence to return.
***
At the airport, Giovanni Genoa wished the other travelers good-bye, and the painter climbed into a limousine for his ride home to Rome.
Meanwhile, an Italian customs agent on the tarmac accorded the visitors VIP treatment, and the formalities took less than five minutes. Then Luc shepherded Schmidt and Walker to a waiting helicopter for the brief flight to Ercolano. It was eleven forty-five a.m.
Just before takeoff, two Italian bodyguards wearing earpieces slid into the chopper and seated themselves directly behind the pilot.
“Why all the security?” Walker asked Renard over the mounting roar of the rotors, noticing the telltale bulge of shoulder holsters beneath the bodyguards’ jackets.
“Routine procedure, Doctor,” replied Luc reassuringly as he patted Walker’s shoulder. “I always take them with me when I travel abroad.”
Walker glanced across at Luc, but his eyes were unreadable behind his mirrored glasses. The helicopter rose into the air and headed out over the sparkling bay, southeast for Ercolano.
CHAPTER 47
The Silk Road and China, 214–213 BC
“IS THERE ANY SORT of market there?” Cain asked as they were approaching Kashgar, the halfway point to the City of Xi’an on the Silk Road.
“In Kashgar?” Kwok-se replied incredulously. “Surely you jest, my friend! It is one of the finest markets in the world. Simply extraordinary what you can find there.”
“Excellent! I am eager to try out my Chinese.”
“Your Chinese, both spoken and written, is almost as good as mine, Philo. I cannot believe you have mastered my own language in a matter of months.”
“You are a patient teacher, Kwok-se.” Cain knew his own facility for languages, but a fluent command of more than six thousand Chinese characters had been a daunting goal, even for him. He had spent many late nights on the way to Xi’an huddled in a tent with a candle and a roll of parchment.
The sand-blown faces of the camel drivers brightened as the travelers’ caravan appr
oached Kashgar. An oasis city poised between the rugged mountains of the Tian Shan range and one of the most arid deserts in the world, the town would be their home for the next fifteen days, as they paused their journey to enjoy the festive celebrations of the New Year.
As they rode into town, Kwok-se recounted to his companion the legendary origins of the New Year’s festival.
“Many of our New Year’s customs are rooted in the story of Nian, a cruel and ferocious monster. The reason we paste red paper signs on doorways, for example, is to keep Nian away on New Year’s Eve. We light torches and make loud noises for the same purpose.”
“And why is Nian so much to be feared?” Cain wanted to know.
“Very simple,” Kwok-se laughed. “He eats people!”
They stayed at an inn operated by an old friend of Kwok-se. After all the camels were unpacked and the horses stabled, the two men set out to visit the marketplace. Cain soon realized that his friend had not exaggerated. Kashgar was a bustling mercantile crossroads of the Silk Road, the five-thousand-mile artery that linked eastern China with the West. The faces and headgear of the merchants and shoppers told of their origins in India, Persia, Egypt, and Arabia as well as China. Cain even thought he could recognize a Roman or two. In the dusty alleyways, seemingly everything was available: sandalwood, lacquer, porcelain, woolen carpets, aloes, frankincense, and silk brocade. Donkey carts jostled for space with horses and herds of sheep, their drivers shouting commands and warnings in a babel of tongues.