Dear Dr. Kephalas:
Are you convinced?
She turned the manuscript over to Reading the Syntax, which produced almost the same result. PROBABILITY ONE AUTHOR: 86%.
She went to her Web site. Up front, page one: Leonidas
received. Who are you?
She sat over the computer until well into the evening. She skipped dinner, read the play, which was not about the battle of Thermopylae, but about the Spartan negligence and delay that had preceded it. That had made it necessary to sacrifice three hundred Spartans and their Thespian and Theban allies.
Sparta had known for a long time that Persia constituted a major threat. But their rulers had not taken it seriously. They’d ignored all evidence that disagreed with their conviction that Xerxes was a coward. That he would not dare attack. Leonidas, despite his exalted position, was unable to move the bureaucrats who effectively ran the country. Even when the threat finally materialized, when the Athenians brought their warnings that the Persians were marching, a religious festival was going on, and they could not react. Dared not offend the gods. Ultimately, the decision was made to send the small force to hold the pass at Thermopylae. Just hold on until the celebration is over.
The climax depicts an outraged Leonidas buckling on his sword and inviting his colleagues to share in the bloodletting their indolence was about to cause. Nobody makes a move.
SEVERAL
hours after she’d posted her question at the Web site, an answer of sorts was returned:
We have seven more Sophoclean plays.
Who are you?
If we gave you access to the plays, what would you do with them?
Give them to the world, of course. Make them available to any who want them.
Do you want them?
Of course. Do you really have seven more?
Yes.
Where did you get them?
That’s of no consequence.
How can you say that? It’s essential information.
It’s of no consequence.
What’s in it for you?
You ask a lot of questions. We’ll start by sending you two more. After we see what happens, we’ll decide what to do next.
THE
Homeric Society, consisting of approximately four hundred classical scholars, was concentrated across the Western world. But it had a scattering of members in Japan and China, in Africa, and in the Middle East. Two days after Aspasia’s conversation with her mysterious benefactors, each member received, as an e-mail attachment, copies of the
Achilles
and the
Leonidas
.
A claim has been advanced for the validity of these plays,
Aspasia’s note read.
I am interested in your opinion.
Dave was among the scholars receiving the documents. He showed the package to Shel, who glanced over it approvingly. “I guess you were right about her,” he said.
“I’ve known Aspasia a long time, Shel. She’s cautious, but she’s very good.”
CHAPTER 20
Do not think of life as a matter of consequence. Rather, look at the vast voids of the years to come and the years that are past, and recall that your hours are few.
—MARCUS AURELIUS,
MEDITATIONS
“SO
he went to Alexandria,” said Shel.
“Who knows,” said Dave, “how many places he might have gone to that night?” He was trying to be encouraging. Maybe, somewhere, they could still find him.
Shel could think of other sites, events, people that would have interested his father. The elder Shelborne had read Carl Sandburg’s biography of Lincoln while Shel was in high school, and had left the volume in conspicuous places around the house to encourage his son to pick it up. Shel had, and he’d read pieces of it, but Lincoln was too far away, and it was too much for him at a time when his primary interests were girls and baseball.
But it suggested a strategy. It was, in any case, all he had. He and Dave subsequently began showing up at the Lincoln-Douglas debates. They attended the first one, in Ottawa, Illinois, on August 21, 1858, and each of the other six, which concluded in Alton, October 15, of that same year. Douglas pleaded for an America that would be “the north star that shall guide the friends of freedom,” and that it would do this by maintaining slavery within its borders.
“I’d love to ask the son of a bitch a few questions,” said Dave.
“I’m sure you would,” Shel said. “But I thought Mr. Lincoln managed a reasonable response.”
In the end, of course, the voters elected Douglas. And if Shel’s father showed up, they never saw him.
AFTER
Lincoln-Douglas, they needed something light, something that came with a party. Consequently, they went to New York on August 15, 1945, V-J Day, where they joined the end-of-war celebration. (Shel had suggested they don military uniforms for the event, but Dave refused. “No. That’s more or less what we did at Selma.” Shel was offended, but he gave in.)
Unsure how to continue the search, they drifted. They went to concerts by the Kingston Trio. They attended festivals in classical Athens, enthusiastically celebrating the rites of spring, watching the annual petition to Athena, and attending performances of plays not seen in two thousand years.
They were giddy times.
And there were more serious moments. On January 10, 49 B.C., when Caesar and his army crossed the Rubicon, Shel and Dave sat in a boat, apparently fishing in the middle of the river. “He never came,” said Dave, as the army ferried itself across.
“Who never came? Dad?”
“According to the story, Caesar wasn’t sure he wanted to go through with this, so he hesitated at the river’s edge until a god showed up and directed him to cross.”
“You didn’t actually think it would happen that way?”
“No. But I was tempted to play the role of the deity.” He grinned at Shel’s shocked reaction. “Just kidding.”
They joined the crowd on the mall for the “I Have a Dream” speech. In August 1944, they were in Paris when the Allies arrived.
MICHAEL
Shelborne had liked Charles Lamb. So they went to London in the spring of 1820, planning to meet the celebrated essayist. But they arrived outside the city and were almost immediately accosted by highwaymen. It was broad daylight, but it didn’t seem to matter. The bandits laughed while inviting them to empty their pockets. Dave and Shel shrugged, said good-bye, and returned to the town house.
They tried again, after resetting the converters to get closer to London. They arrived during early evening, having allowed time for Lamb to get home from his job clerking for India House. They got lucky this time, and stepped out into Covent Garden, only a few blocks from his home on Russell Street. They picked up a bottle of wine en route, and presented themselves at the front door as admirers of Lamb’s work. At that point, though Lamb was in his forties, the great essayist had written little of note.
“We’re reviving the
London Magazine
next year, Mr. Lamb,” Shel told him. “We’d like very much to have some of your time, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, gentlemen,” he said. “Please come in.” Lamb was thin, about average height, with an easy smile. He led them back to a sitting room, where a middle-aged woman was reading.
They did a round of introductions. The woman was Mary Lamb, who had murdered her mother twenty years earlier in one of her occasional bouts of insanity. Fortunately, at the moment she seemed fine. She was not unattractive, although there was a stolidity in her features that suggested she wasn’t especially flexible.
The sitting room looked out onto Russell Street, where several children were playing with a ball. Framed pictures of people Shel couldn’t identify hung on the walls. Bulging bookcases stood on opposite sides of the room. A newspaper was spread out across a coffee table in front of a sofa where Lamb had apparently been seated.
“The first issue,” said Shel, “will be out in July. We’d like very much to have an essay from you, if you’d be so kind.”
“An essay? Mr. Shelborne, I don’t want to disappoint you, but I haven’t written anything for twelve or thirteen years. Why would you come to me?”
“Trust me, Charles. May I call you
Charles
?”
“Of course.”
“All right, Charles.” Shel glanced over at David as he said it. He’d toyed with the idea of trying
Charlie
. “Perhaps you know my father, Michael? He has always been quite enthusiastic about your work.”
“Michael Shelborne?” Lamb considered it. Shook his head. “I don’t know the gentleman.”
“Let me show you a picture.” Shel produced the usual photo.
Lamb reacted much as Aristarchus had. But no, he had no recollection of the man.
“In any case,” said Shel, trying not to show his frustration, “we’ve looked at your
Tales of Shakespeare
. And at the
Works of Charles Lamb
.”
“And you liked them?”
“Of course. We’d like you to write essays for us. On a regular basis.”
“Are you serious, sir?”
“Of course I am.”
“If I may ask, I’m not familiar with your name. Will you be the editor?”
“I’m financing the project. Behind the scenes, you understand. My name won’t appear anywhere.” Shel told him who the editor would be.
“I see.” Lamb grew thoughtful. A suspicious look passed between him and Mary.
“Listen,” said Shel. “I’d be doubtful, too. But what have you to lose? All I ask is that you send us an essay. Find out whether I’m serious.”
Everybody’s mood lightened. Shel asked whether he and David might take the Lambs out for dinner. “To celebrate.”
“I’d like to, very much,” he said. “But we have friends coming this evening.”
Mary looked at Shel. “Perhaps,” she said, “if it’s convenient, Mr. Shelborne and his associate might like to join us next week.”
“We’d be delighted,” said Dave.
Lamb smiled. “Sam will be here Wednesday. He would enjoy meeting you.”
SAM
turned out to be Charles’s longtime friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He was something of a comedian, a quality Shel would never have guessed from his written work. Not that he’d read much of it. He had a hearty laugh and he commented that Shel’s interest in Charles demonstrated his impeccable taste. “The truth is,” he said, “I’ve been trying for years to persuade him to move in my direction, to switch over to poetry, where the big money is.”
That brought a hearty laugh. And Lamb corrected him: “
Romantic
poetry.” Even Mary thought that was funny.
“With Byron and Shelley running loose out there,” said Coleridge, “God knows we need all the help we can get. By the way, has anyone here read
Frankenstein
?”
“I have,” said Mary.
“What did you think?”
“I saw some resemblances to ‘The Ancient Mariner.’ In fact, I’m not sure it wasn’t an homage to you.”
“Really?”
“Do you
know
Mary Shelley?” asked Dave.
“Oh, yes.” Coleridge lit up. “She’s a talented young woman.” He glanced at Lamb for confirmation.
“Haven’t read it,” he said. “But yes, she is.”
Coleridge admitted the book was occasionally slow going. “She could have picked up the pacing a bit, though I’m sure she’ll figure that out for herself. But I liked the notion of an artificial man with a taste for Milton. Mary has an exquisite sense of humor.”
MICHAEL
had been a baseball fan. On a hunch, they showed up at Wrigley Field on August 25, 1922, to watch the Cubs beat the Phillies 26-23, in the highest-scoring major-league game ever. And they went to Berlin for Jack Kennedy’s celebrated “
Ich bin ein Berliner
” address. Finding anyone in either of those crowds was, of course, out of the question. But Shel was enjoying himself. There was an especially moving aspect to sitting in on an event armed with a historical perspective. As to finding his father, he was close to giving up.
“You know what’s really painful?” he said, moments after they’d returned from Berlin.
“That your father probably didn’t have time to do much of what we’ve been doing?”
“It goes deeper than that, Dave. Truth is, I don’t know how many places he visited. But what strikes me is, we’re getting a kind of godlike view of the world.”
Dave nodded.
“We stood out there today, listening to Kennedy, and we know what’s coming. We know the Cold War will end, that everything will turn out okay in Europe. And we know that in five months, Kennedy will be dead.”
“Yeah.”
“The whole time we were listening to him, that was what kept running through my head. That he was going to be taken out by that nutcase in Dallas, and nobody would ever even know why.”
“I know. I thought about that, too.”
“When we were watching Lincoln, it was the same thing. And King. I don’t like knowing what’s coming.”
Dave unclipped the converter and sat down.
Shel’s eyes lost their focus. “I hate that part of this.”
“I saw a movie once.”
“Yeah?”
“It was called
TimeQuest
. A time traveler goes back and does what you’re talking about: He warns JFK.”
“How does it turn out?”
“A lot better. We stay out of Vietnam. We get Moonbase. King survives and becomes the first black president. Kennedy dies peacefully fifty years later in his bed at Hyannisport.”
“I wish we could arrange something like that.”
“So do I. But we’re talking about the ultimate hubris now. I suggest we keep our hands off.”