‘Your visit to the library has proved useful, has it, sir?’
‘Enlightening, if not of any immediate use. Our French friend Masson did indeed mislead us. The manuscripts of which he wrote to me so excitedly are fine specimens of Byzantine calligraphy from the time of the emperor John Komnenos. But, as he told us yesterday, somewhat belatedly, they consist of the work of Euphorion of Chalcis.’ Fields picked up a spoon and began to stir his coffee vigorously. ‘Fragments from an epic poem which is shockingly poor. And lines of amatory verse which are merely shocking. I am surprised that the scribe, who was almost certainly a cleric of some kind, could bring himself to write them down. But that is by the by. The point is that they are not by our Euphorion.’
The long-legged waiter sidled awkwardly to the table and served Adam his drink. It was a small cup of what looked like boiling mud. The young man stared at it, black and bubbling, and braced himself to raise it to his lips.
‘I have also paid a visit to the embassy and arranged to see someone there,’ the professor went on. ‘Samways. Felix Samways. He was up at the college not so many years ago. Perhaps you recall him?’
‘I have no memory of anyone of that name.’
‘He must have been before your time. The man’s a fool but even fools can have their uses. He is attached to the embassy.’ Fields took a napkin and dabbed at his lips. ‘With luck, he will be able to expedite any journey out of Athens we might wish to make.’
‘What journey out of Athens might we wish to make?’
‘Who can tell where we might wish to travel?’ The professor replaced the napkin on the table. He had adopted an air of mystery like a stage magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat. ‘But this Dilessi business earlier in the year has made it exceedingly difficult for us to come and go as we please. After the kidnapping and murder of several Englishmen so close to Athens, no one is eager to allow others to leave the safety of the city. A voice raised in our favour at the embassy might well prove invaluable.’
‘But where might we wish to go?’ Adam persisted. ‘I would think that our only journey should be back to England. After our disappointment with Masson, what is there to keep us here?’
‘Why should we not stay a while longer? The land where Pericles ruled and Plato thought must always have a strong claim on our hearts,’ Fields said, picking his teeth as he spoke.
‘I do believe that you have learned something more at the National Library, Professor.’ Adam swallowed a mouthful of the hot mud and found it surprisingly flavourful.
‘I have spoken with the librarian there. He is a charming man. He had a suggestion to make.’
‘And that was?’
‘That there are manuscripts still awaiting discovery and proper cataloguing in many of the Greek monasteries. That we might wish to mount an expedition in search of some to take back to Cambridge.’
There was a silence as Adam thought about this.
‘What of these monasteries?’ he asked after a few moments. ‘Is the librarian right, do you think? Is it possible that they could contain unknown manuscripts? Lost manuscripts?’
‘Possible, yes, but I do not know that it is likely.’ The professor seemed suddenly deflated. His earlier enthusiasm had evaporated. ‘I did look into the matter before I left Cambridge.’
‘And what did you learn?’
‘A Swedish traveller named Bjornestahl examined some of the monastic libraries in Thessaly about fifty years ago. He found little of any interest. Musty volumes of the Greek Fathers. Some manuscripts and codices, but none of any considerable value. Everywhere he found signs of damp and neglect.’
‘Perhaps the monks were unwilling to show an outsider what they really owned.’
‘Perhaps. But scholars have long ago lost hope that a forgotten library might hold some genuine treasure.’
‘Who knows? Maybe we will stumble upon the lost books of Livy.’
‘No, they are gone for ever.’ Fields sounded like a man regretfully acknowledging an inescapable truth. ‘As are the missing plays of Aeschylus and Aristotle’s book on comedy. We shall find nothing so remarkable.’
‘But there might be the work of some lesser author still to be discovered.’ It was Adam whose enthusiasm was now growing as the professor’s shrank. ‘An author like Euphorion.’
‘I cannot bring myself to believe even that.’ The professor stared into the bottom of his cup and stirred the dregs of his coffee. He appeared to discover new hope there. ‘Although, it is true that Bjornestahl did not include all the monasteries of Thessaly in his survey.’
‘So, there is a chance that there is something still out there.’
‘A chance, yes. A systematic search of the monastic libraries might reveal hitherto unknown manuscripts. Who knows? Even lost works by ancient authors.’
‘Then we must go,’ Adam said, decisively. ‘We have come too far to do no more than return to London with our tails between our legs.’
The professor shrugged, whether in agreement or disagreement Adam was not entirely certain, then got to his feet.
‘There is something,’ he announced rather too loudly, ‘that I must fetch from my room.’
Adam followed Fields’s progress through the hotel’s restaurant, which was fuller than it had been when he had first come down. Several tables were now taken by those intent upon lunch. Adam looked across at a young English couple whose behaviour suggested they were newlyweds on their honeymoon. Further away, two middle-aged men, Americans to judge by their accents, were talking noisily about stocks and shares. Another man entered the restaurant and, at first, Adam assumed he was planning to join the two Americans. He moved in their direction. As he did so, Adam saw to his astonishment that the man was Lewis Garland. The MP strode confidently past the American businessmen and took a seat at a more distant table. He waved to the tall waiter who set off towards him like a contestant embarking on a foot race. Adam took the opportunity to head for the nearest door. He had no desire to engage Garland in conversation but he could not help but wonder what on earth could have brought the man to Athens.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The man hailed Adam and the professor as soon as they entered the house in the Square of the Mint that served as the British embassy. He was wearing a blue blazer with brass buttons and a pair of white duck trousers and was about to leave the building. He looked more like a sailor recently come ashore after years at sea than a member of the British diplomatic service.
‘Apologies for the outfit, gentlemen,’ he said, looking anything but apologetic. He seemed to have forgotten, possibly deliberately, that he had an appointment to see them. ‘Not really on duty at present. Taking a boat to Aegina this afternoon, but I thought I’d exchange pleasantries before I went.’
He shook hands with Fields and then held out his hand to Adam.
‘You must be Carver. Don’t think we met in Cambridge.’ He paused. ‘Or did we? I’m constantly coming across chaps who claim to have known me at college and I haven’t the faintest recollection of them.’
‘No, we were up at different times, I think. I went down in the summer of sixty-five.’
‘Oh, different epochs altogether, then. I was a year into the dreariest of postings in Copenhagen in the summer of sixty-five. Ever been to Copenhagen?’
Adam indicated that he hadn’t had that pleasure.
‘Wretched weather. So damned cold most of the time,’ said Sam-ways, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at one of the buttons on the cuffs of his jacket. ‘Can’t recommend it.’