Time Travelers Never Die Part 28

SHE called Miles Greenberg, who taught programming. He was an easygoing guy, recently divorced, lonely, but glad to be out of a marriage that had never worked. "Got a problem, Miles." called Miles Greenberg, who taught programming. He was an easygoing guy, recently divorced, lonely, but glad to be out of a marriage that had never worked. "Got a problem, Miles."

"What do you need, Aspasia?"

"I have a copy of a play that someone claims was written by Sophocles. Is there some software that can do an a.n.a.lysis?"

"Of Sophocles?"

"Yes."

"Who's making the claim?"

"Don't know. It's anonymous."

"And you want to do what? Determine whether it might be authentic?"

"Yes."

"You can't tell by reading it?"

"No. It's not an obvious forgery."

"Aspasia, it has to be a fake, doesn't it?"

"Probably."

"So it's in Greek, right?"

"Of course."

"A number of years ago, when they were trying to decide who really wrote Shakespeare, somebody developed a package."

"For Shakespeare."

"Yes. I don't know what it looked like. But it would have a.n.a.lyzed the way he used various word combinations. And it would have looked at sentence lengths. And probably the way he punctuated. And other kinds of patterns. Like how many clauses did he use? And under what circ.u.mstances? I could track down the package, probably. But then we'd have to adapt it for Greek. Then let it do an a.n.a.lysis of how Sophocles writes."

"Okay."

"How many of his plays do we have?"

"Seven."

"All right. Maybe it'll be enough. I'll get back to you."

She was due at school and reluctantly decided to put the issue aside until evening. It is, she told herself, a fake. Don't get your hopes up. If it weren't, why on earth would they have sent it anonymously?

At the end of the day, she got tied up in a faculty meeting. Consequently, it was almost dark before she got home. She came in the door, the place lit up, and she dropped her bag on the nearest chair. She had a message waiting from Miles: "Aspasia, I have the software. Call me when you can." "Aspasia, I have the software. Call me when you can."

IT was Miles's busy season, so it was almost a week before they could get together. For Aspasia, it was a difficult time. She read and reread the was Miles's busy season, so it was almost a week before they could get together. For Aspasia, it was a difficult time. She read and reread the Achilles Achilles. And yes, it did did have the power of Sophoclean drama, the cla.s.sic confrontation in which the moral course is unclear, and any decision might easily prove lethal. have the power of Sophoclean drama, the cla.s.sic confrontation in which the moral course is unclear, and any decision might easily prove lethal.

She wanted this to be what it pretended to be. If she actually held in her hands one of the lost plays, it would give her life a level of meaning for which she could never have hoped. And because she so desperately wanted it to be true, she knew she could not manage an objective judgment.

The reality was that she could probably have produced a play of this calibre herself. All that was needed was a command of the language and a familiarity with cla.s.sical dramatic technique. One could not read a work of literature and safely a.s.sign greatness to it. That was something that came only with time. With the approbation of generations. All she knew at this point was that the play touched touched her, that it struck her sensibilities as her, that it struck her sensibilities as Antigone Antigone had, and had, and Oedipus at Colonus Oedipus at Colonus.

She told herself to relax and tried to forget the ma.n.u.script. She made no effort to do an English translation. That would mean she was taking it seriously, and only an idiot would do that.

Still, emotionally, she moved into that nondescript chapel outside the Trojan wall. She saw it as it would have been, had it existed at all: a modest stone structure with a statue of Apollo near the altar, the whole illuminated by a series of flickering candles or oil lamps. A handful of wors.h.i.+ppers would be kneeling before the G.o.d, heads bent, praying that they might return from the endless conflict to their families. And in back, hidden among the shadows, would be Paris, waiting with that notched arrow.

Finally, Miles showed up with the software. It was called Reading the Syntax. It wasn't the original Shakespearean program, but something more recent that was being used in cla.s.srooms in an effort to help students become creative writers. It a.n.a.lyzed their their work. "But," he said, "I can't see that it won't be just as effective. And we can adjust it for cla.s.sical Greek." work. "But," he said, "I can't see that it won't be just as effective. And we can adjust it for cla.s.sical Greek."

Miles was in his thirties, with dark hair and good features. His eyebrows were always raised, giving him a permanently surprised look. He was endlessly enthusiastic about computers, and, given the least encouragement, would talk endlessly about the latest technological achievement.

Aspasia had already scanned the seven extant plays into the computer. Miles sat down and loaded the software. Then he asked some questions about Greek verbs and sentence structure and relative p.r.o.nouns and so on. He entered her responses, directed it to compare the Achilles Achilles to the other seven, and to establish a degree of likelihood that all eight came from the same author. He looked up at her, said "Good luck," and clicked on START. "Shouldn't take long," he said. to the other seven, and to establish a degree of likelihood that all eight came from the same author. He looked up at her, said "Good luck," and clicked on START. "Shouldn't take long," he said.

The system hummed and beeped for a minute or so. Then it provided a few bars of Rachmaninoff, signifying that the process was complete.

PROBABILITY ONE AUTHOR: 87%.

"There you go," said Miles.

Oh G.o.d, let it be so. "But, if I were trying to imitate Sophocles, I bet I could produce a strong similarity, too."

"Maybe," said Miles. "I don't know. Not my area of expertise."

Yeah. How do you measure genius?

She looked again at the letter that had accompanied the ma.n.u.script: If you'd like to see more . . . If you'd like to see more . . .

What else did they have?

After Miles left, she began translating Achilles Achilles into English. into English.

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FOUR days after she'd posted the translation, another package arrived. Again, with no return address. This one mailed from Cherry Hill, New Jersey. She had the letter opener ready this time. days after she'd posted the translation, another package arrived. Again, with no return address. This one mailed from Cherry Hill, New Jersey. She had the letter opener ready this time.

LEONIDAS.

by Sophocles Again, it was accompanied by an unsigned note: February 11Dear Dr. Kephalas: Are you convinced?

She turned the ma.n.u.script 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? 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 const.i.tuted 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 G.o.ds. Ultimately, the decision was made to send the small force to hold the pa.s.s 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. n.o.body makes a move.

SEVERAL hours after she'd posted her question at the Web site, an answer of sorts was returned: 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 cla.s.sical scholars, was concentrated across the Western world. But it had a scattering of members in j.a.pan 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 Homeric Society, consisting of approximately four hundred cla.s.sical scholars, was concentrated across the Western world. But it had a scattering of members in j.a.pan 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 Achilles and the and the Leonidas Leonidas.

A claim has been advanced for the validity of these plays, Aspasia's note read. Aspasia's note read. I am interested in your opinion. I am interested in your opinion.

Dave was among the scholars receiving the doc.u.ments. 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 MEDITATIONS

"SO he went to Alexandria," said Shel. 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 b.i.t.c.h 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.) 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 cla.s.sical Athens, enthusiastically celebrating the rites of spring, watching the annual pet.i.tion 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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. 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 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." 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."