The Historian

“They had another kind of news, too. Turgut gulped down his second cup of coffee and hurried to retrieve something from his grisly study next door. (I was relieved not to be invited into it today.) He emerged carrying a notebook and sat down again next to Selim Aksoy. They looked gravely at us. ‘I told you on the phone that we found a letter in your absence,’ Turgut said. ‘The original letter is in Slavonic, the old language of the Christian churches. As I told you, it was written by a monk from the Carpathians and it concerns his travels to Istanbul. My friend Selim is surprised that it is not in Latin, but perhaps this monk was a Slav. Shall I read it in no time?’

“‘Of course,’ I said, but Helen held up her hand.

“‘Just one minute, please. How and where did you find it?’

“Turgut nodded approvingly. ‘Mr. Aksoy found it in the archive, actually-the one you visited with us. He has spent three days looking at all manuscripts from the fifteenth century that are in that archive. This he found with a small collection of documents from the infidel churches-that is to say, Christian churches that were allowed to remain open in Istanbul during the rule of the Conqueror and his successors. There are not many such in the archive because they were usually kept by the monasteries, and especially by the patriarchate of Constantinople. But some church documents came into the hands of the sultan, particularly if they concerned new agreements for the churches under the Empire-such an agreement was called afirman. Sometimes the sultan received letters of-how do you say?-petition, in some church matter, and there are those in the archive, too.’

“He translated quickly for Aksoy, who wanted him to explain something else. ‘Yes-my friend gives us a good information about this. He reminds me that soon after the Conqueror took the city, he appointed a new patriarch for the Christians, Patriarch Ge

“‘Thank you.’ Helen sat back on the cushions.

“‘Alack, I ca

“And he read us the following:

Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Maxim Eupraxius:

A humble si

The humble si

April, the Year of Our Lord 6985

“There was a deep silence when Turgut had finished. Selim and Mrs. Bora sat quietly, and Turgut rubbed his silver mane with a restless hand. Helen and I looked at each other.

“‘The Year of Our Lord 6985?’ I said finally. ‘What does that mean?’

“‘Medieval documents were dated from a calculation of the date of the Creation in Genesis,’ Helen explained.

“‘Yes.’ Turgut nodded. ‘The year 6985, by modern reckoning, is 1477.’

“I couldn’t help sighing. ‘It’s a remarkably vivid letter, and obviously full of great concern about something. But I’m out of my league here,’ I said ruefully. ‘The date certainly makes me suspect some co

“Turgut smiled. ‘Excellent questions, as usual, my young doubter. Let me try to answer them. As I told you, Selim knows the city very well, and when he found this letter and understood enough of it to see that it might be useful, he took it to a friend of his who is the keeper of the ancient monastery library at Saint Irine, which still exists. This friend translated it for him into Turkish and was very much interested in the letter because it mentioned his monastery. However, he could find in his library no record of such a visit in 1477-either it was not recorded or any documents about it disappeared long ago.’

“‘If the mission they describe was a secret and dangerous one,’ Helen pointed out, ‘they would not have been likely to record it.’

“‘Very true, dear madam.’ Turgut nodded at her. ‘In any case, Selim’s monastic friend helped us in one important matter-he searched the oldest church histories which he has there and discovered that the abbot to whom this letter is addressed, this Maxim Eupraxius, was late in his life a great abbot on Mount Athos. But in 1477, when this letter was written to him, he was the abbot of the monastery at Lake Snagov.’ Turgut uttered these last words with a triumphant emphasis.

“We sat in excited silence for a few moments. Finally Helen broke it. ‘”We are men of God, men from the Carpathians,“’ she murmured.

“‘I beg your pardon?’ Turgut gazed at her with interest.

“‘Yes!’ I took up Helen’s line. ‘”Men from the Carpathians.“ It’s from a song, a Romanian folk song Helen found in Budapest.’ I described to them the hour we’d spent turning through the old book of songs at the University of Budapest library, the fine woodcut at the top of the page of a dragon and a church hiding among trees. Turgut’s eyebrows rose almost to his shaggy hair when I mentioned this, and I rummaged quickly in my papers. ‘Where is that thing?’ A moment later, I’d found my handwritten translation among the folders in my briefcase-God, I thought, if I ever lose this briefcase!-and I read it aloud to them, leaving silences for Turgut to translate for Selim and Mrs. Bora: