watched as she did something completely unexpected; she sniffed at the opening. Several times. “It has the right oil base,” she said, nodding as she pulled her nose from the tube. “Was it found in a jar?” When he didn’t answer, she clarified. “An amphora? You know, the sort they found at Qumran or Nag Hammadi?”
He shook his head. “All I know is that it was in the tube the first time I saw it.”
She nodded, said nothing, then slid her hand into the opening and pulled out the scroll; the tube found the floor. With tremendous concentration, she began to examine the sheaths wrapped around the parchment. Two pieces of leather string-tied about a third of the way down-hung loose, the only barrier between her agile fingers and the text underneath, but she didn’t seem interested in them at all, or in what lay beyond. Instead, she continued to slide her thumb along the leather skin. It was clear she knew exactly what she was looking for, even if Pearse had no idea what the strange ritual was meant to unearth.
“The texture,” she said, as if aware of his puzzlement, “the moisture of the leather, it’s … something you become very attuned to if you’ve spent time with scrolls like these. If it went directly from jar to tube, you’d still be able to feel a springiness in the sheath.” Her eyes remained transfixed on the leather as she spoke. “Klausner was extraordinary with such things. Managed to place two of the Dead Sea Scrolls at Qumran within a hundred years of their actual dating just by the feel.” She looked over at Pearse, her eyes wide with excitement. “Wonderful fingers.” Then standing, she headed for the desk; he followed immediately behind. He watched as she set the scroll on the empty square, which, no doubt, had been made available since his phone call. It was remarkable how well she knew her field; the scroll fit perfectly.
Setting it down, she deftly untied the leather cover, then slowly began to roll back the parchment. It must have taken her twenty minutes to lay out a section of no more than eight inches square, but her meticulous care kept Pearse rapt. Every so often, a word or two would escape her lips, pursed in concentration; her eyes would light up at those moments, her fingers, though, ever serene, precise, never giving in to the excitement. When she was fully satisfied that she had placed the parchment just right, she produced what looked to be four velvet sacks filled with sand and placed them at the corners. Then, with the section of scroll laid as flat as caution would allow, she pulled a large glass dome-an odd metal knob at its far side-from one of the desk drawers and set it over the scroll. In one fluid movement, she turned the knob and watched as the dome clamped itself to the top of the desk with a sudden hiss of air.
“Clever device,” she said. “Not a vacuum seal, but close enough. Let’s me spend some time with the scroll without damaging it.” She pulled the last cigarette from the pack on the desk, produced a lighter from her pocket, and lit up.
“Handy to have around,” he answered, craning his neck so as to try to scan the topmost portion of the text. “Glad to see you’ve cut down.” He smiled.
“My one indulgence, Father.”
Still staring at the text, he said, “If you think I believe that-”
A loud cackle rose from behind the cigarette. “Really, Father, you’ll make me blush.”
“Somehow,” he said, his own smile wider, “I doubt that.”
Another burst of laughter. “What a shame you’re a priest. …” Without finishing the thought, she took a long drag and said, “Do you read Syriac, Father?” He shook his head; she continued. “Well, that’s what’s staring up at you. It’s rather surprising. I would have thought-”
“Latin or Greek,” he cut in.
“Latin or Greek?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
“Well,” he explained, now a little less confident, “the few Manichaean texts I’ve seen were written in either one or the other.”
“Really? That’s odd. I was about to say Chinese. The only Latin text we have is the
“Fu-Kien?” he said, unable to mask a rather coy smile. “Thirteenth century?”
She stopped and looked up, her surprise once again all too obvious. “Very good.”
“Well, I had to make up for the Latin bungle. Show you I’m more than just a pretty face.”
“True.” She waited, then added, “I’d forgotten I have to be on my toes with you.”
“Hardly. That was my best shot. I’ll be lucky if I can keep up.”
Her smile told him he had hit the mark. “Oh, I know that’s not true. As I remember, you’re very, very good at all these ancient puzzles.” She took another quick drag. Evidently, Angeli could be equally coy when she wanted; Pearse couldn’t be sure, but he thought he might just have shared a moment’s flirtation with her, willingly or not. Another reminder of why he’d always enjoyed working with Cecilia Angeli so much.
She turned back to the scroll, once again caught up in the text.
“So, as I was saying, you’d expect Chinese, and if not Chinese, then Pahlavi, Soghdian, or Middle Persian. But Syriac”-she stooped even lower over the dome so as to peer at the words, smoke streaming from her nose-“that makes this a very strange document. A very strange document indeed.”
She pulled her glasses from her face and stood upright. “And one considerably older than any of its Chinese relatives.” Turning to him, she asked, “Would you like some coffee? I think I’m going to make a pot.” Without waiting, she began to wend her way through the piles of books, the glasses quickly back in her pocket, a trail of gray smoke settling on the room behind her.
Pearse smiled to himself. It wasn’t the fact that he was thirty years her junior that was holding her back. Just the collar, which, as he now recalled, he wasn’t even wearing. She had been nice not to mention it. Or maybe that was what was egging her on. Pearse started to laugh as he edged closer to the desk.
He stared down at the strange script through the glass. The thick curve of letters melded easily into one another, yet each was distinct, a line of indecipherable signs linked only by the common touch of a single scribe’s hand. In and among the letters, tiny sticklike figures littered the parchment-little men carrying daggers, what looked to be a lion poised in attack. Likewise, wrinkles and tears peppered the almost hypnotic flow of words and illustrations, choice bits lost forever, left to the reasoned imagination of the modern reader. Pearse knew Angeli would have no trouble filling in the gaps, offering up her own vision of continuity with intricate explanations, as if perhaps she had been there, peering over the shoulder of the ancient scribe as he had inked the original. She had done as much with Ambrose; somehow he sensed she’d be more at home here, more comfortable with the renegades and heretics.
“I was thinking,” she said as she reappeared at the doorway, “there might be a link to the Mandaeans, given the little pictures. Mani’s father was a Mandaean. It’s a natural connection. Did any of your research with Ambrose take you as far afield as them?” She was reclaiming the glasses from her pocket as she neared the desk.
“The Mandaeans?” Pearse replied. “Actually … no. I can’t say that it did.”
“You know Fu-Kien, but you don’t know the Mandaeans?” She was clearly having a bit of fun. “Really?”
“Shocking as it sounds, I know.”
Her smile grew. “Actually, they’re more of a strictly Gnostic group. Individual responsibility, hidden knowledge-the ‘gnosis’-that sort of thing. There’s certainly a link, but they’re much earlier than Mani and Manichaeanism.”
Leaving the banter aside for the moment, he asked, “So, if they were earlier, that means they would have died out by the time ‘Perfect Light’ was written?”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “Most of the silver and gold markets in Basra and Baghdad today are run by Mandaeans. In fact, I once spent a very wonderful afternoon with one of their
“Naturally.” He now remembered how essential such digressions were to her work-essential, if equally incomprehensible. It was best to let her mind range as it saw fit. “So you
