A Byzantine Case

McAbee had been on the bikepath that ribboned the two Iowa cities of Davenport and Bettendorf.  Running for five miles he kept to a leisurely but steady pace, thinking about the Francini document wondering if it was authentic and just where did it come from?  Did Kostadelos come upon it in some illicit manner?  Its bearing to his trip was not clear yet.

He arrived at his office at 9:30 a.m.  Pat was doing bills; she didn’t like that job as she would have to guess at McAbee’s occasional lapses of memory, dereliction of detail, and lousy handwriting.

 “Good morning,” she said crisply, “and before you go to your office would you be kind enough to look at these billing sheets that I found on your desk?  Your scribbling is more than challenging,” she smiled in her feline way suggesting that a claw could easily follow her forced niceness.

He did as asked, gave as good an answer as he could, and then asked, “The day is pretty open?”

“Yes.  The FBI is still around and you’re asked to be available.  Barry Fisk emailed to indicate that he’s back in town.  That’s about it.”

“Okay.  I’m going to make some calls but I want to get back to the Kostadelos materials.  So…”

“I get it.  Silence reigns.”

“Yes, you do get it Pat.”  He smiled and went into his office.

The next translation was from An Kircic.  There was a note from Stavros Kouras.

 [This man says that he was a diplomat in the service of Mehmet.  I am unable to attest to just how or why he ended up on a Venetian ship.  Nor does he offer any exact explanations.  The piece does surrender some fascinating details about the Ottoman Turk victory over the Greeks in 1453 and its immediate consequences (within two days of the victory).  As you will see from this and in the Ducas piece, there is some type of relationship between the pair.  Surely, Kircic writes under some form of duress.]

I have been told to write of the conquest of the great City of Constantinople by the holy forces of Islam and its inspired young leader Mehmet.  So I shall, as history should not be robbed of any accurate account of these marvelous events.  As I am in circumstances of great disadvantage, I will only speak of that which I have personally witnessed.

I was sent forward by the Sultan some days before the final assault.  It was my fifth time in the Christian City over a period of years.  On four occasions I had been at the service of Murad in a period when relationships with the Orthodox were uneven and strained, but anger, at least Murad’s, had been controlled.  He had been regularly betrayed by the Christians and was perplexed because he perceived the continuing Christian occupation of Constantinople as being a gift to them of his forebearance.  The City was a low-hanging fruit that he chose not to pick.  When he died of seizure (apoplexy), there was much uneasiness and fear.  Alas, his son Mehmet rushed from Anatolia and succeeded his father.  The temperaments of the two are quite distinct.  Murad was, if I might compare them with the theory of temperaments found most copiously in the work of the ancient Greek Galen and fully articulated by our own Moslem great Ibn Sina, a melancholic given to much introspection and ideation.  However, Mehmet is by nature a choleric, quick in decision and action.  He is a brilliant man whose judgment is unerring.  With both great men I felt a closeness.

But to return, I was sent to the Christian Emperor Constantius by Mehmet.  My relationship with the Byzantine diplomat Ducas and others in their court allowed me safe entry into the City.  On this visit, weeks before the great cannon burst forth, I offered safety, practice of religion and peace on behalf of Mehmet.  Unfortunately, the offer was rejected.  I perceived that the Emperor was unduly influenced by the madness of his priests and their foolish regard for their objects of worship, their hideous and scandalous art which portrays the human figure so contrary to the truth of God as proclaimed by Mohammed the true prophet of Allah.

My sixth visit to the City was of a different nature.  War is a scourge and a test.  When the hearts of warriors are tested through the torments of countless battles, loss of friends, and assaults on dignity, it is only fit and right that rewards be rendered to them that are not, shall we say, humane in nature.  The conquered are just that.  They are as sheep to be shorn.

When the