Whitmore, Sterling & Associates — London, 1807
The letter of engagement was very clear.
Jonathan Whitmore the Fourth had written it himself, carefully, over the course of two evenings, specifically to be clear. It was three pages long. It outlined, in precise and professional language, exactly what was being asked of the four specialists he had retained.
The letter said:
A private client of the firm has recently completed construction of a secure storage facility in Switzerland for the purposes of housing a personal collection of historical artefacts. For insurance and cataloguing purposes, the firm requires formal authentication of the collection's contents. This authentication is a legal and administrative necessity — the firm has no interest in academic debate, publication, or any discussion of provenance beyond what is strictly required for the insurance documentation.
The specialists retained for this purpose are expected to examine each item, confirm its authenticity, provide a date range and origin assessment, and assign a condition grade. Nothing more is required. The firm appreciates their discretion and professionalism in advance.
It then listed the four specialists:
Dr. Aldous Pemberton — Classical Antiquities, formerly of the British Museum. Considered the foremost authority on Greek and Roman artefacts in England. Known for his composure under pressure.
Dr. Margaret Hollis — Medieval History and Artefact Authentication. Author of four definitive texts on European regalia and period weaponry. Described by her peers as "unflappably methodical."
Dr. James Carver — Ancient Manuscripts and Document Authentication. Thirty years of experience examining texts from the classical through early modern period. His professional reputation rested on his ability to remain objective.
Father Dominic Aurelius — Vatican-trained, specialist in religious artefacts and relics. Had authenticated over three hundred items for the Holy See without incident. Was, by all accounts, extremely difficult to rattle.
Jonathan had selected them for their expertise, their reputations, and specifically for their documented ability to remain professional in unusual circumstances.
He would later reflect that he should have read the documentation more carefully, because "unusual" had not previously included "items that should not exist."
Day One — 9:00 AM
The specialists arrived at the vault together, having travelled from London by arrangement of the firm. Jonathan met them at the entrance with Edmund Sterling, who was carrying the itemised list and a great deal of cautious optimism.
The vault, from the outside, was unremarkable. A heavy door. Stone walls. Two guards who said nothing and looked like they could lift a horse.
"Good morning," Jonathan said. "Thank you all for coming. I trust the journey was comfortable."
"Perfectly comfortable," Dr. Pemberton said. He was sixty-three, silver-haired, and had the bearing of a man who had handled priceless antiquities for four decades without dropping a single one. "I must say, your letter was intriguingly vague about the nature of the collection."
"Deliberately so," Jonathan said. "We felt it better to let the items speak for themselves."
"Very sensible," Dr. Hollis said. She had her notebook out already, pen at the ready. Methodical. Professional. Ready.
"Shall we begin?" Father Aurelius said pleasantly.
Jonathan opened the door.
9:47 AM — The Weapons Room
Dr. Pemberton was fine for the first twelve items.
Greek and Roman weapons were his speciality. He moved through them efficiently, examining, noting, assigning dates. Professional. Composed. Exactly as his reputation suggested.
Then Edmund showed him item thirteen on the list.
"This sword," Edmund said, indicating the mount on the far wall. "British origin. Approximately 5th to 6th century. Our client's notes describe it as found in a lake following the death of a local king."
Dr. Pemberton looked at the sword.
He looked at it for quite a long time.
"This is," he said slowly, "extraordinary steel work for the period."
"Yes," Edmund agreed.
"The preservation is — I've never seen preservation like this on a piece of this age. The condition is — this is impossible, actually, this level of condition is not—" Pemberton stopped. "Where did you say it was found?"
"A lake. Following the death of a king named Arthur."
Pemberton turned to look at Edmund very slowly.
"A lake," he said.
"Yes."
"Arthur."
"That's what the notes say."
Pemberton turned back to the sword. He reached out, stopped himself, reached out again, and touched the hilt with two fingers very carefully, like a man who was not entirely sure the sword was real.
"I need to sit down," he said.
"There's a chair—"
"I'm fine." He was clearly not fine. "I'm fine. I'm a professional. Authentication. I'm here for authentication." He opened his notebook. His hand was shaking slightly. "Condition: exceptional. Preservation: inexplicable. Origin: Britain, 5th-6th century. Probable provenance—"
He stopped writing.
"I cannot write the probable provenance," he said. "If I write the probable provenance my colleagues will think I've gone mad."
"For insurance purposes," Edmund said carefully, "we're documenting it as 'British sword, 5th-6th century, exact provenance uncertain.'"
"Exact provenance uncertain." Pemberton wrote it down. His jaw was tight. "That is the most dishonest accurate sentence I have ever written."
"We appreciate your professionalism."
"I'm going to need a moment."
"Of course."
Pemberton sat in the chair. He stared at the sword on the wall. He stayed there for eleven minutes before he was able to continue.
Edmund noted this in the margin of his records, because he had a feeling there would be more margins to fill before the day was done.
10:23 AM — The Document Room
Dr. Carver had been fine for the first hour.
He had examined three sets of Roman military records — genuinely extraordinary, decayed by time but somehow preserved — and was preparing himself professionally for whatever came next.
Edmund showed him the scrolls.
Forty-seven of them. Papyrus. Ancient Greek. In archival housing, each individually sealed.
Dr. Carver looked at them.
"These are in a condition that shouldn't be possible given their age," he said carefully.
"Yes."
"The papyrus is — this is Alexandrian-period papyrus. The quality of the material, the ink—" He stopped. "Where did these come from?"
Edmund consulted the notes. "The Library of Alexandria. Our client describes having borrowed them prior to the fire. He intended to return them but the fire occurred before he was able to do so."
Dr. Carver stared at him.
"He borrowed them," Carver said.
"Yes."
"From the Library of Alexandria."
"Before the fire."
"The fire," Carver said, "was in 48 BC."
"Approximately, yes."
Carver looked at the scrolls. Looked at Edmund. Looked back at the scrolls.
"These are from the Library of Alexandria," he said, very quietly, like a man having a conversation with himself and losing.
"That's what the documentation indicates."
"THESE ARE FROM THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA."
"Yes," Edmund said.
"NOBODY HAS THESE. THESE DON'T EXIST. THE LIBRARY BURNED. THESE BURNED. THESE CANNOT BE HERE—"
"And yet," Edmund said.
Carver sat down on the floor.
Not in a chair. On the floor. Directly. His legs simply stopped working and he sat down on the stone floor of the document room and stared at forty-seven papyrus scrolls that had survived the greatest library fire in human history because someone had borrowed them and forgotten to return them.
"I need," Carver said, from the floor, "to understand what I'm looking at."
"For authentication purposes—"
"I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE. I can SEE what they are. I've spent thirty years studying what survived the Alexandria fire and what didn't survive and nothing survived and THESE SURVIVED and they're sitting in a HOLE IN SWITZERLAND because someone FORGOT TO RETURN THEM—"
"Borrowed," Edmund said. "Our client describes it as borrowed."
"FOR NEARLY TWO THOUSAND YEARS."
"He intended to return them."
Carver put his head in his hands.
"Authentication," he said, muffled through his fingers. "I'm here for authentication. Condition assessment. Dating. That's all. I'm a professional." He lifted his head. His eyes were somewhat wild. "What else is in this room?"
Edmund looked at his list.
"The personal notebook of Leonardo da Vinci," he said.
Carver stood up from the floor.
He sat back down again.
"Show me," he said, in the tone of a man who has decided that if he is going to lose his mind, he should at least do it thoroughly.
11:45 AM — The Regalia Room
Dr. Hollis had been the most composed of the four.
She had moved through the regalia with methodical efficiency. A sceptre from the Holy Roman Empire: extraordinary. A Byzantine icon: remarkable. Various rings and items of jewellery spanning fifteen centuries: astonishing but handleable. She was taking very good notes.
Then Edmund showed her the crown.
"Carolingian," he said. "Approximately 800 AD. Our client received it as a gift from the original owner."
Dr. Hollis examined the crown. She was very thorough. She checked the goldwork, the settings, the construction technique, the specific style of the ruby mounts.
She looked up at Edmund.
"The original owner," she said precisely, "of a Carolingian crown from approximately 800 AD."
"Yes."
"Would be—"
"Our client's notes describe the giver as Charlemagne."
Dr. Hollis put her pen down.
She picked it up again.
She put it down again.
"Charlemagne," she said.
"He apparently insisted our client take it. Our client found it too heavy and has not worn it since."
"Too heavy," Hollis said, in a voice that had gone completely flat. "Charlemagne gave someone his crown and they decided it was too heavy."
"That's what the notes say."
"And it's been in storage."
"Since approximately 813 AD, yes."
"For almost a thousand years this crown has been in storage because someone found it too heavy."
"Correct."
Hollis picked up her pen. She was very still. She wrote, in extremely neat handwriting: Crown. Carolingian. Circa 800 AD. Condition: pristine. Origin: personal collection of Charlemagne, Holy Roman Emperor, presented as gift to current owner.
She looked at what she had written.
"I've written things in thirty years that I never thought I'd write," she said. "I once authenticated a sword that turned out to have belonged to Richard the Lionheart. I thought that was the most significant thing I would ever hold in my career."
"Yes?" Edmund said.
"This is Charlemagne's crown," Hollis said. "I am holding Charlemagne's crown. It is in perfect condition because it has been in storage for a thousand years because someone found it too heavy." She set the crown down very carefully. "Who IS your client?"
"We're not able to discuss—"
"HOW OLD IS YOUR CLIENT."
"That's—"
"YOU CANNOT HAVE THIS." She gestured at the room, at the sceptre, at the jewellery, at the crown, at the sheer accumulated weight of history arranged neatly on shelves. "NOBODY SHOULD HAVE THIS. HOW DOES SOMEONE HAVE THIS."
"Our client has been collecting for—"
"FOR HOW LONG."
"A considerable time," Edmund said, which was technically accurate.
Hollis stared at him.
She turned around, walked to the far wall, stood facing it for approximately thirty seconds, then turned back around.
"I'm going to finish the authentication," she said, in the voice of a woman rebuilding herself from the foundation up. "I am a professional. This is insurance documentation. I am going to examine each item and write down what it is and what condition it is in and I am not going to think about the implications."
"That would be very helpful—"
"I'm going to absolutely think about the implications," she said. "But quietly and in my own time. Right now I'm going to be professional." She picked up her pen. "What's next on the list."
Edmund looked at his notes. "There's a tile," he said. "From Babylon."
"Of course there is," Hollis said.
"And three fragments of the Parthenon."
"OF COURSE THERE ARE."
Hollis sat down. Not on the floor — she found a chair — but with the energy of a woman whose legs had made a unilateral decision.
"The Hanging Gardens," she said, "don't exist. There's no physical evidence they ever existed. Scholars have debated for centuries whether they were real."
"Our client has a tile," Edmund said. "He helped with some engineering advice during construction."
Everyone was quiet for a moment.
"He was there," Hollis said. "When they built them."
"The notes indicate—"
"He was THERE." She opened her notebook. She wrote, in letters slightly larger than her usual hand: HANGING GARDENS TILE. REAL. THEY WERE REAL. THE HANGING GARDENS WERE REAL. Then below it, in normal handwriting: Condition: perfect. Origin: Babylon, circa 600 BC. She looked up. "I want it on record that I am holding this together extremely well."
"You are," Edmund agreed. "Remarkably well."
"I am absolutely not holding this together," she said, and kept writing.
12:30 PM — The Religious Items Room
Father Aurelius had been warned, in general terms, that some of the items might be of religious significance.
He had not been warned about the specifics.
He was a Vatican-trained specialist. He had seen relics. He had authenticated splinters of the True Cross, fragments of saints' bones, items of extraordinary religious history. He was not easily shaken.
Edmund opened the door to the religious items room.
Father Aurelius walked in.
He saw the sealed chest immediately. It was, in fairness, very hard to miss — it sat in the centre of the room on its own table, acacia wood and gold plating, and even without opening it there was something about it that made the air feel different.
He looked at Edmund.
"What is that," he said.
"We're not discussing that one," Edmund said. "Our client's instructions are explicit. It stays sealed. We're not authenticating it, not cataloguing it, not approaching it. For insurance purposes it's listed as 'a sealed chest of religious and historical significance, value incalculable.' That's all."
Father Aurelius looked at the chest for a long time.
"I need you to tell me," he said, very quietly, "that that is not what I think it is."
"I'm not able to tell you anything about it," Edmund said. "Client's instructions."
"It's acacia wood," Aurelius said. "Gold plating. Those dimensions. That construction. I've studied descriptions. I've read every text. I've spent forty years—" He stopped. "I need to examine it."
"You can't."
"I'm a Vatican-trained specialist. The Holy See would—"
"Our client says the Vatican keeps asking and the answer is still no," Edmund said. "The same answer applies here. It stays sealed. We're moving on."
Father Aurelius stood very still.
Then he said something in Latin that Edmund didn't understand but that sounded simultaneously extremely devout and possibly a mild profanity, which Edmund felt was probably understandable.
"Moving on," Edmund said gently.
Aurelius moved on. Barely.
The next item was a simple clay cup. Small, old, some wear. Edmund consulted his notes.
"Jerusalem provenance," he said. "Circa 33 AD. Our client is uncertain of its precise significance but has kept it as a precaution."
Father Aurelius picked up the cup with both hands.
He held it for a very long time.
"Circa 33 AD," he said.
"Yes."
"Jerusalem."
"Yes."
"Your client is uncertain of its significance."
"That's what the notes say."
"I see." Father Aurelius set the cup down extremely carefully. He clasped his hands. He appeared to be praying, which Edmund felt was a reasonable response. "And the stone tablets," he said, after a moment. "On the shelf there. Hebrew inscription. Mount Sinai provenance."
"Approximately 3,400 years old, yes. Our client found them in the region and kept them for safe storage. He notes that Moses didn't sign them so he can't be entirely certain of their significance."
Father Aurelius turned to look at Edmund with an expression that contained, in equal measure, professional despair and something approaching awe.
"Moses didn't sign them," he said.
"That's the note, yes."
"Your client," Aurelius said slowly, "has the Ark — which we are not discussing — and what may be the Holy Grail — and what may be fragments of the Ten Commandments — and he has kept them in a hole in Switzerland for safe storage because he had too much stuff and needed somewhere to put things."
"For insurance purposes—"
"HOW." said Father Aurelius.
Not loudly. Quietly. But with tremendous feeling.
"HOW DOES A PERSON HAVE ALL OF THIS. WHO IS YOUR CLIENT. HOW OLD IS YOUR CLIENT."
"We're not—"
"NONONONONONO." He held up a hand. He was pacing now, vestments swishing. "I am a professional. I have authenticated three hundred and twelve items for the Holy See without losing my composure. I have never — in forty years — I have never—"
He stopped pacing.
He looked at the cup.
He looked at the chest they weren't discussing.
He looked at the tablets.
"This is all for insurance," he said.
"Yes."
"Your client wants these things insured."
"Correct."
"The Ark of the Covenant," Father Aurelius said, "is in that room — the one we're not discussing — for insurance purposes."
"We're not—"
"I KNOW WE'RE NOT DISCUSSING IT. I am making a statement about the nature of reality as I currently understand it." He sat down on the floor. Heavily. In the middle of the room, back straight, hands folded in his lap. "I need a moment."
"Of course."
"Several moments."
"Take whatever you need."
He sat on the floor of the religious items room of a vault in Switzerland, surrounded by things that should not exist, and was quiet for a while.
Edmund waited.
"I'm going to write the assessments," Father Aurelius said finally. "Authenticity confirmed. Dates confirmed. Condition assessed. That is what I was hired to do and that is what I will do."
"Thank you."
"I am also," he said, standing up with great dignity, "going to write a personal letter to His Holiness when I return to Rome. Just a letter saying that the Holy See should perhaps be more persistent in their requests regarding certain Swiss storage facilities."
"Our client already declines the Vatican's requests."
"His Holiness will want to know to keep asking," Aurelius said, with the serenity of a man who had found, somewhere in the last twenty minutes, a species of peace. "That's all. He'll keep asking. Your client will keep saying no. That's between them." He picked up his pen. "What's next."
3:15 PM — The Hallway
Edmund found the four specialists in the hallway at quarter past three, having independently concluded they needed a moment in a room that did not contain impossible things.
All four had the look of people who had recently experienced something their professional frameworks were not equipped to handle. Pemberton was leaning against the wall. Carver was on a bench. Hollis was standing very straight. Father Aurelius was holding his crucifix.
"Gentlemen," Edmund said. "Dr. Hollis. How are we progressing?"
"I need to ask you something," Pemberton said. "Professionally."
"Of course."
"Your client." He stopped. Started again. "Your client has a sword that is very probably Excalibur. He has forty-seven scrolls from the Library of Alexandria. He has Charlemagne's crown. He has—" Pemberton looked at the others.
"The Ark," Carver said.
"We're not—" Edmund started.
"We know we're not discussing it," Carver said. "We're discussing it anyway. He has the Ark of the Covenant. He has what appears to be the Holy Grail. He has fragments that may be the Ten Commandments. He has the personal notebook of Leonardo da Vinci. He has a tile from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon." He paused. "The Hanging Gardens of Babylon that we were not entirely sure existed."
"Our client says they were genuinely impressive before they fell apart," Edmund said.
Everyone stared at him.
"He helped with some engineering advice during construction," Edmund added.
More staring.
"WHO IS HE," Hollis said. "Please don't say you can't discuss it. I think after what we've seen today you owe us—"
"He's a private individual," Edmund said. "A long-standing client of the firm. He's been collecting these items over the course of his lifetime and required secure storage. The authentication is for insurance purposes only. That's all we're able to share."
"Over the course of his lifetime," Carver repeated.
"Yes."
"The Hanging Gardens were built in the sixth century BC," Carver said, very precisely. "The Library of Alexandria burned in 48 BC. The sword is from the fifth century AD. Charlemagne's crown is from 800 AD. The da Vinci notebook is from the 1500s. These items span more than two thousand years."
Edmund said nothing.
"OVER THE COURSE OF HIS LIFETIME," Carver said, louder.
"Our client has had a long and eventful life," Edmund said.
Pemberton made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. "He was there," he said. "When Arthur died. He found the sword in the lake. He's had it for 1,300 years."
"The documentation does indicate—"
"AND THE CROWN." Hollis had given up on being straight-backed. "Charlemagne GAVE it to him. Charlemagne personally gave your client a crown and your client wore it ONCE, found it TOO HEAVY, and has been storing it in various locations for a THOUSAND YEARS—"
"He did mention it was uncomfortable—"
"I KNOW IT'S UNCOMFORTABLE. I HELD IT. IT'S VERY HEAVY. THAT'S NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS THAT CHARLEMAGNE GAVE IT TO HIM."
"YOU CAN'T HAVE THIS," Carver said, standing up from the bench, gesturing at the vault in general. "NOBODY SHOULD HAVE THIS. IN WHAT LIFETIME DOES A PERSON ACQUIRE EXCALIBUR AND THE ARK OF THE COVENANT—"
"We're not discussing the—"
"AND THE HOLY GRAIL AND FORTY-SEVEN SCROLLS FROM ALEXANDRIA AND CHARLEMAGNE'S CROWN AND A TILE FROM THE HANGING GARDENS OF BABYLON—"
"He helped with the engineering," Edmund said. "They gave him the tile as a gift. He found it beautiful."
Silence.
"He has a tile from the Hanging Gardens," Hollis said, very quietly, "because he helped build them and they gave him a tile to say thank you."
"Yes."
"And he's been carrying it around for 2,400 years."
"Among other things."
"Among other things," she repeated. "Among other things including Excalibur and the Ark and the Holy Grail and the Library of Alexandria."
"And the da Vinci notebook," Carver said, sitting back down. "Leonardo gave it to him before he died because he was the only person who'd seen enough of the world to understand what he was reaching for."
Everyone was quiet for a moment with that one.
"These things have survived," Pemberton said finally, leaning back against the wall, "because he's kept them. He took care of them. He moved the scrolls when the climate got bad, stored the crown even though he didn't want it, kept everything safe for—" He stopped. "For a very long time."
"Yes," Edmund said.
"He saved the Library of Alexandria."
"He did borrow the scrolls, yes."
"He didn't mean to save it. He just forgot to return them."
"That appears to be accurate."
Pemberton let out a long slow breath. "Alright," he said. "Let's finish the list."
They went back in.
Whitmore, Sterling & Associates — London, Three Weeks Later
Jonathan Whitmore the Fourth reviewed the completed authentication reports at his desk.
Four documents. Combined, 312 pages. Each thorough, precise, and professional.
Each also contained, somewhere in its pages, at least one deviation from standard format.
Pemberton's report included a footnote on the Excalibur entry: The author wishes to note for the record that writing "exact provenance uncertain" for this item represents the most significant act of professional restraint in his thirty-seven-year career.
Carver's report had a margin note beside the Alexandria scrolls entry, in handwriting significantly less neat than the rest of the document: they're real. they're real. I touched them. they're real.
Hollis's report was impeccable throughout, except for the Charlemagne crown entry, where the condition assessment read: PRISTINE. WORN ONCE. IN STORAGE SINCE 813 AD BECAUSE TOO HEAVY. I HAVE NO FURTHER COMMENTS.
Father Aurelius's report was the most composed of the four, right up until the final page, where he had added a personal note:
I have authenticated this collection to the best of my professional ability. The items are what they appear to be. I will not elaborate further as I signed a non-disclosure agreement and I am a man of my word.
I would ask that the firm convey to their client that the Holy See remains extremely interested in discussing certain items at his convenience.
I would also ask that the firm convey to their client that I personally, setting aside all professional considerations, simply want him to know that I held that cup and I said a prayer and I meant it, and I am grateful, whatever it is.
That's all.
Jonathan set the reports down.
He opened the firm's private journal and turned to a new page.
1807, he wrote. Authentication complete. Four specialists. All survived. All professional, mostly. Pemberton held together until the sword. Carver sat on the floor for the scrolls. Hollis faced the wall about the crown. Aurelius sat on the floor for the cup. All four asked who the client was. We said we couldn't discuss it.
The collection is documented. Insurance arranged at the rate of "incalculable." The items are safe.
Mr. Jackson came by for the quarterly review yesterday. Brought the orange biscuits. Asked how the authentication went.
I said: "Well. Mostly."
He said: "Did anyone sit on the floor?"
I said: "Two of them."
He said: "That's about what I expected," and had a biscuit.
He already knew. Of course he knew. He's been watching people discover what he has for 2,270 years. He finds it, I think, mildly entertaining.
We reviewed the quarterly financials. Everything is in order. He'll be back in three months.
I'll make sure we have the orange ones.