The Oracle (Fargo Adventures 11)

“About the Vandal King.” She lowered her glass to the table, her hands wet from the condensation. She stared at them a moment and picked up a napkin, wiping her fingers, then used the white square of cloth to dab at her eyes. “He was using me to find the map.”

Lazlo, who seemed to be only half interested, perked up. “Map? What sort of map?”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

There can be no peace without understanding.

– SENEGALESE PROVERB –

According to family legend,” Amal said, “there’s a map leading to the cursed treasure stolen by the last Vandal King.”

Sam wasn’t near the history expert Remi and Lazlo were, but he tended to pay attention when treasure was involved—and the Vandals had accumulated a lot of it during their various raids throughout Europe, including the Sack of Rome. “Wasn’t all that treasure confiscated after the Byzantine Army defeated the Vandals?” Sam asked.

Lazlo, his eyes alight with interest, nodded. “I seem to remember something about the conquered Vandal King and all his amassed wealth and spoils being paraded before the Emperor while he quoted—or misquoted—something from Ecclesiastes, wasn’t it?”

“Vanity of vanities,” Remi said, “all is vanity.” Her knowledge of ancient history far surpassed anything Sam knew, which was why he wasn’t surprised when she added, “If memory serves, the Emperor Justinian returned the Vandal Treasure to Jerusalem.”

Lazlo said, “Why would anyone give up that sort of fortune?”

“He believed the treasure stolen from the temple was cursed and any city that housed it would eventually be destroyed.”

“Guess there was some truth in that,” Sam said as their waiter set a plate of banatages on the table, the scent of the fried meat-filled potato croquettes tempting. “Look at Bulla Regia, flattened by an earthquake.” Once the young man left, Sam turned his attention back to Amal. “So, we’re talking about a completely different treasure?”

“Correct,” Amal said. “Different treasure, different curse.”

Lazlo, suddenly interested again, asked, “A different treasure?”

“Well, not a treasure so much as something that was treasured. A rare scroll, taken about a hundred years before the fall of the Vandal Kingdom. This particular scroll was not to be held by any one man. It was for the people.”

“And the curse?”

“Cast upon the Vandals after the scroll was stolen.”

“Stolen by whom?” Sam asked.

“The Vandal King, Genseric. His army invaded North Africa in 430 A.D., laying siege to Hippo Regius. Of course,” Amal continued, “it varies as to why the scroll was stolen and from whom. One tale is that he stole it from Bishop Augustine’s library, though there were probably far more valuable books to be had. Another is that Genseric sought a way to influence the Moors and gain the upper hand during his invasion of North Africa and so stole the treasured scroll from the Moors, then threatened its destruction if the city didn’t surrender.”

“The scroll?” Sam asked, intrigued. “Was it biblical?”

“No, philosophical. Meant to bring peace and harmony to the world. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

“Parmenides,” Lazlo said. “I knew it rang a bell. The child, Nasha, was chanting bits of it back at the school.”

“Philosophy?” Remi’s brows rose. “I never expected that of you.”

“You’re correct in that respect. It, and the professor who taught it, have haunted me since university. To think I might be rewarded for sitting in that torturous class day after day …”

“Back up a bit,” Sam said. “Who or what is Parmenides?”

“Parmenides,” Remi replied, “was an early sixth century B.C. pre-Socratic philosopher. He’s considered to be the founder of metaphysics, ontology. You know, existence, being—that sort of thing.”

“Eleatic philosopher.” Lazlo rubbed his forehead. “I have a vague recollection of my professor telling me there’d be no Plato if not for Parmenides. Some even suggest the chap contributed to our knowledge of atomic theory.”

Sam was about to comment when Remi said, “But what Parmenides is known for in particular is a poem, ‘On Nature.’ Only fragments of the work have survived.”

“A poem?” Sam said. “You’re trying to tell me that Warren was killed for a poem?”

“Not a poem in the true sense,” Remi said. “Early teachings were done in verse to help with memorization.”