ONLINE ONLY: Excerpt: Help for Archimedes

From the book The Archimedes Codex by Reviel Netz and William Noel. Copyright © 2007. Published and reprinted by arrangement with Da Capo Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group (www.perseusbooks.com). All rights reserved.

Mr. B told me that he had bought an ugly book. Since he'd paid over two million dollars for it, I took this with a pinch of salt. But no. Now that I had it in my hands, I could see that he had played it straight this time. It was ugly. It was small—about the size of a standard bag of Domino sugar. When I opened it, I saw that the pages were mottled brown in color. Matching tide lines caused by water faced each other across page openings. The pages tended to be brighter in the middle than around the edges where they were more deeply stained. In fact right on their edges the pages were black, as if they had been in a fire. Overlaid upon the brown of the pages was stitched a grid pattern of slightly darker-brown Greek letters, which were all jumbled up. The monotony of the pages was only slightly relieved by the speckled red of the odd capital letter and occasionally by purple stains of mold. When I turned pages, I could, just once in a while, make out the circles and straight lines of things that looked like diagrams that would, most inconveniently, disappear into the spine of the book from the inner margins. Compared to other manuscripts I had handled, the pages didn't flex very easily, and they were contorted. Sometimes, as I was turning a page, it would suddenly “pop” into a slightly different shape. Once in a while a whole page would just come out of the book in my hands. As I went through the book from start to finish, four pages stood out as having a certain charm because they had paintings on them, but overall it was a deflating experience. And then, toward the end,the pages looked so fragile and so moldy that I shut the book in alarm. This book, for which Mr. B had paid so much, was on its last legs.

That is not a very helpful description, so let me describe the book etymologically. It is a manuscript book or, more technically, a manuscript codex. Derived from the Latin words manu (by hand) and scriptus (written), a manuscript is entirely written by hand. It is fundamentally different from a printed book in that it is not one of a large number of books printed in an edition. It is unique. Other manuscripts might contain some of the texts in it. All I knew for sure at this point was that no other manuscripts contained Archimedes' Method, Stomachion, or Floating Bodies in Greek. Secondly, this manuscript is a palimpsest. Derived from the Greek words palin (again) and psan (to rub), this means that the parchment used to make it has been scraped more than once. As we will see, to make parchment you need to scrape the skins of animals. If you want to reuse parchment that has already been used to make a book, you need to scrape the skin again to get rid of the old text before you write over it. This palimpsest manuscript consisted of 174 folios. Derived from the Latin folium (leaf), a folio has a front and back—a recto and a verso—that are equivalent to modern pages. The folios were numbered 1 through 177 but, mysteriously, three numbers were missing. I hoped Mr. B knew that he was missing some folios.

The manuscript is now called the Archimedes Palimpsest, but this is a bit confusing. Make no mistake: the manuscript is a prayer book. It looks like a prayer book, it feels like a prayer book, it even smells like a prayer book, and it is prayers that you see on its folios. It is only called the Archimedes Palimpsest because folios taken from an earlier manuscript containing treatises by Archimedes were used to make it. But remember the Archimedes text had been scraped off. Note, too, that the scribes of the prayer book used the folios taken from several other earlier manuscripts as well as the Archimedes manuscript. At the time of the sale, nobody had a clue what was on these folios. They didn't look like folios from the Archimedes manuscript, and they didn't look as if they were all from the same manuscript. For example, while the Archimedes text was laid out in two columns, the texts on other palimpsest folios were laid out in one column; others had a different number of lines per folio; and the handwriting on the other folios, when it wasn't invisible, was sometimes very different. Mr. B had bought several different books in one. Basically, I concluded that the Archimedes Palimpsest was only called the Archimedes Palimpsest because no one could identify the other texts in the manuscript and because the Archimedes texts were considered so much more important than the prayer book that was on top of them.

But how important, really, was this “Archimedes Palimpsest?” I began to ask around and Mr. B's book got decidedly mixed reviews. Even though it had commanded $2.2 million at auction, the truth was that only three parties had put up a fight for it: the patriarchate, the Greek government, and Mr. B. None of them knew all that much about Archimedes. How come, I asked? Was there no academic institution sufficiently interested in it to enter the fray? I found out that many well-informed scholars were skeptical that we could learn much more from the book. Everybody kept mentioning that someone named Heiberg had discovered the manuscript and read it in 1906. And Heiberg, apparently, was something of a god in classical studies. They said that it was unlikely that he would have missed anything important. Mr. B, they told me, had bought a relic, not a book that would reward much further research.

Still, Mr. B had entrusted his relic to me, and I had no choice but to take his new possession as seriously as he did. His book clearly needed three things: first, since it was literally falling apart, it needed conservation; second, since no one could see the Archimedes text in it properly, it needed advanced imaging; third, if by any chance Heiberg had missed a few lines, then scholars needed to read it. I knew that Mr. B would require the best. This was good, because his book was such a wreck that it needed the best—the best conservators, the most advanced imaging, and the most highly qualified scholars. I was none of these things, and I wondered whether I was the right person to be looking after Mr. B's book. My expertise is in Latin manuscripts, not Greek ones; religious books, not mathematical ones; beautiful books, not ugly ones; and certainly legible books, for goodness sake, not invisible ones.

That Mr. B chose me, of all people, to look after his book seemed more than a little absurd, I thought. But Mr. B knew my limitations. My job, as he saw much more clearly than I did at the time, was not to do the work, but to get the right people to do it. But how was I going to do that?

THE PROJECT MANAGER
On Friday, July 16, 1999, the Washington Post published an article on the Palimpsest. Abigail and I received many emails in reaction to it. Some are among the most zany I have ever received. (To the unacknowledged grandson of Rasputin, I can only say that I have not yet found any corroboration of your pedigree in the Archimedes Palimpsest.) Let's concentrate on the ones we found helpful. Here's the best of them.

The National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) is not a secret any more, but it was for a long time. Mr. B told me that the only reason it was forced to become public is that people could not understand why hundreds of cars were disappearing into a small office building. The answer was that most of it was underground and that it was the unacknowledged nerve center of the US reconnaissance satellite program. Now, however, you can find details about NRO on the web. Working with the CIA and the Department of Defense, it can warn of potential trouble spots around the world, help plan military operations, and monitor the environment. Its mission is to develop and operate unique and innovative space-reconnaissance systems and conduct intelligence-related activities essential for U.S. national security. As an avid John le Carré reader, I have always been enthralled with the world of espionage.

I phoned Mr. Toth. I was tempted to say, if he hung on just a moment, I would take the book up to the roof of the museum and if he could just fly a satellite over it, we would all be finished in a few minutes. More soberly, I invited him up from Washington to Baltimore. I was still hoping that he would have a gadget, maybe in his back pocket, maybe disguised as a watch, that could help me with my problem. Much to my disappointment, it soon became clear that no government agency could help us with the imaging of the Palimpsest. Since it was private property, the tax dollars of the American public could not be spent on it. Mike said that he would nonetheless be happy to help us as a volunteer. Deprived of his toys, I was not sure how he could, but it seemed unwise to annoy this man, and he seemed pretty certain that he would be useful.

Mike, it turned out, was an expert at managing highly technical systems, including imaging systems and particularly in assessing something called “program risk.” This was an amazing stroke of fortune. Apparently, I had found someone who was professionally trained to tell me exactly the magnitude of my trouble. But, more importantly, he was willing to help me. I am a scholar who specializes in illuminated liturgical manuscripts from Canterbury, England from the early eleventh century. I have a few skills. I can, for example, recite the Book of Psalms backward and the kings and queens of England forward from Hengist through Henry VIII. But these skills are not particularly well suited to running an effective integrated project at a reasonable cost, to the correct level of performance, and on a practical schedule in order to produce value for the owner and an Archimedes text for the world. I needed someone like Mike, a technical consultant, and preferably one who, I liked to believe, had pressed the “go” button to launch a space shuttle.

Mike, like so many people who would ultimately help with Archimedes, was a volunteer. He didn't want money, and he didn't want his government service celebrated by the press. In fact, his work on Archimedes was all done through his father's company, R.B.Toth Associates, and that was how we introduced him to people. With Mike on board everybody else seemed to get a cover, too. Mr. B became the “source selection authority” (that is, he decided everything); Abigail became the “critical path” (that is, everything depended on conservation); the scholars became the “end-users” (that is, they defined what was best); and the imagers became the “value added” (that is, they made the difference). And me? I was given the very grand title of “project director.”

THE SOURCE SELECTION AUTHORITY
I know the owner of the Archimedes Palimpsest. I know him very well. If you don't know him by now, you don't need to know him. To the press, I say that he's of more use to you as an enigma; to the curious I say mind your own business. To those who do know him, he is a loyal, generous, thoughtful, and enlightened man. His email style is a bit short, but you get used to it.

When the Archimedes Palimpsest was sold, some scholars were outraged that the book had returned to a private collection. But if Archimedes had meant enough to the public, then public institutions would have bought it. Archimedes did not. Public institutions were offered the book at a lower price than it actually fetched at auction, and they turned it down. If you think this is a shame, then it is a shame that we all share. We live in a world where value translates into cash. If you care about what happens to world heritage, get political about it, and be prepared to pay for it.

The practical reasons why it might have been a “bad thing” if the manuscript was maintained in a private collection are that the book might have been poorly handled and the right scholars might not have gotten to see it. Someone could have just tossed it into his or her attic. As we will learn, given the state in which the book came out of its last private collection, these were valid concerns. I hope by the end of this book, if not by the end of this chapter, to demonstrate that this manuscript has been cared for extremely well and that the right people have cared for it. Another reason why it might have been a “bad thing” is that its future was uncertain. This still remains true. When the work is done the manuscript will go back to its owner, and I do not know what will happen to it then. But the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior and over the last eight years the owner has behaved responsibly, thoughtfully, and generously.

What do I mean by this? Well, Mr. B is extremely interested in the Archimedes Palimpsest and greatly concerned with the project and its goals. He is knowledgeable about books, he cares about them, and he has a superb library. He makes all the important decisions regarding the book, but he does so after carefully listening to us and reading proposals that I have forwarded to him. And what's more, he pays for all the work that needs to be done. The project has never suffered from a lack of money. Manuscript scholars, classicists, and mathematicians owe a great deal to the owner of the Archimedes Palimpsest.

THE CRITICAL PATH
The first task was to secure the well-being of the manuscript. Whatever else happened, the manuscript had to stay safe. I didn't have to do anything and have done nothing about this since the book arrived at the Walters. Abigail Quandt has done it all. Abigail has an international reputation for the conservation of medieval manuscripts. She has worked on some of the world's most famous manuscripts, including the Dead Sea Scrolls and one of the greatest masterpieces of the Middle Ages—the Book of Hours of Jeanne D'Evreux. Abigail received her training in Dublin with Tony Cains, Head of Conservation at Trinity College Dublin and in England with Roger Powell who rebound the Book of Kells. She has been at the Walters much longer than I have—since 1984.

Abigail was integral to the planning of Archimedes' future. In any of the decisions concerning the well-being of the manuscript—and there would be many—Abigail's voice was the strongest. I didn't just have a great colleague; I was convinced that Archimedes was in the safest possible hands—hers. I could rest assured that I wouldn't make the situation worse for Archimedes, and I was able to concentrate on other things.

THE END-USERS
I received many offers, by a variety of enthusiasts, to help with the decipherment of the Palimpsest. Some of these offers were rather forceful (this is an understatement). I tried not to be offensive while I worked out a strategy. The manuscript was so fragile that I could not let just anyone have a crack at it. I needed to get the two or three people who could best edit the texts so that they could be published. The question was which two or three?

Gary Vikan immediately advised me to get in touch with Nigel Wilson of Lincoln College, Oxford. He was an obvious choice for two reasons. The first was that he knew the book better than anyone else having just contributed a great deal to the catalogue Christie's produced for the auction. Christie's asked him to catalogue it for the same reason that I wanted him to work on it: he is without peer in scholarship on the transmission of classical texts from antiquity through the Middle Ages and his paleographical (script-deciphering) and philological (text-analyzing) skills are legendary. I wrote to him on Monday, January 15, 1999 and explained that if we were to do justice to the manuscript, we needed a distinguished scholar who knew about the subject to be our advisor. If he was willing, he was in this respect uniquely qualified to help us. Ever since then Nigel has been helping us. He has become far more than an independent advisor.

Next I phoned my very discreet friend Patrick Zutshi, Keeper of Manuscripts and University Archives at Cambridge University Library and spoke to him about my problem. He advised me to get in touch with Patricia Easterling, who was Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge University. This was pretty grand for me, but not, I thought, for Archimedes. So I phoned her and said, “Can you please tell me who is the best person to study the Archimedes Palimpsest?” I met her in early March 1999 in the tea room of the University Library, and she suggested I get in touch with Reviel Netz who was translating Archimedes into English for Cambridge University Press. Netz, she said, would be more interested in the book than most. While many were skeptical about the discoveries that could be made from the text, all agreed that the manuscript was important for its diagrams. Netz had a distinct interest in the diagrams. (More about this later.) Netz was at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I wrote him an email, and then we talked in detail on the phone. Pat Easterling was right:

“Yes. I need to see the diagrams, particularly for Sphere and Cylinder.” I think were the first words out of his mouth. I am still not sure because he has a rather thick Israeli accent. That's a bit pushy, I thought, and I tried to put the brakes on. So I spoke slowly and painted a broad picture of what our work might be and how he might fit into it. And, if he was interested, perhaps, just perhaps, he should come to Baltimore in the fullness of time.

When I met him at the airport terminal a couple of days later, I understood immediately that his pushiness was induced by his fear and his excitement. I did my best to calm his fear: yes, the Walters was a center of excellence; no, the Palimpsest wasn't here for a passing visit; yes, he could look at it—tomorrow, even—but he had to be very careful; no, I didn't plan to show it to just anyone. By the next day, I understood where he was coming from. He knew better than anyone that the box containing the Palimpsest was a time machine to Archimedes of Syracuse in the third century BC. He explained the importance of the diagrams to me as no one else ever has. Having convinced himself that I understood the grave responsibility that was on my shoulders, he looked at me with sympathy. He knew that I was going to do my best for the book, even though I did not understand it and it would be a long, demanding task that would take me away from my own research for years. Good. He was on my side, if only because I was on Archimedes' side. Now, eight years later, we find ourselves writing this book side by side and chapter by chapter.

Unlike me, Reviel has never thought of the Palimpsest as ugly. He doesn't care about its looks; he simply regards the Palimpsest with awe. His initial reaction was to feel daunted by the task ahead of him. His doubts were gone, though, when he heard that he would be working side-by-side with a colleague of the stature of Nigel Wilson. Reviel had another suggestion, too. He thought it was important to get someone to work just on those folios of the Palimpsest that contained texts not by Archimedes. He wanted to know who kept Archimedes company in this prayer book. I thought this was a good idea. Even if the text of Archimedes was well understood, there was the chance that we could find out more about the other palimpsested texts.

The name Reviel suggested was Natalie Tchernetska, a Latvian who was doing her PhD on Greek palimpsests at Trinity College, Cambridge. Pat Easterling was her supervisor. Small world. I met her in Pat's office at Newnham College in the summer of 1999. She was helpful in assessing the images, and we will have reason to look at some of her work later. This was the core of the academic team that was going to paint an entirely new picture of the greatest mathematician of antiquity and to reveal the world's greatest palimpsest.

THE VALUE ADDED
One day in August 1999 I sat down beside Abigail in my office and faced Mike Toth. We had to find the right people to image the Palimpsest. This was intimidating. I felt overwhelmed with the thought of how much work I would have to do, but I didn't even know precisely what this work was. Mike thought that we should arrange a competition for people to image the Palimpsest. I thought this was a bad idea; it seemed like a lot of work. Mike gently insisted. It would greatly increase the number of imaging procedures that we could perform on the book and it would give the participants the incentive to reduce costs and increase performance in the hope that they would be rewarded with the commission for imaging the entire volume. This was merely sensible, he said. It sounded like rocket science to me. Then he told me for the first time about a Request for Proposals. An RFP is quite standard to me now. It is a document in which you outline the problem and ask for a solution.

Abigail wrote the RFP. It is one of a number of thorough and brilliant documents that she has written throughout the history of the project. It started with a goal: to digitally retrieve and preserve for posterity all the writings in the 174 folios of the Archimedes Palimpsest. It mentioned all the constraints: because the manuscript was very fragile, all the handling of the manuscript would be undertaken by Abigail and personnel that she designated. It outlined the phases of work: after the competitive phase, the selected contractor would image the entire manuscript in a disbound state. The whole proposal ran six pages. In response to the RFP, we received six proposals. Of the six, we submitted three to Mr. B and of the three Mr. B selected two for the competition.

One team consisted of Roger Easton, a faculty member at the Chester F. Carlson Center for Imaging Science at the Rochester Institute of Technology, and Keith Knox, who was the Principal Scientist at the Xerox Digital Imaging Technology Center also in Rochester. (He now works for Boeing in Hawaii.) Keith, together with Brian J. Thompson, had achieved fame years earlier by developing and patenting a method—the Knox-Thompson Algorithm— that recovers images from telescopic photographs that have been degraded by the atmosphere. More recently, Roger and Keith had formed a team together with the late Robert H. Johnston to image degraded texts including a palimpsest in Princeton University Library and several of the Dead Sea Scroll fragments. Their work had already been celebrated on the BBC and on American TV. They had already done some work on the Palimpsest, because Keith's sister-in-law knew Hope Mayo, who had worked with Nigel to prepare the catalogue for the Christie's sale. Some of their images are actually in the catalogue. Roger, Keith, and Bob Johnston were a known quantity and a safe bet.

The other team was from Johns Hopkins University and was, in effect, one man, William A. Christens-Barry. Bill is not an imaging scientist, still less a photographer; he is a physicist. At the time we met him, he was working at the Applied Physics Laboratory of Johns Hopkins University. APL employs nearly three thousand engineers, information technologists, and scientists. It works primarily on development projects funded by federal agencies. Foremost among these are the US Navy and NASA. Scientists at APL participate in the entire range of data collection and analysis activities of interest to its sponsors, including data from air-, ocean-, and space-borne reconnaissance and imaging platforms. Work on non-defense, non-space projects constitutes a secondary activity of the laboratory. Most of Bill's research pertained to problems in biological and medical science, particularly in relation to cancer. Impressive place; impressive guy. His proposal was full of ideas that no one else had even considered.

THE PROJECT DIRECTOR
All these people had well-defined roles, but I wondered about my role. I was to be Archimedes' factotum. I did the talking, and I did the arranging. As Mike put it, I kept an awful lot of plates spinning on their poles. And I was going to have to do it for a long time. By the end of the year, I had talked to the right people and had arranged a lot. I had a plan in place and the key players were on board. I could say what I was doing to anybody who called. I just couldn't really say why I was doing it. If you had called me up and asked me why any of us wanted to do this work, I would immediately have referred you to Reviel Netz.