"Not every mentor is as evil as your Heron," Sierra said. "Thomas was good to me in many ways."
"As Heron was to me – evil and good can live quite comfortably together even in the same soul, I have found."
"Your philosophy was astute when I knew you," Sierra said. "It is even better now."
"Thank you." Jonah smiled. "Let us start with Alcibiades – you know that he was the source of Theon's notation about a cure for the illness of Socrates."
"That is what Heron told me before he took me here – I did not know whether to believe him – yet–"
"It is true. Though I do not believe that Alcibiades intended to plant a seed of false hope from the future. He was very new to time travel then, and was not versed in avoiding these kinds of contaminations."
Sierra was silent for a moment. "But you are," she said. "You know how to tread carefully."
"The chances of contamination are always high, regardless of how much care you take. You would like me to take you to Alcibiades now, or at very least tell you where he is." Jonah's face grew grave. "I cannot. To possess such knowledge would endanger too many things."
Sierra started to object–
"What I can safely tell you is he is alive," Jonah said softly, "and he is well."
* * *
On the fourth visit, their conversation turned to the Library of Alexandria. "It was burned at least three times, different parts of the Library but all interconnected by passageways and tunnels, as you know," Jonah said. "By the pagan Julius Caesar's soldiers in 47-48 BC, possibly by accident as they fought in the harbor. By the Christian Patriarch of Alexandria, Theophilus, in 390-391 AD – the same Theophilus who later converted Synesius to Christianity."
Sierra winced at the name Theophilus, because of his connection to Synesius and because of what he did to the Library. Of the three despoilers of civilization, Theophilus was the only one she had had the displeasure of meeting in person. She had avoided attending his funeral as Hypatia when he died in 412 AD.
"And by the Islamic Caliph Omar in 640 AD. Only my Jewish people are thoroughly innocent," Jonah concluded.
Sierra laughed. "That is only because your people were long removed from any power by the time the Library was constructed by Alexander's general."
"Not completely true–"
"But I grant you that it's not in the Jewish culture to ever burn as wondrous a thing as a book."
Jonah smiled . . . then sighed. "There are serious, different problems – perhaps insurmountable – attached to stopping each of the three burnings. Perhaps most profound, and obvious: preventing either or both the first and second burnings would only leave more books vulnerable to Omar, unless his burning was stopped as well. But the Islamic tide in 640 AD was unstoppable in Alexandria. Even killing Caliph Omar would have no effect. We would have to kill followers of the Prophet Mohammed in such large numbers that– God forgive me, but even were that possible, I am afraid I would prefer to let the Library burn than ever attempt such a mass extermination. Human lives are worth more than books, however profound their inscribed knowledge."
"I see you have given this much thought," Sierra considered, "and I agree with you. But even if we sought to change the life of one man – such as Julius Caesar – we could be triggering enormously dangerous changes to history. Had anything been different in Julius Caesar's life – had he lived longer, died sooner, made Cleopatra his wife, never met her – we might well have had no Roman Empire, certainly not the one that Augustus founded in Caesar's aftermath."
Jonah looked out of the window at the legionaries on the lawn. "No Roman Empire could have its advantages. But I take your point. So where does that leaves us? We cannot conduct a massacre, and even the murder of one man could have consequences disastrous to history."
"Oh, I would gladly see Theophilus dead," Sierra said, "and Synesius could find another priest to convert him. But, yes, even Theophilus's death could have unforeseen consequences."
"Which means we abandon saving the Library of Alexandria, and move on to another one of your goals when you leave here," Jonah said.
"No," Sierra said. "I think I have at least a partial solution, which wouldn't kill a single person and won't interfere with any of those histories."
* * *
Heron came to see her two mornings later. He bared his yellowed teeth in a big smile. "You are free to go."
"What?"
"I have no further interest in keeping you prisoner here."
"Then why did you take me from my work in Alexandria?" she asked. And my vigil for Alcibiades? she thought.
"To save you from yourself, as I have told you. To prevent you being hacked to death by those Nitrian maniacs – whether in 415 or 414 or 413 AD. You wouldn't leave with Synesius, you wouldn't leave with Mr. Appleton, though both tried repeatedly. Someone had to save you - to save you from your compulsion to die."
"How do you propose to do that if I am free to travel back there. . . " She paused. "Ah, I see. You locked that time – you programmed all the chairs not to be able to go back to that time – one of your favorite tricks. You did this to the chairs in New York, London, and Athens. I assume it took you some time to do that – even you can't instantly be in more than one place at the same time. And I assume your legionaries will be looking for me, if I travel back to any earlier time, and try to reach Alexandria in 413 the old fashioned way – by living into it."
Heron bowed. "Precisely." He pulled out ten new hundred-dollar bills and put them on the table. "Pocket change. But more than enough to get you to New York City. And I left a change of mid-21st century clothing for you near the door." And he left.
Sierra thought over her options. This was no doubt part of Heron's plan, to free her now – for whatever real purpose he had – but in a way that kept her away from 413 and 415 AD. Her leaving now might also separate her from Jonah. . . . Did Heron know about his being here? . . . Impossible to say. . . .
But . . . she thought she might know of another way to get back to Alexandria at the time she wanted. She took the money, put on the coveralls Heron had provided, and walked out of the compound. No one stopped her or said a word. The Hotel De Vie fastrain terminal was a forty-minute walk down the azalea path. She was used to walking and enjoyed it. She found it preferable, in the past, to sitting in a carriage pulled by slaves or animals. When she arrived in the town center, she ducked into its one clothing store and bought a new outfit. She left Heron's clothing in the changing room, just in case its fibers had been set to do some digital tattling to Heron.
[mid-Hudson valley, NY 2061 AD]
Sierra looked out of the window as her train zipped down the western bank of the Hudson. She had been in New York City in 2061 only once before, and very briefly, when she and Socrates had taken a taxi from the airport to the Millennium Club and spent just a few minutes there with Mr. Charles. . . . Far more vivid – and painful – in her memory was her immediately following visit to the Club in 2042 . . . . She thought often of Socrates, Thomas, and Mr. Charles sitting at that table, as she said goodbye. . . . They of course would always be at that table at that moment, having the same conversation, Socrates giving her the same sage advice, unless someone mucked around in the past and changed that history. She hoped, however, that that particular conversation stayed intact. She drew an odd comfort from it through the pain. She also wondered how much longer Socrates had survived, given his illness . . . .
That had been the last time she had set foot in the Club, in any year. New York had been cold and grey on that 13 April 2061. Now it was 6 September, and the world outside her window was warm and green. That made it safe – or at least not dangerously courting of paradox – for her to visit the Club today. No chance of her running into herself and Mr. Charles and Socrates. . . .
[New York City, 2061 AD]
Sierra disembarked at Grand Central Terminal. Not much had changed, as far as she could tell, between 2061 and 2042, her home year. Grand Central had been kept wonde
rfully the same since its great renovation at the turn of the 21st century. The fastrain commuter system had been in place with its lightning speed since the 2020s. Maybe the women looked a little sluttier in 2061. But she knew better than to make the facile generalization that the future was always more libertine. Some of what she'd seen casually exposed in Alexandria was enough to make a crow blush, as that antique Kim Carnes song – one of her favorites – put it. Then she thought – funny how songs you come to love as a kid stay with you the rest of your life, wherever you are. She had first heard that song at her boyfriend's house, when she was fourteen. Tommy had been a real fan of late-20th-century music.
The short walk north to the Millennium Club on West 49th Street, just off of Fifth Avenue, was uneventful – except for the robot taxis in some kind of standoff stalemate on Madison and 47th. If she remembered her traffic programming correctly, whichever robot got to the intersection even a fraction of a second earlier was supposed to have right of way. And if by some fluke both arrived at the same instant, a whole protocol based on urgency of trip, communicated from one robot to another, was supposed to decide which car went first. So what was going on here? Likely a new model, with some crucial function from the 2042 program inadvertently left out. Progress.
But one benefit of this showdown on Madison Avenue was that it had pulled her mind far away from the butterflies in her stomach. They returned now in fluttering force as she made her way to 48th and then 49th Street . . . . She could see the Millennium, its shim-shield glinting, at the end of the block.
She wondered if the doorman would know her. Surely some of them from 2042 would still be at their posts. Even in 2042, people regularly lived until their hundred-and-teens, and usually worked at one job or another at least until a hundred. The life-and-work-spans likely had improved since then. . . .
But the doorman at the Millennium looked closer to 40, and unfamiliar. "I'm not a member," Sierra said sweetly, "but Thomas O'Leary or Cyril Charles, if either are in, would be happy to see me."
"Terribly sorry." The doorman bowed unctuously. "I am afraid I have only been on the job a few weeks, and have yet to fully master the membership names by heart–"
Great, Sierra thought.
"I could check the membership presence rosters for Mr. O'Leary," the doorman continued, "or, I believe Mr. Charles is in right now. Which would you prefer?"
Good old reliable Mr. Charles! "Mr. Charles would be perfect – thank you!"
"I won't be long," the doorman assured her. "Please wait in the vestibule." He showed her to a room with real paper newspapers and computer screens, and left to fetch Cyril Charles.
Sierra realized just how much she missed computers. There had been none in Heron's bucolic prison room, and the texts in Alexandria of course said nothing more than what they already said, when you addressed them or ran your finger on its words. That's why Socrates, presumably without ever seeing a computer, had yearned for an "intelligent writing" – one that could answer questions put to it – at least according to Jowett's translation of the Phaedrus. But humanity could not afford to lose those scrolls back there, those stubborn but vulnerable guardians of knowledge. . . . She spoke to the screen: "Thomas O'Leary–"
"Miss, can I help you?" Cyril Charles, looking confused, was beside her.
Sierra jumped up–
The computer spoke: "Thomas O'Leary, independent scholar and academic, deceased 2058–"
"What? No! Repeat!" Sierra screamed at the computer.
"Thomas O'Leary, independent scholar and academic, deceased 2058," the computer complied.
"Yes, of course," Charles said, mostly to himself. "Thomas told me about Hypatia. . . . Forgive me for not recognizing you." He looked at Sierra, who was staring, shaking, mouth open and horrified, at the computer screen. "You didn't know about Thomas." Charles said softy and put his arm around her. "Let's go upstairs."
* * *
"He was in his 80s at most, died suddenly of a stroke," Charles told Sierra, when they were seated at a quiet table. A beautiful Raphael painting – an original – hung on the wall near them. "It was fast, instant," Charles continued, and wiped a tear from his own eye, "at least we can be thankful for that. But who dies in their 80s in this day and age? Modern medicine – educated quacks who don't know what they're talking about. . . ."
Sierra couldn't speak. Sorrow coursed through her system and all but short-circuited her brain. But with the slender part of her mind that could still think, she wondered how much Mr. Charles knew about what was actually going on, about what had really happened. She knew Charles knew about Socrates – he had been there, here in the Millennium, the last time she had seen Socrates. The last time she had seen Thomas. . . .
Charles continued. "He spent a very happy period of months with Socrates in 2042, I can tell you that. I never really got to know Thomas very well, but I don't think I had ever seen him happier. We laid Socrates to rest in a nice quiet corner of Woodlawn, when the philosopher finally succumbed to that inoperable brain tumor. . . . Our bumbling medicine failed again. . . . We keep the gravesite in good appearance. I can take you there, if you like. . . ."
Sierra nodded. Why hadn't Jonah told her about Thomas? Could he not have known?
Charles went on. "And after Socrates left us, Thomas retreated. . . . If I had never seen him happier than during those months with Socrates, I don't believe I had ever seen Thomas sadder than he was, afterwards. He seemed to take no joy in life. It was as if he was suffering from a broken heart – which I guess, in a sense, he was. . . ."
Sierra caught just the flicker of an inscrutable expression in Charles's eyes. It occurred to her that, just as she was being careful with Charles, he might be speaking very carefully to her, unsure of what he thought she knew or did not know about all of this, especially given her different face. "Are there any chairs in the room upstairs?" she asked, quietly.
"You would like to go back, prior to his death in 2058? But I am afraid there has not been a chair in the room for several months – three months, twelve days, four hours and fifty-six minutes, to be exact."
Sierra looked at Charles quizzically.
"I have the room monitored," Charles explained. "I have a device."
Heron had taken her from Alexandria to Athens in 413, where they had taken two chairs to 2061, and then a private plane to New York. So she had seen no evidence of chairs upstairs at this specific time. She knew full well that the rooms were frequently bereft of chairs. . . . Was this just more bad coincidence or more of Heron's manipulation?
And something else about what Charles had just said caught her attention. He had "a device" – no doubt something connected to a video or holographic surveillance of the room at the top of the winding stairs. But why had he used just the general word "device," and not something more specific like holographic cam? Because it would not arouse suspicion with whomever he might be conversing about this, whatever their time of origin?
"What century do you originally come from, if you'll pardon such a personal question," Sierra asked him.
"Mid-nineteenth – same as Mr. Appleton. A glorious age – so much hope in the powers of humanity! But I have spent so much time in the 20th, 21st, and 22nd lately – I sometimes feel like a denizen of all eternity itself!"
He was indeed reminiscent of her dear Appleton. She hoped that the publisher was safe at home in his beloved 1890s, as Heron had at some point assured her Appleton was. "What century did Thomas originally come from?" she asked Charles.
Charles coughed, and sipped some of his ginger seltzer. "Apologies – I am just recovering from a bit of the croup, I think – I guess they call it minor Mutando virus now." He laughed, and then coughed again.
Sierra kept her sympathetic gaze on him.
"Yes . . . about Thomas. I'm afraid I honestly do not know," Charles said. "He was a very private man, as you know."
Sierra quelled an unexpected surge of tears. "Could you take me to Woodlawn now? Would that be possible?
I assume Thomas is buried near Socrates?"
Charles nodded silently and called for the check.
* * *
Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx was very quiet this early, rusty, late September day. They came upon the grave of Socrates first, under an oak. Like most of the trees in the cemetery, it had seen better days. Much like the people here, Sierra reflected. The grass was neatly trimmed. "The grave diggers keep the dandelions at bay," Charles said.
"Dandelions don't bother me," Sierra said quietly. She looked at the plain marble headstone. Carved upon it, in equally plain letters, was "Socrates, 470 BC – 2042 AD. He preferred speaking to writing, but the impact of his writing is beyond measure." Sierra smiled, just slightly.
"Thomas was confident this would not attract attention – given some of the absurdities, the outright obscenities even, you see carved on other tombstones. . . ." Now Charles smiled. "I guess my public morality will always be a result of my father's cane, and the mid-nineteenth century," he added, apologetically. Then he pointed, delicately, to another grave, with a smaller headstone, about five feet away. There were no other graves between it and the grave of Socrates.
Sierra approached it. It said: "Thomas O'Leary, ? – 2058 AD. I ask the forgiveness of all whom I disappointed."
"We found a note," Charles said, shakily. "It's what Thomas wanted–"
And Sierra found her herself sobbing in huge waves. She wrapped her arms around the gravesite. "You didn't disappoint me. You made my life." Her tears ran from her cheeks down the rough grey stone. A few collected in the "o" of the carved "forgiveness". The rest evaporated, or were absorbed in the stone, before they reached the ground.
Charles helped her up. She didn't know how long she had been crying, or what she had been saying. She was still shaking. "I've lost everyone I love," she said. "Everyone. I'm the one who's disappointed everyone."
Charles hugged her for a while, then spoke softly but intensely. "Listen to me. Thomas never lost faith in you. He told me, many times, 'I do not worry for Sierra – she is destined to do great things.' He loved you, very much. He believed in you."
Unburning Alexandria (Sierra Waters) Page 5
