Synesius hesitated for a moment, then did the same. He felt as if he was walking into a shimmering dream. But whose?
* * *
Synesius discovered he could see the stars through the top of the bubble, even though it was sealed. "Some sort of glass," he muttered.
The slave nodded. She was muttering, too, in a language Synesius did not comprehend, into a small, colorless device she held in her hand, or perhaps it was just her hand she was addressing. Synesius could not be sure. He looked above, again, at the stars. He suddenly felt nauseated, more disoriented than he had felt before. He had been trying to banish a thought, but he suddenly felt powerless now to keep it out of his mind. "Tell me the truth," he blurted, and he realized there were tears in his voice. "Am I dead?"
"No," the slave answered calmly, almost tenderly. "You are not."
"But how can I be sure? How can I trust you?" Mixed feelings coursed through him. If he was dead, he could hold his wife and his sons again. But what of Hypatia?
"You know there is no way I can prove to you that you are dead or alive," she replied, "no way I can prove this is not just your evil – or good – dream."
"The position of the solipsist is logically impregnable," Synesius agreed. "If you splash my face with cold water, and I do not awaken, that is no proof that I am not dreaming – for I might well be dreaming that you splashed my face and dreaming I did not awaken."
"Yes."
"Still, if you could–"
"Would it comfort you if I assured you that, of the two of us, I am far less alive, at least by your standards, than you?"
Synesius looked at her, especially her eyes. No, it was not her eyes that seemed so familiar, even though they reminded him of Hypatia. "I have never held that slaves are less alive than their masters. We are all God's offspring."
"It is not my condition of servitude that renders me less alive than you," the slave responded. "It is . . . " The slave shook her head, slightly. "I am searching for the proper words, to explain."
Now Synesius shook his head. "But how could your explanation – how could any explanation – possibly convince me that I am not dreaming your very explanation, from some status in the afterlife? The position of the solipsist, as you said–"
She put a cool hand over his. The vehicle had halted. Synesius had to admit that he did feel less disoriented now that he was at rest. She spoke softly. "I will convince you, because what I will tell you and where I will take you would be impossible for you to dream."
Their vehicle resumed motion. And Synesius realized why this slave seemed familiar to him. Not because he had slept with her twin just hours earlier. Not because of her face, her eyes, her posture. It was the way she reasoned.
* * *
Synesius looked out at the dark quickness of this distant future night in Londinium, and struggled to make sense of what he thought he was beginning to understand. "You were her student . . . somehow, through time . . . ."
The slave regarded him. Her eyes narrowed. "No, I was never a student."
"But . . . surely, you received education? Slaves can be permitted to receive learning. Surely, you were taught to speak the Latin you utter – you speak it very competently. Surely, you were taught to reason."
The slave considered. "Perhaps. But I was not taught in the way you imagine."
Synesius again recalled Jonah's words . . . her being intrinsically instructed. . . . What did that mean? "You were instructed."
"I was programmed."
Also Jonah's word, once again. "Is that not a kind of learning?"
The slave pursed her lips, seeking the right words. "To be programmed is to have a text inserted into your brain, inserted whole, all at once."
"I have read of surgeons, students of Galen, who do medical wonders with the brains of their patients," Synesius mused. "But those brains had been injured, and the surgeons attempt only their repair."
The slave nodded. "I suppose that is the very childlike beginning of what I am saying was done upon my brain, but . . . it is so far from what I am attempting to explain to you, that I might just as accurately say that I was a child who consumed a scroll, and its words became imprinted upon my brain."
"That would be a miracle, not philosophy," Synesius said.
The slave nodded again. "In my world, they are often the same." She pointed to lights in the distance. "That is where this automatic conveyance is bringing us. When we arrive, we will leave this vehicle, and enter another. And then you will know yet another kind of miracle, truly derived from only technos, and the application of natural philosophy."
* * *
Their vehicle entered the realm of lights. Synesius and the slave disembarked, and walked into a lofty, brightly lit structure. It reminded Synesius, for some reason, of the great bath houses in Carthage, though there was no water to be seen.
"We will soon be entering the other vehicle I spoke of," the slave said, very seriously. "Recall what I told you. You will feel frightened, agitated, when you see the land and the sea far below you. Prepare yourself. We will be on a ship that sails not the sea but the sky."
Synesius nodded. "I believe Jonah spoke of it."
"Good."
"He thought travel across time was far more disruptive."
"It is," the slave agreed. "And it is an irony that, although travel through the sky challenges no laws of the universe – birds and butterflies, after all, also ply the sky – our travel in the clouds will nonetheless feel to you far more strange than what you encountered in the time chair that brought you to the Parthenon Club."
An announcement rang out. Synesius recognized the voice as a woman's, but the words she spoke were incomprehensible.
"We will be entering the sky vehicle soon," the slave said.
"To travel across the great ocean to the West?" Synesius asked.
The slave regarded him. "No."
"Where then?"
"Back to your part of the world," the slave replied.
"Why?"
"You are needed there, in your time, and it is not wise to subject you to the risk of another voyage in the northern sea of your own time."
"You would have taken me from – the Parthenon dwelling – even had I not been killed, in the first place?" Synesius asked.
"Yes."
"My killing was therefore–"
"Planned by people who do not want you to return to your time," the slave concluded his thought.
Synesius furrowed his brow. "Which, do you suppose, is the original, true reality? The one in which I died? Or were my slayers, acting through your twin in my bed, interfering with the reality that was meant to be, which you are now working to preserve?"
The slave smiled.
Synesius found that beautiful.
"Impossible to say," the slave said. "Except – whatever reality you inhabit always seems to be the right one, the true one, because you carry no real memory of what may have existed before. It is less than a dream to you, though you can be instructed to–"
The announcement rang out again.
"We must go to the vehicle now," the slave said.
"Who needs my help, back in my own time? Is it Augustine?"
"It is Hypatia who needs you," the slave replied.
Chapter Six
[Alexandria, 48 BC]
The harbor was burning.
Jonah and Max watched from a safe distance down the shore. "This brightness at night is not unlike the electric lighting in your time," Jonah said, calmly.
Max frowned. "We should have arrived earlier and stopped this."
Jonah shook his head no. "First, those fire ships were ordered out there by Julius Caesar. His position is under attack by the Pharoah's fleet – you surely do not think that the two of us and our advice might have stayed his hand? Second, even if we had managed to convince him, that might well have been worse – we cannot risk changing history with someone as public and prominent as Caesar himself–"
"That would actually be th
e first reason, then," Max remarked, and frowned more deeply. "So we stand here, and watch this fire, observe exactly how it spread, and then come back here, another time, and try to stop it from burning down the Library. . . . "
"Yes," Jonah replied. "As I keep trying to explain to you, we lose nothing by observing now and coming back later. We can come back as many times as we like – that is the beauty of time travel."
Max glared at the blaze. "It is near the dock now. When that falls to the flame, the Library will be next. Nothing about this is beautiful to me."
The two turned from the harbor to sounds of sandals on the path behind them. Arsinoe approached quickly, with two Nubians.
"Now there is something that is beautiful," Max remarked.
"It is not safe here," Arsinoe said, short of breath. "The fighting is close."
"Where should we go?" Jonah asked, as she squeezed his hand.
"There are rooms in the Royal section of the Library, resistant to flame," she answered.
Max snorted–
The dockside crackled loudly and erupted in tall, graceful spires of fire.
"Those goods on the dock, waiting for export, will soon be exported into those flames," Jonah said.
"We cannot stay here," Arsinoe repeated.
* * *
"To whom are they loyal?" Max asked Arsinoe about the Nubian who sprinted ahead of them, as the group ran in a slow gait from the shore. The other Nubian was behind them, near Jonah.
Arsinoe turned slightly to Max. "They are loyal to me, of course."
"And not to your sister? I understand your interests are not precisely the same."
Arsinoe stopped suddenly and stared full bore at Max. "You barbarians should learn to respect your superiors. I can assure you that, in this matter of Gaius Julius Caesar, my sister's and my interests are identical – which is, to protect our dynasty's interests." She resumed her gait.
The Nubian at the rear moved up to Arsinoe and whispered in her ear. She listened without slowing her pace. Max continued next to her, and Jonah a step back with the other Nubian.
Max spoke slowly as they approached the Library from the south. "You know, from this angle, it looks to me as if those flames have a long way to travel to reach the Library."
The fire had now consumed the dock and its holdings, and was burning higher in the sky. "I see what you are saying," Jonah replied. "The flames do seem to be leaning towards the water, and those unburned ships on the right. . . . But perspectives can be misleading, and a change in wind can change everything."
The Nubian in the lead reached the Library, and entered.
He emerged a few moments later, and nodded.
The party entered the Library of Alexandria, through a passage proffered by Cleopatra's sister.
* * *
Everyone's eyes needed a minute to adjust to the lighting inside.
"This part of the Library looks older than the parts I have seen," Jonah remarked.
"Of course it does," Max said. "You are familiar with the Library as it looked in 150 AD."
"I have been back here before–"
"Let us proceed," Arsinoe interrupted. "We are about a quarter of an hour from the rooms."
They moved as they had outside, with a Nubian at their front and another at their back.
Nothing about the passageways looked familiar to Jonah, who said so from time to time. "Musty walkways," he muttered, "devoid of people, pigeon-holes, and scrolls."
Max walked silently, with an odd smile.
"Stop," Arsinoe commanded, almost five minutes later. "Do you smell that?"
"Smoke," Jonah sniffed and looked around. "So much for the fire having a long way to travel," he said to Max.
"That does smell very near," Max said.
"Should we–" Jonah began a question to Arsinoe, but paused at the sound of footsteps, moving quickly, heavily, from more than one person.
"Here." Arsinoe pulled them behind a corner, from which Jonah, Max, and the Nubians were able to peer around at the passageway.
Arsinoe stayed safely behind them around the corner.
The smoke and the footsteps loomed larger. Four legionaries appeared. One was carrying a torch.
"That torch looks bigger than needed to give light," Max whispered.
Jonah nodded agreement.
The legionaries passed.
Jonah quietly told Arsinoe what he had seen.
"They may be going toward our rooms," she said.
"Then–"
"I know another way to get there," Arsinoe said. "It may be rougher on our feet, but faster."
They stepped back out into the passageway–
This time, only sounds not smoke came upon them. And the sounds came from four new legionaries who were walking towards them, weapons drawn.
"My guards can protect us," Arsinoe said, unconcerned, to Jonah. But he pushed her behind him and drew the knife he had been carrying. She started to speak, but Jonah put his hand over her mouth. "We do not know what they want," he whispered. "They may be seeking to harm you. They might recognize your voice."
The Nubians were lean, muscular, and armed with razor-sharp knives.
One slashed the nearest legionary and turned to slash another, but the first, though badly hurt, managed to drive his sword into the Nubian's leg. The two fell to the ground and struggled.
The other Nubian spun around and dropped the two other legionaries, but neither was seriously hurt, and fought the Nubian to the wall. He died there, blood spurting from a dozen wounds, and took one of the legionaries with him. He had wounded the other.
Two legionaries – one hurt by the second Nubian, one fine – now turned to Max. The man from the future, who already had come back from his own death one time, drew a knife of his own.
The Nubian on the ground finally thrust his knife into his legionary's neck. The Nubian rose, but he was gravely wounded. He ran, shouting, towards the two remaining legionaries.
One turned to dispatch him, but Max was now on top of this legionary, cursing and slashing.
The other legionary, now bleeding profusely from his fight with the Nubian at the wall, went after Jonah. Though unwounded, Jonah knew he was no match for this killing devil. He said a prayer in Hebrew and moved warily toward the legionary–
But it was Max who killed him with three savage slashes, two to the jugular, after having done the same to the legionary he had been battling on the ground.
The badly wounded Nubian now grunted, buckled, and died.
The fight had taken less than a minute.
* * *
Arsinoe emerged, shaking, and put her arms around Jonah.
Jonah looked at Max with gratitude, awe, and a little suspicion.
"I was not completely truthful when I told you I did not remember what dying feels like," Max said, slowly, his smile returning. "I remember exactly what it felt like to be stabbed with knives back there on the shore of the Thames. It is not a feeling I want to have again. So I asked Mr. Bertram if I could be trained . . . and he consented."
Jonah nodded. "Thank you . . . for your bravery."
Arsinoe spoke up. "We cannot go to the rooms now. With my guards dead . . . we would not be safe." Her voice quavered.
"What is contained in those rooms?" Jonah asked.
"I know only that they are resistant to flame," Arsinoe answered. "But even with your friend's courage," she looked at Max, "our party would be no match for four more Romans."
Jonah hesitated. "We are vulnerable everywhere in the Library now, with your brave guards slain. Whether we proceed towards your rooms, or retrace our path and leave the Library. But I see no point in going deeper into this chasm." He sniffed the air. "I think we have discovered what we came to learn. If the Library burns tonight, it will be from fires set within, not from the fires in the harbor. I smell no smoke now from that direction."
Max nodded, Arsinoe spoke. "Yes, let us leave."
They made their way back toward their entranc
e. They encountered no further Romans. And when they left the Library of Alexandria, walked a distance, and looked back at the Library and the harbor, they all saw the truth of what Jonah had said.
"The fires in the harbor are subsiding," Jonah now observed. "If the legionaries of Julius Caesar are responsible for burning any of the Library tonight, it will not be from contagion of the burning harbor."
"Hail Caesar," Max said and laughed. But neither Jonah nor Arsinoe joined him.
Chapter Seven
[Alexandria, 150 AD]
Sierra, Heron, and the Nubian walked quickly down the halls of the Library, past Claudius Ptolemy still muttering in his scrolls, past corridors that looked increasingly less familiar to Sierra.
She looked at the hilt of the knife in the Nubian's sash. That was familiar to her, and comforting, because she knew that Heron knew exactly what the Nubian would do with that knife, even with his last breath, if Heron led them into a trap of some sort, or even if he just tried to escape.
"The ancient rooms are close," Heron now volunteered, as if he could hear her thoughts, "rooms resistant to flames, rooms where scrolls can be saved, as I told you."
"The Library is under water in my time," Sierra said, "where the harbor is now. Can your rooms resist the sea?"
Heron smiled. "I am known in these times, and in your times, for my understanding of air and water and their mingling."
The Nubian tensed. He whispered in Sierra's ear. All three stopped.
"He says there are warriors ahead," Sierra said to Heron, "strangers to Alexandria."
"He can see through walls?" Heron asked, with slight contempt.
"He can smell them," Sierra replied.
Heron gave no response.
"I have access to parts of the same future as you," Sierra said.
Heron said nothing.
Now Sierra smiled, and touched her face. "I obviously am living proof that I know about reconstructive DNA. Not much of a jump from that to your enhanced legionaries, my enhanced Nubians, whatever we might call them."
Heron relented and spoke. "By far the best solution to having superior fighters in the past, without risking their discovery. Androids with any kind of visible technology and of course robots would proclaim their inhumanity, dead or alive. As would anything that didn't die after mortal wounding."
Unburning Alexandria (Sierra Waters) Page 10
