She let out a sigh. How could she explain that ending her relationship with Bren was the right decision? The idea of women’s intuition had been distilled into a vat of ridiculousness for centuries and was usually scoffed at—and she knew she’d sound crazy if she told Cabe the full story. While her time with Bren would always have a place in her heart, that time was over; her premonition had helped her see it.
“Let me just say one more thing and then I’ll shut up,” he advised. “Don’t be stupid.”
“You know I’m not like Allison,” she said softly. “Even if Bren and I don’t last, I’m not like her.” Allison was Cabe’s ex-fiancée. She had dumped him at the altar right before Semele moved to New York. Cabe had moped on Semele’s new couch, curled up in a fetal position, for weeks.
“But something did happen in Switzerland, didn’t it?” Cabe asked. It didn’t sound like a question.
Semele could feel the weight of his judgment. First Bren and now Cabe. Did she have “something happened in Switzerland” tattooed on her forehead?
Yes, something had happened in Switzerland. The problem was it was more than kissing Theo. She couldn’t begin to tell him that a prophet was speaking to her through an ancient manuscript, or that she had started to see the future. Thinking about any of it made her head hurt.
“Can we move on?” she asked, picking up her fork. Cabe’s doorbell sounded as if on cue. The thought of Raina made her lose her appetite.
Cabe jumped up to buzz her in. “Oh, hey, I got the DNA test back on that manuscript,” he said on his way to the door.
“And?” Semele asked, her heart stopping and starting again. She wasn’t sure she was ready to know.
“It’s from right around 46 B.C. at the latest, no question,” he said and promptly disappeared into the entry hall.
Semele sat back and let out a long breath, glad she had a moment alone to process. Those results were staggering. Ionna really had known about Gundeshapur, a city founded over two hundred years after she had written the manuscript. What else had she known? Semele was barely halfway through Ionna’s story.
She could hear Cabe and Raina talking quietly in the hallway. Then Cabe came back alone, looking irritated.
Semele glanced toward the door. “What happened?”
“She had an emergency pop up and could only stop by for a minute.”
That sounded unlikely. “Who shows up for two minutes and leaves?” Semele could tell by the look on Cabe’s face that she was the reason Raina had bailed on dinner. “Was it because of me?”
“No, not at all.”
She could tell he was lying. “Cabe, seriously. Who gets jealous like that?” she asked, feeling disturbed.
“She wasn’t jealous.” Cabe sounded peeved. “It’s just dinner.”
Semele nodded and tried to eat. But she couldn’t help feeling that Raina was driving a wedge between them. She might as well have still been in the room.
Cabe was completely distracted and most likely wishing Raina was there enjoying his culinary efforts, not her. For the first time, Semele felt like an intruder and the feeling didn’t sit well. But she had come here for help. She needed to confide in him.
“Cabe, I’m in the middle of something serious. I think the manuscript I’m reading … is special.”
That got his attention. “What do you mean?”
“The person who wrote it talks about history that hasn’t happened, like a prophecy.”
“Like Nostradamus or something?”
“Kind of.” Except unlike Nostradamus’ predictions, Ionna had recorded facts and names without codes, quatrains, or rhymes that needed to be deciphered. Semele didn’t want to get into the details right now. “Someone knows I’m reading it. I think I’m being followed.”
“What?” Now Cabe was completely with her. “Hold on. Back up. From the beginning.”
“I found a manuscript that Marcel Bossard had kept secret, and I made a copy in Switzerland. The night before I flew out someone broke into my hotel room, but they didn’t take anything. They opened the file on my computer.” She hurried to explain, feeling her anxiety returning. “Then today I went to the library and caught a guy watching me—and he was on my flight from Geneva. I know the Rose Room is a serious tourist destination, but what are the odds? He was on my flight.” And he had shown up in the Rose Room right when Ionna had said Semele was being watched.
Semele didn’t feel comfortable sharing that part of the story. But if she couldn’t tell Cabe, who could she tell? If her father were still alive she would have taken the first train to New Haven and shown him the manuscript. He would have known what to do.
“That’s why I called,” she confessed. “I was scared to go home. I didn’t want him to know where I lived.”
“Jesus, Sem, you should have told me.”
“I’m telling you now.” They stared at each other. “What do I do?” she asked. Her fear was threatening to overwhelm her again.
Cabe rubbed his chin, looking equally worried. “Well, for starters, if some guy is following you, you’re staying here tonight. We’ll walk over to your place in the morning and check things out.”
Semele felt her body droop with relief. Tomorrow was Saturday. Soon it would be Monday and she’d be back at work prepping for Beijing. Suddenly putting six thousand miles between her and a stalker didn’t seem like such a bad call.
They went back to eating in silence. “You know, maybe you shouldn’t read any more of it,” Cabe said.
Semele didn’t answer right away. If Ionna was predicting the future, did she really want to know the rest?
A strange sense of inevitability took hold of her. Yes. Yes, she did.
Message from VS—
The missing pages?
Message to VS—
Still searching.
From VS—
Find them.
Anything else u r not handling?
Message to VS—
Manuscript being translated this week.
From VS—
Do not let that happen.
The Hermit
The next morning Cabe and Semele strolled to her place with coffees and pastries from a nearby café in hand. As they walked, Semele watched all the pedestrians around her, on alert for the man at the library.
She looked over at Cabe. “Do you think a person can predict the future?”
Cabe considered the question. “Well, it seems impossible when you grant that reality is just a complex web of particles colliding with each other all the time.”
Semele snorted. “It was a yes-or-no question.”
“Then no. Life is based on the uncertainty principle. If we can’t even measure a particle’s velocity and position at the same time, how can we know where anything will be in the future?”
“Let’s pretend I haven’t seen every Star Trek episode like you. What about people who have premonitions that come true? How do you explain that?”
Cabe hesitated. “Okay. There are at least ten dimensions that we know of so far. Maybe psychics—I’m talking real ones—if they exist, have the ability to see an interdimensional spectrum of space-time that we can’t access.”
“Interdimensional space-time?” That didn’t help.
“The thing that’s always bothered me about the idea of seeing the future is that it negates free will. If the future is already set, what’s all this?” He motioned to the street. “Was it set in stone that I was going to eat this blueberry scone for breakfast, or could I have gotten a chocolate croissant?” He took a bite of the scone from the bag he was carrying. “Can we change the future, or does it unfold by cosmic design?”
“Quit spitting crumbs on me,” she said. “Those are all good questions. I don’t disagree, but then how do you explain the manuscript?”
For a second he looked stumped. “Is it really a prophecy?”
“Cabe, she knew about a city that hadn’t been created yet.”
The more Semele thought about it,
the more mystified she became. Semele knew the history of Gundeshapur. The city had been a pivotal force in the ancient world and flourished for hundreds of years. When Justinian all but closed Plato’s academy in Athens, the Greek philosophers moved to Gundeshapur. So did the Nestorian Assyrians, when they were seeking refuge from religious persecution in the Byzantine Empire.
After the fall of the Roman Empire, so many of antiquity’s greatest works were lost. It was only because of cities like Gundeshapur that they survived at all. The Persians and their Arab inheritors studied Euclid, Pythagoras, Aristotle, Plato, and countless others before those writings found their way back to the West centuries later, heralding the dawn of the Renaissance. Semele had studied this path of knowledge; one only had to track the great libraries of the ancient world to do so. When one library perished, another was born, and the river of knowledge rushed to the new source. Her father had taught her that.
“I’ll give you a copy of the translation when I’m done.” She hooked her arm in Cabe’s and gave it a squeeze, suddenly not feeling so alone. “I’m going to need your help on this.”
“Abso-freaking-lutely.” He squeezed back.
* * *
When they arrived at Semele’s apartment, Cabe made a big show of looking around. First he threatened the closet before whipping the door open, shouting, “I’ve got Mace!” Then he addressed the shower curtain and the space under the bed too, trying to lighten the mood.
“All clear.”
“Thank you. That was amazing,” Semele said, teasing him.
“Seriously, you get scared, call me and I’ll come right over. And if you see that guy again—police.” He gave her a pointed look. “You really should tell Bren.”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly. Bren would demand she stay at his place, and that was the last thing she needed.
After Cabe left she double-checked the lock on the door and pulled down the shades. There was enough coffee on hand and food in the freezer to last her until Monday. She didn’t plan to leave her apartment for the rest of the weekend.
She took a long shower and changed into her favorite old leggings and house sweater. She had just powered up her computer when the phone rang.
She let the answering machine pick up.
“Honey, it’s me.” Her mother’s voice filled the room. “We have to talk. Really. This has gone on long enough.”
Semele bit her lip, debating whether to pick up.
“Your father wouldn’t like this.…”
Semele let out a deep breath. This was the first time her mother had played the “your father” card.
“I really do need to talk to you … and tell you I’m sorry … so sorry. Can you come home for Thanksgiving?” Her mother’s voice trailed off. She was crying.
“Shit.” Semele swore under her breath and grabbed the phone. “Mom?”
But she had already hung up.
Semele almost rang back, her fingers lingering over the keys. She would call her before she left for Beijing. She would be out of the country for Thanksgiving, but maybe she would go home for Christmas. They could talk then. Her mother was right. Her father wouldn’t be happy. But he also wasn’t here anymore.
I tell you Rabka’s story because every tree has a branch that rots.
The stars were in great disharmony at the moment of her birth. The houses of the zodiac declared war, and the astrological signs faced one another in opposition. When you are born at such a discordant moment, you can either overcome your misfortune or become chained to it. Rabka chose to embrace the dissonance and, over the course of her life, to allow her spirit’s light to dim.
Her father, Ahmar, was a prodigy at the Academy of Gundeshapur and came to Baghdad at Caliph Harun’s invitation. Ahmar, a linguist, philosopher, and scientist, could read and write fluently in over six languages. Caliph Harun needed such men to help run his new empire.
Harun’s grandfather, al-Mansur, founded the new capital of the Abbasid Empire: Baghdad, the City of Peace. It was built in a perfect circle to reflect the harmony of Euclidian geometry. Euclid was an ancient scholar from Alexandria whose theorems had created a whole new system of mathematical thought. He had mastered plane geometry and the geometry of the three-dimensional world using intuitive axioms to show the properties of physical reality.
The caliph’s most astute astrologist had studied Euclid. He chose the city’s precise location, and the palace and mosque were constructed at the center of the circle to symbolize this new nexus of power. When the time came for al-Mansur’s grandson, Harun, to rule, Baghdad had become the jewel of the world.
Harun believed educated men ranked after God and angels. So he beckoned them to Baghdad, and Ahmar embraced this opportunity. The Academy of Gundeshapur, like a candle battered by the wind, was waning. Ahmar carried its light to Baghdad, along with his wife and young daughter, Rabka. He brought other graduates with him and three hundred camels to carry their books.
In Baghdad, the ink of a scholar was considered holy. Chinese papermaking had made its way to the capital, creating a flourishing new market for the written word. Scholars made up the new aristocracy, and within this elite Ahmar flourished.
Rabka was raised in luxury within the walls of Caliph Harun’s palace and surrounded by opulent gardens and pavilions that surpassed most people’s dreams of paradise. Crafted by the finest artists of the day, the palace’s vast rooms were filled with entire landscapes built to enchant the senses. Rabka had a gift with words and wrote poems describing the palace’s splendor, its fantastical forests, bridges, and waterfalls. Her poems centered on court life as well, announcing births, weddings, or other social events.
“Very few women have this talent, Rabka. I will not dissuade you from your writing,” her father said.
Very few women were allowed the opportunity to discover their talents, Rabka thought, but she kept that opinion to herself. “One day I will become as exalted as Ulayya,” she boasted. Ulayya, Caliph Harun’s sister, was a celebrated poet and musician, a rare feat for a woman. “One day I will be the same.”
Rabka’s father would only nod and smile, obviously disagreeing, but he did allow her to recite poems to the rawi who worked for him. Rawis memorized poems and performed them for large audiences, since many people could not read or write. A good rawi had over two thousand poems memorized at any given time and could recite them all at once.
When Caliph Harun died, Rabka composed her first madih, a poetic tribute to their new patron, al-Ma’mun, gaining her the attention of the court. Baghdad had undergone a civil war after Harun’s death as his two sons struggled for the caliphate, and al-Ma’mun emerged victorious. The position of Rabka’s family was secure once more, for al-Ma’mun loved learning above all else.
Rabka grew into an alluring young woman and adorned herself with as many jewels as Harun’s most beloved wife, Zubaidah. Zubaidah wore so much jewelry that two servants had to help her stand. She had thirty servants just to care for her pet monkey, and one hundred slave girls to recite the Koran at all hours to prove her piety. She would only eat off plates of precious metal and drink from golden goblets. Witnessing such excess only fueled Rabka’s passion and twisted her desires as the time neared for her to marry.
Soon she would no longer have the protection of her father. Rabka prayed every day and night for a good match, for someone who would allow her to stay in her beloved palace and write poems for the court. Her family had obtained immense wealth through her father’s accomplishments, and Rabka expected even greater glory with her future husband.
* * *
On the day of al-Ma’mun’s wedding to the vizier’s daughter, Rabka had her first premonition and saw the answer.
“Who is he?” she asked her servant, Aadila. Rabka motioned to the man across the hall in deep conversation with al-Ma’mun.
“Khalid al-Amin. A rising star, that one.”
“Is he a scholar?” Rabka asked, anxious.
Aadila nodded. “He has
already been appointed the caliph’s most trusted nadim.”
Rabka felt her heart bloom. Her father had been Caliph Harun’s nadim. As a nadim, Khalid would visit the caliph several times a week to debate science, philosophy, and religion, to tell stories, to play chess or backgammon. In return the caliph would grant Khalid an enormous salary, the highest status, and private apartments within the palace.
Rabka continued to scrutinize her husband-to-be, for she had foreseen their marriage as clearly as if Allah had handed her a mirror of the future. Khalid would be remembered as one of the greatest minds in Baghdad—a gifted scholar, orator, translator, and jurist—and become even more exalted than her father. With Khalid, Rabka would be royalty in all but blood.
Aadila watched Rabka and flashed her a wicked smile. “So you’ve set your sights on that one?” The old woman had served many in the course of her life and understood Rabka’s heart well. Rabka didn’t answer, but her eyes shone with greed. Like all women, she didn’t have a say in whom she would marry, but Rabka was certain she could steer her father toward Khalid.
Aadila clucked her tongue. “’Tis a shame he is to marry in three months. He’ll have a First Wife.”
Rabka’s eyes turned to slits of anger. She looked at her servant, twisted one of the sapphire and diamond rings off her finger, and placed it in Aadila’s hand. “No, he won’t,” she said. The two women understood each other perfectly.
Al-Ma’mun’s wedding celebration lasted seventeen days and was the most extravagant anyone could remember. Over a thousand tables were set to accommodate the guests, and a hundred dishes were served each day. Rabka made sure Khalid noticed her during the festivities. She dressed in brocade tunics gilded in precious stones and silk trousers that moved like liquid gold. She looked like a glittering al-‘Uzza, the ancient Goddess of the Morning Star.
“Khalid al-Amin is the man I should marry,” she instructed her father in private. “He is the only man who can carry on your legacy.” She knew exactly how to sway an arrogant man like her father, who wanted nothing more than to be revered forever. For good measure, she persuaded her father’s rawi to recite a ghazal she had written for the wedding couple. It was a romantic poem, nostalgic and complex with perfect meter and rhythm. The ghazal surpassed anything she had ever composed, and its delivery was her greatest triumph. By the end of the applause, Khalid had eyes for no other.
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