Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (21 page)

But that was all! She’d returned to her bed and hung the keystone on a wall hook. Matt had tried to drill down deeper, rewinding and exploring the room in new ways, but it was useless. Perhaps fast-forwarding … Nope. As before, he wasn’t able—or, he suspected, wasn’t
allowed
. If more hid within, he didn’t have the “training and commitment” to find it just yet. It was like trying to fold one’s ears when, clearly, no connection existed through which to send such a command, or no muscle on the receiving end to obey it.

He’d given up for the moment, moving on to the case where he’d found the details on Rostik, but the Taria hanging from his neck had called for ongoing reading. If Patra didn’t have Matt’s ability, then she at least knew someone who did. After all those imprints—hundreds of thousands he’d read by now—not once had he found evidence of another like him.

And then the boat’s hull crashed through a high peak, yanking Patra’s face from his thoughts, and replacing it with Tuni’s. The small box in his pocket had shifted just enough to remind of its presence, and the ring inside—something Tuni wanted him to see.

He
really
needed to brain-dump all this on I.T., but ridiculous as he felt about it, he was afraid to talk to her. His little sister. Asinine.

“I’m no time-ologist,” Joss shouted over the wind and engines, “but this very well may be the longest second anyone’s ever waited.”

“Let me ask you this,” Matt finally said. She was all ears. “Do you want to go home, or come with me to Alexandria? There’s obviously dangerous stuff and dangerous people all wrapped up in this. I’m confident you’ll be out of harm’s way, but you know, I thought the same thing here. There’re no guarantees.”

“Let me ask you this,” Joss replied. “Do you
need
me there, or will I still just be a burden?”

“Well, I never said—I mean, I can figure it out if-”

“You’re supposed to say ‘yes, I need you.’ Just say ‘yes.’”

“Yes.”

She grinned. “Well, then, let’s go see the Sphinx!”

“The Sphinx is in Giza.”

“Pyramids then … Mummies … Desert. Whatever.”

Joss steered the boat around a small, uninhabited island. Matt stared over the bow.

A crowded street in Ancient Alexandria bounced before him as the boat traversed the small swells. Patra’s view overlapped Matt’s perspective of the sea and distant mainland, both places equally present in his eyes. More dizzying were the voices around him: a shouting Alexandrian merchant twenty feet off to his left, in the water, seeming to move at the same speed as the boat; crowds walking in front of and behind Patra as she made her way to the Musaeum.

Matt began feeling seasick and closed his eyes.

Alexandria, Aegyptus – 271 CE

Most pagan elders resented the presence of Christian and Jewish scrolls in the religious texts section, despite the rolls’ sequestration in specific receptacles. Their very presence in the Library, in the elders’ eyes, bestowed undue legitimacy to their adherents. The fact that precious hours were spent translating such things, creating even more scrolls, seemed to highlight the undeniable fact that the Jews weren’t going anywhere, and that Christianity as a belief was growing in tandem with the piles of papyrus.

In the scribes’ chamber, Patra had Atilius working on a tablet borrowed from Samaria, translating it from Hebrew to Greek. What Patra and her colleagues found particularly fascinating about the tablet was that it seemed to recount the familiar tale of Jesus, but in this version, the Hebrews’ archangel Gabriel referred to the Messiah as “Simon.”

“Have we determined how old it is?” Patra asked Atilius as she bent over his shoulder.

Atilius continued writing, his gnarly, old, ink-stained fingers as steady as a painter’s. “During the rule of Octavian, same time as Jesus … This from the original transcriber. Kaleb says the date is not unassailable, since it’s only the scribe’s understanding of the oral tradition.”

Patra ran her fingers down the tablet’s sharp edge. “Yes, I agree with Kaleb. So everything in the text is identical except the name? An interesting concurrence. Can we keep it? Send them back a papyrus copy and a fair price?”

Atilius replied without looking up from his work, “That is for you stewards to negotiate. I am but a lowly scribe.”

“I was only asking your opinion, Atilius. If you think they could be swayed.”

Once a steward himself, Atilius had been at the Musaeum since before Patra’s father, and he’d never quite warmed to the idea of answering to a female. “As with innumerable others before them, they’ll wish to know why we desire the original, though opinions are the privilege of a worthy few. I am but a-”

“Yes, yes, lowly scribe,” Patra interrupted and flicked his ear. “You’re intolerable. Have you …?” She faded off, abruptly walking to another table, that of Nelpus, also a Hebrew and Greek translator. “Good day, Nelpus. What are you working on today?”

“Nothing less than the word of the Hebrew God,” he said, angling the papyrus for her to read. “Or at least Philo’s interpretation.”

“The Septuagint,” she said. “Are you truly so audacious as to check the work of seventy
identical
translations produced by seventy isolated translators?” She spoke ironically, sharing her peer’s skepticism about this allegedly conclusive translation of the Hebrew Bible.

“Remarkable, wasn’t it?” Nelpus grumbled. “The entire Old Testament translated into Greek and not a word misread or disagreed upon …
Seventy
men, Steward.”

“I know,” Patra assented and sat down beside him, observing the untidy stack of sheets. “I take it you’ve found something of interest? Mistakes?”

“‘Mistake’ would imply error,” he said shrewdly. “I seek to ascertain
intent
. Do you think you could acquire us more originals?”

Patra rubbed her sore eyes and prepared to deliver another futile speech on avoiding unnecessary controversy, but the echoes of running feet in the main hall drew her attention. They grew louder—multiple people—three? Four coming?

“What’s happening?” Nelpus said.

As the footfalls neared the scribes’ chamber doors, Patra rose to her feet, mumbling. “Children … only passing through … Someone will stop them, discipline-”

But the doors swung open a crack, and one of the guards appeared in the bar of sunlight. “You’re needed, Steward.”

A young man called out, “Steward Supatra!”

Patra stepped outside, allowing the guard to shut the doors behind her.

Three stricken faces greeted her in the colonnade—breathless young astrologers she’d seen around. Having found her, none now wished to deliver the message for which they’d been sent.

“Speak, boy!” Patra demanded. “What’s happened?”

A crowd grew behind the boys, with more coming, unseen voices calling out to others, “Something’s happened!”

Patra cradled one of the young men’s cheeks, meeting his eyes as calmly as she could muster. “Go ahead, dear.”

His breath heated her wrists.

“Ships, Steward. Beyond the lighthouse. Hundreds. The Emperor.”

She verified, “The Emperor’s fleet is coming?”

He swallowed and nodded.

Devastating news—the worst possible news. But true? It could be only a rumor.

She strove to maintain composure, found a familiar face in the circle. “The observatory, please. Have a look and right back to me.” The woman snapped a nod and slipped out of the group. Patra returned focus to the boy. “And who sent you here? With this urgent message?”

“Thomas Egnatius, Steward,” he replied.

Thomas, the Governor’s aide.

So it was true, or at least more likely to be. Thomas wasn’t the sort to spread misinformation. He took actualities and molded them to a serve a personal agenda. These boys hadn’t been sent to
inform
. No, he’d sent them to place blame.

Remembering once more the throngs of Musaeum members around her, she raised her voice for all to hear. “Why must
we
be concerned with such a visit? Is it so unusual?”

But, of course, she underestimated her colleagues’ astuteness. These were, after all, the Empire’s very brightest minds. They, too, would have foreseen the repercussions of Kaleb’s performance. A few weeks ago, she’d construed their free-spirited laughter in the amphitheater as a sign of naiveté, but it’d only taken an evening’s reflection in their beds to imagine the aftermath. The only question remaining in any wise mind would be
scale
. And the answer appeared to be at hand.

“Find the other stewards,” Patra demanded. “Have them meet me in-” She deliberated a moment. Somewhere smaller, private, quiet. “Send them to my residence. And everyone—I mean
everyone
—meet back in the main courtyard at nightfall.”

She waved away the onlookers and other youths, nodded to the guard, and steered only her messenger into the chamber, arm around his shoulder. She gestured for Nelpus, Atilius, and the rest of the scribes to leave the room, and they silently obeyed.

The boy gawked at the forbidden room.

Patra directed his chin forward, back to her face. “What is your name, dear?”

“Phorus, Steward.”

“How old are you, Phorus?”

“Thirteen, Steward.”

“Fine. Good. Tell me more. Everything you were told or heard. First, how far away are the ships?”

“One third have blockaded Canopus and Thonis, Steward, and the rest are amassing here, a mile offshore. They say it can be nothing other than an invasion.”

“And what of Augusta Zenobia and Augustus? Are they still in the city?”

“Yes, Steward. Augusta has sent out a single ship to offer gifts and greetings to the Emperor.” Phorus breathed shallow, eyes on his own hands.

“What else?” Patra said. “Tell me whatever it is you’re afraid to say.”

He set his big brown eyes on hers—pleading, nervous. “I may have heard wrong-”

“Say it, boy, or I’ll warrant your fear! Save the caveats, and speak.”

“Thomas Egnatius, Steward, he … After he sent us, he … I think he might’ve said to the others there … that he wasn’t going to let the Musaeum bring down the whole city. That he’d have the Governor send, well,
all
the stewards and performers to the docks and …”

“Yes? And?”

“… and spike them to poles—so … so they’d be the first thing the Emperor sees upon entering the bay.”

The boy’s face blurred as Patra’s thoughts grew muddled. Everything was happening too fast. She needed to … She couldn’t think of what she needed to do. She needed to think, to breathe. In an instant, the chamber had grown hot and thin of air.

“May I go find my parents, Steward?”

“What? Yes, of course, sorry. Thank you, Phorus. Tell no one else of this, understand?”

“But,” he began, “my parents-”

“Yes, you may tell them, of course. I mean … just try to be discreet with this, yes? We don’t need to have the entire Musaeum in an uproar over what you
may
have overheard, understand? We’re only waiting for all the facts and will disseminate them in the courtyard tonight.”

Phorus nodded understanding. Patra released his arms and he opened the doors, running off.

Still in a hot daze, Patra locked the Library doors.

“I can see them, Steward,” said a winded voice. “The ships outside the harbor. It’s true.”

Patra tried to thank the woman she’d sent to the observatory, but nothing came out—only a vague gesture of acknowledgement, and she made her way back to her residence.

Unza, just inside, carrying a bundle of towels, was surprised to see Patra return so early. She frowned at her mistress.

“Why?” Unza said, and Patra saw the question was directed to her anguished face, not the unexpected return.

“Merely some busy-busy things.” Patra forced a smile and Unza rolled her head around with annoyance, having been unnecessarily burdened with concern. “The stewards are coming here. Have wine ready for us.”

Unza grunted recognition and plodded off toward the kitchen.

Patra went to the window, swung the shutter out to open it, and peered beyond the treetops to the distant sea. The tiny sails looked like colorful whitecaps atop impossibly large swells. The boy had said hundreds. No, there were thousands. This was an invasion force—naval masses unseen in the region for centuries.

Alexandria had had its share of conquest and turnover, but these transitions generally occurred only at the top, such as Zenobia’s brief campaign only a couple years before. There was no siege on the city, but a short-lived skirmish well beyond the walls, followed by the charitable beheading of Probus, the vile prefect Rome had left in charge of Alexandria. It was the reason Augusta Zenobia, the “Warrior Queen,” was viewed so warmly by the citizens: while every conqueror arrived brandishing a banner of liberation, she was the first actually received this way by the average Alexandrian. She was beloved by Egypt as a whole. Embracing Nile culture, the Ptolemys, and the Pharaohs—all these gestures were more than a little inspirational, and evocative of a long-lost national pride.

Below the horizon, ascending the stairs from the courtyard to her house, Patra spotted Kaleb on his way to her. She’d prepared for his usual carefree flippancy, but he appeared suitably grim. As he reached her little terrace, Philip jogged into view at the other end of the courtyard.

Patra had the seeds of a few ideas—what they needed to do first, how their priorities should be ordered, the initial steps—but she needed Kaleb to
own
this discussion,
own
their planning, and she needed Philip to bring all of his incredible foresight. If the three of them together couldn’t strategize an optimal solution, no one could.

* * *

“I believe we know what must be done,” Kaleb said, but his disposition didn’t share his words’ confidence. He sat at the edge of one of Patra’s cushioned chairs, elbows on his knees, perpetually wringing his fingers as he stared at the floor. “It comes down to time. Time and weapons and more than only us to wield them…”

As Kaleb went on, Patra’s eyes traced the green embroidery on his gold tunic, twisting and looping from his shoulder, down to the end of his sleeve: crescent leaves, flowers, splitting vines; his almond-toned hands, smooth and hairless and immaculate as any philosopher’s or royal’s; the near-black beard, meticulously trimmed from his chin and back, along the jawline, disappearing up into the thick waves of his personal favorite attribute—his vanity somehow able to select just one. Her love for him had become a tainted wine, yet one she still longed to drink.