Unburning Alexandria (10 page)

"For better or for worse?"

"Most changes are for worse," Augustine replied. "But I cannot be sure."

"And you sent Jonah to me?" Synesius repeated his question, fully aware that it had not been answered.

"To learn more about Jonah, and–"

"To learn more about me?"

"Yes," Augustine answered.

Synesius was silent.

"You showed great courage, strength, and loyalty in your response to the scroll that Jonah left with you. You opened it to help save someone you love. But you kept silent about its contents, did not act upon them, because you understood the danger that could pose for humanity. I think we can work together, for our Church, more closely now."

[coast of Gaul, 413 AD]

I am once again on a ship
, Synesius said to himself,
but it moves not in the short direction of Alexandria
. Whatever else he may have told himself and Augustine, Synesius knew he was on this ship because he hoped it might have the best chance of bringing him closer to Hypatia – who, as far as he knew, was no longer in Alexandria. Or at least, that was the most important reason for him.

But Synesius also knew that Augustine realized this as clearly as did Synesius, who was fully aware that the two of them often put on the pretense of serving only the Church. This was certainly pretense in part for Synesius. But he suspected Augustine might have similarly conflicting claims on his destiny. Not from Hypatia, but from someone, something, in addition to the Holy See in Rome.

Augustine believed there were three specific locations of the temporal power Jonah had wielded, three places on this Earth. One was somewhere far across the sea, to the west – unreachable via any vessel Synesius or Augustine could easily obtain. A second was in Athens – quite reachable, but not reliable. "Men have died there, many times, in defense and attack of this location in Athens," Augustine had told him.

This left Augusta to the distant north – or Londinium, as it still was often called. It was no bed of roses, either. The Emperor had all but abandoned the city three years ago, in 410, informing the local inhabitants that they would have to see to their own defenses, with no help from the legionaries. Perhaps this made the city even more dangerous than Athens. But it had the "advantage of no one there likely knowing about the site of temporal power," according to Augustine.

Thus Synesius was en route to Londinium.

He touched the
ab
he had taken from Hypatia's quarters in Alexandria, and now carried in his garb at all times. This plan depended upon Augustine's honesty about what resided in Londinium, and its connection to Hypatia. Synesius closed his eyes, stroked the ab with his thumb and forefinger, and consoled himself with the thought that if Augustine had wanted him to die, or even just leave Carthage, there were a myriad of ways far closer at hand than this.

* * *

The sea near Gaul grew cold as Synesius's vessel progressed north. He shivered at night in his small cabin. But the climate warmed as Londinium neared.

Synesius was sad to see this Roman city that was Roman no more. He supposed it looked much the same as it had three years earlier. But he thought he could also glimpse the beginnings of the end of civilization around its edges, in the expressions of the people of the shores of
Tamesis fluvius
. He could not even say exactly what was in their faces. But he saw it.

A very heretical thought entered his head – one which asserted itself, from time to time, whenever he saw the faltering of Roman power in the world. Was this the fault of the Church?

No, it was more the fault of the barbarians, of that he was sure. But would a pagan Rome, still in its glory, have been able to better withstand the barbarians, even vanquish them, as it had for hundreds of years?

The docking ended his reverie. Synesius had instructions in his garment, carefully written right in front of him by Augustine. Synesius touched them but did not need to reread them. He treasured anything that came from Augustine's hand, especially a scroll written just for him, but he had learned to trust his recollection. Unlike a scroll, his memory could not be misplaced or lost – at least, not at Synesius's age, as long as he remained healthy. As much as he admired Socrates, the great champion of spoken dialogue had been wrong, Synesius was sure, about what Socrates had said about the written word in the
Phaedrus
. Synesius read and wrote every day, many times, and thus far his faculty of memory was as keen as when he had been an illiterate toddler. At least, as far as Synesius could tell. . . .

He debarked onto the reddish soil. Augustine had insisted that Synesius make this trip on his own, and that had suited Synesius. He was happy to have no one expecting an explanation of his actions.

He walked up the embankment, away from the wharves, many of which were rotting. The warm air was a mixed blessing. Better than the sea wind which had made him shiver, but it carried a stench. Synesius tried not to think about it.

Two men, each about a head taller than Synesius, approached him. Synesius tried to look away, and walk a little to the side, but he quickly saw that avoiding them would only make him more noticed. He touched the hilt of the knife that he also carried in his garment, and turned to face the men. He smiled, and waited for them to speak. With any luck, it would be in a tongue he understood. He understood many.

"It has been a while since our city has been honored by an emissary from Rome," one of the men said, "and unheralded." The tongue was perfect Latin, with an odd accent, which Synesius recognized as some kind of Celtic.

Synesius bowed, slightly. "I am not an emissary, but I am a Bishop."

"Welcome, Father," the other man said, in a thicker but equally comprehensible accent. "My sister is married to a Christian, and he is a good man."

Synesius bowed slightly, again.

"Here on Church business, then?" the first man inquired.

"Personal pilgrimage," Synesius replied. This place was supposed to be less dangerous than the dwelling with the temporal power in Athens, yet these two men seemed keenly interested in his affairs.

"Is there a shrine nearby worthy of a pious pilgrimage, then?" the first man asked.

Synesius made a quick decision. "Yes. Would you like to accompany me?" He reckoned there was no way he could separate himself from these two. He would take them to the shelter, plead that he needed a few minutes alone inside, and hope that he could do what Augustine had told him – quickly enough so that he would be gone before the two tried to enter, only to find that he had locked the shelter.

[Augusta/Londinium, 413 AD]

The shelter looked just as Augustine had described – almost completely buried in the ground, apparently long abandoned.

The first man looked around when Synesius stopped. He stared for a moment at the shelter. "Evil spirits live there. Is this the place you seek?"

"It is," Synesius replied, softly. "And I must first enter, alone."

The first man shook his head and sneered. "Why, so you will have time to secure the treasure that you seek, and hide it from us?"

"No, the only treasure therein is spiritual. And I would not hide it from anyone. But I must proceed alone."

This only seemed to make the first man angry. "Don't sing those siren songs to me, priest." He raised his fist. "I admit I doubt that any real treasure could be in that hovel. It's been there since long before I was born, and I never heard anyone speak of treasure. Still–"

The second man put his hand on the first man's fist, and spoke quietly. "I shall accompany him." He looked at Synesius, who nodded, and thought, what choice do I have?

The first man also nodded and stood guard on the hill. He apparently regarded the second man as in some sense superior. Synesius and the second man approached the shelter.

Synesius located the small slab described by Augustine, and put his palm upon it. It was barely above the ground. Augustine had explained that it would respond to a precise 24-part syncopated tapping, which Synesius would administer with the tip of his index finger. He had practiced it in front of Augustine, who had pronounced himself satisfied. "Take care that you do not touch anything oily prior to the tapping – you do not want oils on your fingertip." Synesius was not sure if Augustine had been joking, but he had followed his advice, anyway, and, besides, there had been no chance to eat since he had left the ship.

Synesius smiled at the second man, and began to tap. He finished the sequence. Nothing happened. He was not sure if he should start again – a second series of 24 taps would, in effect, constitute a new sequence of 48 taps, with a pause in between–

The second man started to speak–

The door clicked and opened – from the top, as Augustine had said. Synesius looked at the second man. "You may enter first, and I shall follow," the man said.

Synesius realized, again, that there was no point in contesting this, and nodded. He leveraged himself into the hatch and climbed down a ladder. He reached the bottom quickly, as the second man entered. There was no light in the shelter, except from the top, until the second man reached the floor. Then the door closed, and Synesius saw a weak light in a corner of the room. He approached it. It came from a strange window, with letters glowing upon it. The letters looked to be a form of Latin, but in a language Synesius had never seen.

"Do you understand that writing?" the second man asked.

"No," Synesius replied. "Do you?"

"I understand no writing," the man replied.

Synesius nodded. This writing was also as Augustine had described. He had further advised Synesius to pay it no mind, unless it was in a language Synesius could comprehend.

The room seemed to become brighter, or perhaps Synesius's eyes were adjusting to the light. But he now saw a single chair, on a side of the room, also just as Augustine had indicated.

"I must sit in that chair," Synesius told his companion.

The man nodded. "Please do so."

Synesius breathed in and exhaled slowly. "I will do something in that chair which may cause you harm. I do not intend to cause you harm, but–"

The man nodded again. "I understand. Please proceed."

Synesius hesitated. Augustine had told him, plainly, that anyone in the room not in the chair could perish with its use.

"Please," the man said, again. "I have heard of this journey. I want to go there."

"The journey in the chair?" Synesius asked.

"No, the journey of someone who witnesses the chair. It is holy."

"It could kill you."

The man smiled, serenely. "I am ready to go to a better world. Perhaps I will see my wife, again. It has been many years since illness took her."

Synesius sat in the chair. He could well understand a man who had lost his wife to illness. He could not say that his soul was free of guilt, but the man did seem to willingly want to make this sacrifice. And who was Synesius to say whom this man would and would not meet in the afterlife?

Nonetheless, he asked the man again, "Are you sure?"

The man nodded. "I will forever be in your debt."

Synesius tapped on another tablet, embedded in the arm of the chair. He used the sequence Augustine had given him – different from the one he had used to enter the shelter.

A transparency surrounded his head. It was as clear as water, but it was not ice, and was not cold. He could see the man's face, still smiling serenely. Synesius wondered, for an instant, if maybe it would be he, not the man, who would be going to heaven or hell now–

[London, 2042 AD]

A heartbeat later, Synesius opened his eyes. Was he dead or alive? He was certainly in a different place. The transparency receded. The air had a strange, mild odor.

"You have come a very long way for her, Synesius of Cyrene, Bishop of Ptolemais," a familiar voice called out to him.

Synesius looked up. The voice had come from above, from the top of a long flight of stairs.

A figure descended.

"Jonah," Synesius said.

Jonah reached the foot of the stairs and smiled. "You have traveled far to save Hypatia."

"You love her, as I do," Synesius said. "In that, we are brothers in arms. And amore."

"I love her, but perhaps not as much as you do," Jonah replied. "But, yes, we are brothers in arms about saving Hypatia, and I suspect for other worthy pursuits. . . . You showed enormous courage in coming here. The journey was difficult, and tried your faith at many junctures, I know."

"And where are we?" The room was empty of furnishings, ornaments, and people, except for Jonah, Synesius, and the chair in which he still sat. "Augustine said–"

"Climb those stairs with me. You will see much more than I can describe when we exit this chamber."

* * *

Synesius took in the room that stretched out before him. A feast chamber, that was clear. But with many small groups of people, each seated around their own table. Some tables had but one diner. Strange smells and colors. But strangest of all was the talk. In voices old and young, loud and soft, male and female. None of which Synesius could understand.

"Humanity," Jonah said, and directed Synesius to an empty little table. "The words and the clothes are different, but the humanity is the same. Eyes that smile, lips that frown, you will feel at home here more quickly than you might suppose."

Synesius sat. "When is this?"

"You have come from a year that you count as 413 years after the birth on Earth of your Lord. We are now two millennia plus 42 years from the year of that presumed birth."

Synesius grappled with the immensity of such numbers. "You are Jewish," was all he said to Jonah.

"Yes."

"Augustine said the voyage would feel no different – regardless of how far or near in time I traveled."

Jonah nodded

"Augustine was not clear about how far into the future that . . . chair . . . would take me," Synesius said.

"Perhaps he thought you might not undertake the journey if you knew how far–" Jonah began to reply.