Unburning Alexandria (12 page)

"On back, or belly?" she asked, fetchingly.

Synesius considered. Everything about her looked good. "Belly," he replied.

She did as requested.

He ran his fingertip down the center of her back, so that it made just the slightest, fleeting contact with her soft skin. After a while, he moved her cheeks apart. She moaned. He disrobed . . . .

* * *

Synesius awoke the next morning in an empty bed. He did not recall dismissing the slave–

Someone was at the door. Synesius realized this was the second or third time he had just heard the knocking. It had woken him. He rose, flung his garment around him, and opened the door.

"Max. . . ."

Max nodded and grinned. "You slept well?"

Synesius nodded.

"You enjoyed–"

"Yes," Synesius answered, but refused to return the smile. They may have been allies in a quest to save Hypatia, but he barely knew this man.

"Jonah requests the pleasure of the morning meal with you. Further discussion is required," Max said. "Shall I wait here or return for you?"

"You may wait," Synesius answered.

* * *

The three sat around a large table, in a much smaller room than the grand dining hall the night before. Synesius liked the morning wine and the dark bread.

"Heron will be key to this," Max was saying. "If anyone knows how to save the scrolls of Alexandria, that person would be Heron."

"You said yesterday he was our enemy," Synesius said.

"Yes," Max replied.

"Even if he is not our enemy, Heron would find it difficult to prevent three or more burnings, strewn across centuries," Jonah said. "As far as I know, he operates with small bands of legionaries – they have extraordinary acumen in combat, but not enough to stop Caesar's regiment, certainly no match for Omar's hoards. But, yes, Heron would be far more likely to succeed in this than would Ampharete – Sierra – even with the three of us supporting her."

"Forgive me," Synesius said, "but before we proceed, do you have evidence of what this Heron has done – across time? I am a rational man. I like evidence in my hand."

"Such as the scroll I gave to you in Carthage?" Jonah responded.

"Yes," Synesius replied, "but you, not Heron, put that scroll in my hand."

Jonah considered. "Very well." He summoned one of the strangely dressed servers and spoke to him in the Germanic language.

The server returned not more than a few minutes later, with a scroll in his hand. He gave the scroll to Synesius, who opened it.

There was a single word, before the rest of the words, at the very top –
Chronica
. . .

* * *

Synesius read quickly through the first part of the scroll. He nodded. "This was either written by Heron of Alexandria, or is a very good forgery. And I acknowledge, I have not seen or heard of it before this moment."

"Yes," Jonah said.

Synesius sipped the nectar of a Persian orange and licked his lips. "So this is a lost manuscript, and very impressive. I hope I may be given the chance to read all of it – but what proof does it give me? Heron of Alexandria wrote about many things, real and hypothetical. These words about chairs and time–"

"They do not seem to you to be descriptions of the very type of chair you sat in, and traveled in, yesterday?" Jonah said.

"Yes . . . but how do I know that Heron in fact wrote this, and not you, or–"

"The scroll was not here last week," the server had quietly returned, and now spoke.

"This is Gleason," Jonah said slowly. "He is one of us."

Synesius nodded.

Gleason sat. "We inventory the library's holdings – our library, here – on a weekly basis. This scroll was not here nine days ago."

"And your conclusion is – Heron brought it here, in the past nine days?" Synesius asked everyone at the table.

"I brought it here," Jonah said, quietly. "I held it in my hand, a long time ago. . . ."

"When?" Synesius asked.

"In the time of Cleopatra."

Only Synesius laughed, and not very long. "Cleopatra, Caesar's Cleopatra, Antony's Cleopatra, the last of the Ptolemys?"

"Her young sister gave it to me, along with 16 other scrolls by Heron's hand. Some of them I knew. Others, like this one, I did not."

Synesius shook his head in disbelief. "Cleopatra's half-sister Arsinoe?"

"Yes."

"How did she come to acquire the scrolls?" Synesius asked.

"They were Cleopatra's," Jonah replied. "Arisinoe brought them to me."

Synesius considered. "And you brought them here. What does this prove about Heron?"

"I bought only this scroll here," Jonah replied. "It proves at very least that Heron understands how to construct the chairs that travel through time – understands this on the minutest level of detail. I left the other scrolls in a safe place – in Athens – where there are other chairs."

"I know of this place," Synesius said. "Augustine spoke of it. . . . But why risk leaving the other scrolls in such . . . an unusual location?"

"You can never know beforehand who will be in the room of the chair's destination," Jonah replied.

"You were concerned that Heron might be waiting for you?" Synesius asked.

"Yes," Jonah said, "or his legionaries."

"Does anyone else know about the special place in Athens – or about this place?" Synesius gestured to the room. "Augustine knew, as I told you. Hypatia knows. Who else?"

"We are dealing with an infinite future," Max said. "The possibilities are endless."

"But Heron is the one you are worried about - have you seen him here?" Synesius directed this to Jonah. "I assume you are the only one at this table who knows what he looks like."

"Yes, I am the only one, and no, I have not seen him, but–"

"We have no notion of what he might look like at any time," Max completed the point. "He could change his face to look like someone else's, just as you tell me Sierra has done with Hypatia."

"Yes," Jonah said, "precisely–"

A slight pop interrupted him. It was the first and only sign of a powerful ion bomb that eradicated every table and person in the room.

Chapter Five

[London, 2042 AD, the night before]

Synesius awoke to a sound in the room. The slave was asleep next to him, her mouth open, her lips against his shoulder. He gently moved her head, sat up, and tried to see in the darkness.

A figure approached.

He saw who she was. "Stop!" he commanded. "Who–"

"She will embed a deadly, exploding device in you while you sleep," the figure said. "I have been instructed to prevent that."

"But–" Synesius looked at the sleeping slave and then the slave now standing at the foot of his bed. The two slaves were the same woman.

The sleeper mumbled softly in her sleep, lifted her head and opened her eyes for a moment.

Her double directed an intense white light into those eyes. The sleeper fell back dead on the bed, mouth and eyes now both wide open.

* * *

The shooter walked to the door, looked out, and turned back to Synesius. She produced a group of strange garments from beneath her robe and tossed them to Synesius. "Wear these robes. Come with me," she said.

Synesius didn't move. He looked at the bed and the dead, unclothed version of what had just spoken to him. "Who are you?"

"I am sorry you had to see this," she said. "I was supposed to come here to your room before she arrived. I was delayed."

"How do I know that you are not the twin who has come to kill me, and she your first victim?" He gestured with a shaky hand to the body on the bed. "She might have acted to protect me."

"You do not."

Synesius looked at the strange garments which had landed on top of his own robe near the bed. He moved as if to examine the garments, but instead seized a knife from under his robe and lunged at the shooter in a single, swift motion.

She stopped the knife an inch from her neck, and twisted Synesius's arm with an iron grip that caused the weapon to fall to the floor. "Sierra Waters sent me here to help you. Does that convince you?"

"No, it does not. You know one of Hypatia's alternate names – that does not prove that you are her slave."

She relaxed her grip on Synesius, and regarded him. "You are naked – literately and figuratively, Synesius. You are defenseless before me. You just saw what I did to my sister. Does not the fact that I am not doing that to you convince you?"

Synesius considered, sighed, and fetched his robe. "Perhaps. Where do you propose to escort me?"

She picked up one of the strange garments from the floor. "Put your feet and legs through these."

Synesius slowly obliged, and she continued dressing the Bishop of Ptolemais in clothing very different from his customary robes.

* * *

"These garments are similar to what I saw in the dining hall earlier," Synesius remarked, as he and the slave walked quickly along the hallway. Lights flickered briefly on and off on the ceiling above their heads as they passed.

"Yes," she said.

"Are we joining my friends in the feasting room?"

"No."

"Do they know that we–"

"They do not," the slave replied, as they turned a corner. She opened a door and motioned Synesius to follow.

He stopped.

"I was told you understand a sufficient amount about time travel to comprehend what I am about to tell you," the slave continued. "Your friends are asleep right now. They have no idea that my twin will be putting a weapon inside of you. It is better that they do not know about that – it is better that they think you were summoned away when you do not join them at the breakfast table tomorrow."

"Because such knowledge could somehow change history?"

The slave nodded. "Yes. Because one of the primary principles of time travel is that when you make changes – such as I am doing now to prevent your death – you do so in a way which causes the least number of disturbances in history."

"My leaving unexpectedly causes less disturbance than knowledge that a weapon was placed inside me?" Synesius asked.

"Yes."

Synesius nodded slowly, and followed the slave through the doorway. They quickly descended three flights of stairs.

"We are proceeding to the room with the chair?" Synesius asked.

"We are not," the slave replied.

"Where–"

"We are going outside of this facility," the slave said.

* * *

Synesius looked at the sky a long time. "Thank God there are stars," he muttered. "They are different from the stars I know, but at least they are stars."

He was standing with the slave in front of the Parthenon Club. The street was wet with recent rain and devoid of people. It was two in the morning.

"Our conveyance should be here soon," the slave said. "Prepare yourself. It will be drawn by no living organism."

"I have seen automata in Alexandria," Synesius said.

"You have seen nothing like this," the slave said.

Synesius regarded her. For some reason, he felt a little more at ease with her – enough to admire her beauty, as he had her sister's, whom she had just killed. "You look a little different from your twin, now that I am regarding you in this light."

She smiled. "Each of us is a little different – just as with natural twins, as they live their lives."

"You are not a natural twin? What does that mean? Jonah tried to explain, but–"

"I am made of flesh, but I was purposely constructed."

Synesius tried to understand. "Jonah spoke of your twin being instructed. . . ."

"Yes."

"You were instructed to save me," Synesius said, "and to take me on this journey, but not via the chair."

"Yes," the slave replied. "If you use the chair, certain people will know exactly where you are – some of whom could be your enemies, the people who sent my twin to kill you."

Synesius nodded.

A bubble slid towards them along the blackness of the street, like a bubble on a dark river, Synesius thought. The bubble stopped before them. It was big enough to enter.

The slave motioned Synesius to walk into the bubble. "This is our means of conveyance," she said, and entered.

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."