Unburning Alexandria (3 page)

If so, the price was too high. Too many other treatises and plays, works of wonder and beauty, would also be incinerated.

Appleton knew he could likely do little about that. But he was determined not to let Sierra as Hypatia get destroyed by any blaze or lunatic. He would not leave here, this time, without her.

[Ptolemais, 413 AD]

Sierra waited in the shade of the imposing gate on the west side of Ptolemais. Synesius had arranged for the "younger Jew" who had brought the scroll to his priest to meet with her here.

A young man approached and smiled at her.

"You and your smile look familiar," she said, a bit more cleverly than she had intended.

The man's smile increased. "You know my father."

Sierra looked at him, questioningly.

"His was the house that contained Theon's scrolls."

"Oh. I – I did not know he was your father. The Bishop did not mention that. I am sorry. Who was–"

"There are many confidences I do not share with the Bishop. My father's name is Jonah – perhaps that will explain why I look familiar."

Sierra's mouth hung open. "My God – I know Alcibiades saw him in ancient Athens!"

The young man nodded. "You no doubt know some of his earlier life far better than I. My father was Heron's devoted student. He helped Heron and then Thomas with the chairs. Heron grew angry with him. My father could not be sure of Heron's intentions."

Sierra was speechless. "What is your name?" she finally managed. Tears blurred her words. "And Jonah – your father – is he–"

"Yes. He lives. My name is Benjamin."

"Where is he?" Now Sierra cried for joy.

"I do not know." Benjamin looked resigned, awed. "He travels in time."

Sierra nodded. "And your mother? I apologize for asking you so many questions."

"I came to see you today because my father wished me to inform you about whatever you wished to know. My mother died as I was born. She was from an important family in Jerusalem."

"I am sorry," Sierra said again. "How did your father come to live here, in this time and place?"

"He learned of Hypatia's awful fate, some time in his future travels. He thought to warn her – perhaps try to save her, in the same way that Andros in the dialog was proposing to save Socrates. My father learned how the doubles were created. He went to Alexandria in search of Hypatia, and realized she was you–"

"How? We look the same."

"I am not sure," Benjamin replied. "I do not recall my father explaining that to me. Perhaps someone in Alexandria told him. What I do recall is my father said he tried to warn you earlier, or people close to you, not to come to Alexandria. But no one heeded him."

Sierra exhaled, slowly. "Are those your father's words in that burned scroll – about an illness of the brain?"

"No, the words are Theon's. The hand that wrote them is Theon's, is it not?"

"Yes, I am sure Theon's hand wrote those words," Sierra replied. "What I am asking is, did your father speak those words to Theon, which Theon then wrote?"

"I do not believe so," Benjamin said. "I am not sure my father ever met Theon. But he collected anything he could find of Theon's writings, in the present and future. He wants you to have them."

"Why did he not meet me here himself?"

"I do not know," Benjamin replied.

"Why did you not give them to me yourself, after the fire?"

Benjamin looked away. "Forgive me, but I was not sure that I wanted to meet you. You caused pain in my father's life. You may not have wanted that, but . . . I thought it safer that I let the priests give you the scrolls."

"I understand. . . . Thank you," Sierra said, softly, "for coming here today."

"But having met you now," Benjamin said, "I am glad of it."

[Alexandria, 413 AD]

Appleton did not have to wait long. But it was not Sierra who came to him in the Library of Alexandria.

"Mr. Appleton," an approaching voice said quietly, as Appleton sat on one of the Library's sunny patios, eagerly reading a version of Aristotle's Politics he had never seen before. "I barely recognized you in those robes, Mr. Appleton. You look for all the world like a proper Alexandrian scholar."

Appleton looked up and over his shoulder, and nearly jumped out of his robes. "Heron!"

"Please, do not be frightened," Heron said, soothingly. "I mean you no harm."

Appleton rose, and stood his ground. "What brings you here?" he demanded.

"What brings me here?" Heron repeated, a bit less kindly. "This is my city. I have been here, on and off, for centuries. I have been in this particular time, watching you and Hypatia, and tending to other things, for quite some time now."

Appleton's mind reeled. Not surprising Heron was here, of course not, not really surprising at all. "What do you want of us?"

"I want to help Hypatia," Heron replied.

Appleton did not respond.

"There is no need for her to die," Heron continued. "We cannot allow that to happen – she is a great woman."

Appleton still did not speak. Was Heron unaware that Sierra was now Hypatia? "You enjoy saving martyrs. . . ."

"I enjoy betraying death, yes," Heron replied.

"But not when it comes to Alcibiades."

"I saved him, too. Have you forgotten?"

"I also recall well that you almost killed him."

Heron's eyes narrowed. "True. But that was not my plan. And as events turned out, that decidedly would not have been in my best interests."

"But your plan was to lure Sierra Waters back here, in search of a cure for Socrates. Did Theon really write of such a cure? Were you perhaps its source?"

Heron shook his head ruefully. "Would that I was. Our task would be much simpler now. But Theon was the one who told me."

* * *

Sierra returned from Ptolemais the next day. She found Appleton in his room. "See?" she said to him with all the brightness she could muster, "I told you I would be back soon."

"Heron was here yesterday."

"What?!" She spun around and looked out of the doorway, as if Heron was lurking outside. "Are you ok?" She looked back with concern at Appleton.

The Victorian publisher nodded. "It is possible he may really want to help you now."

Sierra rolled her eyes. She spoke to Appleton not about Heron but her meeting with Benjamin. "But now Heron is here? I don't know how much more of this I can bear." She breathed deeply, shakily.

"Come with me, then," Appleton said. He put his hand over hers. "We can leave tomorrow. You'll be safe. Forget Alexandria. Forget Heron."

"Forget about Alcibiades, too? And the cure for Socrates?"

"Listen to me," Appleton said, sternly. "Rome was sacked by the Vandals just three years ago this very month. This world is crumbling around us! You have but to open your eyes to know it!"

"I know about Rome," Sierra said, quietly. "But Alexandria will remain intact a while longer. So will this Library. Hypatia has two more years before she's attacked."

"History is not that precise, not at all, and you should know that by now, too," Appleton muttered darkly and excused himself.

Sierra followed him. "Someone spoke to my father – to Theon – about illnesses of the brain. About a possible cure. Heron was not making that up."

"Heron told me the same," Appleton replied. "Let us then assume that, contrary to his usual habit, he is telling the truth. But that does not mean that there is a cure."

* * *

Sierra promised she would leave Alexandria "soon" with Appleton, without committing to whether that meant weeks or months.

Appleton agreed, because he had no other choice. "Heron did not specify where he was staying, but we should assume he is everywhere. He can interrupt your efforts at any time. He can interrupt your privacy. That alone should make you reconsider–"

But Sierra brushed away his arguments and redoubled her efforts to find the cure. She scrutinized every writing of Theon's she could locate from the time of the charred scroll. Appleton helped. To no avail. If only all of these words on all of these scrolls could be on a computer somewhere, she thought, she could do a proper search. It was a miracle these ancients accomplished anything at all, hamstrung as they were by these words so wedded to paper.

One morning she heard footsteps, when she was reading in her room and Appleton was taking a break by the sea.

"Heron!"

He looked at her through the open doorway and then smiled, sadly.

"When . . . is it, for you?" Sierra asked. "You look older."

"About fifteen years in real time for me, after our encounter in the prison of Socrates," he replied.

"How long has it been for you since you talked with Mr. Appleton, right here?" she asked.

"About two years."

"My God. "

Heron smiled again. "You are supposed to be pagan, take care what you say . . . but, yes, these goals we pursue take time."

Sierra considered Heron's meaning.

"I did not come here empty-handed," Heron said. "I have a plan. May I enter?"

"Yes." It wouldn't hurt to hear it. In fact, the more she knew about Heron – including his lies – the better prepared she would–

"I can get a clone for you," Heron said. "Not really alive. Just like with Socrates. But drugged and walking. To be torn apart at the crucial moment in your stead."

"God almighty!"

"No, you're not convincing as a pagan mathematician at all. Maybe I can get word out to those Nitrians, and that will save you."

"What do you know about the Nitrians?"

"I know the future. And I have met with Synesius," Heron replied.

"How did you–"

"I know just about everything, sooner or later, as you already must know."

"I don't want to leave yet."
Not without Alcibiades, who I know will come here in search of the cure, in search of me. But where is he?

"Your words remind me of Socrates," Heron said. "You are reading from the very script he wrote."

Sierra was silent.

"Your search for a cure for the illness of Socrates is a waste of time."

Sierra objected–

"I know about the entry in Theon's diary," Heron said. "I heard the same from his own mouth." Heron put his knuckles to his chin, and shook his head slowly. "The room was crowded. Theon and I were separated. We never had a chance to finish the conversation. He would soon be ill himself. This was shortly before you arrived."

"He wrote the entry before that."

"Yes, of course," Heron said. "But I dared not go back to that time, to question him, and risk dislodging this one thread that we had–"

"That is why I should keep searching now–"

"Don't you think I have searched, and far better than you? Don't you think I know far better than anyone the truth and wisdom that was lost in this burned black hole of Alexandria? Why do you think I told Antisthenes about the possible cure back in the prison that night? Do you think I was really afraid of him? I was hoping, I knew, that my telling Antisthenes would get you and Alcibiades looking for that cure. . . . Ah, what a prime mistake that was! I, of all people, should have known better. . . ." Heron shook his head. "It was an idiot's hope in the first place – if the far future does not have such a cure, how on Earth could they have one back here?"

Sierra looked at him with suspicion and surprise. "Surely you know that the ancients knew some things that the future has yet to rediscover."

"Not as much as you think. Not that." Heron stroked his chin. "And I was responsible for introducing a lot of future knowledge, at least in Alexandria."

"Athens still has a good Library," Sierra said, almost wistfully. "Some of its learned schools endure, though Justinian will close them forever in a hundred years. And Pergamum has some excellent holdings, too. Perhaps they have some of Theon's scrolls."

"Good," Heron said. "Then come with me to Athens. There should be four chairs in that house now. Take yours anywhere in the future you like – I won't get in your way." He had been standing for the entire conversation. Now he sat near Sierra. "Let me take you away from Alexandria."

Sierra stood. "No."

"You would prefer to be ripped to pieces by the Nitrians? Why, when we have an insensate body that can take your place?"

"We can't do that now," Sierra answered. "If my double is killed before 415, that will change history."

"Let me worry about that."

"That's your best response?"

"Maybe Hypatia was murdered in the first place in 413 not 415," Heron said. "But Synesius has been informed about all of this. He will write several accounts of your death and hide them in safe places. They will all say you were murdered by the Nitrians in 415. The date of Hypatia's death will be safeguarded for subsequent history regardless of when they tear your double apart."

Sierra started to reply, then turned her head towards the hall–

"Yes," Heron said. "That would be Appleton the publisher. He wants to leave this place, too. He wants you to leave, as you know. But he will stay here, till his death if he has to, before he abandons you to the Nitrians. If you won't leave here to help yourself, do it to help Mr. Appleton. Please."

Sierra gestured to the hall. "I'll think about it. Now I would like some privacy, if you don't mind." Her nearest weapon, a knife, was unfortunately on the far side of the room, or well beyond her reach. She shuddered, slightly, at the realization of how accustomed she had become to violence. What had Socrates regretfully said about Alcibiades becoming so violent? Now it applied to her–

Heron did not move. "I know noble motives are not the only things that are keeping you here. You want to stay here for Alcibiades."

Did Heron also have the power to read her mind, and know she was thinking about Alcibiades? No, it was only logical, knowing what Heron knew about her and Alcibiades, that Heron would think that.
"Do you know what happened to him?"

"You may not like what he has become – it was not my doing."

"Tell me."

"If you agree to leave with me, I will do more than tell you," Heron said. "I will show you."