Then he sat on a bench in the plaza across from the library.
If Palta walked out of the building and past him, would he recognize her? Would she recognize him?
You are coming back, she had told him on that hill in Scotia, as he stroked her hair.
I’m coming back, he had agreed.
But years had passed, and what did those words matter anymore? He and Palta had been young—old enough to kiss, old enough to fall in love, perhaps, but not old enough to make vows that could never be broken. He had walked away from her into the portal, and then he had made the portal disappear so she could not follow. Slammed the door in her face and locked it behind him.
She had said in her letter that she would never forget him. Was that true? He didn’t know. But they had spent so many days and nights together, endured so many hardships. They had kissed in the colonnade during the thunderstorm. He had saved her life, helped her survive a shipwreck. And she had done all she could to help him return home, even though she was putting her life at risk. There was a bond that could never be broken.
Wasn’t there?
Larry sat there for a long time, looking at the library, and then he walked away to find a place to eat and sleep. He couldn’t afford to spend much money; he had already used up much of what he had brought from Elysium; he hadn’t expected the search to take him all the way to Egypt. And what if she wasn’t here? Where would his journey take him next? Finally he settled on a run-down inn in a poorer section of the city; the proprietor spoke a little Latin and provided him with a cheap meal and a tiny, airless room.
He slept badly. In the morning he bought a hard roll from a street vendor and returned to the library. The streets were filled with people and camels and donkeys. The air was filled with the odor of spices and excrement. A sea breeze made the heat tolerable.
A couple of legionaries stood next to the stone lions now. He took a deep breath, and then walked up the steps, past the soldiers, and through the heavy doors.
And then there was silence, as if the bustling city outside did not exist. He stood in the entrance hall and looked around. It looked more or less like libraries he was familiar with on Earth, except far larger. He saw long rows of bookshelves, disappearing into the distance, and long tables at which people sat reading or writing. People hurried past carrying books and scrolls in small satchels. No one paid any attention to him.
Where to begin? He walked down a passage to his right and found himself looking in on a classroom—a gray-bearded man lectured twenty or more young men and women seated on benches in a semicircle around him. He was speaking Latin. Larry listen for a moment; the man was saying something about being and essence—philosophy, apparently. Larry was quickly bored.
He wandered through more passageways. He came upon an indoor garden filled with statues—he spotted one of Hieron. Why hadn’t the Gallians removed it? There were signs over doorways, but he didn’t understand the script—it didn’t look like hieroglyphics, but it wasn’t the Latin alphabet either. He got lost, but finally managed to find his way back to the main hall. Next he climbed the stairs and started wandering through the rest of the library.
So many books. But of course they were the old-fashioned kind: hand-printed on scrolls or parchment; People at the long tables weren’t just reading books or taking notes; some of them were laboriously copying them. Larry had asked Hieron about this back on Elysium. He could sort of understand not introducing inventions like cars and telephones from other worlds. But why not the printing press? Why not save people all this effort? Books were good, right? “It’s a question of what kind of world you want,” Hieron had replied. “Books contain knowledge and wisdom and beauty, but they also contain ignorance and hate. Are the worlds filled with books any happier than those like Terra, where books are rare and precious? Not in my experience.”
So here were Terra’s rare and precious books. But right now Larry didn’t care about them. He wanted to spot Palta seated at a table, carefully turning the pages of a hand-stitched book or copying a scroll, her blond hair falling down over the words, her gray eyes moving over them, understanding, learning.
But she wasn’t here. He saw old men reading heavy books, their eyes equally heavy, their hands trembling. He saw fierce-eyed young men reading scrolls as if their lives depended on the words in front of them. He saw young women too, quiet and studious, or shy and giggly, but they were not Palta.
Occasionally someone addressed Larry in the Egyptian language, probably asking if he needed help finding something. But Larry just shook his head. By afternoon he had become discouraged. She wasn’t here. Or she was in some corner of the place that he hadn’t found. Or she had come and gone while he was elsewhere in the building. Just wandering around wasn’t going to work.
But what was the alternative? Palta had fought for the rebels, but they had been driven out of Alexandria. Would people think he was a rebel too and arrest him? Was she wanted by the authorities? Could he be putting her in danger?
Finally he decided he had no alternative, so he started asking people. Have you ever seen a young woman here? Named Palta. Light-skinned, blonde hair, gray eyes. Eager to learn. Probably quiet, probably kept to herself. It turned out that everyone in the library spoke Latin, though some much better than others.
He had little luck, though. Many people had seen light-skinned blonde women in the library, but no one could recall their names. It was a large library, and people came and went here frequently.
And then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw a burly Egyptian staring at him. “Sir, I could not help overhearing your query,” he said quietly, in perfect Latin. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to bring your request to our director. She may be able to help you.”
“Of course,” Larry replied. The man led him to a small waiting room and then left him there. Larry didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified. Did the director know something about Palta? Would she have good news for him or bad?
Finally the door to her office opened and another Egyptian, this one young and thin, gestured for him to enter.
In the office Larry saw a middle-aged woman wearing a bright green robe. She stood behind a table in the middle of the room with her arms crossed. She seemed puzzled when she saw him. He bowed politely, but she did not incline her head. Was that not the custom here? “You are a Roman, then,” she said in Latin. “Or a Gallian. Not an Egyptian.”
Larry didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say.
“But this seems foolish,” she continued. “I told your general just the other day that the woman wasn’t here. Does he think I am a liar?”
“My lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I won’t have the visitors to my library bothered,” she went on. “I won’t have Ploterus using these subterfuges. Tell him he can search if he likes, but he must do it openly. Bring in his soldiers and be done. We have nothing to hide.”
A general was searching for Palta? Ploterus, the head of the garrison in Massalia all those years ago? So she was in danger, if she was here. “My lady, Palta is a friend of mine,” he said. “I heard that she was in Alexandria, so I have come from a long distance to find her.”
“How do you know she is here?”
“She sent a letter—not to me, but to mutual friends in Scotia, a land far to the north. The letter was sent some time ago, and I understand that much has happened since then. But I mean no harm to anyone. I only wish to find her. We were close many years ago.”
Larry felt a lump in his throat as he said these words. He noticed that the director had uncrossed her arms and place her hands on the table. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Larry Barnes,” he replied. Her eyes narrowed in response. Was she puzzled? Suspicious? “It is an odd name, I know,” he added.
“Larry Barnes,” she repeated, and his name certainly did sound odd when she said it. And then she paused before saying, “I will see if I can find out something
about this woman for you, Larry Barnes. But you may not ask anyone in the library about her. She is not here. You will not find her on your own. Is that understood?”
He bowed. “Yes, my lady. And thank you. But can you tell me if—”
“Return to me in two days. But do not speak to anyone about this.”
“Two days, my lady.”
The director inclined her head to him, and then turned away. The meeting was over.
Olef-Nan
Olef-Nan watched the man leave her office, closing the door behind him.
She felt a shiver of something, and after a moment she realized what it was.
Joy.
But it was not unmixed with fear.
She considered what to do. There was no time to waste.
She summoned Menander.
Larry
In the plaza outside the library, Larry sat on a bench and watch the sun set over the harbor. Lovers strolled by, holding hands. Laughing children chased each other, Women filled jugs in the fountain and left, balancing the jugs on their heads. Life went on as usual in this alien city, in this alien land.
He had been alone for months, traveling, searching. He had friends in Scotia, but he had left them behind. He had friends in Elysium, on Earth…but here he was. Another day had passed, and he had not found Palta.
Had he made any progress today? He couldn’t quite tell.
His brief interview with the director had been perplexing. She had offered to look for Palta, hadn’t she? But was she just being polite? Or trying to get rid of him? He didn’t know. He couldn’t get a sense of what was behind her formal Latin words.
But she had also made it clear that Ploterus was searching for Palta. So she was likely to be in hiding, or, more likely, had left the city altogether. And then what would he do?
For now he would have to obey the director and stay out of the library. But he could sit here and watch the entrance, couldn’t he? And in two days he would talk to her again. He had no other choice. But finally darkness started to fall, and he stood up and made his way back to the inn. He would return in the morning.
Menander
The fair-skinned man was easy enough to follow, even in near darkness. He walked slowly, as if in no hurry to reach his destination. And, of course, he had no idea he was being followed, and probably couldn’t tell one Egyptian from another—probably wouldn’t have remembered the fellow who had opened Olaf-Nen’s door for him. Easy enough to follow, even if Menander had never done such a thing before and felt awkward and out of place. Menander loved books, not intrigue.
Finally the man entered an inn in a dismal section of the city, on a street lined with ramshackle shops and empty lots. Was this his destination? Menander waited outside for a while, and then made up his mind and went in.
The inn itself was as dismal as the area in which it was located—a few small tables crammed into a narrow, stiflingly hot space. A staircase at the back led up to the second floor, where there were sure to be a few hot, small, dirty rooms.
The man sat by himself in a corner. Menander walked quickly to the other corner and sat in the shadows. A fat woman brought a cup of beer and a plate of something to the man. He took a sip of the beer and set the cup down. The stuff was undoubtedly wretched. Then the woman approached Menander, eyeing him with suspicion, as if it was inconceivable that a stranger would enter this place.
“Beer,” Menander muttered.
The woman walked away without responding. Menander studied the man, paying more attention to him than he had in the director’s anteroom. He looked like he could have been a Gallian. Or, if not from Gallia, then elsewhere in the northern reaches of the empire. There were circles of sweat under his arms; he wasn’t used to this heat. He could have been a soldier, Menander supposed, though he didn’t have the confident stride of a soldier. He didn’t appear to be waiting for anyone; his gaze didn’t move to the door whenever it opened. So perhaps he wasn’t a spy, waiting to tell his master what he had learned at the library. He seemed uninterested in everyone and everything, including the beer.
The fat woman brought over Menander’s own beer. He took a sip; it was sour, barely drinkable.
What now?
Menander waited. He had been given one task, and he would have to perform it. He wasn’t going to drink any more of that beer, though.
An argument broke out at the table next to his. One man owed the other money, and they disagreed about the amount. Menander hoped they didn’t start fighting. Finally the two of them left, overturning their chairs in anger. The fat server came over, placidly picked up the chairs, and wiped the table with a rag.
The man in the corner put a couple of coins down on his table and stood up. Menander tensed, getting ready to follow him again. But the man didn’t leave the inn; instead he walked up the rickety wooden staircase at the back.
This was where he was staying, then. Menander waited for a while to be sure. Perhaps he was visiting a friend; but why wouldn’t the friend have come down to drink with him? Perhaps he went upstairs in search of a woman. Menander couldn’t imagine what kind of women would use a place like this.
The man didn’t return.
Menander took out his own coins to pay for the wretched beer. Then he, too, stood up and left the inn where the man was staying.
His task had been accomplished, as well as he could accomplish it.
What next? It was up to Olef-Nan, of course. But he supposed he knew what she would decide, and he didn’t look forward to it.
He wanted to be among his books; he didn’t want to go on a journey.
But for Palta, he would.
Forty-Four
Palta
Palta was in the vault below the compound when Cetonia found her. Palta liked being down here, where it was always cool, even during the mid-day heat. As usual she was sitting at a table, copying a manuscript. She had gotten better at this over time, and she liked to think her copies had become much easier to read than the originals.
“My lady,” Cetonia said, breathless, in Coptic. “A man…here…courtyard…for you.”
Cetonia was a lovely child, with a bright gap-toothed smile. She adored Palta, who adored her in return. On the other hand, Cetonia was not always the most reliable of messengers. “Say it again,” Palta instructed. “And take a deep breath first.”
Cetonia took a deep breath. “A man has arrived from the city, my lady,” she said. “He asks for you. He is waiting for you in the courtyard. My lord Lamathe sent me to fetch you.”
“Do we know who this man is?”
“My lady, I do not.”
“All right. Run back and tell them I will be there shortly. Can you remember that?”
“Yes, my lady. Be there shortly.”
Cetonia bobbed her head and raced off.
Palta leaned back against a wall and closed her eyes. There were few breaks in the routine here. What did this one mean? Lamathe would not have said she was here if he thought the man was dangerous.
She opened her eyes finally, picked up the lamp sitting on the table, and made her way to the staircase leading out of the vault.
Upstairs, she hurried across the tiled floor and through the airy but hot rooms, out to the courtyard. Under a palm tree the man was seated at a table next to Lamathe, drinking a cup of beer. Cetonia sat on her haunches in a corner of the courtyard, gazing in fascination at the man. He wore a dusty white robe and a white headdress circled with a red band. He was young and dark-skinned, with a thin mustache and soft brown eyes.
It was Menander. He hadn’t had the mustache when she had last seen him, but otherwise he was the same, sweet young man she had known at the library.
He jumped to his feet when he spotted her and bowed deeply. “My dear lady Palta,” he said.
She went over and embraced him. “Menander,” she replied, “it is so good to see you. The mustache makes you look older.”
“Thank you, my lady. I am the director’s assistant now.”
Menander smiled. “Thank you, Palta. May we speak in private?”
Palta glanced at Lamathe, who quickly rose and departed with a bow. Cetonia followed, looking disappointed.
“A man came to the library in search of you,” Menander said quietly when they were alone. “The director thought you should know, so she sent me here.”
“Who is he?” Palta asked. “Did he give his name?”
“Palta, he told Olef-Nan his name is Larry Barnes.”
She could not speak for a long moment after she heard that name. Did she dream it? And then the years melted away, and she was standing on a hill in Scotia…
“Larry Barnes,” she repeated finally.
“Yes, Palta. I remember the name. As did Olef-Nan, of course. You spoke of him often.”
“What does he look like?” she asked.
“He is young, Palta. About your age, perhaps. Brown hair, fair-skinned, of medium height.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
“Only a few words. He spoke Latin with an accent I did not recognize. But Palta, my lady the director is worried. General Ploterus has asked her about you and about the priests. As you have told us, the general has met you, and he has met Larry Barnes. Also, the Gallians have captured many rebels. Perhaps you spoke of him to one of them. So the director fears that this may be a trick, and the man who calls himself Larry Barnes could be a spy. But she does not know for sure. She thinks he may have been telling the truth.”
Palta felt a thrill as Menander spoke those words. “What does she suggest I do?”
“Olef-Nan says it is your choice, Palta. We can bring him to you. Or you can return to the city with me to see him, but that is of course a risk for you.”
Palta wondered if Menander suspected that there were priests here; Olef-Nan knew it, of course—she had found the place for them when they’d been forced to flee the city. If this person—Larry!—was an imposter, bringing him to the compound would risk the priests as well as her. Really, there was no choice. And if she went with Menander, she would find out the truth faster. “I will go to Alexandria with you, Menander.”
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