She reached her brownstone, on 11th Street, between University Place and Fifth Avenue. For a second, she thought she saw Thomas sitting on her front stoop. He looked terrible, somehow twenty years older than a few days ago. The operation hadn't gone well ... what did they do to him down in Wilmington, or wherever he was?
But as she approached, she realized the old man on her staircase was just a derelict staring at his photophone.
* * *
She entered her apartment, and checked her screen. Good, the second fragment, photographed with her phone, was there. She was a researcher, she assured herself, not really a spy, and that surely took precedence -- the pursuit of truth -- over any conventions of the Club. Yet she still felt a little bad.
She showered and put on something more comfortable. She had dressed up for her lunch at the Millennium. She returned to her screen, and printed out a copy of the second fragment. Not because she was afraid of losing what was on her screen -- her grandparents had told her that, in the early days of the computer, people were often afraid of that, and printed out documents as a way of saving them. But Sierra printed out the second fragment because it seemed more connected that way, more a part of the first piece of the manuscript, that Thomas had given her.
Security in numbers. Two fragments made each seem more legitimate, more real. But that feeling, she knew, was still mostly illusion. Two people, buttressing each other's stories, made neither story more likely, unless at least one of the people was already known to be trustworthy. What if both were liars? The two pieces of the dialog she held in front of her, each with Greek on one side, English on the other, could well just be partners in the same lie. She shook her head, beginning to feel as if she were having a Socratic dialog with herself...
She looked back at her screen, and requested information on "excavations," "Alexandria," "2001-2010". Hmmm... the search yielded stories about a couple of apparently minor activities in 2008 and 2009. Nothing about a new Platonic manuscript. Well, Thomas had given no indication about how well the 'discovery' had been reported or publicized at that time... She searched "Andros". Nothing other than that it was the name of an island near Athens, which she already knew. People in the ancient world were often called by the places of their birth. But the Andros of her dialog said he came from the future...
She put in another request, "Alexandria," "inventions". Heron of Alexandria dominated the 800 hits.... Also known as Hero.... Date of birth and life uncertain -- estimates ranged from 150 BC to 250 AD.... Most common date, 75 AD.... Invented the "aeolipile" -- ah yes, the toy steam engine.... His manuscript, Heron's Formula, lost for years. Fragment recovered in 1894, complete copy in 1896.... He wrote in Greek...
She searched on Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Benjamin Jowett, 1817-1893 ... She came upon his quote, "The way to get things done is not to mind who gets the credit for doing them..." She wasn't sure she agreed.
She read the Crito anew. No hint of Andros -- man or island -- anywhere. Just the angst, everywhere, of Socrates' refusal to escape. She looked at the Apology and Cratylus, too...
It was evening when she finally turned away from the screen and thought about eating. In a feat of perfect timing, that was just when the screen beeped -- she had set it to alert her about any news stories that mentioned Thomas O'Leary.
She clicked and read the brief report in the Athenian Global Village: ".... three men missing in a boating accident in the Aegean..." Two of the names meant nothing to her.
But the third was "Thomas O'Leary, a scholar from New York..."
She searched frantically for more information about Thomas and the accident. She searched on his name, his picture, the titles of his books...
She got nothing more about the accident. But in her fast perusal of the photos, something caught her eye. She looked more carefully, expanded it to full screen, maximum resolution. She enhanced the part she wanted to see more of. It was a grainy, sepiatone photo, on a page, appropriately enough, with an old-fashioned Web address, and a stat box that said it hadn't been visited in twelve years.
She rubbed her eyes, and looked again.
No doubt about it, unless Thomas had an ancestor who looked exactly like him. There, standing in front of the Millennium Club with two other gentlemen, was Thomas, looking just as he did the last time she saw him.
No real problem in that, she'd seen photos of Thomas taken more than twenty years ago, and he looked pretty much the same as now. He had one of those faces, she had recently heard him remark, that looked fifty when he was thirty and fifty when he was seventy.
Except this photo, near the bottom of a page about Victorian New York City, was captioned "a new literary club, 1883, a few years after its founding".
Chapter Two
[Alexandria, 150 AD]
He was known as Heron of Alexandria. And by other names.
Tonight he walked by the sea, alone. He often preferred his own company, because that allowed him maximum pursuit of his ideas. On the other hand, implementation of plans usually required more than their progenitor.
The night was nearly moonless. He could hear more of the water than he could see. He closed his eyes and attended to the waves. They slapped against the boats in the harbor, like skilled hands upon some soft, supple instrument. He knew none was the boat he was waiting for.
In the darkness he could perceive not only water but time more clearly. He reflected: time was really the complete opposite of space, which flourished in the light. In the night, space was foreclosed, usually to just a few steps around you. The arena was left to time... No matter how much he had of it, he never had enough. Where was she?
Footsteps on the stone behind him brought him back to the present. He turned. It was Jonah, walking quickly. The lights of the great university winked behind him.
"Sorry to disturb your contemplations," Jonah said.
"I would not have told you my whereabouts, had I not wanted to be disturbed under any circumstances," Heron replied. The question, of course, was whether the circumstances Jonah would be conveying would rise to the requisite significance. But Heron thought that his chief assistant had a pretty good record on that account.
"A woman wishes to see you, at the university," Jonah said.
Heron's left eyebrow arched.
"I cannot confirm she is the one you have been awaiting," Jonah continued. "She speaks Greek, but says she is from the North not the East. She looks ... different. I do not believe she comes from either place."
* * *
The Museion -- the House of the Muses -- glowed with oil lamps and late-night thoughts. Heron and Jonah proceeded to its shining wing, the Great Library, which held a copy of every book on Earth, some seven hundred thousand, at last count. Rooms contained readers and voices -- not necessarily debating but reading out loud. It reminded Jonah of the Sabbath prayer sessions in the synagogues of the Delta quarter of the city.
They passed Ptolemy in the hall, pacing with a scroll, muttering about some astronomical equation. They knew better than to interrupt him with a greeting.
They turned a corridor. "I heard your breeze-pipes this afternoon," one of a group of students said to Heron, admiringly. "It was truly the breath of Pan!"
"Thank you," Heron replied.
Jonah looked at his mentor, inquiringly.
"A wind mill connected to an organ," Heron explained, as they walked on. "I finished it just this morning."
They reached a room. Jonah pushed aside the curtain.
"Heron of Alexandria." Jonah announced and extended his arm to Heron, then to the woman seated at the small table.
She stood, and smiled, politely. "Ampharete," she said. "I won't insult your intelligence by pretending that is my real name, or telling you where I come from, because none of that matters."
Heron nodded, and noted her long, curly, brown hair. "You are not from the East -- at least, not from the distant East, as I had been told."
"The East was just a route of travel, not my origin
. The enormous distance of my origin, however, is true."
"You speak Greek well," Heron said, "though I cannot identify your accent. You told Jonah you are Northern?"
"I was near Hadrian's Wall, just last year," she replied.
"It will be the limit of Roman territory, certainly in the north, despite my admiration for our Emperor Antoninus Pius and his predictions. Would you agree?"
Ampharete just smiled. "Might we go someplace else to converse? Much as I love this magnificent library, I do not feel completely at ease here -- too many wise people walking about."
"Wisdom makes you uneasy?"
Ampharete kept her smile. "When combined with prying eyes, yes."
Heron looked at Jonah, who nodded slowly. "I think I know a good place," Heron said.
* * *
They walked along the coast. Jonah pointed to an eating establishment. "Not as adventurous as some of the facilities in Canopus, to the east, but it is quiet and the food is good. Are you hungry?"
Ampharete nodded. "Yes, I am starving. Thank you for thinking of that."
They were seated with a good view of the sea. Ampharete ordered date wine and lamb. Heron, gazing out at the sea, distracted, ordered just wine. Jonah took it all in, and ordered nothing.
"Let us speak of Plato, and the picture he paints of people and their inability to rule themselves," Ampharete began.
This drew Heron's attention from the sea. "Mobs often make stupid decisions, on the basis of emotion rather than reason. Do you think Plato is wrong?"
"Plato's view that only the most wise should rule can justify any tyrant or group of tyrants who happen to be in power."
The wine arrived. "Your lamb will be here soon," their server, a Nubian, advised Ampharete.
"Thank you," she said. She sipped the wine. "Strong," she said, and sipped more.
"Plato performs a very important, continuing service in human affairs," Heron continued. He picked up his wine cup, brought it to his lips, and drank deeply. "If any ruler -- tyrant or mass of people -- should do anything too brutal, too bizarre, then any party, aggrieved by this, could point to Plato's work and, say, look, this action goes against some absolute principle of ethics, some ideal law of human conduct, and is therefore not rule by the wisest."
Jonah smiled slightly, aware that his mentor was mainly indulging his penchant for playing the Sophist, and arguing the other side of a point he in fact agreed with.
"In any case," Heron said to Ampharete, "even if I agree entirely with you, what would you have me do about it?"
She sipped again, put down her cup, and reached into her garment, already parted slightly at her right breast. She produced a document, and handed it to Heron.
"Nice skin," Jonah observed, looking at the parchment, but thinking it also applied to the part of Ampharete that he could see.
Heron examined the document, emptied his wine cup, looked at the document, again. He ran his fingertip under each line, in precise and steady motions, until he reached the end. "Interesting -- not part of the Platonic canon. Is this a gift?"
"Yes," Ampharete responded.
Heron passed the parchment to Jonah. "Please make a copy of this, at your earliest convenience." He turned to Ampharete. "Let us assume, to start, that Plato did not write this. It would likely have been known before now, if he had. But if not Plato, who?"
Ampharete sipped some more, then returned Heron's gaze. "Perhaps it was you."
* * *
The lamb arrived, sliced in little pieces, on a thin skewer. Ampharete thanked the Nubian, took a piece of meat, smiled, all without breaking contact with Heron's eyes.
"You flatter me," he said, carefully. "This is a fine fable."
"Part of what I would like to know is whether it is a fable or true." Now she glanced at the manuscript. She took another piece of lamb, closed her eyes. "The food is delicious."
Jonah nodded, accepting the compliment.
"The dialog speaks of Syracuse and Ithaca being close in the visitor's world," Heron said. "Socrates says they are not very near each other in his. Last time I looked at a map, Syracuse was still in Sicily, and Ithaca one of the Ionian islands, presumably the home of Odysseus. Not very close at all."
Jonah shifted, uncomfortably.
"My point--" Ampharete began. "What--"
Jonah's body was across hers. He pulled her off her seat, onto the hard floor. "Apologies," Jonah said, embarrassed.
"Aegyptian," Heron said, rattled. He pointed to the door, through which a blur of a person had just exited. Heron helped Ampharete and Jonah to their feet, then gestured to the wall behind Ampharete. A gleaming ivory knife handle still quivered there. "Some of them deeply resent the Museum, and its usurpation of their culture," Heron said. "But why was he aiming at you?"
Ampharete smoothed her garment and shook her head. "I do not know. This is a violent world." She smiled a tremulous thanks at Jonah, and surveyed what was left of her meal on the table. Most of it was on the floor. "So much for the savory lamb."
"So much for the safety of this eatery," Heron said, dyspeptically, and looked at Jonah.
Heron's assistant managed an apologetic smile. "It seems this fabulous tale of Socrates attracts a murderous interest."
* * *
They walked back in the direction of the Museum. "I have access to quarters in the Library more private than you saw before," Heron told Ampharete. "I would invite you and advise you to stay the night -- you will be totally safe there."
"That would be very welcome. Thank you," she responded.
They approached the Library from a different direction. They entered through a passageway, well camouflaged to look like an elaborate garden. "It is a combination of living plants and mirrors," Heron whispered. "One of my favorite designs. It works even better in the day, or in full moonlight."
The marbled hallway was white and devoid of people. Rows upon rows of pigeon holes lined the walls, each with a roll of papyrus, and a written label attached its outer edge. Ampharete peered at the labels, flickering in the light of the oil lamps. "I wish I had time to read some of this," she said, wistfully.
"It is thought by many that the golden age is behind us," Heron remarked, "that it ended with the exodus of scholars in the reign of Ptolemy VIII, some two hundred years after the death of Alexander. Some people think this is the golden age -- we are in it, at this moment, more than one-hundred-and-fifty years into the empire of Augustus. Both groups are wrong. The Golden Age is ahead."
Ampharete nodded.
Jonah open a door, and beckoned Ampharete to enter.
The room within was spacious, with a hearth in the center, and several adjoining rooms. "These are my private quarters," Heron said. "I often spend the night here. The Library treats me well. Please, make yourself comfortable."
Ampharete sat on a bench, against a wall, which was quite comfortable indeed. Jonah stood by the outer door, casting glances down the hall. Heron busied himself in one of the other rooms.
He emerged with wine and bread. "The grain is very good," he said to Ampharete. "I find it more satisfying than the lamb."
He bid her to join him at a table near the hearth.
"It looks as if we are alone," Jonah said to and about the hallway, and sat with the two at the table.
"You are right, this is very tasty," Ampharete said about the bread. Heron poured the wine.
"Still abstaining?" Heron asked Jonah.
Jonah shook his head no. "Your example persuaded me."
Heron poured a cup for him. "That, and you are less worried about attacks in this place than in that place by the sea. And you are not concerned about your dietary restrictions."
Jonah acknowledged the accuracy of his mentor's analysis.
"Do you notice anything different about Ampharete's manuscript," Heron inquired of his student, "other than its incredible content?"
Jonah looked at the walls of the room, on which were also pigeon holes with protruding scrolls of papyrus. Amp
harete followed his gaze, and noticed not only the scrolls, but various devices, lodged here and there. She was unsure of the function of most of them.
"This manuscript is parchment, not papyrus," Jonah replied. "Charta pergamena, as the Romans call it."
"Good. And what does that tell you?"
"It was likely not created here, at the Library, but at Pergamum," Jonah answered. "But, of course, the original might well have been created here, and this might be but a copy."
Heron nodded, and turned to Ampharete. "Perhaps you would be good enough to help us understand this manuscript -- starting with, just where did you acquire it?"
Ampharete's mouth was filled with bread. She chewed, and drank wine to wash it down.
Heron took advantage of the silence. "Or did you perhaps write it yourself?"
* * *
Jonah poured himself another cup of wine, sat back, and smiled in anticipation of watching this conversation.
Ampharete swallowed her wine, licked her lips. "So, in your schema, the bearer of a document is the same as its creator?" she asked Heron.
"When it is a document I have never laid eyes on before, the bearer being the creator is always a distinct possibility.... But, leaving aside the question of who wrote this, for the moment, I am still very interested in where you obtained it."
"Athens, the Academy. But it was in a group of seemingly unrelated documents, not close to Plato's other works."
"Ah yes, mother Athens. A good many of our books come from the Library at the Lyceum. They were brought here with the intent of making copies, and then returning the originals, but I am afraid that in many cases, that has not happened." Heron looked disapprovingly at his student.
"That has been going on for hundreds of years," Jonah observed, unfazed. "Borrowers of books have sticky fingers."
"And now you bring us another document from Athens," Heron resumed his questioning of Ampharete. "Why did you seek me out about it?"
The Plot to Save Socrates (Sierra Waters Book 1) Page 4