The Plot to Save Socrates (Sierra Waters Book 1)

by Paul Levinson

  "But the journey would tell us something, even if the Library did not have a copy of the dialog," Sierra mused.

  "If the chairs move us in time, but not place, how would we get from London in 150 AD to Alexandria?" Max inquired.

  "It was Londinium, then," Appleton replied. "Roman, of course. The Romans obviously traveled regularly to and from London, then, so there shouldn't be too much of a problem. And Rome to Alexandria would be easy in just about any century."

  "I see you've given this some thought," Sierra said.

  "Well, yes, I was thinking of undertaking the trip myself," Appleton said. "Would you care to join me?" he asked Sierra. "There are only two chairs, as you can see," he said to Max, apologetically.

  "I thought you said it didn't make sense for you to travel back to that time," Sierra said.

  "I said I wasn't Andros," Appleton said. "And we're not talking about precisely that time, anyway--"

  Max swiveled around and lifted himself into one of the chairs. "It does feel comfortable, I'll give it that," he said.

  Appleton looked at him, understood his intentions. "It won't work without the code," he said.

  "I'll put it to you this way," Max responded. "If Sierra goes back at all -- if these contraptions do work -- I'm not letting her go back with you."

  "Max--" Sierra began.

  "Gratifying to see the age of chivalry yet survives," Appleton said, drily. "But there is no record of you appearing anywhere in the past, so you see you cannot--"

  "I'm not getting out of this chair," Max insisted. "What are you going to do, get Club security or Mr. Gleason down here to help you?"

  Appleton considered.

  "Look," Max said to Sierra. "If you want to walk away from this, that's fine. But if you're thinking of accepting Mr. Appleton's invitation, let me come along with you. I'm a bit more agile."

  "That's not the point," Appleton said.

  "Are you concerned that Max's going back could cause one of those snakes to swallow its tail?" Sierra asked.

  Max joined her in drilling Appleton with their eyes.

  No one moved, or said anything further.

  "All right, then, go," Appleton said to Max. "I concede that you would be better protection, at least physically, than I would be."

  "I'm still not sure I'm going," Sierra said. "Where, exactly, will we end when we've travelled through time?... This is crazy."

  "Presumably right here, in a structure that existed in 150 AD," Appleton said. "There should be provisions for you there -- clothing, money."

  "How do you know that?" Sierra asked.

  "The people who built these chairs, whoever they are, provided receiving vestibules at the destinations. I was told there was one in 150 AD in New York -- well camouflaged, presumably, from the red men back then. There must have been something similar in London."

  Sierra thought. She slowly nodded and sat herself in the second chair. "What about your classes at Fordham tomorrow?" she asked Max.

  He laughed, then grew serious. "When we make the return trip, we'll just come back today, or earlier," he said. "Isn't that how it works, Mr. Appleton?"

  The publisher nodded.

  "What is it in your part of the dialog that makes you sure you're not Andros," Sierra asked him. "Can you at least tell us that? You're getting what you wanted from this -- I'm going ahead with the journey."

  "Andros is younger," Appleton replied.

  Sierra sighed, closed her eyes. "Maybe we'll also be able to find out more about Thomas," she said to herself.

  Appleton gave them the codes.

  Clear bubbles emerged, two crystal cocoons.

  Appleton hurried up the stairs and closed the door. As magical as it was to travel in one of those chairs, he still yearned to actually see one depart or arrive.

  "Mr. Appleton." Gleason's voice surprised him from behind. "We have an unexpected visitor. He is ... availing himself of the facilities at the moment. I asked him to meet us here."

  "Who--" Appleton began.

  Jonah Alexander strode up and nodded. He looked around. "Where is she?" he asked, in Greek.

  "On her way, to your time," Appleton replied, in English.

  "I thought you were going with her," Gleason said.

  "Her companion Max insisted otherwise," Appleton said. "He took the other Chair. She would not have left, without him."

  * * *

  [Londinium, 150 AD]

  It was just a heartbeat, an eye-blink, and the bubbles receded.

  Sierra and Max looked at each other. They knew immediately that they had traveled to a different place. The air was sweeter, richer -- earthy and intoxicating.

  Their eyes did not take too long to adjust to the new lighting. It was almost the same as in the basement of the Parthenon Club. But this was daylight.

  That was the only thing similar. The structure that surrounded them was considerably smaller than the spacious Parthenon basement, and it seemed to be made of sandstone. Clusters of thick, little translucent windows were on all four walls.

  "The Romans built this?" Sierra asked, still seated.

  "I'm no expert, but I'd say it's more likely someone built this to look like it was Roman, probably even more from the outside," Max said. He glanced around the enclosure, and gestured to what looked like a small hearth, made of grey stone, against a far wall. Something seemed to be glimmering inside it. "That's definitely not Roman," he said, and walked over to investigate.

  Sierra joined him.

  The glimmer came from a screen. It said, in English, "Our records indicate that there are two of you, English is your primary language, and you are in no need of further assistance. Please confirm by pressing the lower left corner of the screen, twice. Confirmation must be received within 60 seconds."

  "Or what?" Sierra asked the screen.

  A clock with a ticking second-hand appeared.

  "I don't think it's voice enabled," Max observed. "Whoever wrote this likely didn't want to be overheard."

  "Nice of Mr. Appleton to assume we wouldn't need any assistance, Sierra said.

  "He likely didn't program this," Max said. "Who knows what screens he was shown on his travels."

  The second-hand passed the 4.

  "We're not even sure we're in 150 AD," Sierra said.

  "The only other choice was 1889," Max said. "I suppose we could be in some primitive dwelling somewhere then -- hell, we could still be someplace in the twenty-first century. There's no way we'll be able to tell for sure from this vantage point." He looked around, and suppressed a shiver, even though it was not very cold. He pointed to the hand on the screen. It was rounding 8. "Twenty seconds to go," he said. "Your call."

  Sierra was breathing heavily. "I--"

  They heard a noise outside. "Was that a horse?" she asked.

  "Not sure."

  Sierra cursed, then leaned in and pressed the lower left corner of the screen, twice.

  Four things happened:

  The two chairs made some sort of sound.

  The message on the screen changed. It read, "You can return here any time. Your presence will be recognized, and return conveyance will be provided." Then those words vanished, and the screen was blank.

  Two big stones in the hearth parted, revealing a cache of clothing within.

  And some kind of projection device, inside of the hearth, cast a light on the right-hand wall. The outlines of a door, worked out of the sandstone, became visible.

  "I take it that's our exit," Max said.

  "We're probably supposed to put some of that on, first," Sierra said, pointing to the clothing.

  They were nondescript one-piece garments. "Togas," Max said, trying to make sense out of his. "I guess these can go over what we're wearing?"

  "I don't think whether they fit over our clothes is the issue," Sierra replied. "We probably should be more concerned about what the Romans would say if they got a glimpse of the colors and fabrics." She undressed, completely. She could feel Max's
eyes on her body, as she reached for a toga. She smiled at him. "Your turn."

  Max exchanged his clothes for a toga. "It looks like one size fits all."

  Sierra nodded. "I hate to leave those chairs. Probably that's why they cleared their throats before -- to let us know they're available for the return trip right now if we want it."

  "They'll likely be here when we return," Max said. "The screen said conveyance would be provided."

  "Yeah," Sierra said, not very reassured. She took his hand.

  "Appleton said something about money," Max said. He looked around.

  "I thought I felt something sliding around in here," Sierra said, touching her toga. She ran her hand through the garment. "Wait. Here." She produced a fist-full of high-denomination coins. "And here." She fished through more folds. Max did the same with his. Both togas had literal silver and gold linings.

  "Appleton, or whoever's running this, is well connected through the ages," Max observed.

  Sierra nodded, and sighed. "Is your Latin ok?"

  "Satis," he replied. "Anyway, I recall reading that they're already speaking some sort of slang here at the peripheries of the Empire. So if our accents sound strange, we can just tell them we come from the other end, from Egypt, and we're talking southern jive."

  Sierra nodded and allowed herself a small smile. They collected their 21st-century century clothes, and put them between the two stones in the hearth.

  "I think we'll have to risk wearing our shoes," Max said, and glanced at his autumn-leaf bucklers. "We won't get very far barefoot."

  Sierra agreed. "Mine look a little like sandals, anyway."

  The two headed through the door.

  * * *

  Max emerged first. Sierra followed, but held on to the door. "Should I let it close? It feels like it's going to swing tight-shut."

  Max looked at her and the door.

  "We could be locked out," she said.

  Max examined the outside of the door, and the stonework around it. He pointed to a small, quartzite slab. "This could be some sort of scanning device." He put his hand against it. Something clicked and clacked in the door. "It received our palm prints from the chairs."

  "Yeah. But no guarantee it will work once the door has slammed shut behind us."

  "No guarantee about anything," Max said.

  Sierra let the door close. She placed her hand on the translucent slab. Nothing happened. The door remained closed.

  Max cursed. "Let me try." He placed his hand on the slab and got the same result. He pounded on the door until his fist hurt.

  Sierra, pacing to and fro, muttering, put her hand on the slab again. The door clicked and clacked -- and cracked open. "Yes!" She breathed in and out, clapped Max on the shoulder, and opened the door. She stuck her head inside. "Oh no!"

  Max put his head next to hers. The chairs were gone.

  "I saw Appleton hustle up those stairs right before our chairs took off," Max said, thinking out loud. "Maybe it's unsafe to be close to the chairs when they're revving up for travel. Our two chairs waited until we were outside, locked us out so we couldn't re-enter too quickly, and left."

  "Why'd they leave?"

  "I don't know," Max said. "Appleton called them back to 2042, they returned there or to some other time, automatically ... Who knows..." He shrugged, shook his head angrily, and kicked the door, which Sierra and he were still holding open.

  "What do we do now?" Sierra asked. "Maybe holding this door open is preventing them from returning."

  Max considered, then took his hands off the door. "The screen said the chairs or whatever would be here for our return."

  "Lot of damn faith to place in a glimmering screen," Sierra said.

  "We do it all the time back home." Max replied.

  Sierra at looked at Max, the sky, and then let the door go, too.

  It closed quickly.

  Max's hand reflexively shot out to the slab. It clicked and clacked, and the door cracked open, again. "At least we know that this door mechanism works. We can go back inside and see if we can summon the chairs. Or we can see what Londinium holds."

  Sierra was undecided. "All right," she said, at last. "Let's at least try to verify that we are in 150 AD. We can always rush back here if the Romans don't like our Latin."

  * * *

  Sierra and Max walked up a small incline. She looked beyond. "Reminds me of Vermont."

  Max joined her gaze. "Yeah, or New York east of Jamestown." He turned and took one last look back at where they had been. "Not much more than a pile of rubble, half buried in the ground, from this angle. Good camouflage."

  Sierra squinted at the sky. The sun was buffeted with clouds, but the grey and white were bright. "Hard to tell precisely with those clouds, but I'd say it's mid-afternoon."

  Max nodded. "Or right after lunch. Those chairs were certainly precise."

  "So, we have, what, five or six hours to sundown?" Sierra asked.

  "Yeah." Max looked around. "I'd say the Thames is that way, south. Let's hope we don't have to wait too long to test our Latin."

  "Tamesis Fluvius," Sierra said.

  * * *

  They trudged down towards the river, on light reddish soil.

  "Can a ship really sail from here to the Mediterranean?" Sierra wondered.

  "Look at those wharves," Max responded. "And the size of those boats. This is a major river port. I don't know if they run ships from here to Rome on a regular basis, but it can certainly be done."

  They saw two men ahead -- tall, reddish-brown hair like the color of the soil, in their mid-twenties like Sierra and Max. "Celts, I guess," Max said.

  Their mellifluous speech, incomprehensible to Sierra and Max, confirmed it. The Celts approached the two visitors, singing at Max, looking at Sierra. The pleasure in their eyes when they regarded Sierra was perfectly clear.

  Max was glad to see they were unarmed. "Max," he said, and put his palm to his chest.

  "Maximus!" one said, and laughed. "Hail Caesar," the other said in Latin, and laughed too.

  Max smiled, and summoned his best Augustan delivery. "Can you take us to Rome?" He reached in his toga, and pulled out a silver coin for each Celt.

  The two stopped laughing, and looked intently at Max and Sierra. "They're probably deciding whether to kill us and take the rest of our money," Sierra whispered in Max's ear. "But this is the height of Roman domination of Britain, if I remember correctly, so we may be ok."

  The Celt who said "Maximus" nodded. "Follow us," he said, in Latin.

  * * *

  There were many more people, Romans and Celts, soldiers and tradesmen, women and children, mingling by the river. Grain, cloths, pottery, copper, and iron all seemed to be doing brisk business.

  "It's the parade of London, all right," Max remarked, "but there's not much else recognizable." He looked around and across the river. "I guess that could be the Southwark promenade."

  "Without the digital inlay," Sierra agreed.

  Their guides studied them. "Germania?" one of them asked Max.

  Now Max laughed a little, and nodded. "I can understand why you'd think that," he replied, in English.

  "We will introduce you to a shipmaster," the Celt said, in Latin.

  "Thank you," Max replied, the same way.

  The two Celts walked away.

  Sierra looked discouraged. "You've got a lot of confidence in people," she said.

  Max grinned and patted his toga. "I have a lot of money, so do you. If those two silver pieces bear no benefits, we can try someone else."

  "You're getting more eloquent by the minute," Sierra said.

  "Yeah, England is good for my diction, in any century-- Ah, here we go. That was fast."

  The two Celts returned with a third man, about ten years older, who also appeared to be Celtic.

  "You're really sure you want to do this?" Sierra asked Max, quickly and quietly.

  Max nodded. "It's not our money. Let's see what it can buy us. We can
always back out at the last minute, and forfeit our deposit or whatever."

  "Magister navis," the more talkative Celt introduced the shipmaster. Then he left with the younger man.

  The shipmaster smiled. "I understand the two of you would like passage to Rome." His Latin was excellent -- crisp and precise.

  "Yes," Sierra replied. "Or possibly Alexandria, or Athens."

  "Makes no difference," he replied. "It will cost you the same -- ten of those silver coins, for each of you, for a total of twenty."

  Sierra and Max looked at each other. They could tell from the shipmaster's demeanor that they were likely being overcharged. "Agreed," Max replied.

  "Good," the shipmaster said. "And your timing is good, as well. I can have you on a ship that leaves tomorrow morning .... Rome seems a popular destination -- I guess that is not surprising. Yours is the second passage from here that I have booked in as many days."

  * * *

  Allectus the shipmaster was from Britannia Superior -- the northern part of the island. He invited Sierra and Max to an early dinner at his "modest villa," about a thirty-minute walk, northwest. They supped on suckling pig and imported wine.

  "Better than Falernian," Allectus proudly announced.

  "Bacchus' own." Sierra knew the name. Neither she nor Max had ever tasted Falernian wine, ancient and fabled for its taste, but they agreed that Allectus' offering was delicious. The three drank copiously and talked into the night.

  Allectus told them of his recent travels up north, to Hadrian's Wall and beyond. "Vallum Antonini is the new boundary, pressed right up against Caledonia." Sierra and Max did their best to discover who had departed in one of Allectus' ships to Rome, just yesterday. "He was older than me, and he seemed to be Greek, but his accent was very odd, so I cannot be sure," Allectus told them.

  "Can you tell us his name?" Sierra asked.

  "I cannot," Allectus replied firmly. "You would not want me to reveal your name if a beautiful woman plied me with wine and asked me."

  Sierra smiled fetchingly. "You do not know my name."