Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air

by Melissa Scott

  He was losing it, losing his Alexandria as surely as Antony hearing a procession depart by night. Jerry stood on the sidewalk with the taste of gall in his mouth while pedestrians went around him, heedless of the tides of fate, of the rumblings of distant war.

  Willi took the news as badly as Jerry had expected him to. He stood beneath the tent they’d erected over the stub of the Pylon of Isis, now cleared to the level of the Ptolemaic street it had first faced, gesturing in frustration. “This is ridiculous! We have come so far, and now we are just on the verge! We are almost there. A test trench or two, a small amount of time and money!”

  “I know,” Jerry said. He looked down into the pit at the two workmen’s heads, busy clearing the last dirt from around the base of the pylon. They couldn’t understand a word of what he and Willi said: they were arguing in German. “But the Met is closing down all their digs. It’s about politics. They don’t want it to be like it was in 1914.”

  “It is not 1914,” Willi snapped. “And we are so close!”

  “It’s not up to me!” Jerry shouted. His frustration was getting the better of him, and to have Willi think, of all people, that he would want to give up now… He turned and walked back to their original tent. The table was spread with the map of downtown Alexandria, a circle drawn with a compass showing where he’d hoped to dig. With trembling hands, Jerry lit a cigarette.

  Mohammad Hussein, the graduate student, was hovering awkwardly near the map, obviously not wanting to get into the middle of the professors’ quarrel. He touched the circle with one finger. “Is this where we will dig next?”

  Jerry threw himself into one of the chairs, inhaling tobacco smoke sharply. “So we had hoped. But the Met is ending the dig.”

  “You could not get permissions?”

  “It’s not that.” Jerry shook his head. This was hardly fair to Hussein either, who had hoped for a full season’s work, valuable experience for a young man just beginning his career. “They’re afraid of another European war.”

  “Oh.” Hussein sat down in the other chair. Over by the pylon, Willi had his back to him, supervising the diggers. “Well, it’s always something. But there’s plenty of time.”

  “For you,” Jerry said, and then bit his tongue. It wasn’t Hussein’s fault that he was twenty-three. He could wait two decades if he needed to.

  Hussein frowned, then glanced down at the map again thoughtfully. “What would we have been looking for?”

  There was no harm in saying it now. There was no dig, and Hussein would be out of work in a few weeks, another young man’s career derailed by the vagaries of war. “The Soma.”

  Hussein let out a long breath, then lifted his eyes from the map, dark and keen over his neat pencil mustache. “That’s where the old Greek said it was.”

  “What old Greek?” Jerry asked. “Strabo? His writings were much too general for us to…”

  “Not that old Greek,” Hussein interrupted. “The man who used to work for the water department. The poet. Mr. Cavafy. He worked for the water department for many years. He knew all of the Ptolemaic cisterns and Roman sewers like the back of his hand. He said it was around here, and that sooner or later someone would find it.”

  “What?”

  Hussein toyed with his fountain pen. “He was a friend of the English novelist, Mr. Forster. You know — A Room With A View? A Passage to India? He also wrote a book on Alexandria. He and Mr. Cavafy were good friends. Mr. Cavafy is in his book.”

  “I do know who E.M. Forster is, yes,” Jerry said. An English novelist, to be sure. Also a notorious queer, though perhaps that was only known in queer circles. Perhaps this Cavafy… But how would Hussein… And light dawned. The dapper suits, the pencil mustache, the complete absence of mentioned lady friends — perhaps Hussein was like them. He might be, the way he was looking at Jerry just a little uncomfortably, as though wondering if he’d dropped too many hairpins or misjudged his audience. “Yes, he’s a fine novelist,” Jerry said reassuringly, hoping that his level gaze communicated all. “I do not know him myself, but everything I have heard of him is to his credit.”

  Hussein dropped his eyes. “Mr. Cavafy often said that the Soma was there. He wrote many poems about Alexandria, as it was and as it is now. I do not expect they have been published in English.”

  “And this Mr. Cavafy — is he here?” Jerry asked.

  “He died three years ago. Cancer of the throat,” Hussein said. “He smoked too much.” He shrugged. “He was a very entertaining old man. Always kind to the young. A wise shoulder for broken hearts.”

  “Ah,” Jerry said. It was clear now. Every community had those men, the old bachelors who were the gatekeepers, the ones who showed the young how to hide, how to find their own kind, and who gave them the undemanding affection that young men need. What affair of the heart Hussein had put upon him was doubtless long dead, but his regard for the counselor remained.

  “He knew everything there was to know about the city water systems,” Hussein said. “He worked for the city for thirty years. And he read every bit of archaeology there was — more learned than most professors!” Hussein had a faint blush to his face. Had he absorbed an enthusiasm for archaeology when he was a young Adonis? “He said the Soma had to be in this area.”

  “I expect it is,” Jerry said. He couldn’t help but feel a quickening of excitement, a quiver like a hound scenting something promising on the breeze. “The city water systems, you say. The Roman sewers are still in use, aren’t they?”

  Hussein nodded. “Of course. And some parts are Ptolemaic. I don’t think there’s a complete map anywhere. Alexandria is like that. One city built on top of another all the way back to Ptolemy Soter.”

  “But the Ptolemaic cisterns would have had to serve the Soma,” Jerry said. There was something he didn’t quite have.

  “Of course. It’s a maze down there. Miles and miles of sewers and cisterns and catacombs. If anyone could ever properly excavate, they would find amazing things. Almost every cellar rests over a Roman building. There are whole streets down there, and catacombs and cities of the dead. The problem isn’t that we can’t find remains. The problem is finding the Soma among hundreds of ruins.” He shrugged philosophically. “And of course digging itself. This isn’t like the Valley of Kings. Everything has houses on top of it.”

  “Just like there,” Jerry said, looking at the circle drawn on the map. A nice neighborhood, houses and streets and parks. “I’d hoped we’d get permission to dig from someone.”

  “Well,” said Hussein, “there’s my parents’ house.” He pointed to a building just on the very edge of the circle.

  “What?”

  “That’s my parents’ house,” Hussein said. “My father’s a surgeon. That’s where I live.”

  “You live there?”

  “Yes.” Hussein looked bemused. “It was my grandparents’ house before that. Our cellar goes down into the Roman bits. There used to be a way to get into the catacombs from there, but my grandfather bricked it up because my grandmother complained that rats were getting in.”

  “Your grandmother complained that rats were getting in?” Jerry felt he wasn’t having the most intelligent end of this conversation.

  “Yes,” Hussein said patiently. “I don’t know if they were or not. It was before I was born. But the cellar does have a nice Roman arch and you can see where it was bricked up.”

  “In your parents’ cellar?”

  “Yes.” Hussein gestured at the circle. “It’s not in the middle of your circle, but off on one edge. But if you wanted to take a look you certainly can, Dr. Ballard. I wouldn’t think you’d need the Metropolitan Museum’s permission for that.”

  “No, not at all.” Jerry got to his feet, feeling the rush of adrenaline in his veins. “Dr. Radke!”

  Willi looked around, apparently surprised by the complete change of tone. “Yes?”

  “Come with us. We’re going to go take a look at something.”

  W
illi came over, picking up his discarded jacket from a chair back. “What?”

  “We’re going to have a look at brilliant young Dr. Hussein’s parents’ basement,” Jerry said, clapping Willi on the back. “Get a flashlight. And hurry.”

  Willi seemed bemused as Hussein let them in through an elaborate wrought iron gate. “You think the Soma is in Dr. Hussein’s parents’ basement?” he asked in German. “Jerry, what in the world!”

  It was only a short cab ride, fifteen minutes at best. “It’s down here,” Hussein said, leading them through the house. “It’s all right, Ahmed,” he said to the startled butler cleaning silver in the big kitchen. “These are my colleagues. We just need a look at the cellar.” He unbolted the door, then turned back to Jerry and Willi. “My father is at work and my mother has gone to Cairo to help my sister with the new baby. No one will mind.” He pulled a hanging string that turned on a bare bulb electric light over the very long stairs. “Watch your step. They’re a little uneven toward the bottom.”

  Jerry followed him down carefully, Willi hovering at his elbow. “What are we doing?” Willi asked.

  “We’re seeing if we can get into the Roman sewers,” Jerry said. A fever was on him. This was crazy, the longest of long shots, and but it was all he had. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try it.

  “And then what?” Willi demanded.

  “Then we’ll see.” There was an urgency in it, as though he were being pulled along by an invisible leash.

  “Right over here,” Hussein said, leading them around a very modern hot water heater. “You can see the arch in this wall.”

  “Indeed,” Willi said. He turned his flashlight on and let it play over the stones neatly filled with bricks.

  Jerry reached up, tracing the shape of the original arch. “Roman barrel vault,” he said. “Unornamented. I’d say this was definitely part of the sewers.”

  “My father said he used to get into the sewers to play when he was a boy, before it was bricked up. The kids used to roam around down there, but my grandmother thought it was dangerous. What if someone fell down there in the dark? Nobody would know where they were or ever hear them if they called.”

  Jerry ran his fingers over the bricks, the crumbling mortar. It hadn’t been a good job of bricking it up, just a quick and dirty and cheap solution. Damp and time had already damaged it, unlike the Roman stone. In a hundred years the mortar would be useless. He could probably get bricks loose now with a crowbar…

  “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Willi asked. Jerry looked sideways at him and saw that he was smiling.

  “I expect so,” Jerry said. “Mohammad, do you think your father would mind if we took a few bricks out?”

  “I doubt it.” Hussein took his jacket off and draped it neatly over the water heater. “If he fusses, I’ll tell him I’ll pay to brick it back up again. Why not?” He grinned suddenly. “I’ve always been curious too.”

  “Then do you have a sledgehammer?” Jerry asked.

  “Of course. It’s up in the gardener’s shed. I’ll just run up and get it.”

  Hussein was as good as his word, returning a few minutes later with the sledgehammer, a coil of rope, and another flashlight. “Ahmed wants to know why I’m going spelunking in the cellar. I told him it was archaeology.”

  Willi threw up his hands. “And that explains all!” he laughed. “Then let us get this wall down! Hand me the hammer!”

  It was short work to demolish the aging bricks enough to easily step through, their flashlights to light their way. Jerry flicked his over the arch above. “More of the Roman barrel vault,” he said. “This looks like a regular conduit.” It was about six feet tall — only Dr. Hussein had to bend to go through, the walls and floor still surprisingly regular.

  “The Romans built to last,” Willi said.

  “Wait until you see the Ptolemaic sections,” Jerry said.

  Hussein was shining his light ahead. “My father said the footing was sometimes uncertain — ah! There.” His light played over a hole about a foot wide in the floor, the lip of it on both sides worn by water. “There’s one of the places where it flowed downwards from here. I think we can just step over it carefully.”

  “Yes,” Jerry said. He was orienting himself easily. “Just above this, Willi — Dr. Radke — was the Roman street. This must have been one of the sewer lines that ran east/west across the city. There was one every few blocks. The drains would have been just over our heads, and then the runoff would make its way down like this.”

  Willi looked at the hole doubtfully as he stepped over. “How deep is it?”

  “Who knows,” Hussein said. “But if we keep going this way…”

  Before he even finished speaking, the light showed an end to the tunnel, the tunnel broadening into a larger space.

  “Good God,” Willi breathed, and Jerry flashed his light around it, a pale beacon against the eternal dark.

  The sewer opened into a wide, round room, the floor an echoing distance beneath them, with various other sewers flowing into it through openings in the walls below and across, massive vaults holding up a space ornamented with elaborate columns ornamented with Ionic capitals and lotus blossoms alike, all done in golden sandstone that fairly glowed in the light of their flashlights.

  “It’s a Ptolemaic cistern,” Jerry said. He shone the light down. Far below in the darkness there was the whisper of water, and the air wasn’t the least bit stale. There were outlets here to the living city above, and perhaps also to the sea. He put his hand on the wall, the rough touch proving it was real. “Ptolemy Philadelphus built dozens of them for the city water supply.” His voice ran round and round the chamber like whispers. “Philadelphus, Philadelphus, Philadelphus.”

  “That’s what Mr. Cavafy said,” Hussein said quietly. “And that they made them beautiful because it was their way.”

  “…it was their way,” the echoes answered back.

  Willi’s breath caught.

  Here, in the dark, it was easy to imagine them close, the men who had built this cistern, the generations who had used it not for the glory of gods but of men. “For the glory of the City,” Jerry said softly, and heard the echoes take it up. “Of the City, of the City, of the City…”

  How then could he resist? “Agathos Daimon!” he cried aloud. “Agathos Daimon!”

  The walls whispered it back a thousand times, Spirit of the City.

  “I think we can get down here,” Hussein said, shining his light. About three feet down the wall there was a catwalk a foot wide, holes in the stone showing where a handrail had once been supported, though whatever wood or metal it had been was long gone. “We could go around to one of the other entrances. I expect that’s what the children did in my father’s day.”

  Willi shook his head. “Jerry, I don’t like to say it…”

  “I’m fine,” Jerry said. “Just give me a hand getting down.” If he sat on the edge, he could put his foot and his cane down on the ledge.

  “You are insane,” Willi said. “You will fall into a Ptolemaic cistern.”

  “I won’t,” Jerry said, leaning on Hussein’s arm to get down. “I’ll be very careful.” They inched their way around, Hussein ahead of him and Willi behind, Jerry very aware of how Willi hovered, as though he could possibly catch Jerry if he fell.

  Even with care it was not easy, and Jerry felt cold sweat standing on his brow before they reached the first of the other entrances. Hussein climbed nimbly up three feet into the entrance. This was the tricky part — getting up rather than down, without falling backwards. And yet if they went back he’d have to climb up the way he’d gotten down. It was as easy to go forward as back.

  They hauled him up by the arms, which was undignified, and Jerry sprawled for a moment on the stones, feeling their shape beneath his cheek. Rounded edges. Ptolemaic rather than Roman.

  Willi shone the light at the ceiling, at the walls ahead. “Where are we?” he asked.
>
  Jerry got to his feet heavily, stooping a little. This sewer wasn’t quite as wide. “Ptolemaic sewer,” he said, trying to get his bearings. “I think we’ve come a few points off east. If I were guessing.”

  “Which way would the Soma be?” Hussein asked.

  Jerry closed his eyes, trying to see the shape of the map he’d studied so often, to match it to the stones beneath his feet and over his head. “North and east,” he said. “Toward the line of the old Bruscheum wall. This…” He trailed his hand along the wall. “This should be beneath the Roman marketplace just north of the Canopic Way, beneath the old Stoa of Eugertes.”

  Hussein nodded, but Willi frowned. “Where are you getting this? That wasn’t on the Strabo map.”

  And yet it was on the map in his head, the one he knew in his dreams. East along the Canopic Way, past the shopping district that Ptolemy Eugertes had built, going toward the wall that separated the Royal Quarter from the rest of the city, the wall that had been the city’s first curtain wall back when Ptolemy Soter had raised Alexandria from lines drawn in grain, from streets laid out with stakes and string.

  “It’s this way,” Jerry said, pointing along the tunnel. “Though we need to turn north if we can. The Soma is north of the Canopic Way and east of the marketplace. Let’s see if we can find a tunnel running north.”

  “We probably can,” Hussein said cheerfully, taking the lead.

  Agathos Daimon, Jerry said in his mind, Agathos Daimon, lead us true. Behind he heard a whisper, as if a mighty snake stirred in the darkness, coils shifting on stone.

  Bahir Dar, Ethiopia

  January 4, 1936

  Alma woke to strong light and a riot of birdsong, and the fainter sounds of human voices on a distant street. Thin white curtains were blowing in the cool breeze that streamed in through the open window. She sat up, looking around for Lewis, and saw him emerging from the in-suite bathroom, rubbing his hair dry with a towel.