He reached the edge of the pool, flipped over, and headed back. Although he wasn't afraid to swim in the ocean itself, it was easier to count laps if he stayed within the pool's open rectangle.
A splash followed by a yell made him lift his head. Isaac stood at the other end of the pool, teeth chattering and shivering.
Herodot tread water and shook his head at the older man.
"You are the reason Jews should not be allowed to swim!" Herodot yelled.
"Then why should you be allowed?" Isaac answered in Aramaic.
"I think I'm more Greek than Jew."
"Heresy!" Isaac shouted and began swimming toward him.
Herodot continued to tread water. Isaac's clumsy strokes made him smile. For eight years he'd been swimming per Akakios's instruction. Isaac had only learned how to swim last year and the man refused any instruction at all.
The man swims like he translates, Akakios said after witnessing the Jew's efforts. Without grace and without poetry. The man is a barbarian.
Isaac reached him and tread water beside him.
"You're late," Herodot said.
"Sorry. Fighting kept me up."
Herodot's smile disappeared. "You heard them, too."
"Sword. Shield. Clang, clang. Scream. Yes, I heard it." Isaac ducked beneath the water for a moment and then reappeared. His thinning hair was plastered against his skull. "Did you see the legionnaires this morning?"
"No."
"I went to the courtyard before coming here. There are more of them than ever."
Herodot grunted. "Caesar must be out of his mind. There's no way Ptolemy is going to allow him to use the Library as a base."
"Who knows? Doesn't matter. I rather like the fact they're here. Keeps away the undesirables."
"No it doesn't."
"How do you mean?"
"You're still here." Herodot splashed a handful of water in Isaac's face and then began swimming as fast as he could.
Isaac yelled and followed with clumsy strokes. When Herodot reached the edge of the pool, he flipped and kicked off the wall and swam beneath Isaac's flailing body. He was still grinning when he reached the surface for air.
The sounds of men shouting to one another were barely audible over the whisper of the braziers. Shadows danced on walls as the flames flickered in the light breeze coming through the window. Herodot held his hand to shield the table lamp.
He scratched a few more elegant Greek symbols onto the papyrus scroll and then sat back in his chair. The bones in his spine popped one by one as he stretched. He groaned with pleasure. Another long day. Another long night.
The Greek words stared back at him from the scroll. He'd translated 690 cuneiform tablets over the past two months. Ever since the first bundle of clay had been placed at his desk, he'd been obsessed with translating every word as faithfully as he could.
The cuneiform symbols that the self-named scribe Tupšarru had written were flawless in every detail. Of all the tablets Herodot translated over the years, Tupšarru's were the most beautiful and well written. The Akkadian man had written poetry even when describing the most mundane events such as market days or memorable events of Akkadian history.
Herodot felt his translations were inadequate. It would have been far easier to translate the words into Aramaic, but the Library's volumes were required to be written in Greek. Herodot sighed.
He rose from his chair and walked to the window. The boats passing toward the harbor blinked. Ptolemy's navy sent signals to the shore, giving orders to the ground troops in the city. The Egyptian soldiers fighting Caesar would renew their attacks in a matter of hours.
Akakios had asked him why he rarely slept these days. Herodot blamed it on Tupšarru's wonderful tablets and it was partially true. But the idea of stalking back to the dormitory only to hear the shouting and clashing steel of Romans fighting Egyptians was anathema. Even if the Library campus was off-limits to all soldiers but its guards, the war was just a few streets away.
Herodot coughed into his hand and wiped his nose. Each day spent translating cuneiform meant breathing in clay dust. Sometimes his nose bled from the dry air and the irritation.
The ocean waves broke upon the thin shore outside the Library. He watched their froth beneath the bright half-moon. He smiled. The night was his favorite time. The other scribes, students, lecturers, and librarians were tucked into the dormitory or their private homes, leaving the building silent. Without the constant noise of shuffling papyrus, deliveries from the ships, and incessant Greek, Roman, and Egyptian chattering, he felt as though he owned the Library. In the night, it was always his and his alone.
Caesar had permanently stationed several soldiers around the entrances to the Library, although they were merely a precaution to keep Ptolemy's forces from using it to gain unfettered access to their rear flank. The Library was not in any danger from either side, although Herodot wondered if Achillas' forces would try and use it as a strategic location to spring attacks on Caesar. Before the death of Pompey and Caesar's intervention in the war between King Ptolemy and his sister, Alexandria had been quiet and peaceful with only the occasional street fight.
Herodot walked back to his table. He blew clay dust from his scroll, rolled it up and placed it beside the tablet. The lamp flame guttered. He checked the oil level--it was nearly empty. He walked the scroll over to the librarian crate, and carefully placed it inside. Tomorrow, the librarians would categorize it and place it with the other Akkadian translations. Tupšarru was quickly getting his own section. Herodot smiled.
A bird called out in the night, its wail setting his teeth on edge. Herodot yawned. He lifted up the tablet, secured it against his body, and picked up the nearly spent lamp. Walking heel to toe, Herodot made his way down the hall. He passed empty desks made from Lebanese cedar and East African ebony, pillars made of polished marble and stone filigreed with gold.
The shadows moved and swung with the flickering braziers. He stepped to the edge of another hallway and stopped. The way to the artifact room was shrouded in complete darkness. The architects had provided no inlet for natural light. Without lit braziers, it was impossible to see your hands in front of your face and the servants had forgotten to refill them.
He gritted his teeth, held the lamp forward and walked into the darkness. The lamp barely provided enough light for him to see two steps ahead. He raised his eyes from the floor and then stopped. His brows scrunched together as he squinted into the darkness. The artifact room was still many steps away, but there'd been a flicker somewhere down the hall. Another lamp?
"Hello?"
The sound of his voice echoing off the stone walls made him shiver. The tear-drop lamp flame guttered into an ember and then jumped back to its original shape. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It's just darkness, he told himself. Nothing to be afraid of in the Library. "Except maybe Cleitus," he whispered.
He grinned in the darkness and kept moving. Cleitus, the smallest and most ferocious head Librarian ever to enter Alexandria was, without a doubt, much more frightening than this. Herodot would rather face a thousand Roman soldiers than suffer the man's verbal violence. He wondered if Cleitus was also afraid of the dark.
After a few more steps, the large entrance to the artifact room yawned before him. He walked through the entrance and shivered from the temperature change.
The room was cooler than the rest of the building. A stone baffle captured wind from the ocean and shunted the air into the chamber. Even at the hottest points in summer, the room was pleasant.
Holding the lamp before him, he stepped toward the west wall. The tablets taken from Babylon were laid out on small shelves. Herodot looked for the empty slot amongst them, found it, and slid the tablet in between the others. He rubbed at his eyes. The vast shelf went all the way to the far wall. Dozens and dozens more to translate. He smiled. If they were all Tupšarru's, it would be a pleasure.
Something moved behind him.
Herodot turned, his
heart hammering in his chest. He held the lamp forward from his waist, trying to keep the light from blinding his night vision. "Hello?" he asked in Egyptian. No response. He asked the darkness again in Greek. Nothing moved or made a sound.
Herodot walked backwards until he felt the edge of the shelves. He sidestepped until he met the south wall. He exhaled a deep breath and pointed the lamp toward the room's entrance. There was only darkness.
A scratching sound came from the portal in the floor. He held his breath. Another bird screeched and he relaxed.
"Just a damned bird," he muttered.
The architects had put a grate in the floor in case of a flood. Another grate at the far end of the Library was affixed to the crawlspace to keep animals from the artifact room, but maybe an ibis chick had managed to get in.
He turned and headed back into the hallway. The lamp went out. Herodot cursed and stood still. At the far end, he could see the flickering light from the lit braziers in the other hallway, but they seemed a world away.
The pressure on his lungs increased as he felt the panic animal try to take control.
Jewish scum, a voice whispered in his mind.
He clenched his eyes against it.
Just children, he told himself. Just memory.
The voices quieted. Herodot opened his eyes and fixed them on the light ahead. He willed his feet to move and with heavy steps, he began the long walk down the hallway.
Halfway toward the exit, he heard the scratching sound from behind him. It was louder. Herodot lost his nerve. He ran.
The far light danced up and down as his legs pumped. He gulped down air and shot it out of his mouth just as fast. Closer. Closer. He reached the edge of the scribe's hallway and turned to enter. A glow caught his peripheral vision and he turned to look down the dark passage.
Light flickered from the artifact room's entrance. Herodot blinked. The scratching sound he'd heard before was barely audible. His skin tingled with fear. He opened his mouth to ask who was there and then closed it. He turned and quickly made his way back into the scribe hall.
He dropped the lamp onto an empty desk and fled toward the rear stairs. He didn't want to know what was in the artifact room. The braziers lit his way, but the memory of the absolute darkness would not leave him.
Herodot took the stairs as fast as he dared. The winding staircase brought him to the library's ground level.
"Sir," a low voice growled.
All the air rushed out of his lungs. He swung his head left. A Roman soldier stood near the Library's entrance.
The soldier frowned. "Are you all right, sir?"
"I--" Herodot stopped and cleared his throat. "Sorry. Just-- Well--" The soldier furrowed his brow. "Yes. I'm well, centurion."
The man nodded. "Heading back to the dormitory?"
"Yes," he said again. "It's been a long day."
"Sorry to have startled you."
Herodot managed a smile. "It gets a little lonely in the hall at night."
"I'm sure it does."
"Did anyone come upstairs?"
The soldier shook his head. "Is there something I need to know?"
"No. Just my imagination, I guess."
The soldier said nothing.
"Good night, soldier."
"Good night, sir."
Herodot turned and walked across the large Library lobby. Whereas the scribe hall was barely lit at night, the Library's entrance was bathed with fresh braziers and torches. The Roman soldiers were responsible for the Library's safety and had been for decades.
Once the war with Ptolemy began, the soldiers were more numerous and their attention to those details had become fanatical. As he walked across the marble floor, he sighed with relief. The adrenaline surge had passed, leaving him exhausted.
The meeting hall was full. Herodot sat in the second row on the west side. The head librarian, Cleitus, stood in the center of the 3/4 round room. The short, nearly bald man stared at each of the students and staff with angry eyes until the room quieted.
Herodot stifled a yawn behind his hand. Few things brought Cleitus' wrath as swiftly as a person yawning when he was trying to speak. The morning's swim had been less than pleasant due to the sounds of fighting some streets away.
Once the room was bathed in silence, Cleitus' mouth turned into a bright smile. "Good morning," Cleitus' high pitched voice filled the room. The man was a born orator, even if he sounded like he'd never grown into manhood. The staff and students said nothing in reply.
"I have a few announcements before we begin the day. The Roman leader, Julius Caesar, has assured me that no harm will befall the Library or its denizens. To ensure our safety, Caesar is posting more legionnaires to protect our home."
The room's eerie silence broke with the rustle of nervous whispers. Cleitus stood perfectly still and waited. The room gradually quieted again.
"Although Caesar has promised to protect the Library, he cannot guarantee anyone's safety should they leave. Therefore, he recommends all students and staff remain in the Library until further notice."
Herodot felt a tap on his shoulder. Isaac mouthed, "What about Sabbath?"
"We know tomorrow is a sacred day for Jews," Cleitus said. Both Isaac and Herodot turned to regard the Greek. His eyes bore into them both. "I have given permission for the scribe hall to be used for tomorrow morning's worship."
The other Jews in the hall seemed to smile and nod at the same time.
Cleitus' smile disappeared. "This will not be allowed to stop work, however. You have until second meal. After that, I expect everyone to return to work.
"Caesar has also promised to ensure we are stocked with sufficient provisions to feed the staff and students. Those of you who live outside the Library will be given quarters in the dormitories."
Another rustle of outraged conversation broke out.
"What about my wife? My family?" a voice demanded.
Cleitus stared around the room. Silence gradually returned under his gaze.
"I know this is an imposition. But I must ask that no women, no children, and no whores," he said with a leer, "be allowed in the dormitories. We will be at capacity. Those who do not obey the rules may be asked to leave."
"Leave?"
Cleitus turned toward the Eastern seating section. "Leave. As in never to return."
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
"Caesar promises it is only for a few days."
"Did Caesar say why?"
"No, Philandros, he did not." Cleitus glared at the large bearded man in the front row. "If I may finish?"
Herodot took in a breath. Philandros, the Library's wrestling champion and head of elements, was hardly someone to take such a dressing-down in public. If it had been anyone but Cleitus...
"I am not privy to the great Caesar's plans. Ptolemy sent a messenger to us yesterday, promising the Library would not be harmed." Cleitus smiled, his yellow teeth contrasting against his dark, olive skin. "Although the two armies are locked in combat, the Library is considered out of bounds by both sides."
Cleitus surveyed the room. "Therefore I expect lectures to go on as per normal. I expect the scribes to continue translating. And I expect students to continue learning. The war outside these grounds is no excuse to cease the pursuit of knowledge."
The room remained silent.
"Now, are there any questions?"
Herodot could feel the room's tension. The expression on the head librarian's face promised stern retribution if anyone uttered a word.
"Then you are dismissed for your daily studies and work." Cleitus bowed.
The room's silence was broken by the whispers of fabric rubbing against stone, the creak and crack of old bones, and sighs of relief. The collective body knew better than to begin conversing until they left the great hall.
Isaac tapped him on the shoulder. "See you upstairs."
Herodot nodded. Isaac proceeded down the steps and out the door. Several other students remained sitting. Cl
eitus walked to a pitcher of water and filled a stone cup. Herodot inwardly sighed. If Cleitus was drinking water, this would be a long lecture.
Scribe Hall was filled with the sounds of rustling papyrus, stylus' scratching, and many quiet conversations. The afternoon sun warmed the Library, but the cool sea breeze kept the room comfortable.
Herodot wiped his sweat cloth across his forehead. One had to be careful during the day's inking--sweat on the papyrus could easily turn fine lettering into indecipherable black smudges. He leaned back, lifted his hands above his head and cracked his spine.
"Too early for that," Isaac yawned from the next table.
Herodot grunted and looked down at the tablet. It was the last of the tablets in a year of Akkadian history. Before long, he'd be done with it and heading back to the catalog room for another load.
"And how is the great writer today?"
"Strange," Herodot said. "His voice is...changing. Almost as though his passion for the work had somehow dwindled."
"In what way?"
Herodot placed his stylus on the table. "The language is not as rich. It's more...matter of fact." Herodot frowned at the tablet. "The great poet seems to have forgotten how to describe his world."
"Perhaps something changed?"
"Perhaps." Herodot rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic.
"Is that the last for the year?"
"Yes."
Isaac smiled. "Then you'll find more."
The smile was infectious. "Yes. There's always more from Tupšarru. Always more."
"One day they're going to run out, you know. The man had to have died at some point."
"I know," Herodot sighed. "And I want to put that knowledge off as long as possible."
"Isaac!" a voice bellowed from the front of the hall.
"Sir?"
Akakios, Herodot's patron and the scribe leader, stood red-faced. "Get back to work," the man growled.
Isaac bowed his head. "He has the head of an ass," Isaac whispered.
Herodot shook his head and stifled a giggle. At least three times a day, Akakios bellowed at someone. Isaac was his favorite target, and Isaac deserved it more than most. The older man paused between scrolls to talk, joke, and stare at the ocean through his small window.
Legends of Garaaga Page 11