Ancient Fire (7 page)

Tiberius is friends with Cyril, the head of
the church in our city. It used to be the Romans who ran the place
were always mad at the Christians. Then the Christians began taking
over, especially Cyril, and it was their turn to get mad at the
Romans.

So the Christians began doing to everybody
else what had been done to them.

Mother said, “People have long memories here
in Alexandria. And in a place with so many different names for God
and heaven, that can be dangerous.”

Perhaps the city is not so advanced after
all. Tiberius had been saying in public that Mother was a witch,
because she lived alone—without a husband — and because she played
music, knew both elemental and advanced science, and believed in
Serapis.

Serapis is a god who dwells mostly in the
underworld. They say he brings light and dark together and can heal
both human and animal.

I don’t know if he’s real.

Nor, at that moment, did I care. The ship
disappeared, heading off in the general direction of the Royal
Quarter with its museum, zoo grounds, and library. And it didn’t
seem as though Serapis, or anybody, human or god, could get us
safely out of that tower.

I wished that we were on the airship, too.
Between the appearance of the boy wizard and his strange,
lizard-like companion, Tiberius and his dozens of followers were
convinced, utterly and forever, that Mother and I were witches of
the most terrible sort. It didn’t help that the lizard man
resembled the snake-like parts of Serapis.

“If you leave now, we won’t harm you!”

There was just one thing they did to
witches.

Letting them go without harm was not it. But
Tiberius was shouting from below, suddenly claiming he was going to
give us secure passage out of the lighthouse.

“Is it a trick, Mother?”

“It has to be,” she replied. “But I don’t
know how else we’re going to get out.”

“Then we’ll stay.”

“Then we’ll starve. Or they will get in
eventually.” Mother lifted my chin and smiled right into my eyes.
“Don’t worry. For all his ravings, Tiberius is right about one
thing. Sometimes there is magic in the world. Maybe we can trick
them, too.”

She and I went down the seemingly endless
stairs to the bottom and flung open the doors.

Tiberius and his mob were waiting. He smiled.
“Witches. We only want you out of our midst. We’ve seen your
trickery. It’s too strong for us. Please. Just…go.”

He gestured with his hand, and the crowd
parted like a gate being swung open. We stepped through.

There was a long, narrow bridge running along
the top of the seawall that controlled the flow of water into the
harbor and connected Pharos to the mainland. The way across seemed
clear. “We mean no harm to anyone,” Mother said, looking directly
at Tiberius. “We’re interested in truth. And in what light can
teach us.”

“You’re lecturing again, Hypatia. Leave here.
Walk away, go back to your library, and be out of Alexandria by
sunrise. Let the light teach you that.”

Mother’s shoulders sagged a little, and she
turned away, putting an arm around my shoulder. “Come, sweet
Thea.”

“‘Sweet Thea.’” That was Tiberius repeating
the phrase, mocking us.

“Does sweet Thea have slow pox, too?” he went
on. “Or is she protected by one of your charms?”

The slow pox epidemic was something else that
was blamed on us. We were suspect because no one at the library had
come down with it. In truth, I think the only “magic” we used was
that we bathed regularly.

“We don’t use charms.” Mother still had her
back to him.

“It’s said witches never suffer from their
own spells. If you caused the sickness, and we let you leave,
perhaps you’d take the cure with you. We can’t have that.”

Suddenly a hand shoved me off the bridge, and
I was engulfed by the warm green-blue of the Mediterranean. I
recovered and swam back to the top. When I broke the surface, I
could see my mother’s face. “Swim!” she yelled at me. It was her
hand that had pushed me. They were hauling her away.

“Swim!”

Her last words to her child.

But she also knew swimming would give me a
better chance than running. I am a good swimmer — Mother used to
call me Mermaid as a nickname — but, more important, I could now
see Tiberius had the other end of the bridge blocked off by two
fierce-looking men. He had never had any intention of letting us
go.

I could swim back toward the necropolis.
There was an underground tunnel there with an entryway near the
harbor. It led back toward the library.

It might have been safer to travel
underground, but speed was more important to me. I decided to swim
for the docks and return to the library on foot, and, once there, I
would get help. Besides, since the slow pox had broken out, there
were a lot of unburied dead down in the catacombs. And I was in no
mood to make my way past them in the dark.

As I swam away, an arrow whizzed past my
nose, disappearing in the water.

An arrow!

Normally only palace guards carry bows and
quivers. Who among Tiberius’s men was shooting at me?

Tiberius’s influence—and Cyril’s — must have
been growing among the guards themselves. I knew then there would
be fewer and fewer safe places for me.

Another arrow skimmed by me. Swim,
Mermaid!

A few minutes later, I pulled myself out of
the water, up on the wooden pilings of the harbor, shivering and
soaked. But I had very little time before Tiberius and his mob
would catch up with me.

I hurried to the Gate of the Moon, the main
entrance to the city from the harbor side, staying close to the
city wall instead of the main boulevard. The fewer people who saw
me, the better.

As I approached the Royal Quarter, I was
surprised to see a few vendors still lined up by their stalls or
selling trinkets from blankets.

Normally, you could buy everything and
anything here — fruits, nuts, olives, smoked meats, fabric, and
spices from far-off lands. You could find the services of a medic
or a midwife, or get your fortune told.

Since the pox had come, however, the open-air
bazaar was supposed to have been closed down. But people still have
to eat. And to eat, some people still had to sell.

“Child, child . . .”

I recognized her. Her name was Sarai, one of
the fortunetellers. She saw me shivering and took the shawl from
around her shoulders to wrap around me.

“Thank you…,” I gasped.

Sarai handed me a piece of smoked fish. And
then, looking around so as not to be seen, she slipped a small
statue of Serapis into my hand. “For protection,” she
whispered.

But I hardly noticed. I was watching a
griffin vulture fly by overhead. The only griffin vulture I knew
about lived in a cage in the zoo.

How could he have gotten out?

In answer to my question, the animals roared;
elephants were trumpeting, and you could hear human screams from
the groundskeepers. As this terrible music grew louder, the lizard
man leaped over the mighty wall from the garden side and landed in
front of me!

In his arms, he was holding the boy wizard.
Everyone in the bazaar was shouting, too, falling all over
themselves to get away. Everyone except Sarai.

“Who
are you?” I
asked them.

The boy wizard spoke again in some strange
tongue.

At that moment, Tiberius’s mob rounded the
corner. They stopped and pointed at the lizard man.

“Look at the creatures she commands! Can
there be any doubt she’s a sorceress?” It wasn’t Tiberius who
spoke, but someone stockier and beardless. Where was their brave
leader now? “And that this sorceress should not be allowed to
live?”

Somehow, the boy wizard and lizard man knew
what was being said. They looked at each other, then at me.

The boy nodded, and the lizard man put him
down. Then picked me up.

I was still shivering.

The small Serapis talisman fell out of my
hand. The boy bent down, perhaps to give it back to me.

But by now the lizard was holding me tight
and began bounding away on powerful legs.

Tiberius’s followers tried to give chase but
could not keep up. Angry and exhausted, they turned their attention
to the boy.

The last glimpse I had was of the boy
hopelessly surrounded.

Until he put on some kind of soft helmet—and
disappeared.

Chapter Nine

Eli: DARPA

August 2, 2019 C.E.

The van is making that vibrating sound, like
we’re going over a bridge. I bet we’re heading back toward San
Francisco. But with blacked-out windows, it’s hard to tell for
sure.

Mr. Howe is sitting on the seat next to me,
along with a couple of his uniformed goons. I guess they’re trying
to figure out what to do with me, now that they know I’m unstuck in
time.

I’ve been back awhile. I’ve told them a
little about Alexandria, what I remember. I described the
lighthouse. And the zoo. I haven’t told them about Clyne, though.
Or his ship. They’d probably just think I’m crazy, which might make
the situation worse. Besides, I don’t know if I
want
them to
know about Clyne. That might be dangerous for him.

Anyway, why should I trust them? They still
haven’t told me where my dad is. I nearly made it all the way to
Wolf House yesterday, but no sign of Dad anywhere. “I guess you’ll
just have to voluntarily stay inside from now on,” was Mr. Howe’s
only comment when they brought me back.

But I don’t get to “voluntarily” use a
vidpad, or a roam box here in the van. So I can’t do any
Barnstorming. So many free choices and all for my own good.

“Devices like that can be tracked
electronically. We can’t take any chances.” That’s Mr. Howe again,
explaining for about the twenty-hundredth time why I have to be
bored out of my skull.

Don’t they know I need something to distract
me? When you’ve been time-traveling…you’re left kind
of…
haunted
by things. Like the colors and
eerie quiet of the Fifth Dimension. Or the fact that I left a
couple people behind in Alexandria who were in big trouble…a week
ago. And who knows what shape they’re in now?

“Here. Use these to pass the time. On us.”
Mr. Howe hands me a pack of baseball cards. I don’t know why they
still call them cards. Tradition, I guess. They’re more like small
circuit boards, with moving holograms on the front.

Howe’s given me a “Hall Heroes” pack—in other
words, ’grams of players recently drafted into the Hall of Fame. I
got a Barry Bonds, a Ken Griffey Jr., and a Mark McGwire. Not bad.
There’s Bonds, hitting number 700 by the same bay I’m probably
being driven over right now. There’s McGwire, breaking the
single-season home run record, which Bonds would break again.

I’ve seen old cards in collectors’ shops, of
course. They don’t move at all. With the ’grams, you get to watch a
bunch of career highlights over and over again, so you don’t get
bored quite as fast.

Now if I can just imagine Barry Bonds as a
werewolf, I’ll have a Barnstormer game.

They woke me up this morning to come here.
I’d been dreaming again. I keep seeing the colors spilling out from
the lighthouse. And the rhino charging the time-ship. That seems to
be another problem with time travel—you get less and less sure
where your dreams leave off and your actual life begins.

My dad still wasn’t anywhere around. Mr. Howe
said he would take me to meet him.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“We can’t tell you. But you need to come with
us.”

“Why? Are you taking me to him?”

“It’s only an hour’s drive,” he said. But
that didn’t answer my question.

He tried to give me what he thought was a
reassuring smile, but it didn’t sit right on his face. Instead, he
looked like someone waking up from surgery, when the knockout gas
hasn’t quite worn off. Like the smile came from outside him and
wasn’t an expression he could make on his own.

Now we seem to be going down, driving on a
long ramp, or in an echoey tunnel. The windows may be blacked out,
but you can still feel slopes. And hear sound.

We stop and the sliding door is flung open.
More uniformed guys are standing around. I step out, and the air
feels damp. It’s some kind of giant underground garage with rows of
lights way overhead. Lots of cement. Pipes running along the walls.
We’re walking toward what seems like a complex of offices behind a
large Plexiglas window. Why put in a window? What’s so great about
a view of a dark, damp cement garage?

I see some more guys in DARPA jumpsuits
running around. “Where are we?”

“We can’t really tell you,” Mr. Howe tells
me, and I’m starting to wonder why I bother asking any questions at
all.

“It’s an old BART tunnel,” a voice says. “But
since the train doesn’t come through here anymore, it’s like our
own private station.”

It’s a woman’s voice. I turn, and she’s
stepping out of a private train that whooshed in silently from one
of the dark tubes. She’s in a blue business suit, and her hair is
blond, streaked with gray. She wears it loose. When she smiles, at
least, it seems more real than when Mr. Howe tries it. “They had to
build several different subway tunnels after the last earthquake.
This was one of the old ones they left behind. A real fixer-upper.
But office space is so expensive aboveground. This was a steal.” I
stare at her a moment. She seems so different from Mr. Howe that
I’m beginning to think it was less strange running into a dinosaur.
“Who are you?”

She shrugs. “Number Thirty.” She gives me the
smile again, like she has warm cookies for me, but of course she
doesn’t.

“That’s your name?”

She points to my baseball cards. “That was
Griffey’s number. It’ll be my name for today.” Two men in dark blue
suits step out of the train car, and the shadows, to stand next to
her. “And we’ll call these two Twenty-Five.”