Keeper of the Flame (19 page)
Her own words echoed back to her . . .
I am not sure I have the capacity to love.
I
must escape this place.
Another week had passed since the Roman soldiers had infested her lighthouse, and Sophia thought she might be losing her mind, trapped as she was in her chambers and her garden. Though they had long been her only places of refuge and solace, she found that being confined there against her will plagued her in a way that hiding there by her own choice never did. She was loathe to descend to the Base, with all those men milling about with nothing to do but make coarse jokes and wrestle with each other.
But when she woke one morning to an unusually gray sky and a freshening breeze, she decided she must get away. Or lose her sanity.
It was a market day, and with the sky threatening a rare storm, the crowds would be out early, anxious to complete their business. Though Alexandria received more rainfall than the rest of Egypt that lay south along the Nile, still the Egyptians felt it an ill omen. The Nile supplied all the water that they needed. Why would they want it to fall from the sky? No good—only floods, muddy streets, and disrupted shipping—could come of it.
Sophia dressed hurriedly in her customary tan tunic, belted it, and descended to the Base. She found Ares in the kitchen, supervising the day’s cooking. Two slaves kneeled at a small fire in the center of the room, cooking a goose, and several others worked at tables, chopping cabbage. Sophia grabbed some maza bread before informing him of her plan.
“I was going to send Capaneus,” Ares said, “as soon as he finished with serving breakfast.”
Sophia chewed the bread and swallowed. “I haven’t been to the agora in some time. I’d like to make the choices for this week’s purchases myself.”
Ares shrugged. “I will send Capaneus with you.”
“No need. I will arrange to have my selections brought back.”
Ares narrowed his eyes and pulled her to the doorway, away from the servants. “You are escaping. Is there a problem?”
Sophia eyed the servants, whose attention on them was barely concealed. “I have no need to escape, Ares. I am simply taking an active role in the running of my lighthouse.”
Ares didn’t nod. “As you wish. I will watch over things here.”
In the end, she consented to have Capaneus drive her to the agora in a two-wheeled cart, as the sky still hung heavy with gray clouds and she had no wish to walk through rain. She dismissed him in the street, however, and entered the agora alone. She stood before the teeming square, divided into streets and smaller squares, and strangely felt the freedom of solitude for the first time in weeks.
She breathed deeply and plunged into the square. There were immediate looks of recognition, elbow jabs and points, comments whispered into others’ ears at her presence. Smiling, hands fisted at her sides, she made the decision to ignore and simply enjoy the time outside the lighthouse.
Before the Romans came, I would never have believed I could find comfort in a crowd.
The agora of Alexandria was the finest in the world. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of stalls lined the streets, with a central square reserved for philosophers and teachers to expound their theories.
She pushed through the first thronged street and lingered at tables of golden olive oils, bleached white linens, and delicate blown glassware in a rainbow of colors. The scent of Arabian perfumes and spices from India tickled her nose and drew her on. She stopped to argue with a fat salt merchant, whose valuable store had come all the way across the Western Desert from the mines of Mali. She directed him to send a
mina
weight to the lighthouse, then pulled two drachmas from a pouch and thrust the money at him.
He laughed. “Do you think I drag the salt across the desert on my own back, mistress? There are many others to pay along the way!”
“That is no excuse to rob me.”
“Rob you! It is you who robs my children. My five small children who will have nothing to eat!”
She pointed at his gut, bulging beneath his himation. “Perhaps you should share.”
“Oh!” He threw his hands into the air. “Now you will insult me? Is this how you think to find a fair price?”
She pulled a few more obols from her pouch. “There. Buy a goat for your five hungry children.”
He waved both hands and shook his head. “I cannot do it to them. Not at such a price.”
Sophia shrugged and looked over his head toward the next street. “Fine. I think there is another salt merchant who does not have so many children.” She edged away from the table.
“Mistress! You leave me a poorer man than you found me, but I must sell all of this today before I leave on a long journey. It is your good fortune that I am forced to do this. Three drachmas.”
Sophia pulled the remaining coins from her pouch and dropped them in his palm. “Delivered to the lighthouse by the end of the day.” The fat man lowered his head, as though she had beaten the salt from him rather than paid him a handsome price.
She moved on, into the small section reserved for the thriving Alexandrian gem trade. Emeralds, amethysts, topaz and onyx—they were all mined here in Egypt and then transformed into gorgeous cameos, carved ornaments and jewelry. Sophia slowed at the table of one merchant and ran her fingers over a stunning necklace of finely worked gold and tiny purple amethysts. She touched her own neck with the other hand and briefly wondered. But then her eyes drifted to her brown tunic and she drew her fingers away from the piece.
Behind her, a man much taller than she jostled close and bumped her. She turned a scathing look on him, and he quickly looked away.
It was time to move on.
She repeated the scene with the salt merchant several more times, arguing over a box of Indian cinnamon that she knew Sosigenes would appreciate sprinkled on his fruit, and insisting on the finest cut of goose at a reasonable price.
Twice more she turned to find the tall Greek nearby, and she studied his features, searching for recognition. Had Ares sent a servant to watch her? But he was not dressed as a servant, and she was certain he was unknown to her.
The crowd was thickening now. The tumult of merchants haggling with customers, the bleats and snorts of animals, and even the random singing that erupted from various quarters in the agora, mingled to create a chaos that pressed against her. It was as though the Great Harbor had tipped all its many
merchant ships on end, pouring their luxuries into the agora for all of Alexandria to paw over. She put her fingers to her temples and tried to take a fresh breath, free of the jumble of scents. The uncommon moisture in the air seemed to hold the odors down with a heavy hand.
In the next street, Sophia passed by the stacks of fragrant cedarwood from Lebanon and stopped on a whim beside a table draped with leopard skins.
He is still there.
The lanky Greek. He had not anticipated her sudden stop beside the skins. When she turned to face him, he darted between a table laid with colorful silk from the Far East, and one with Indian cotton.
A prick of fear needled her. If Ares had sent the man, would he have worked so hard to remain unnoticed? She ran a hand absently over the leopard skin, her eyes still trained toward the adjoining tables. He seemed to be watching her from the edge of his vision.
Enough purchases for today.
She smiled at the skins merchant, shook her head, and moved away, ignoring his calls of protest. She forced her way through the crush of people, cringing at the touch of those she brushed against.
I should never have left the lighthouse.
The agora gave way, finally, and she was free. But in the lonely street beyond she felt vulnerable and exposed. She hurried down the granite way, keeping close to the columned porticos and open shops.
At the entrance of a narrow alley, an arm swept around her waist, and a voice rasped at her ear. “Not so fast.”
She tried to pry the arm from her body. She twisted her head,
though she knew exactly who held her. His chin was unshaven, his hair longish and greasy. Wrapped in his embrace, she smelled the sea and fish and an odor she couldn’t identify.
“Let me go!” She tried to wriggle from his grasp.
Her attacker laughed, a quiet growl, then yanked her sideways off her feet and dragged her into the alley.
Only the kitchen doors of estates opened to the narrow space. Garbage lined the buildings. Sophia tried to catch her breath. She felt her neck grow damp with fear. “What do you want?”
He pushed her against one of the stone walls. He released his grip on her waist, then used the arm to brace against her throat, and leaned in close. His breath stank, and he grazed her cheek with his lips. She slapped at his face.
So many young and beautiful women about. Why would he choose me?
She clawed at the arm that pressed her throat, then tried to bite it.
He pushed her chin backward. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you, Keeper?”
She stopped struggling, stunned.
“Days outside that lighthouse. I was beginning to think you would never show your face.”
Sophia reached for his arm again, tried to ease the pressure. The stone at her back felt cold, unrelenting. “What do you want?” she asked again. His arm seemed made of the ebony she’d seen in the market.
“Yes, I want something. Something you can tell me where to find.”
“I have only a small amount of money.” She fumbled at her waist to uncover her pouch.
He pressed her throat harder, and she cried out. She tried to turn her head, to see if anyone else walked the alley. “Release me!” But the words were only a croak with his arm against her voice, and she knew no one inside the homes would hear.
“Keep your money. I want the scholar.”
If she hadn’t been terrified, Sophia would have laughed. “What could you want—”
He used his free hand to grip her side, digging sharp fingers. “Just tell me where the old man is. Sosigenes.”
Sophia blinked away the pain and lifted her chin. “He can be of no interest to you. He has no money of his own and he has not yet invented a way to make peasants smell like something other than dead fish.” Her voice shook at the end of the sarcasm, but she did not flinch.
His eyes flashed and he bent to place his cheek against hers. His body pressed against the length of her own. She felt the scratch of his beard, coarse sand rubbed on tender skin. His fingers disappeared from her side but were back again in a moment, this time at her throat. She caught the flash of silver.
“He gave me leave to kill you if I must. ‘At all cost, bring the scholar.’ ” A knife point tickled just under her chin. “If you will not help me, I have no use for you.”
The fear she had felt first spark in the agora bloomed into terror. She had nothing more than words to defend herself, and they would not protect her against a knife. She kicked at his shins and tried to scream. He pressed the cold blade closer.
“Who wants him?” she whispered. “You must tell me that before I give you anything.”
Does he know I merely stall?
The sharp point traced circles under her chin, and something like regret passed over the man’s features. “That is none
of your concern. And I will not listen to any demands from you. Tell me where he is. Now!”
She had always suspected that her patronage of the Museum and its scholars would one day make her a target of someone’s ill-will. Wherever there was progress, there would be those who oppose it, who fear it.
But this is not about fear. This is about power.
Someone had discovered what Sosigenes was creating, had discovered Kallias’s legacy, and had come to seize the power for himself.
She could not protect Sosigenes if she were dead. But she could not tell this brute the truth. She floundered, with growing panic, for a suitable lie.
And the tip of the knife began a slow slice along her jawline.
I
n the grayness of the day, Bellus longed for Rome. Though his days in the countryside of Italy were most often sunkissed, there were still drizzly days when the fire beckoned one to draw close and spend the time with books, with staring into the flames in contemplation.
But the lighthouse afforded no such luxury to him, and so the heavy clouds and dim corridors weighed on his spirit and eventually drove him outdoors.
He walked, wandering toward the city, uncaring if he was caught in a downpour. Eventually he found the agora and enjoyed a walk through. When he came upon Capaneus, a slave he recognized from the lighthouse, lounging beside an empty horse-drawn cart at the edge of the agora, he inquired as to his errand.
Capaneus jabbed a thumb toward the center of the agora. “She is shopping today.”
Bellus raised his eyebrows and followed the man’s thumb. “I did not realize she came to the agora herself.”
Capaneus barked a laugh. “Never does.” He pointed upward. “Ill-favored sky. It drives people mad.”
Bellus smiled his agreement and waved farewell.
What kind of merchant would draw Sophia?
He wandered back through the stalls, searching for a shorthaired woman among the mix of peasants and nobility.
He soon gave up. The agora churned with people, making his task impossible. He escaped from the central crowd and edged along the street, where vendors stayed in their shops, hoping to capitalize on the traffic to and from the market.
Bellus marveled again at the grid-like plan of the city, laid out so precisely by Alexander’s men three hundred years earlier. Did he have any idea what he began?
Even the alleys ran straight from the streets, and Bellus glanced down each he passed, idle curiosity urging him on.
A woman’s cry halfway down one alley arrested his progress.
A Greek, peasant from his dress, held someone against the wall. He assumed it was the woman whom he had heard. He hesitated, unwilling to get involved in a domestic argument.
