Keeper of the Flame (21 page)

She moved slowly across the hall to the altar at the front.

A priest appeared, his white skirt gleaming in the darkness and his shaved head catching the firelight. She kneeled before him, and he touched her forehead with his finger. She felt the residue of oil that remained.

He began a chant over her, and she fumbled for the coins she had brought. They were smooth and heavy in her hand, and she pressed them into his. He accepted the sacrifice without breaking the rhythm of his chant.

Sophia’s eyes grew heavy. She blinked several times and let them close. She waited for the peace that had often descended on her in the temple, but it did not come.

Too many questions now.
Sosigenes had done that to her with his frequent talk of One God.
Yes, One God
. Oh, to put aside the ever-changing pantheon of Egyptian, Greek, and now Roman gods. To know only one to worship. She felt the pull of it on her soul, felt the truth of it whisper to her heart.

Her chest felt weighted; it grew difficult to breathe.

The priest paused in his singing over her, and she rose and fled. Past the red and gold painted columns with Isis and Horus presiding over the world, to the wide-open brightness of the courtyard. It had been foolish to come.

She crossed the city from the Serapeum again, moving north toward Pharos, through the commercial district. Vendors were beginning their day, opening shop doors, sweeping garbage into the street. Sophia was noted, though not hailed, by many. She made a few stops, arranging for purchases to be delivered.

Back in the lighthouse, she avoided contact with the few soldiers who were stirring. Bellus was not about. She crept to the North Wing, then down the cool stone corridor to the room she had set up for the scholars to do their work. Would they be awake yet? She pushed the heavy wooden door open slowly, and it squeaked on its hinge.

Twelve gray-haired men in pure white himations raised their heads to her.

“Sophia!”

Here it was different. Not like the street vendors. Here she was welcomed, appreciated. She belonged.

She had given the scholars each a desk of their own, and they hovered over scrolls, with more books tumbled in piles around them. The room smelled of lamp smoke, ink, and men confined.

Sosigenes pushed away from the table where he worked and crossed the room to her, his hands extended. “Finally,” he said, smiling, “a woman to break the tedium of a dozen old men!” He gripped her hands and pulled her to himself. She leaned into his embrace and felt her eyes water.

“How goes the work?” she said over his shoulder.

He patted her cheek. “Come and see.”

The Proginosko sat upon a low table along the wall. Unassuming, it might have been taken for a rich man’s toy. It was a bronze slab, less than a cubit long, with one large dial on the front and two on the back. It had more than thirty gears, with teeth formed by triangles, and the dials were marked by degrees in both Greek and Egyptian. Hands revealed the relative positions of the sun, the lunar phases, and all five planets.

“Look here.” Sosigenes turned the Proginosko to show her the back. “I’ve been able to reconstruct the spiral dial for the Metonic tropical cycle and the subsidiary dial for the Chaldean cycle, to calculate the eclipses.” The pride in his voice brought a smile to Sophia’s lips.

“And this?” She pointed to a lower dial, also a spiral.

His eyes twinkled. “You know how I love the games. It is for the Olympiad, to calculate the cycle of the games.”

“Then you are finished?”

Sosigenes drew her close. “Nearly. Only the testing, and the moon wanes. But there is more.”

She studied the creases in his thin face, like a map of ages.

“I am working on some calculations.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and she realized that even among the academic pursuits of the Museum, rivalry existed. She leaned in to hear better. “I believe I have found an even more accurate way to construct the calendar.”

“More accurate than the Romans?”

Sosigenes waved a hand, dismissing her joke.

“The Romans don’t know Ianuarius from Februarius. No, Sophia”—he gripped her arm with one hand and nodded toward the Proginosko—“more accurate than the Chaldean, than the Callippic. Based on Meton’s work, but my calendar would not
see a drift of a day for over a hundred years, and even then would be adjusted!”

Sophia smiled. “The Sosigenes Cycle.”

The older man dropped his head. “It can be named for anyone, I suppose. The important thing is the accuracy of it.”

Sophia sighed, pleased with his progress, but a bit envious of his dedication to something. Anything. She gazed over the other scholars, who had returned to their cramped positions at their desks, reeds scratching over papyrus with lovely purpose, as though their minds had run ahead and their reeds struggled to keep pace.

Sosigenes wrapped an arm around her waist. “All this is because of you, Sophia. You are indeed wisdom, as your name. Without you I cannot imagine what would have come of us.” He squeezed her to himself. “Kallias, he would have been so proud of you, to see this.”

She nodded but did not trust herself to speak.

“Did you come so early for a reason, Sophia?”

She swallowed and pulled away. “I wanted to see your progress. I fear we may not have long to hide. I was out early to visit the Serapeum, praying for our cause.”

“Ah.” Sosigenes moved away, toward his desk.

“I know you do not approve.”

He sat heavily in the chair and looked up at her. “Do not seek my approval, Sophia. I am not the one who determines your destiny.”

“I just do not understand how you have come to embrace this Jewish God—”

“God is not Jewish, Sophia. He is God.”

Sophia sighed. Sosigenes had spoken often to her of the One
True God of the Jews. It was difficult to accept that a primitive country such as Judea, or its thousands of captive peoples here in Alexandria, had discovered the only god, and that all other peoples were somehow mistaken. “I think perhaps we each worship in our own way, and whatever gods exist, they are pleased.”

Sosigenes smiled, a sad smile she knew well. “Ah, but I could tell you stories, my dear. So many people who have believed that to their peril.” He leaned heavily on the desk beside them. “The One God has existed from the beginning, before we toiled in the desert to build the Great Pyramid. He watched as we went our own way, ignored Him to set up idols of stone and wood. But He was not content to let us go. He reached down and chose one of us, Abraham, to set apart, one through whom He would reveal Himself. But still, He is God of all.”

Sophia drew close, unwilling for all the room to hear her questions. “And the Jews, they came from this Abraham?”

“A mighty nation once. They grew up and multiplied in Egypt, until the One God called them out of that land and into their own. He went before them all the way, showing Himself strong in the face of the false gods of the Egyptians and the Canaanites. He spoke through fire and wind, earthquakes and floods, and put His message in the mouths of many prophets. Throughout all these years, as cultures have risen and fallen, He has remained.”

Sophia watched the other white-haired men, busy about their work through the room. “You speak as though you were there for all of it.”

Beside her Sosigenes was silent for a moment, then smiled. “It is my calling, Sophia. To testify to the hand of the One God through the ages.”

“You would have me believe that all the Egyptian gods, all the Greek deities . . . they are all false?”

“There is only One God, Sophia. And only one way to be reconciled to Him. Only the way He makes for us.”

“This Messiah you await?”

He lifted his head to the air above them and closed his eyes. “I know that my Redeemer comes.”

Sophia plucked at her chitôn. “It is hard—”

“Yes, Sophia. It is always hard to turn away from what your culture deems to be truth.”

She traced a circle on the desk with her fingertip. “And what does this One God offer that is so much better than those I have worshipped all my life?”

“If He is the One God, Sophia, then He is the only one who offers anything.”

She made a face at the older man. “I don’t mean to argue philosophy with you, Sosigenes. I want to know what makes your One God different?”

“Love.”

“Love? That is all?”

Sosigenes smiled. “ ‘
One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: that word is love.
’ ”

It must be the day for Sophocles.

Sosigenes patted her hand. “Love is everything, my dear. As old as you are, you have yet to learn this.”

She drew her hand away. “Then this is the best reason to disbelieve you. Why would any god ever choose to love me?”

He was silent a moment, then whispered, “Or any of us?”

Sophia desired to escape. She sniffed and looked to the door. “I purchased some things for you. I will see if they have arrived yet.”

He smiled, and she knew she had only postponed the rest of the conversation.

In the South Wing, several servants sent by merchants delivered goods to the front entryway of the Base. Sophia had to weave through soldiers who milled about in their ever-present way. Still Bellus was not among them.

“Here”—she called to a boy with a small cart of crates— “bring them with me.” She led the boy back toward the North Wing. The wheels of his wooden cart clacked painfully along the stone corridor in a rhythm, and Sophia wondered if they would reach the back of the Base before the rickety thing fell to pieces.

She had the boy set the two crates on the floor at the door of the scholars’ makeshift Museum, gave him some money, and sent him back around the corner before opening the door. Three men closest to the door hurried forward to help her with her load.

“What is this, Sophia?” Hesiod asked. “We have need of nothing more than our books here.”

She pulled at the lid, then lifted it to reveal the contents. Nestled in a bed of straw were two dozen plump oranges.

The intake of breath from the men around her was reward enough.

“I have not had an orange since—I don’t know when!” Hesiod said.

They were surrounded by the others at once, and within a minute the fine spray of citrus perfumed the air. Sophia laughed to see the men pop bits of the juicy flesh into their mouths and chew greedily. She was embraced more than once.

A movement from the side of the room caught her attention and she turned.

The door slid open to reveal the figure of a man who did not belong. The Roman Bellus.

Sophia felt the smile erode from her face. The centurion’s eyes roamed the room, taking in the desks, the piled books, the white-robed men holding oranges. She felt unable to move, and the room grew quickly silent, each man’s actions suspended.

Bellus moved forward into the room with slow steps, then closed the door behind himself. His eyes found Sophia and his lips parted. “How could I have been so stupid?” He shook his head. “I knew you were hiding something of importance back here. What else would it be?” He gazed across the room again, his eyes wide.

Sophia pulled away from the center of the group of old men and crossed the room. She grabbed Bellus by the arm, yanked open the door, and dragged him into the corridor. With the door firmly shut behind her, she said only one word. “Come.”

She knew he followed. Along the corridor to a doorway that opened onto the central courtyard.

In the hot sand of mid-morning, she whirled to face him. “So now you know.”

Bellus’s eyes still held that far-off look. “All of them? You have all of them here?”

“What else could I do, with your general breathing threats if they didn’t give up their noble pursuits to build your war toys?” She paced before him, and the scratch of her sandals in the sand was like an irritation under her skin. Little puffs of dust floated at her feet each time she turned in her pacing.

“Can I talk to them?” Bellus’s attention went to the door they had come through. “Can I sit with them awhile? Hear about their work?”

Sophia stopped her relentless movement and stared at him. That light in his eye. She knew it well. It was the light of inquiry,
of wonderment, of curiosity. Like a child who has stumbled upon the door to another world.

The impact of this insight hit her like a weight to the chest.
Ah, Bellus, you have no idea how much we are alike.

He turned back to her, saw her watching him with suspended breath, and smiled, a smile that was both amiable and conspiratorial. “You are amazing, Sophia. To have them here, with all of us”—he pointed to the South Wing where his centuria was stationed—“all this time.”

She moved toward him, wrapped shaky fingers around his forearm. In spite of the heat that built in the sandy courtyard, his skin was cool to her touch. She searched the light still sparking in his eyes. “You will keep my secret.”

She spoke the words as a command, though they both knew he had the right and the power to destroy her and the scholars. And even as she loathed the truth that she was at his mercy, a tiny part of her heart welcomed it.

He covered her hand, still on his arm, with his own. They stood that way for a long moment, close together and breathing in unison. She sensed the mighty wrestling that went on within him.

“I will keep your secret, Sophia,” he finally said. “I will keep your secret.”

Twenty-Three

P
othinus strode past the tents and fires in the dark marshes of Pelusium, greeting soldiers with a regal nod or a partial bow. The darkness hid their expressions, leaving only the whites of their eyes glowing around the fires for him to decipher whether each was loyal to him and the boy-king or had let his allegiance be bought by the scheming sister Arsinôe and her hulking idiot tutor, Ganymedes. The army’s general, Achillas, slipped beside him in the night, and Pothinus jumped.

“You have nothing to fear from me, my lord,” Achillas whispered.

“The shadows hide both friend and foe.”

“More friends than foes, I believe.”

“Tell me.”