Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (28 page)

“The Middle East is always unstable,” Jerry said. “If we waited for peace in the Middle East…”

“We’d still be waiting in a hundred years. I know.” Peavey shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s this situation in Ethiopia. It’s got people worried. And nobody wants to piss off the Italians. Not with the number of digs there are in Italy…”

“Damn it.” Jerry sat down in the visitor chair. “This is about not annoying Mussolini?”

“It’s about more than that.” Peavey gestured toward the window with the stem of his pipe. “It’s about the safety of our teams. We’ve got a dig at Philae that’s only a couple of hundred miles from a shooting war.”

“Philae is nowhere near Ethiopia…” Jerry began hotly.

“Hear me out, Jerry,” Peavey said. “Wars grow. You and I both know that. The Met doesn’t want the situation they had in ‘14, with teams strung out all over the world and no way to get their people home. And you know that shutting down a big dig in a responsible fashion takes time. They don’t want to wait until it’s too late. Once all hell’s broken loose, it’s too late.” He dropped his voice even though there was no one in the room but them. “What do you think will happen if you get into this thing and you’re right? You’re talking about an enormous dig, one that’s going to take five years to do properly. You’re talking about a site of enormous historical significance, a prize for any museum in the world. Use your head, Jerry. Do you want to make it that kind of target? We don’t have five years.”

Jerry met his eyes, blue and clear. It was so quiet that he could hear the traffic outside, the sound of a truck’s brakes, the call of a street vendor.

“I know,” he said into the silence. “We don’t have five years.” The truth fell like pebbles into a pond, a certainty born of the slant of Alexandrian sunlight across the worn boards of the office floor. “Five years. 1941.”

“We’re out of time,” Peavey said quietly. “Some other year, Jerry.”

“Yeah.” But there was no other year, not for him. In five years he’d be fifty-three. In ten he’d be fifty-eight. He was out of time. “Some other life,” he said, and gave Peavey a half smile. Peavey wouldn’t be here in a decade either. The Soma was slipping away from both of them, a mirage of the unattainable, the lost tomb of Alexander the Great lost once more.

“Alexandria will be here,” Peavey said.

“I know.”

“You’ve got as much time as you need to finish up the site you’re on,” Peavey said. “The Pylon of Isis is a nice find.”

“It is,” Jerry said. Nothing compared to what he’d hoped. Nothing like the Soma, so tantalizingly close and so far.

“Another month or so?”

“Maybe. I should certainly be able to finish the field work in that, including the photography.”

“Good.” Peavey was solemn. “You’ve done good work here.”

“Thanks.” Jerry heard his own voice as if from far away. He was losing the Soma.

“The Met’s not going anywhere either,” Peavey said, getting to his feet.

“I know.” The Met would come back someday. A decade was nothing to them. But for him…

Peavey put out his hand. “I’m looking forward to seeing the translation of the inscriptions.”

“So am I,” Jerry said. “I mean, I’m looking forward to working on them. I should have some rough stuff for you next week.”

“That sounds great.”

Jerry wasn’t sure how he got out of the office and down the elevator, through the lobby and out into the street. He stood there a moment in the sunshine, the life of Alexandria going on around him, the ceaseless pulse of the city under a sun that never changed, not though centuries passed since it shone on the dome of the Soma rising above these same streets, the lighthouse white in the noonday brightness.

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.

W
illi 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.”

Willi 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…