The Fortune Teller(24)

No longer overseeing the collection.

Reply from VS—

Unexpected.

Message to VS—

Assigned to Beijing.

Reply from VS—

Continue surveillance.

I’ll handle Beijing.





I could see why Poseidon was the patron of Antioch. Elaborate mechanical fountains performed dances everywhere I turned. The city stole my breath with its magnificence. Mosaics decorated the buildings and the marble glinted like rainbows in the sunlight. Known as a mecca for the legal minds of the East and a doorway to Asia, the city was steeped in wealth and luxury.

I walked the main street, a two-mile stretch bustling with traders and artists. A covered colonnade extended on both sides, offering shade, and a broad carriage road created a thoroughfare in the center.

Cheers from the Hippodrome reverberated in the distance. Much like the infamous Circus Maximus in Rome, the chariot races at the Hippodrome drew over eighty thousand spectators a day. I could also hear the sounds of flutes and tambourines signaling some kind of wild merriment nearby, and I began to understand why they said Roman soldiers stationed in Antioch refused to leave.

For hours I wandered through the maze of the market, stopping to buy provisions as I made my way to the center of the city. There was only one place I could think to go, and I wanted to make it before I lost the day’s light. My father had known many a scholar from Antioch who had traveled to our library. I hoped to find someone at theirs who knew him.

Because I had grown up a librarian’s daughter, I knew that all libraries had a book depository. These rooms were prized but frequently forgotten—vaults where countless codices and manuscripts were stored before being cataloged or translated. Antioch’s would be the perfect place to hide.

The depository was always located in the back of a library and unlocked during the day. With the ease born from a lifetime of sneaking through alcoves, I skirted past questioning eyes until I found the door. I ducked inside and let my eyes adjust to the dark. Then I moved several stacks of crates, creating a hidden corner that would be my bed for the night.

I dug through my satchel and pulled out the food from the market. I feasted on flatbread with peppered ??kelek cheese and a kebab dusted with pistachio and lemon sumac. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious.

I drank it down with salgam. The woman selling the purple refreshment told me it was made from pickled-carrot water flavored with half-fermented turnips. My lips felt the sting of the turnips, but the drink tasted delightful and my body was restored.

Thoroughly satiated, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. I must have dozed off, because when I awoke, the door was closed.

I tried to ease my growing panic. Surely someone would return tomorrow morning to unlock it. They always did at our library. After they came, I would wait for the right moment and sneak out. Then I would find a scholar who knew my father and ask for his assistance. I would need help if I was going to rent a room. So long as I lived modestly, the coins in my cloak would last while I searched for Ariston.

My eyes grew heavy as I looked at the shadows of the scrolls and manuscripts, towering above me like mountains. I felt like a scroll that had been lost and deposited among the rest.

That night I had strange, vivid dreams of lying on the floor of a cave. When I awoke the next morning the dream felt important, but I didn’t know why. The sound of the lock turning jarred me awake.

Suddenly the door opened and one of the hyperetae, the assistants responsible for registering the books, came in to make a morning deposit. I huddled deeper in the corner, not daring to move.

The sands of time in the hourglass seemed to stop as I listened to him stack manuscripts. Had a hyperetae ever moved slower?

Finally, the man finished and left. I waited a while longer to be sure, then sat up and gathered my things. I drew my cloak tightly around me to hide my travel-worn gown. I could not risk changing into the fresh clothes I had in my bag. Instead, I combed my hair into a Greek knot, making a thick bun at the bottom of my neck, and strategically decorated it with golden adornments. I removed my favorite wesekh collar from my jewelry pouch. The gold and lapis shimmered where my cloak opened at my neck. Then I doused myself with my mother’s most expensive perfume made from spikenard, a prized root from the Himalayas. The aroma conjured a certain sense of status, and there would be no mistaking its spicy musk. Now I looked more like a librarian’s daughter than a homeless waif.

After carefully sneaking from my hiding place, I toured the reading rooms. The spikenard successfully masked my odor from a week at sea. I set my face in a regal look and acted so entitled that no one questioned me.

Behind my facade, I studied each scholar, searching for a familiar face. After strolling for hours, I finally gave up. I bought more food at the market and returned to the book depository.

I did this for three days.

Like a scampering mouse, I grew more and more desperate. I had no home, no family. I had simply left one library for another—and what existed beyond these walls terrified me.

When I awoke on the fourth day, I clearly remembered my dream from the night before. I did not question its meaning. Instead, I packed my belongings and left the depository for good.

And there, in the last alcove, I found Illias sitting just as he had been in my dream.

*

Illias was one of the head librarians in Antioch. He looked frailer than when I had seen him last. His back was now curved and stooped with age, and his hands shook as his fingers guided his eyes to the next line of text. He had stayed at our home for several months on his last trip to Alexandria eight years ago. I could only hope he remembered me.