Chapter Four

[Carthage, 413 AD]

"Synesius of Cyrene, Bishop of Ptolemais." Augustine's man, the Nubian, spoke the introduction in his rich, mellifluous voice.

Augustine looked up from his scroll and nodded. "You look more weary than ever – please sit," he said to Synesius, and motioned the Nubian to leave.

Synesius sat and produced his own scroll. "I could have warned Marcellinus."

"You discovered something about Maricus's treachery in Alexandria?" Augustine shook his head. "Too late – Marcellinus and his brother were already under arrest."

Now Synesius shook his head. "I discovered something in this scroll. . . ." Synesius gave the scroll to Augustine. "Your friend Jonah gave this to me, and asked me not to read it until this morning."

Augustine opened the scroll and sniffed it. Then he read it. "This clearly was not written today," he said, without looking up. "It smells at least months old." Then he looked at Synesius. "There was nothing you could have done today. Only an act of God could have saved the brothers."

Synesius slowly nodded. Then said, "I knew about this – what would happen today – nearly three months ago."

"I do not understand."

"I thought that the scroll might contain some knowledge that could help me save Hypatia – I read it almost the moment Jonah left."

"Three months ago?"

Synesius nodded.

"You no doubt thought it was nonsense at the time – Marcellinus imprisoned by his own general? Nonsense. You cannot be blamed. You did not believe a word of it."

"I believed it," Synesius said.

Augustine looked at him.

"It was illogical, totally contrary to the facts that were before me, but I believed it. I cannot tell you why. I just knew in my soul that it was a true prediction."

Augustine turned his head and looked out the window. "You owe me no explanations. But . . . you did not say anything about this – not to Marcellinus, not to Apringius, not to anyone – not even to me. And you left their fate in my poor hands . . . which, as you saw, earlier today, were insufficient for the task."

Synesius nodded and marveled at Augustine's self-control. The great Bishop of Hippo had been nearly in tears, at the execution, four hours ago, pleading in vain for Marcellinus. And now there was barely a trace of anger in his voice. "I was warned by Jonah," Synesius said, "not to act on what I read, lest it damage history, and invalidate the very proof from the future. Forgive me–"

"I am not hearing your confession."

"I know," Synesius said. "I am not here to confess."

"Oh?"

"I am here to inquire why you sent Jonah to me – and what you know about him. He clearly possesses powerful capacities."

Augustine returned his gaze to Synesius. "It is not just Jonah. There are others who possess this power. It could change the whole nature of this world – the very relationship between God and Man."

"For better or for worse?"

"Most changes are for worse," Augustine replied. "But I cannot be sure."

"And you sent Jonah to me?" Synesius repeated his question, fully aware that it had not been answered.

"To learn more about Jonah, and–"

"To learn more about me?"

"Yes," Augustine answered.

Synesius was silent.

"You showed great courage, strength, and loyalty in your response to the scroll that Jonah left with you. You opened it to help save someone you love. But you kept silent about its contents, did not act upon them, because you understood the danger that could pose for humanity. I think we can work together, for our Church, more closely now."

[coast of Gaul, 413 AD]

I am once again on a ship, Synesius said to himself, but it moves not in the short direction of Alexandria. Whatever else he may have told himself and Augustine, Synesius knew he was on this ship because he hoped it might have the best chance of bringing him closer to Hypatia – who, as far as he knew, was no longer in Alexandria. Or at least, that was the most important reason for him.

But Synesius also knew that Augustine realized this as clearly as did Synesius, who was fully aware that the two of them often put on the pretense of serving only the Church. This was certainly pretense in part for Synesius. But he suspected Augustine might have similarly conflicting claims on his destiny. Not from Hypatia, but from someone, something, in addition to the Holy See in Rome.

Augustine believed there were three specific locations of the temporal power Jonah had wielded, three places on this Earth. One was somewhere far across the sea, to the west – unreachable via any vessel Synesius or Augustine could easily obtain. A second was in Athens – quite reachable, but not reliable. "Men have died there, many times, in defense and attack of this location in Athens," Augustine had told him.

This left Augusta to the distant north – or Londinium, as it still was often called. It was no bed of roses, either. The Emperor had all but abandoned the city three years ago, in 410, informing the local inhabitants that they would have to see to their own defenses, with no help from the legionaries. Perhaps this made the city even more dangerous than Athens. But it had the "advantage of no one there likely knowing about the site of temporal power," according to Augustine.

Thus Synesius was en route to Londinium.

He touched the ab he had taken from Hypatia's quarters in Alexandria, and now carried in his garb at all times. This plan depended upon Augustine's honesty about what resided in Londinium, and its connection to Hypatia. Synesius closed his eyes, stroked the ab with his thumb and forefinger, and consoled himself with the thought that if Augustine had wanted him to die, or even just leave Carthage, there were a myriad of ways far closer at hand than this.

* * *

The sea near Gaul grew cold as Synesius's vessel progressed north. He shivered at night in his small cabin. But the climate warmed as Londinium neared.

Synesius was sad to see this Roman city that was Roman no more. He supposed it looked much the same as it had three years earlier. But he thought he could also glimpse the beginnings of the end of civilization around its edges, in the expressions of the people of the shores of Tamesis fluvius. He could not even say exactly what was in their faces. But he saw it.

A very heretical thought entered his head – one which asserted itself, from time to time, whenever he saw the faltering of Roman power in the world. Was this the fault of the Church?

No, it was more the fault of the barbarians, of that he was sure. But would a pagan Rome, still in its glory, have been able to better withstand the barbarians, even vanquish them, as it had for hundreds of years?

The docking ended his reverie. Synesius had instructions in his garment, carefully written right in front of him by Augustine. Synesius touched them but did not need to reread them. He treasured anything that came from Augustine's hand, especially a scroll written just for him, but he had learned to trust his recollection. Unlike a scroll, his memory could not be misplaced or lost – at least, not at Synesius's age, as long as he remained healthy. As much as he admired Socrates, the great champion of spoken dialogue had been wrong, Synesius was sure, about what Socrates had said about the written word in the Phaedrus. Synesius read and wrote every day, many times, and thus far his faculty of memory was as keen as when he had been an illiterate toddler. At least, as far as Synesius could tell. . . .

He debarked onto the reddish soil. Augustine had insisted that Synesius make this trip on his own, and that had suited Synesius. He was happy to have no one expecting an explanation of his actions.

He walked up the embankment, away from the wharves, many of which were rotting. The warm air was a mixed blessing. Better than the sea wind which had made him shiver, but it carried a stench. Synesius tried not to think about it.

Two men, each about a head taller than Synesius, approached him. Synesius tried to look away, and walk a little to the side, but he quickly saw that avoiding them would only make him more noticed. He touched the hilt of the knife that he also carried in his garment, and turned to face the men. He smiled, and waited for them to speak. With any luck, it would be in a tongue he understood. He understood many.

"It has been a while since our city has been honored by an emissary from Rome," one of the men said, "and unheralded." The tongue was perfect Latin, with an odd accent, which Synesius recognized as some kind of Celtic.

Synesius bowed, slightly. "I am not an emissary, but I am a Bishop."

"Welcome, Father," the other man said, in a thicker but equally comprehensible accent. "My sister is married to a Christian, and he is a good man."

Synesius bowed slightly, again.

"Here on Church business, then?" the first man inquired.

"Personal pilgrimage," Synesius replied. This place was supposed to be less dangerous than the dwelling with the temporal power in Athens, yet these two men seemed keenly interested in his affairs.

"Is there a shrine nearby worthy of a pious pilgrimage, then?" the first man asked.

Synesius made a quick decision. "Yes. Would you like to accompany me?" He reckoned there was no way he could separate himself from these two. He would take them to the shelter, plead that he needed a few minutes alone inside, and hope that he could do what Augustine had told him – quickly enough so that he would be gone before the two tried to enter, only to find that he had locked the shelter.

[Augusta/Londinium, 413 AD]

The shelter looked just as Augustine had described – almost completely buried in the ground, apparently long abandoned.

The first man looked around when Synesius stopped. He stared for a moment at the shelter. "Evil spirits live there. Is this the place you seek?"

"It is," Synesius replied, softly. "And I must first enter, alone."

The first man shook his head and sneered. "Why, so you will have time to secure the treasure that you seek, and hide it from us?"

"No, the only treasure therein is spiritual. And I would not hide it from anyone. But I must proceed alone."

This only seemed to make the first man angry. "Don't sing those siren songs to me, priest." He raised his fist. "I admit I doubt that any real treasure could be in that hovel. It's been there since long before I was born, and I never heard anyone speak of treasure. Still–"

The second man put his hand on the first man's fist, and spoke quietly. "I shall accompany him." He looked at Synesius, who nodded, and thought, what choice do I have?

The first man also nodded and stood guard on the hill. He apparently regarded the second man as in some sense superior. Synesius and the second man approached the shelter.

Synesius located the small slab described by Augustine, and put his palm upon it. It was barely above the ground. Augustine had explained that it would respond to a precise 24-part syncopated tapping, which Synesius would administer with the tip of his index finger. He had practiced it in front of Augustine, who had pronounced himself satisfied. "Take care that you do not touch anything oily prior to the tapping – you do not want oils on your fingertip." Synesius was not sure if Augustine had been joking, but he had followed his advice, anyway, and, besides, there had been no chance to eat since he had left the ship.

Synesius smiled at the second man, and began to tap. He finished the sequence. Nothing happened. He was not sure if he should start again – a second series of 24 taps would, in effect, constitute a new sequence of 48 taps, with a pause in between–

The second man started to speak–

The door clicked and opened – from the top, as Augustine had said. Synesius looked at the second man. "You may enter first, and I shall follow," the man said.

Synesius realized, again, that there was no point in contesting this, and nodded. He leveraged himself into the hatch and climbed down a ladder. He reached the bottom quickly, as the second man entered. There was no light in the shelter, except from the top, until the second man reached the floor. Then the door closed, and Synesius saw a weak light in a corner of the room. He approached it. It came from a strange window, with letters glowing upon it. The letters looked to be a form of Latin, but in a language Synesius had never seen.

"Do you understand that writing?" the second man asked.

"No," Synesius replied. "Do you?"

"I understand no writing," the man replied.

Synesius nodded. This writing was also as Augustine had described. He had further advised Synesius to pay it no mind, unless it was in a language Synesius could comprehend.

The room seemed to become brighter, or perhaps Synesius's eyes were adjusting to the light. But he now saw a single chair, on a side of the room, also just as Augustine had indicated.

"I must sit in that chair," Synesius told his companion.

The man nodded. "Please do so."

Synesius breathed in and exhaled slowly. "I will do something in that chair which may cause you harm. I do not intend to cause you harm, but–"

The man nodded again. "I understand. Please proceed."

Synesius hesitated. Augustine had told him, plainly, that anyone in the room not in the chair could perish with its use.

"Please," the man said, again. "I have heard of this journey. I want to go there."

"The journey in the chair?" Synesius asked.

"No, the journey of someone who witnesses the chair. It is holy."

"It could kill you."

The man smiled, serenely. "I am ready to go to a better world. Perhaps I will see my wife, again. It has been many years since illness took her."

Synesius sat in the chair. He could well understand a man who had lost his wife to illness. He could not say that his soul was free of guilt, but the man did seem to willingly want to make this sacrifice. And who was Synesius to say whom this man would and would not meet in the afterlife?

Nonetheless, he asked the man again, "Are you sure?"

The man nodded. "I will forever be in your debt."

Synesius tapped on another tablet, embedded in the arm of the chair. He used the sequence Augustine had given him – different from the one he had used to enter the shelter.

A transparency surrounded his head. It was as clear as water, but it was not ice, and was not cold. He could see the man's face, still smiling serenely. Synesius wondered, for an instant, if maybe it would be he, not the man, who would be going to heaven or hell now–

[London, 2042 AD]

A heartbeat later, Synesius opened his eyes. Was he dead or alive? He was certainly in a different place. The transparency receded. The air had a strange, mild odor.

"You have come a very long way for her, Synesius of Cyrene, Bishop of Ptolemais," a familiar voice called out to him.

Synesius looked up. The voice had come from above, from the top of a long flight of stairs.

A figure descended.

"Jonah," Synesius said.

Jonah reached the foot of the stairs and smiled. "You have traveled far to save Hypatia."

"You love her, as I do," Synesius said. "In that, we are brothers in arms. And amore."

"I love her, but perhaps not as much as you do," Jonah replied. "But, yes, we are brothers in arms about saving Hypatia, and I suspect for other worthy pursuits. . . . You showed enormous courage in coming here. The journey was difficult, and tried your faith at many junctures, I know."

"And where are we?" The room was empty of furnishings, ornaments, and people, except for Jonah, Synesius, and the chair in which he still sat. "Augustine said–"

"Climb those stairs with me. You will see much more than I can describe when we exit this chamber."

* * *

Synesius took in the room that stretched out before him. A feast chamber, that was clear. But with many small groups of people, each seated around their own table. Some tables had but one diner. Strange smells and colors. But strangest of all was the talk. In voices old and young, loud and soft, male and female. None of which Synesius could understand.

"Humanity," Jonah said, and directed Synesius to an empty little table. "The words and the clothes are different, but the humanity is the same. Eyes that smile, lips that frown, you will feel at home here more quickly than you might suppose."

Synesius sat. "When is this?"

"You have come from a year that you count as 413 years after the birth on Earth of your Lord. We are now two millennia plus 42 years from the year of that presumed birth."

Synesius grappled with the immensity of such numbers. "You are Jewish," was all he said to Jonah.

"Yes."

"Augustine said the voyage would feel no different – regardless of how far or near in time I traveled."

Jonah nodded

"Augustine was not clear about how far into the future that . . . chair . . . would take me," Synesius said.

"Perhaps he thought you might not undertake the journey if you knew how far–" Jonah began to reply.

"I would have taken it, in any case," Synesius said.

"I know." Jonah looked appraisingly at Synesius. "I know." A waiter approached. Jonah waived him away.

"And why this time and place?" Synesius asked.

"It is crucial in the journey of Sierra Waters – known to you as Hypatia – first known to me as Ampharete," Jonah said.

"Hypatia was born in Alexandria."

"Yes, the original Hypatia," Jonah said. "Not the woman you love, and now know as Hypatia. She took Hypatia's place, after she died."

"I understand." Augustine had told him the same. He had not completely believed him, but it seemed less incredible from this vantage point. "I am afraid someone may have died back there . . . in the chamber in 413, when my chair came to life."

"Likely he did," Jonah said. "A cult has arisen regarding that chamber in 413. . . . Its members believe it holds passage to a blissful afterlife. A similar cult arose in 150 AD."

"Why is that year special?"

"It also is crucial to Sierra Waters – even more so than this year. Part of my task is to guard it–"

"Protect her?"

"Yes, and to protect what happened back then, from Sierra. . . . "

"What does Hypatia – Sierra Waters – wish to . . . undo?"

Jonah smiled, slowly. "You are a rapid learner. Someone that Sierra loved – or cared deeply about – was killed back then, right in front of her eyes. She has every reason to want to go back to that instant to prevent that from happening. She knows, of course, that if she stops the killing, then everything that happened afterwards could well be changed – including this very conversation we now are having. But – she has human frailty, as do we all. Do you understand?"

"I . . . I think so. You are here to make certain that does not happen – or to insure that the person she loved will die back then."

"Yes, although–" Another waiter approached their table.

"If he is a bearer of drink, I would be grateful for a flask of wine," Synesius said.

"Certainly," Jonah said. "Are you hungry?"

"No," Synesius replied.

Jonah spoke to the waiter, who nodded and left.

"You were explaining to me about the person Sierra loved, who died back then – a member of her family?" Synesius asked.

"No," Jonah said, "and–" Another man, broadly smiling, approached their table.

Synesius returned the smile. "The providers of food are very attentive in this future. Perhaps I will have something to eat – a small amount."

"He is not a bearer of drink or food," Jonah said, and stood to greet the man.

Synesius got to his feet, as well.

"This is Max," Jonah made the introduction to Synesius. "He is the one whose death Sierra wants to undo."

* * *

Jonah spoke to Max, quickly, in the language Synesius was hearing all around him. Synesius now realized the language was a type of Germanic, or close to it – not Celtic.

Jonah and Max sat. Synesius followed.

"Salve," Max said slowly to Synesius, in a dialect of Latin he had not encountered before.

Jonah spoke in the Alexandrian dialect of Latin he and Synesius had been speaking before. "I will try to explain his significance," he said to Synesius about Max, and nodded in Max's direction. "He and Sierra – Hypatia – were young lovers, in the land across the great sea, before they or I knew about the chairs."

Synesius looked at Max, who caught the quick glint of admiration and envy in Synesius's eyes. "I am Synesius, Bishop of Ptolemais," Synesius said to Max, very slowly.

"Max," Max replied, smiled, and extended his hand in friendship.

Synesius briefly grasped it.

"The two traveled across the sea in a swift airship – the trip took just a few hours," Jonah continued.

Synesius looked incredulous.

"I know," Jonah said, "I often wonder which is the more miraculous. But travel across time is far more disruptive of the nature of things – of God's law."

A waiter appeared. Jonah spoke to him in the Germanic tongue. The waiter nodded and left. "I ordered something simple, which you should find to your liking," Jonah said to Synesius.

"Thank you," Synesius said.

Jonah continued. "Hypatia and Max found this place – were guided to it – and sat in the chairs, in the very chamber from which we just emerged. The two went back to 150 AD – where Max was killed, before Hypatia's eyes. His is the death she wishes with all of her soul to undo."

Synesius closed his eyes. "It is my impression that Hypatia desires more than one thing with all of her soul."

"Yes," Jonah said.

"And more than one man," Synesius said.

"Yes," Jonah said.

"This account of what happened in Londinium was given to you by Hypatia?" Synesius asked Jonah, and looked at Max, whose face was now unsmiling, impassive.

"No," Jonah replied. "But I know it to be true."

Synesius regarded Max. He obviously was very much alive, and, as far as Synesius could tell, in fit condition. "How–" Synesius began.

"It was exceedingly difficult," Jonah responded. "Max was apparently slain in Sierra's unmistakable sight. There was no manner in which we might have interceded at any time prior to this, without her seeing – and knowing – and that would have changed history. Again, with likely disastrous consequences."

Synesius struggled to understand.

Jonah spoke more slowly. "Fortunately, Sierra was rendered senseless – briefly – by a blow she received in the fighting. This gave us our opportunity. We gave her a potion which kept her deeply asleep for nearly a day. We took Max's body – gravely wounded, but still alive, by the standards of the future – to this time and place, and the physicians of this future worked their miracles upon him."

"I can accept that physicians of the future would seem miraculous in their results," Synesius said, "just as physicians in our Alexandria would no doubt seem miraculous to people in the time of Plato and Socrates."

Jonah nodded. "Yes, physicians of your time do seem wondrous in their ways, even to me."

"But if Max is evidently saved," Synesius said, and looked, again, at Max, "what then is the purpose of my visit, and indeed this very meeting?" Augustine of course had explained this to him, but Synesius wanted to hear Jonah's answer.

But Max was the one who spoke. "To save the Library of Alexandria," he said very slowly, in his peculiar Latin. "Neither of you can fully grasp the loss to humanity that the loss of those texts engendered. You are both of that time. But Sierra understands this – if what Jonah says is true. And I understand this. And we all must help her."

* * *

The food arrived. Synesius found it edible. He would have liked to spend more time in this future, see more of it, beyond this feasting room. But he was beginning to realize that was not likely. "Who else knows about Hypatia's goal?" he asked after consuming a cup of soft, creamy substance, of some unknown but not unpleasant flavor and consistency.

"Presumably not very many, other than the three of us at this table, and Augustine," Jonah began, "and this is very important. Changes we make in history must be discreet. We want as few people out of their times as possible. We want people in their times to know as little about people out of their times as possible–"

"Heron," Max said.

"Yes," Jonah said.

"Heron knows about all of this," Max said.

Jonah had talked to Max about Heron. "I am not sure what Heron knows," Jonah said.

"Heron?" Synesius asked.

"–of Alexandria," Max said. "Surely, you know of him."

"The great inventor?" Synesius asked.

Jonah and Max nodded.

"Heron is part of this – our – cohort?" Synesius asked. Augustine had set Synesius looking for Heron's scrolls in Alexandria, and Hypatia had also found Heron of great interest.

"Heron was my mentor in Alexandria many years ago – both many years ago in time, 150 AD, and many years ago, for me, personally," Jonah spoke, and Max nodded. "I came to know that the chair in which you sat in the chamber below, the chairs in which all of us have now traveled, were invented by the man known as Heron."

"Heron is not his true name?" Synesius asked.

"Probably not. This man – the creator of the chairs – was born in a future, far in the future, from where we are now," Jonah said. "At some point, he traveled back to Alexandria, and either became part of that world – my original world – as Heron, or replaced a Heron who already lived and worked there. If the latter, it is not clear to me how many of the inventions attributed to Heron were the product of the man from the future, or of the original Heron – though the man from the future obviously would be the more likely master inventor."

Synesius nodded slowly. "I think I understand. So . . . this Heron is not devoted to our cause – to saving Hypatia, to rescuing the texts in the Library – I can see in your expressions that something troubles you about Heron."

"It is unclear to me exactly to what or whom Heron is devoted," Jonah said.

"From what you told me," Max spoke very slowly, "Heron is not only not our friend. He may be our enemy."

"The last time I saw him," Jonah added, "he had Sierra as his prisoner in this era, in the land across the great ocean."

"You did nothing to free her?" Synesius asked, with a bit of anger.

"Heron freed her–" Jonah said.

"Then–" Synesius interrupted.

"Otherwise I would have indeed released her from Heron," Jonah said, reciprocating with a little anger of his own.

Synesius nodded, graciously. "Of course. I did not mean to imply–"

"You need not explain," Jonah said. "We face a daunting task, the three of us. Ire is our inevitable companion."

Synesius nodded, then touched his stomach. "The food was very agreeable, but I fear this has been a long journey, and my constitution . . . are there facilities–"

"Of course," Jonah said, and summoned a waiter. He instructed the waiter to show Synesius to the lavatory for men. Synesius got the essence of the conversation, stood, and followed the waiter.

"Still," Max spoke to Jonah, after Synesius was beyond hearing, "he bears much anger – this does not concern you?" Max spoke in stilted English, which he for some reason assumed would be the most easily comprehended by Jonah.

"No," Jonah replied. "It does not. A good dose of anger may even be necessary for our survival."

Max smiled, crookedly.

"You brought up the matter of Heron very well," Jonah said.

"And your assessment of Synesius's response?"

"I watched his face very carefully," Jonah replied. "Synesius certainly knew something about Heron's connection to this – it is not clear to me how much."

"And Augustine? What do you think he knows?"

Jonah considered. "Augustine knows about time travel – I told him about it and proved it to him, more than once. Augustine had me prove it to Synesius, as you know. I never mentioned Heron to Augustine, but if Synesius knows about Heron, the only way he could have received such information was from Augustine or Hypatia–"

"Or directly from Heron," Max said.

Jonah nodded. "At this point, impossible to say."

* * *

Synesius sat on his bed and looked up at the ceiling of his room. He felt sure that, if Jonah had thought it at all feasible, he would have sent Synesius back in the chair to the hovel in 413 AD. But even Jonah had to recognize Synesius's exhaustion. He had traveled nearly 2000 years in an instant. But it was the preceding voyage across water that had drained his strength. He had awoken this morning on a boat, a half-day's distance from Londinium.

Could he be sure that he actually had traveled into the future, and this far? He could be sure of nothing. But if this dwelling and its people and its smells, its sounds and its colors, were something from his own time, far away in distance but not in time, his world had been very good at keeping it a deeply sealed secret. And, short of his being in some trance now, the depth of which he had never heard of, the initiation of which he could not recall at all, he could not fathom what else other than this time travel could have had him in a crumbling, single-story stone dwelling one instant, and in this . . . opulent many-tiered structure the very next.

There was a rapping at the door. That would be the slave that Jonah had offered to have sent to him, and Synesius, upon reflection, had with gratitude accepted. It had been a very long day, indeed. At the end of which a man required not only the comforts of good food but the solace of flesh.

He rose and opened the door. She had dark brown hair and deep brown eyes, just as Synesius liked and had requested. In some ways she looked like Hypatia.

"May I enter?" she asked in Latin not as good as his and Jonah's, but far better than Max's. Jonah had tried to explain this to Synesius. "She has been programmed as they say, here – which means, intrinsically instructed – and though she will seem fully human to you, she will not be–"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Synesius had replied. "I have been party to numerous debates in learned councils about the humanity of slaves–"

"Yes . . . no," Jonah replied. "She is not human in a different way. She was constructed–"

But Synesius had been too fatigued to follow this conversation, and, truthfully, had not cared. He understood that slaves in some cases might be less than human, and that was sufficient–

He returned his attention to the slave at hand, at his door, and smiled. "Yes, please enter."

She entered and closed his door behind her. "Shall I disrobe?" She was wearing a soft, thin, mutely colored transparent fabric, wrapped around her breasts just under her nipples, and around her hips. Her areoles were rich brown. They made his mouth dry with anticipation.

"Yes."

She unfastened the fabric. Her nipples were already hard, her pudenda cleanly shaven.

"Lay on the bed, close your eyes," he ordered, quietly, trying to make his words not sound too much like a command. Slaves, he believed, performed best in these circumstances when they were permitted the illusion that they were desirous of everything the man requested.

"On back, or belly?" she asked, fetchingly.

Synesius considered. Everything about her looked good. "Belly," he replied.

She did as requested.

He ran his fingertip down the center of her back, so that it made just the slightest, fleeting contact with her soft skin. After a while, he moved her cheeks apart. She moaned. He disrobed . . . .

* * *

Synesius awoke the next morning in an empty bed. He did not recall dismissing the slave–

Someone was at the door. Synesius realized this was the second or third time he had just heard the knocking. It had woken him. He rose, flung his garment around him, and opened the door.

"Max. . . ."

Max nodded and grinned. "You slept well?"

Synesius nodded.

"You enjoyed–"

"Yes," Synesius answered, but refused to return the smile. They may have been allies in a quest to save Hypatia, but he barely knew this man.

"Jonah requests the pleasure of the morning meal with you. Further discussion is required," Max said. "Shall I wait here or return for you?"

"You may wait," Synesius answered.

* * *

The three sat around a large table, in a much smaller room than the grand dining hall the night before. Synesius liked the morning wine and the dark bread.

"Heron will be key to this," Max was saying. "If anyone knows how to save the scrolls of Alexandria, that person would be Heron."

"You said yesterday he was our enemy," Synesius said.

"Yes," Max replied.

"Even if he is not our enemy, Heron would find it difficult to prevent three or more burnings, strewn across centuries," Jonah said. "As far as I know, he operates with small bands of legionaries – they have extraordinary acumen in combat, but not enough to stop Caesar's regiment, certainly no match for Omar's hoards. But, yes, Heron would be far more likely to succeed in this than would Ampharete – Sierra – even with the three of us supporting her."

"Forgive me," Synesius said, "but before we proceed, do you have evidence of what this Heron has done – across time? I am a rational man. I like evidence in my hand."

"Such as the scroll I gave to you in Carthage?" Jonah responded.

"Yes," Synesius replied, "but you, not Heron, put that scroll in my hand."

Jonah considered. "Very well." He summoned one of the strangely dressed servers and spoke to him in the Germanic language.

The server returned not more than a few minutes later, with a scroll in his hand. He gave the scroll to Synesius, who opened it.

There was a single word, before the rest of the words, at the very top – Chronica . . .

* * *

Synesius read quickly through the first part of the scroll. He nodded. "This was either written by Heron of Alexandria, or is a very good forgery. And I acknowledge, I have not seen or heard of it before this moment."

"Yes," Jonah said.

Synesius sipped the nectar of a Persian orange and licked his lips. "So this is a lost manuscript, and very impressive. I hope I may be given the chance to read all of it – but what proof does it give me? Heron of Alexandria wrote about many things, real and hypothetical. These words about chairs and time–"

"They do not seem to you to be descriptions of the very type of chair you sat in, and traveled in, yesterday?" Jonah said.

"Yes . . . but how do I know that Heron in fact wrote this, and not you, or–"

"The scroll was not here last week," the server had quietly returned, and now spoke.

"This is Gleason," Jonah said slowly. "He is one of us."

Synesius nodded.

Gleason sat. "We inventory the library's holdings – our library, here – on a weekly basis. This scroll was not here nine days ago."

"And your conclusion is – Heron brought it here, in the past nine days?" Synesius asked everyone at the table.

"I brought it here," Jonah said, quietly. "I held it in my hand, a long time ago. . . ."

"When?" Synesius asked.

"In the time of Cleopatra."

Only Synesius laughed, and not very long. "Cleopatra, Caesar's Cleopatra, Antony's Cleopatra, the last of the Ptolemys?"

"Her young sister gave it to me, along with 16 other scrolls by Heron's hand. Some of them I knew. Others, like this one, I did not."

Synesius shook his head in disbelief. "Cleopatra's half-sister Arsinoe?"

"Yes."

"How did she come to acquire the scrolls?" Synesius asked.

"They were Cleopatra's," Jonah replied. "Arisinoe brought them to me."

Synesius considered. "And you brought them here. What does this prove about Heron?"

"I bought only this scroll here," Jonah replied. "It proves at very least that Heron understands how to construct the chairs that travel through time – understands this on the minutest level of detail. I left the other scrolls in a safe place – in Athens – where there are other chairs."

"I know of this place," Synesius said. "Augustine spoke of it. . . . But why risk leaving the other scrolls in such . . . an unusual location?"

"You can never know beforehand who will be in the room of the chair's destination," Jonah replied.

"You were concerned that Heron might be waiting for you?" Synesius asked.

"Yes," Jonah said, "or his legionaries."

"Does anyone else know about the special place in Athens – or about this place?" Synesius gestured to the room. "Augustine knew, as I told you. Hypatia knows. Who else?"

"We are dealing with an infinite future," Max said. "The possibilities are endless."

"But Heron is the one you are worried about - have you seen him here?" Synesius directed this to Jonah. "I assume you are the only one at this table who knows what he looks like."

"Yes, I am the only one, and no, I have not seen him, but–"

"We have no notion of what he might look like at any time," Max completed the point. "He could change his face to look like someone else's, just as you tell me Sierra has done with Hypatia."

"Yes," Jonah said, "precisely–"

A slight pop interrupted him. It was the first and only sign of a powerful ion bomb that eradicated every table and person in the room.