I’d never noticed it until my first observation. Zeke took everyone their first time, and he’d herded Oz, Jess, Analeigh, Sarah, Levi, Peyton, and me atop a Mayan pyramid in 600 CE. They’d been in the midst of constructing a burial mound for their fresh dead, and we’d toiled alongside the workers for the better part of a morning.
We’d broken stone and rock, hauled it up and down barely formed steps, and sweated under the Central American sun. The heat was stifling, not unlike Egypt today, but the way the air tasted—untouched and virginal, like the purest form of anything—had mesmerized me. The morning had flown by and we’d landed back in the air lock too soon, suddenly disgusted by the metallic tinge of the oxygen that kept us alive.
I loved the taste of the ocean.
My glasses went invisible with a light tap. I could have left them at home since there was no way I was recording anything that happened today—no evidence—but their displays and information were invaluable if trouble did pop up.
I turned my back on the lighthouse and then headed toward the bridge that connected it to mainland Egypt, enjoying the squish of sand and seaweed under my soft sandals. The Temple of Isis lurched from the ground in front of me, a massive but not particularly pretty structure of brown-and-tan mud brick. Twin guardians flanked the entrance, each seated in front of an ornately carved panel. Multiple sets of stone staircases, bright tiled roofs, and what appeared to be some kind of guard tower decorated the interior grounds. I could have pulled a detailed map up in my mind through the bio-tat, but drinking it in with nothing but my own eyes satisfied me. What each building contained no longer mattered, and simply seeing it was new and perfect.
The temple to the goddess, set high in the center, rose up inside the plain and sturdy outer walls. Impressive columns ran down the sides and the detailed images carved into their tops, the golden sculptures peering at me from the safety of Isis’s walls, distracted me to the point that I tripped. My dress tore and the pebbled ground ripped the skin from my knee, leaving it bloody.
“Damn,” I cursed under my breath.
It didn’t come out that way. It came out in ancient Greek, one of the more common languages in Alexandria during this period. Most inhabitants of the city would also understand and speak Aramaic, Egyptian, and even Hebrew, depending on their interaction with the Jews. My people, I supposed, though none of us thought of ourselves as anything but citizens of Genesis.
I checked my knees, trying to clean them as best I could. Hopefully the injury wouldn’t complicate the contamination check when I returned to Sanchi. Time would be tight, and a forced shower could be the tipping point. I brushed the dirt and stone dust off my palms and continued walking, taking more care as I crossed the hepta-stadium to the mainland.
The sight of the library—the most famous in human history, perhaps, and one of our most tragic losses until Georg Trout stumbled on the formula that made time travel possible—stopped me in my tracks. The histories and stories and scrolls that had been lost when nature dumped the coastline of Alexandria into the sea were now carefully catalogued with all of the other documents in the Archives on Sanchi. There was a backup of the entire system on Tanis, too. Our civilization took care with the information it had taken years to amass and store.
In this world, the scrolls remained safe and sound, at home in the library that rose five or six stories above the shore. Awe made my jaw drop to my chest like some kind of cartoon character. Multiple arches and rows of columns decorated the fa?ade. A crop of palm trees—or maybe date trees—sprouted front and center, obscuring the primary entrance from the road. It looked exactly as a library should look: stately, sturdy, and sprawling, as though it had every intention of expanding along with the knowledge housed inside.
It pulled at me, begging me to go in, to spend hours among the scrolls, but I didn’t have hours. If I wasn’t back by Reflection class they would come looking for me. If I wanted to see my True’s face, it needed to happen fast. Then things could go back to normal.
The sun climbed as I hiked toward the palace, my feet picking up the pace as sweat dripped down the side of my face. I brushed it away with the back of my hand, leaving a trace of rough sand on my wet skin. Once I reached the finger of land that supported the palace and its grounds, it became clear why it had not survived.
The enormous living quarters, gardens, temples, and various outbuildings perched precariously on an isthmus jutting out into the water. It had simply crumbled away, the same way erosion, combined with earthquakes, had stolen Southern California in 2210 and then half of Louisiana in 2440.
It was hard to believe all of this would one day rest at the bottom of the ocean.
I’d spent the walk scrolling through historical data in my mind, but hadn’t yet figured out where Caesarion might be at this time of day. The official records lacked confirmed details about his movements, but I still had common sense and historical training to fall back on. Caesarion’s mother had died earlier this morning. Even thinking about losing my mother twisted my heart, swelled panic into my throat.
If she died, I would seek peace. Time alone, before facing the expectations of the world.
I headed for the immense palace gardens without thinking too hard about the choice. They would hide him, give him privacy to express the severity of his loss. My state of dress should allow me access to the grounds. No one would suspect a lady in broad daylight, and I could easily pass for one of the hundreds of concubines who lived in the royal palace.
What if he was a royal jerk? What if I saw Caesarion and felt nothing and all, and this entire trip became nothing but a worthless risk?
No. Maybe those things would happen, but I wasn’t turning around before I knew for sure.