When I read the inscription, a chill traveled over me. This was a key to the subterranean galleries, where the oldest works were kept away from the light. I had never visited the lower galleries—no one could except for the pharaoh and his most trusted associates.
I should have told my father I had discovered the key, but I did not. My curiosity burned. I obsessed about the key for days, wanting desperately to use it. When I could no longer withstand the temptation, I selected a day when an important lecture would be under way at the Musaeum and I knew the library would be empty.
To the average eye, the dull wooden door to the lower gallery appeared to conceal nothing more than a storage room. I only knew its location because my father had told me. He loved to share stories about the treasures in the lower gallery, and I had begged him once to show me the door. My knowledge became our secret.
I was betraying his trust by using the key. I had no right to wander down there alone, but on that particular day I could not stop myself. A sense of inevitability gripped me as I waited breathlessly in a nearby alcove for the perfect moment. When I could see no person in sight, I dashed to the door.
The key slid in easily and released the lock. My heart was beating so fast I could barely breathe. I grabbed a lantern off the wall and entered, leaving the door slightly cracked so I wouldn’t be locked inside. Then I hurried down the stairwell.
I held my lantern up to the shadows and gasped in awe. Thousands of papyrus scrolls filled the gallery and extended as far as my eyes could see. The authors’ names had been written on wooden plaques that hung from cords tied around ceramic canisters. Carved stones, wood, animal skins, and clay tablets lined the shelves as well. It was like tracing the history of thought back through time. Every material humans had used to cast their words had been preserved.
The number of works kept in those galleries must have been greater than the stars in our sky. As I moved through each room I could feel its hallowed ground, and when I stepped inside the last gallery, it was as though I could smell the years. Scents of faded musk and frankincense greeted me along with the reek of mold. I knew I had found the library’s oldest works.
My father often recounted how Alexandria was founded by the divine lunacy of Alexander the Great, how he had a dream telling him to come to the island of Pharos. So he did, bringing with him the ancient manuscripts from Siwa, manuscripts said to have belonged to the first rulers of Egypt, the gods. The great Oracle of Ammon and the Siwan priests had protected those manuscripts for thousands of years. But when Alexander became pharaoh and declared himself son of Zeus, he took many of the works with him to the new city, to be housed like jewels in his royal library. And here they were, these priceless treasures.
I knew I should not have been disturbing such a place, but I was struck by the sight before me. I could not move. Then I saw a small stone box decorated with strange symbols sitting at eye level on one of the shelves. My hands reached out, moving of their own volition, and before I could question my actions, I opened it.
Inside lay a dainty stack of papyrus squares with pictorial-like designs. Every square had its own image with hieroglyphs inscribed at the bottom. The paintings were rich in detail, portraying a myriad of symbols: the sun, the moon, two lovers, a hermit holding a lantern, the scales of justice, a chariot racing, and an ancient mandala of the world. I counted twenty-two in all. A papyrus scroll rested beside them.
More than anything in my life, I wanted to understand what I had found. I knelt on the floor, not caring about dust or dirt, and spread the pictures out to see them together in unity. Even though I was unschooled in the art of divination, I knew I was staring at the cycle of life, from birth to death, in all its aspects.
“What are you doing?” came a hushed whisper.
I turned around with a start, frozen in terror.
A man, slightly older than me, stood in the doorway holding up a lantern. From his modest robes, I could tell he was a student. A mane of curling black hair framed his striking brown eyes. He looked like a lion ready to pounce on his prey.
“What are you doing?” he whispered again, seeming both fascinated and astounded by my behavior.
“What are you doing?” I retorted, keeping my voice quiet. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment and I sat up straighter. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“And you should?”
“I’m investigating articles for my father.”
“On the floor?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief.
“I am Ionna Callas, daughter of Phileas,” I said, as if that was answer enough.
He looked startled and satisfaction filled me. My father was one of the head librarians and his name carried weight. He held the second-highest-ranking position at the library, next to the director who was chosen by the pharaoh. He was also a scholar in his own right and widely respected for both his literary studies and scientific investigations.
I held up the key with confidence. “And you are?” I resisted the urge to sweep the papyrus back into the box.
“Ariston Betesh, from Antioch.” He nodded as his gaze took in every detail about me.
I smoothed my robe, glad I had worn the sage today. The color matched my eyes, making the most of my black hair and olive skin. The faint smile hovering on his lips told me he agreed, and heat rose to my face.
“Did your father really give you that key or did you steal it?”
“This key is mine,” I told him, trying to sound insulted. Technically it was not a lie. I had inherited my mother’s jewelry box and its contents. “Why are you down here?”
“The door was open. Curiosity is the scholar’s bread.” He stepped forward to study the papyrus squares. “What are those?” he asked, peering over my shoulder.
“Ariston?” a hushed voice called from above the stairwell. Someone was looking for him.
Ariston turned in haste. “I’m afraid my questions will have to wait, daughter of Phileas.” His words sounded like a promise, and with a wink, he left.
Not wanting to risk discovery again, I returned the papyrus and scroll to the shelf and hurried up the stairwell.
When I stepped outside to lock the door, Ariston was nowhere in sight.
*
That night I couldn’t sleep. I could think only of the stone box, the symbols … and Ariston. I was certain we would meet again.
When I awoke the next morning I was gripped by the urge to recreate the first image from the box, a young man carrying a walking stick in the wilderness. My abilities would be stretched, but still I wanted to try.