The priest, who served only the sun-G.o.d Horus, had bought her in the slave market at On, ten years ago. Her parents had been imprisoned for debt, and she had been turned over to the temple of the cat G.o.ddess, Bast. And then things had become blurred. She remembered she had cried a lot. Things had been done to her. In the end she knew only fear, hate, and that she was going to endure.

And then the great inquisitor priest, Hor-ent-yotf, had bought her, and had taught her certain skills.

"You will enter the house of the Librarian," he had said. "You will listen to all that he does and says."

"Why, my lord?"

"Why is not your concern."

But she knew why. Hor-ent-yotf (the name meant avenger of the father of Horus) was licensed by the Greek pharaoh to sniff out heresy and impiety in the low and the high. Espe-cially in the high, for they were the most influential. Any-thing demeaning the sun-G.o.d Horus was suspect. The penalty was death.

She shivered.

If she were called upon to kill Eratosthenes, what would she do?

For six months she had lived as a trusted servant in his house. He knew horses, and had taught her.

She had driven his chariot. He liked that. His family raised thoroughbreds, back in Cyrene, where the pasturage was rich and blue-green. When she drove with him, her body rubbed against his within the light wicker framework of the vehicle. Something had awakened within her. And now it had come to this: to be near him was torture, and not to be near him was worse.

She stared down into the pool and pa.s.sed her fingertips slowly over her abdomen. "How can I ever bear his child? He doesn't know I exist. I need to be rich. I need exalted office. High priestess of some G.o.d or other. But it is hope-less, for I am nothing, and I will remain nothing."

A shadow fell on the water. She arose and turned slowly, impa.s.sively, head bowed. She did not need to look up. She saw without seeing; the shaven bald pate, eyes lengthened by dark cosmetics, the thin pleated linen skirt with cape, the leopard skin, complete with claws, tail, and fanged, glaring head. His hands hung at his sides. Her eyes rested on his long fingernails.

On his right hand he wore three deaths, shaped as rings, each with its tiny jeweled capsule. First wasthe copper ring, which had a capsule shaped as Set, the G.o.d of darkness. On the middle finger was the silver ring, bearing the face of the evil G.o.ddess Sekhmet, who slew Osiris. Finally was the gold ring, on his fourth finger. Its capsule was a sardonic bow to the Greek conquerors, for it bore the face of their G.o.d Charon, who ferried their dead across the River Styx to Hades.

The faint north wind moved a sharp blanket of incense around her face. She realized that it had been the smell that had announced him.

"Where is he?" said Hor-ent-yotf.

"He has gone forth into the streets, my lord."

"When does he return?"

" In the afternoon.''

"I have reason to think he has found the directions for the tomb of the heretic pharaoh Tut-ankh-amun. Has he men-tioned this?"

"No, my lord."

"Be watchful."

"Yes, my lord."

"There is another matter. In a secluded courtyard at the Library he is making a measurement of the disc of Horus. Listen carefully. Let me know if he says anything about it."

"As my lord wishes." She listened to the sandals crunch-ing away down the pea-gravel path. Then she turned back to the pool, as though trying to hide in the beauty of the flowered rim. The Greeks had brought strange and beautiful flowers to Alexandria: asphodels, marigolds, a tiny claret-colored vetch, irises purple and deep blue. Purple and white anemones, scarlet poppies.

She wished she were a simple, mindless blossom, required only to be beautiful.

Ah, Hor-ent-yotf, great Avenger, thou demi-G.o.d, I know you well. Your mother was impregnated by the ka of Horus the hawk-G.o.d, divine bearer of the sun disc. Flights of golden hawks whirred over your house at your birth, calling and whistling to you. So it was said. As a boy apprentice in the temple at Thebes, you saw the glowing G.o.d descend from the sun, and he spoke to you. Avenge me, the G.o.d said.

Find the tomb of Tut-ankh-amun, who married the third daughter of the heretic pharaoh Ikhnaton, who denied me. Destroy that tomb, and all that is within.

So it was said.

She shivered again.

3. Rabbi Ben Shem Eratosthenes had been wandering the streets for an hour, vaguely aware of the sights, sounds, and smells of Alexandria at high noon.

The Brucheum, the royal quarter of the great city, was totally Greek, as Greek as Athens, or Corinth, or even far Cyrene, where he was born. As thoroughly Greek as the great Alexander had intended, when he strode about this sh.o.r.e opposite the Isle of Pharos, a bare eighty years ago and said: build the walls here, the temples there, yonder the theatre, gymnasium, baths... The mole, the Heptastadia, was built from the city out to the island, dividing the sea into two great harbors. Ptolemy Philadelphus kept his warships in the east-ern harbor. Commercial shipping used the western harbor.

Alexandria, the greatest city in the world, the Gem of the Nile, the Pearl of the Mediterranean, was indeed Greek. But more than Greek. All races lived here. Egyptians, of course. And Jews, Nubians, Syrians, Persians, Romans, Carthaginians. (Those last two were quite civil to each other here in the city,though several thousand stadia to the west their countrymen were happily slaughtering each other on Sicily and adjacent seas.) He was pa.s.sing now through the northeast sector, along the Street of the Hebrews. The Jews had a specially elegant quarter, a politeumata set aside for them by Alexander him-self, in grat.i.tude for their help in his Persian campaigns.

"Greetings."

He looked up. Was someone calling to him? Yes, there was the rabbi, Elisha ben Shem, coming down the steps of the synagogue. "Greetings, n.o.ble Eratosthenes!"

The geometer-librarian bowed graciously. "Peace to the House of Shem! How goes the translation?"

"Oh, very well indeed." The priest stroked his flowing silver beard and chuckled. "Why I laugh, I do not know. It really isn't funny."

Eratosthenes looked doubtful. "Well, then... ?"

Ben Shem grinned. "You have to be Jewish to see it, my friend. You and I converse in Greek, the tongue of the h.e.l.lenes. I am also fluent in cla.s.sical Hebrew, in which our Holy Scriptures were written. I can also speak Aramaic and the other local dialects of Judea. But did you know there are forty thousand Jews here in Alexandria who speak, read, and write Greek and only Greek? They can't read a word of the Books of Moses, and the Psalms of David are mysteries to them."

"I knew that," said the man of measures. "That's why Ptolemy brought seventy scholars from Jerusalem here to translate the Hebrew texts into Greek. Seventy. The Septuagint. Actually, seventy-two, wasn't it?"

Ben Shem sighed. "Ah, Eratosthenes my dear boy. So learned. So earnest. But think of it! Jews translating Hebrew into Greek for Jews. Where is the subtle sense of irony, the love of paradox, that set your ancestors apart from peasant minds? If you had your way, Achilles would overtake Zeno's hare with a single pulse beat."

"Rabbi..."

"Oh, never mind." He turned his head a little. "You are still attempting to determine the size and shape of the Earth?"

"Yes, still at it."

"Are you close to a solution?"

"Now, rabbi. You know I must report all findings first to his majesty."

"Yes, of course." He cleared his throat. "You will be at the palace tonight? To celebrate the coming of the Nile flood?" They stopped before the residence of the priest.

"I'll be there," said Eratosthenes.

4. The Stone Cutter He crossed the great intersection at the magnificent mauso-lea. Here Alexander was laid to rest, in a marvelous gla.s.s-and-gold coffin. And in the tomb adjacent, the first Ptolemy. Beyond, to the west, lay the Rhacotis, originally the haunt of fishermen and pirates. Now, however, eighty years after the Conqueror had paced out the unborn city, it was^full of the run-down shops and abodes of artisans, poets (mostly starv-ing), and astrologers, raffish theatres, baths (some clean), slums, and certain facilities for sailors.

And so into the Street of Stone Cutters, and the first shop on the corner. He could hear the strike of chisels well before he entered the work yard. In the center, four slaves stripped to loin cloths chippedaway at a copy of the Cnidus Aphrodite. The a.s.sistant project master hovered about the crew anx-iously, calling, coaxing, occasionally screaming. They all ignored the newcomer. Eratosthenes shrugged and pa.s.sed on into the shop. Little bells rang somewhere and the man behind the counter looked up, squinting and coughing. Stone dust had long ago impaired his eyes and lungs. "Ah, Eratosthenes," he muttered, rising. "Greetings, and welcome to my humble shop." He groaned softly as he tried to bow.

"And greetings to you, good Praphicles. I trust the G.o.ds are kind?"

"Alas, great geometer, business is terrible. When our pres-ent commissions are completed I expect that we shall starve."

The visitor smiled. Business was always terrible and star-vation always lay in wait for the old fraud.

Even in his semi-blindness Praphicles was still the most highly skilled of stone workers in the quarter. He turned away clients, and he owned half the real estate on the waterfront.

"Well, then," said Eratosthenes dryly, "before the G.o.ds utterly abandon you, perhaps we had better conclude our business."

"Ah yes." The ancient master reached down into a cup-board under the counter, pulled out the work, and laid it carefully on the cedar surface.

It was a statuette of the t.i.tan Atlas, bent, with arms arched backwards and up, as though already holding his great bur-den, Earth. It was cut from the famous red granite of Syene. The base held an inscription in Greek, which Eratosthenes verified by reading slowly to himself.

The old sculptor's eyes never left him.

"It is beautiful," said the visitor. "The years have not dimmed your hands, old friend. Your fingers grow even more skillful, if that is possible." He pulled a purse from his cloak and dropped it to the counter. "The balance."

Praphicles made no move toward the little leather bag. He said, "The commission was interesting, especially in what was not commissioned."

"You don't make sense."

"The Earth that Atlas will hold... where is it? Who will supply it?"

"I'll attend to that."

"And what shape will it be? He is positioned to hold a disc, or a cylinder, or a square. Or perhaps even a sphere."

Eratosthenes smiled. "How are the wagers running, good Praphicles?"

"Two to one that you will report to his majesty that the Earth is shaped like a disc. Even odds for a cylinder. Three to one against a square. Ten to one against a sphere." He pushed the bag of staters back to Eratosthenes. "Just give me a hint," he whispered. "And keep your purse."

The geometer chuckled, pushed the money back, and picked up the little statue. "I will pray to the G.o.ds to save your business, old friend."

Out again. Still walking west, and getting closer to the Eunostos harbor.

5. The Horoscope He thought of one of the great Periclean speeches, as recalled (and probably polished up a bit) by Thucydides.

"Each single one of our citizens, in all the manifold as-pects of life, is able to show himself the rightful lord and owner of his own person, and do this, moreover, with excep-tional grace and exceptionalversatility."

Well, Pericles, perhaps that was the way it was with you and your Athenians, but that's not the way with me. When my career-nay, my very skin!-is at risk, I feel neither grace nor versatility. I feel afraid.

For I have a fair idea already how my calculations are going to come out. When I make my report, a great many people will be very, very upset. Hor-ent-yotf had warned me not to make any measure-ments whatever involving the sun. "It is heresy," the priest had said. "Not even a Greek under royal protection may break our religious laws with impunity."

So why am I here, in this street, at this hour? I know very well why.

But I mustn't show my anxiety. What would Marcar think? He and I studied together under the Stoic Ariston, in Athens. After that, we went our separate ways. But now here we are again in Alexandria.

Ah, Marcar, thou man of Mesopotamia, part mystic, part mountebank. Which part dominates? No matter. We have always been able to talk together.

And now it was time to be careful. Not against robbers or pickpockets. That wasn't the problem at all. The problem was simply this: he was now in the Street of the Mathematici Chaldaei, and he would just as soon not be recognized. What would the good rabbi say if he saw the highly rational geometer walking into the shop of an astrologer? The holy man would indeed have his cherished laugh!

Eratosthenes pulled his cloak up around his face and began walking in an anonymous shuffle. He was barely halfway down the street when small dirty urchins began tugging at his tunic. "My lord! Beautiful pictures! Naked ladies! All differ-ent positions! Mine are best! Painted directly from Ptolemy's harem.

No! Straight from Eratosthenes' secret scrolls at the Library! No pictures! Real live women! No waiting!

Cheap! My virgin mother! Only twenty drachmas!"

By Zeus and Hera! He struck out at them, but they scat-tered nimbly, like a flock of water birds.

A strong hand grabbed his sleeve. "In here, you old lecher!"

"Marcar!" He stepped into the antecourt and his host slammed the great door behind them. "Thanks, old fellow. I was coming to see you, anyhow."

"I know." He motioned to the table and chairs.

"You always say that. Actually, you hadn't the faintest idea I would visit you today."

"Maybe not today, exactly. But soon. You say you don't believe in the stars, august Eratosthenes; yet you come here because you are not completely sure. You are curious." He poured two goblets of Persian wine. "So what do you want of me?"

"Nothing. Everything."

The astrologer smiled faintly. "Translating: Does your horo-scope predict anything horrible in your immediate future?"

The geometer gave him a hard look. "Well?"

"But the answer would be meaningless to you, friend, because you do not believe in astrology, or horoscopes, or star-fates."

Eratosthenes sighed. "You're right, you know. I can't have it both ways. I can't denounce horoscopes in one breath and ask for mine in the next. But it's always good to see you, Marcar." He started to rise.

The Chaldean waved him back down. "Not so fast. Tarry a bit. Who requires total belief, old friend?

Not I. And what is belief, anyway? A curious mix of tradition, garbled facts, superst.i.tition, prejudice-and once in a great while, perhaps a little truth thrown in to thoroughly confuse the picture."

He sipped at his cup. "Let us clear the air. I suspected you might come. So this morning I constructed your horoscope."The Greek looked across the table in surprise, but was silent.

"You might at least ask," said Marcar. "You owe me that much."

The librarian smiled. "I ask."

"Well, then. At the outset, please understand that a horo-scope makes no absolute predictions, at least of the type you are thinking about. No chart will ever say to you, Eratosthenes, you will die at sunup tomorrow. At most your chart will say, Eratosthenes, you will be presented with the possibility of dying on such and such a day, and perhaps at such and such an hour."

"Go on," said his visitor quietly.

The Mesopotamian shrugged. "You have given the G.o.ds much trouble in recent days, and I think that even now the matter is not fully decided. I see Gaea, the Earth G.o.ddess. You would strip her naked. You would say, her size and shape are thus and so. I see Cronos, the G.o.d of time. You would have lovely naked Gaea turning, turning, turning under the lascivious scrutiny of Cronos. Apollo stands still in the skies, and leers."

Eratosthenes laughed. "What a marvelous way of saying the Earth rotates and moves around the sun."

"Ah yes. The heliocentric hypothesis. But that's only part of the difficulty. The scientific pros and cons are quite beyond me, my esteemed colleague. All I can say is, that's the problem that brings the risk. May I be blunt?"

"It would be most refreshing."