Phoebe was there, in the back of the room, hands folded, a copy of his book in her lap. The lustrous metal handles on the chair glistened with raindrops. Her surprising appearance — the first time Caleb had seen her since Christmas — was all he needed to gather his courage, to relax and let the words flow.
He spoke of the incalculably valuable storehouse of knowledge lost in the library’s destruction. Briefly, he highlighted the acquisition of books from around the world and how the library and the museum served as the world’s first university. He touched on the great names associated with the museum and the scrolls. He spoke of Kallimakhos and his innovative cataloging method that led to the current card catalog system; then he turned to speculation of what major works had been lost forever. According to surviving memoirs, biographies and other histories, among the lost works were plays of Homer, Plato and Virgil; mathematical treatises by Euclid; medical texts that described treatments for what remain today incurable diseases. Then there were metaphysical texts, spiritual guides to awaken the soul and expand one’s consciousness.
Next, so as not to bore them completely, Caleb turned to the major theories about the catastrophic destruction of all this knowledge, delving into the bloodshed and intolerance that had brought all these works to flames. He spoke of Caesar and the later Roman emperors who, in their zeal to crush Alexandrian rebellions, had inadvertently or consciously torched sections of the library. He spoke of Emperor Theodosius’s decrees that had incited the Christian mobs in 391 AD, and even touched on the questionable theory that Arab conquerors had depleted the library’s scrolls as a means to heat the city’s steam baths, citing the famous order of destruction from the caliph of Cairo: “The scrolls either contradict the Koran, in which case they are heresy, or they agree with it, so they are superfluous.”
About halfway through his presentation, Caleb looked up and saw another bright face watching from the counter beside a gold-plated espresso machine. A blond-haired woman looked across the room through narrow-rimmed glasses. She wore a neat gray suit over a tight yellow blouse. For some reason, despite the enthralled stares of the others, young and old packing the tables and chairs, her attention made Caleb uncomfortable.
But he continued, drawing a welcome smile from Phoebe, who held up his book and made a signing motion. He hurried to wrap up his talk, reading from the last chapter, “… The mob burst into the Serapeum, shattered the meager defenses of the scholars and priestesses inside, then proceeded to tear down statue after statue, demolishing urns, altars and artwork. A trio of young men guarded an arched doorway on the east side.” His voice cracked here as he pictured the scene in his mind. After all, he had witnessed it first-hand…
… as one of the mob. He finds himself urged on with vitriolic hate and burning venom as the Patriarch Theophilus stands behind them, waving his blazing cross and shouting passages from Leviticus. He storms past marble columns, swinging a torch in one hand and a twisted tree branch in the other. He howls as he strikes down one youth, crushes his skull, and falls upon the defenders. The others surge at his back and push him through the door into a large chamber with a rounded ceiling. Across each wall are hollowed-out alcoves overflowing with neatly packed scrolls, trembling like bees in a hive.
With a shout for God and for their Patriarch, twenty of the zealots race across the floor, brandishing torches and crying with delight. The room cowers before their shadows, moving in a twisted parody of an ancient orgiastic dance. Gleefully the men hurl their torches into every corner, igniting anything that will burn.
He barely makes it out, coughing and choking on smoke, trampling on the bodies of men and women, “protectors” of the temple of learning. He takes one last look at a statue of Seshat holding a book to her chest, toppling as four monks run, cheering. Then a burst of flame roars out of the archway, the roof collapses, and a dozen rioters are crushed.
He trips, catches himself, then stumbles over debris and falls at the feet of Theophilus, who holds up a blazing silver cross with both hands and shouts to the heavens, offering up to God their glorious victory.
With stinging eyes, he looks out over Alexandria and witnesses other pyres burning into the huddled night, smoke clouds rising, rising, occluding the stars and blurring the lights of heaven.
Across the harbor, beyond the pall of death and smoke, the lighthouse beacon flickers as if blinking away its tears.
Caleb closed with a brief but chilling postscript on how the early Christians had solidified their hold on the city, vanquishing first by edict and then by violence all record of the early learning. They had forbidden the study of the classics, burning remaining copies of scrolls and assaulting those who still practiced the old beliefs. In many ways, this body of classical work — the robust philosophical ruminations of the past — had shaped and molded and even nurtured Christianity; but now, in the ultimate betrayal, the fledgling religion was stabbing its mentor in the back.
He focused on Hypatia, the familiar classic tragedy of the last great symbol of enlightenment. How this respected scholar-author and teacher had been pulled from her chariot by the incited mob and torn limb from limb, her flesh carved from her bones with stones and shells, then burned and fed to dogs. Only, Caleb added a minor detail he alone knew, having seen it in one of his visions: “… At the end, through a haze of blood and flayed skin, she looked toward the Pharos, and as they beat and clawed and ripped at her body, she seemed to reach for it as a last refuge, or perhaps something more. A necklace was torn from her neck — a chain with a gold charm of the caduceus.”
Maybe it meant nothing, Caleb told myself, or maybe… she had been down there.
He closed the book and took a deep breath. His mouth was dry. He eyed a full glass of water balanced on the edge of the podium. Phoebe stared at him, open-mouthed. Then, the woman at the counter began to clap, and the room erupted into applause.
Caleb spent the next forty minutes signing books and thanking people for braving the nasty weather. He listened to boring stories of the customers’ favorite authors and travels and anything else they wanted to talk about. Finally, the crowd thinned and people made room for Phoebe, who rolled up to his table. She held his book to her chest, hugging it fiercely.
“Oh, Mr. Famous Author,”—her pony tail wagged back and forth as she shook her head—“won’t you sign something clever in my book? Something sweet, and maybe give me your phone number?”
Caleb walked around the table and gave her a crushing hug. In the corner of his eye, the strange but beautiful woman at the counter sipped an espresso and watched him carefully. “I didn’t know you were coming,” Caleb said. “How—?”
“It’s in all the papers back home, big brother. You know how dull the Sodus Gazette can be. They ran out of shore-erosion stories and interviews with the apple farmers, so they had to look elsewhere for news.”
“Great. So Mom knows.”
“Of course. She’s been following your career, while respecting your need for privacy. She and Dad—”
“‘Dad’?”
“Sorry, Mr. Waxman—”
“They got married?”
“Yeah.” She lowered her eyes. “In March.”
Caleb groaned.
Phoebe looked down at her hands. “I know you hate him, but really, he has been good to Mom. He’s supported her, and kept the house going. They’ve published articles together, worked on some other special projects. It was like they were living together anyway, so—”