- -
- 100%
- +
CONTENTS
THE LEGEND
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
THE
LEGEND
…THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK
JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.
The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade.
The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.
Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.
Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn…
1
“I thought Julius Caesar burned down the Great Library,” Annja Creed said. She picked her way gingerly across a small lot of churned-up dust with chunks of yellow-brick rubble in it, glad for the durability of her hiking boots. She was sheltered from the already intense morning Mediterranean sun by the floppy straw hat she wore over her yellow T-shirt and khaki cargo pants.
“He did, Ms. Creed,” her handsome young Egyptian archaeologist escort said, turning to smile at her. He had a narrow, dark hawk’s face and flashing eyes. His white lab smock hung from wide shoulders and flapped around the backs of his long skinny legs in the sea breeze snaking around the close-set buildings. “Among others.”
“Call me Annja, please,” she said.
He laughed. His teeth were as perfect as his English. His trace of accent made young Dr. Ismail al-Maghrabi seem that much more exotic. I love my job, she thought.
“If you will call me Ismail,” he said.
“Done,” she replied with a laugh.
Ahead of them stood a ten-foot-high loaf-shaped translucent plastic bubble. The rumbling of generators forced them to raise their voices as they approached. Some kind of structure had recently been demolished here, hard by the Alexandrian waterfront in the old Greek quarter. Big grimy warehouses and blocks of shops with cracked-stucco fronts crowded together on all sides. Although Alexandria was a major tourist destination the rumble and stink of buses and trucks through the narrow streets suggested little of charm and less of antiquity. Still, Annja’s heart thumped in her throat with anticipation.
“For one thing,” al-Maghrabi said, “the library was very extensive indeed. Also parts of it appear to have been scattered across the Greek quarter. As you probably know, in 2004 a team of Egyptian and Polish archaeologists uncovered a series of what appear to be lecture halls a few blocks from here.”
She nodded. “I read about it on the BBC Web site at the time. A very exciting development.”
“Most. The library was a most remarkable facility, as much a great university and research center as anything else. Along with the famous book collections, and of course reading rooms and auditoria, it offered dormitories for its visitors, lush gardens, even gymnasia with swimming pools.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
He stopped to open the latch to a door in a wooden frame set into the inflated tent. “The envelope is for climate control,” he explained, opening the door for her. “Positive air pressure allows us to keep humidity and pollution at bay. Our treasures are probably not exceptionally vulnerable to such influences, considering their condition, but why take chances?”
The interior seemed gloomy after the brilliant daylight. Annja paused to let her eyes adjust as he resecured the door. There was little to see but a hole cut into the ground. “You seem to enjoy some pretty enviable resources here, if you don’t mind my saying so, Ismail.”
“Not at all! Our discoveries here have attracted worldwide attention, which in turn helps to secure the resources to develop and conserve them properly. For that I believe we have to thank the Internet—and of course your own television network, which provides a share of our funding.”
“Yes. I am thrilled they allowed me to come here,” Annja said.
“I’m told the scrolls contain revelations about the lost civilization of Atlantis.” Annja couldn’t mask the skepticism in her voice.
“Come with me. I trust you don’t mind a certain amount of sliding into holes in the ground?”
Annja laughed. “I am a real archaeologist, Ismail. I don’t just play one on TV.”
She didn’t actually have to slide. A slanting tunnel about three feet wide and five feet high had been dug down to a subterranean chamber perhaps a dozen feet below ground level. Hunched over, they followed thick yellow electrical cords down the shallow ramp.
“As you no doubt know,” her guide said, “the library is believed to have been built early in the third century B.C. by Ptolemy II, around the temple to the Muses built by his father, the first Ptolemy.”
“That’s the Mouseion, isn’t it?” she said. “Origin of our word museum? ”
“Yes. It was also said that Ptolemy III decreed that all travelers arriving in Alexandria had to surrender any books or scrolls in their possession to be copied by official scribes before being returned to them. While we don’t know for certain if that is true, the library’s collection swiftly grew to be the grandest in the Mediterranean world.”
They reached a level floor of stone polished slick by many feet over many years. Banks of yellowish floodlights lit a chamber perhaps ten by twenty feet. Three people were crowded inside, two on hands and knees rooting in what appeared to be some kind of lumpy mound. One was bending over a modern table. The air was cool and smelled of soil and mildew.
The person at the table straightened and turned toward them, beaming. He was a tall, pot-bellied young man with crew-cut blond hair and an almost invisible goatee on the uppermost of his several chins. “Greetings! You must be Annja Creed.”
He held out a big hand. Annja knew at once he was a working archaeologist. He looked soft and pale overall, but his hand was callused and cracked like a stonemason’s, from digging, lifting and the painstaking work of chipping artifacts from a stony matrix with a dentist’s steel pick.
“This is Dr. Szczepan Pilitowski,” Ismail said. He struggled with the first name—it came out sounding close enough to Stepan. “He’s our expert in extracting the scrolls safely from the ground.”
“We all do what we can,” Pilitowski said in a cheerful tone. “There is much to be done.”
The other two, a man and a woman, turned around and picked themselves up from the floor. They wore kneepads, Annja noticed. One was a man, the other a woman. Both were thin and dark, and she took them for Egyptians.
“This is Ali Mansur and Maria Frodyma,” Ismail said. The man just bobbed his head and grinned shyly.
The woman stuck out her hand. She wore her black hair in a bun, and had a bright, birdlike air to her. “Please call me Maria,” she said in a Polish accent as Annja shook her hand.
“Annja.”
“This was a library storeroom,” Ismail said. “Most of the scrolls were kept in locked cabinets, in chambers such as this. Only the most popular items, or those specifically requested by scholars, were stored in the reading rooms.”
“So that heap…?” Annja said, nodding toward the rubble mound where Maria and Ali had been working.
“The remains of a cabinet,” Pilitowski said. “Damaged by the fire, it collapsed and mostly decomposed, leaving the burned scrolls behind.”
“How many scrolls did the library possess?” Annja asked. “Or does anyone really know?”
“Not precisely,” Maria said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of one hand. She seemed to show a quick smile to the bulky and jovial Pilitowski, whose own smile broadened briefly. “Some have hypothesized it held as few as forty thousand scrolls. Others suggest the founding Ptolemy set a goal of half a million. On the basis of what we have found, we feel confident conjecturing the former limit is far too low. As to the upper—” She shrugged expressively.
“This isn’t my time period,” Annja confessed, believing as she did in professional full disclosure. “But I can certainly see how the recovery of any number of scrolls at all from the ancient world is a terrific thing.”
“Oh, yes,” Maria replied.
“And here you see three of them,” Pilitowski boomed. A vast callused paw swept dramatically toward the table.
They looked like three forearm-sized chunks of wood fished out of a campfire, Annja thought. They lay on a sheet of white plastic.
“These are actual scrolls?”
“Yes, yes,” Pilitowski said. “My friends and I extracted them this morning.”
Annja felt a thrill. She’d seen older artifacts—she’d seen Egyptian papyri a thousand years older in the British Museum. But there was something about these scrolls, the thrill of something lost for two thousand years and believed to be indecipherable even if found. Yet modern technology was about to restore the contents of these lumps of char to the world.
“Even if they’re just grocery lists,” she said a little breathlessly, “this is just so exciting.”
The others just smiled at her. They knew.
“Who really burned the library, anyway?” she asked Ismail. “Was it Julius Caesar?”
The others looked to Ismail. Ali was still grinning but had yet to utter a syllable. Annja’s first thought had been that he didn’t speak English. But that appeared to be the common language on the multinational dig. She began to suspect he was just shy.
“Caesar was one of the culprits,” her guide said.
“One of them?”
“And not the first,” Maria said. The archaeologists seemed glad of the break. Annja understood that. They loved their work, she could tell, as she loved the work when she was engaged in it. But it could be brutally arduous, and breaks were welcome.
“The first major fire damage occurred around 88 B.C.,” the woman said, “when much of Alexandria burned down during civil disorders. This may have been the greatest destruction. Then during the Roman civil wars in 47 B.C., Julius Caesar chased his rival, Pompey, into the city. When Egyptian forces attacked him, Caesar set fire to the dockyards and the Egyptian fleet. The fire probably spread through trade goods piled on the docks waiting to be loaded on ships. The library lay near the waterfront, like now. Many scrolls were lost in the conflagration. Also it appears Roman soldiers stole many scrolls and sent them to Rome.”
“But that wasn’t the end of the library?” Annja asked.
Smiling, Ismail shook his head. “Oh, no. Only a fraction of the scrolls were lost at that time. Although we believe that this site burned then. And finally, Emperor Aurelian burned the Greek quarter in 273, when the Romans made war upon the Palmyran Queen Zenobia. That destroyed more of the library.”
“So what happened to the rest of the library,” Annja asked, “if fire didn’t destroy it?”
“Time,” Maria said.
Annja looked at the dark, diminutive archaeologist. Maria shrugged again. “Egypt’s rulers lost interest in maintaining the library. Much of it simply fell into disuse. Here, as elsewhere, people reused the scrolls, or even burned them for fuel. But most simply rotted away in the heat and humidity.”
“All except the ones neatly protected by a thick coating of carbonization,” Ali said suddenly in a deep baritone and beautiful British accent.
Annja stared at him. He smiled but said nothing more. She suspected he’d used up his allotment of spoken words for the day.
“Ali has a second degree in biochemistry, you see,” Pilitowski explained.
“Ah,” Annja said.
“WELL, YOU KNOW, Annja,” the young Egyptian archaeologist said as he walked with her into the huge old brick building next to the dig where the team had set up headquarters, “we make no claims concerning the veracity of the scrolls. We only recover them. And are thrilled to do it, if I may say so.”
“As well you should be,” she said. “It’s just that Atlantis is a hot button for archaeologists in the U.S., Ismail.”
Their voices echoed slightly in the enormous space. Wooden partitions had been set up to delineate work areas and offices.
“It is for all of us,” he said. “We are, after all, on a quest for the truth, are we not?”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed.
“And should we not follow the truth wherever it might lead us?”
“All right. I see where you’re headed with this, Ismail. And you’re right. If I’m going to be a serious scientist, then evidence needs to outweigh my preconceptions.”
He smiled and nodded with boyishly visible relief.
“Now,” she said, “let’s go see this evidence.”
The headquarters appeared to have spent much of its career as a warehouse, with high walls of yellowish brick, steel struts for rafters and grimy skylights admitting brownish morning light. It smelled more than slightly of fish. Annja presumed it must be their proximity to the waterfront. The smell couldn’t last decades, could it?
They walked down an aisle to an open doorway. From inside came a blast of raucous feminine laughter. Ismail’s fine features tightened briefly.
He ushered Annja into a wide room, well lit by banks of standing lights. Several people worked at a row of computers. Others examined blackened-log-like scrolls on a big table.
“You might find this interesting,” Ismail said, leading her toward a table. On it stood a curious device like a bundle of upright rods worked through one of the burned scrolls. “It’s based on a machine invented in the eighteenth century to unroll burned papyri.”
The two technicians operating it had teased out several inches of scroll. It resembled charred bark being peeled from a log. They paused to smile and nod at Annja as Ismail introduced them.
“We mostly make use of magnetic-resonance imaging to take pictures of the scrolls, layer by layer, without unrolling them,” he said. “But we explore every means of recovering their content. And over here—” he turned to a wide white table where bright white underlighting illuminated the faces of the Egyptian-looking man and European-looking woman bending over it “—we have our apparatus for photographing fragments of broken scrolls we find.”
What sounded like a great gong tolled. Everybody stiffened. The woman from the scroll unroller, whom Ismail introduced as Bogumila, exclaimed, “Aleksy, call Ali and Szczepan and Maria. Tell them to come quickly!”
One of the pair at the photo table took out a cell phone and whipped it open. He spoke quickly in Polish.
Others were beginning to arrive on the run from the other cubicles. Apparently the gong, which she guessed was a recording, was turned up high to let everyone in the converted warehouse know there was news.
Everyone crowded before a large flat-screen monitor. An image had appeared, a ragged off-white oblong, with spidery dark gray markings on it that Annja guessed might be ancient Greek. “ Da! ” somebody exclaimed.
A young woman sat perched on a stool by the photographic table, at the other end from the bulky camera itself, which was mounted on a heavy mobile stand. Now she pushed off and came sauntering over. She was strikingly pretty, with pale blond hair done in pigtails that made her round-cheeked face look even younger than it probably was. Her eyes were big and blue, if currently half-lidded as if with contemptuous disinterest. She wore a tight black-and-red top that showed off her healthy figure and an extremely short skirt with horizontal stripes in red and black. For all the horizontal stripes and harsh colors she was stunning looking; Annja fought down an inclination to hate her.
As she approached the flat-screen monitor Annja felt uneasy. China-doll perfect the young woman’s appearance may have been, but she gave a strong impression of negativity.
Excited as they were, the other team members moved back from the screen as she approached. The young woman leaned in, jaw working on a wad of gum.
“Not too close, Jadzia,” the man at the keyboard said. “You are the anticomputer geek.”
She gave him a baleful squint and snapped her gum at him. She stuck a finger toward the screen. The guy at the keyboard seemed to wind up tighter and tighter the closer her fingertip, the nail painted black, got. She read in a bored voice:
“—had in their possession most marvelous stones, like unto gemstones, such as rubies or emeralds, but the size of goose’s eggs, wherein they stored a force as potent as the lightnings. Perhaps this blasphemy, this stealing of the very thunder of mighty Zeus, evoked his wrath and caused him to cast down that which belonged by right to Poseidon.”
She shrugged, popped her gum, straightened up with a little headflip. “That’s it for this page. The break was a physical one. Nothing to translate.”
Everybody cheered and hugged each other and exchanged high fives. Annja noticed nobody tried to embrace the pigtailed blond girl.
“Can she really just read it like that?” Annja asked the air.
She didn’t expect to be answered in the hubbub. But beside her boomed the ever-cheerful voice of Dr. Pilitowski. “Ah, yes, she can. This is the noted Jadzia Arkadczyk. She holds degrees in cryptology and linguistics. She has a remarkable gift for languages. She is, quite simply, beyond genius.”
Annja studied the young woman, who seemed content to stand looking offhandedly at the screen, soaking up the arm’s-length adulation of her comrades. Annja had her own gift for languages. It had formed a key part of her love for travel and adventure.
“I’m impressed,” she said.
Maria was speaking to the girl and nodding at Annja. Jadzia turned and looked at the visitor for the first time. Her blue eyes flew wide.
“I know you!” she exclaimed. “I have seen you on Chasing History’s Monsters .”
“Well, yes, I appear on the show from time to time,” Annja said with authentic modesty. She did not want to be known primarily for her association with the program. Especially among peers as distinguished as these.
“You are the woman they bring on when they wish to cover something up,” the girl went on, voice rising accusatorily, “and undo all the good work done by poor Kristie Chatham!”
2
“They despised everything but virtue,” Annja read, the bubbly water, still hot, gurgling to the slight motions of her body as she kept the book braced open against her drawn-up knees.
Photographic specialist Rahim al-Haj had lent her a copy of Plato’s Dialogues, well grimed and dog-eared by the team, as she took her leave of the recovery site late that afternoon. Unwinding in her hotel room after dinner in one of her favorite fashions, she was reading what Plato had written about Atlantis.
The legend claimed there had been an island outside the Pillars of Heracles, “larger than Libya and Asia put together.” Whatever Plato meant by Asia. A big island, to be sure.
The Atlanteans, the story said, made war on Europe. The Athenians, eventually standing alone, had defeated them. Then violent earthquakes had occurred, followed by floods. In a single day and night the island of Atlantis and all its people disappeared in the depths of the sea. That sounded pretty final to Annja. It did intrigue her that the Athenians apparently suffered greatly from the same catastrophe.
“You never hear that part of the myth when people talk about Atlantis,” she said aloud.
There was a lot of discussion about the founding of Athens. It intrigued Annja to read of what seemed to her to be an equality of men and women in ancient Athens, including in warfare. She was also struck by the claim that Greece had once been a wonderfully green and fertile peninsula that had suffered sorely from millennia of soil erosion. She wondered if there might be something to that part, anyway.
At last the narrative wandered around to Atlantis. It had been built by the sea god Poseidon to impress his human love, Cleito. It was a land of fertile fields, concentric circles of canals, elephants, that sort of thing. She made note of several details to take up with her hosts in the morning.
What made the biggest impression on her was the interval of nine thousand years since the supposed fall of Atlantis. She put her book up on the rim of the sink and closed her eyes and tried to wrap her mind around it.
As someone who had studied geology, and a bit of paleontology, as part of her formal education, she had little trouble coping with nine millennia. In geologic terms it was a fraction of a second.
But for a coherent account of events to survive for nine thousand years—for any kind of knowledge to be transmitted over such a yawning gulf of time—that just made her jaw sag in disbelief.
She was well aware that archeology, especially the relatively new but fruitful practice of applying modern forensic techniques to archeological evidence, was showing that as often as not the written histories bore only a passing resemblance to what could be physically demonstrated to have really happened. History was perhaps not bunk—not altogether. But to say it was inexact was like saying it snows at the North Pole.
Could any meaningful, let alone accurate, information be transmitted over nine thousand years? She doubted it.
And yet…the legend of Atlantis had persisted all that time. It had exercised a fascination on the human imagination continuously since Plato had recorded it. Does that count for something?
She shook her head. Weariness was getting the better of her. She’d been going pretty hard of late, to say the least. She stood up with a slog of water and a cascade of soapy foam down her long smooth body and legs, and drew the curtain around the tub to shower off before heading to bed.
IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT. Annja had spent the day down in the excavation itself, painstakingly helping to extract burned scrolls from the rubble of the burned cabinets. She was exhausted and felt sticky from sweat, although here in the main lab inside the old warehouse it was quite cool. Apparently the Supreme Council on Antiquities was willing to spring for air-conditioning. Or maybe the television network was springing for it—she was grateful to whomever.
She noticed Jadzia lurking off to one side. The girl was fanning herself with a sheaf of fanfolded paper and trying to chat up a handsome young Egyptian technician working on a computer near her. Either he was shy or deliberately ignoring her. She caught Annja’s attention, glared and looked away.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Annja said, propping her rump on a table. “Wasn’t the Minoan civilization destroyed by a great big volcanic eruption around 1500 B.C.?”
“Yes,” Pilitowski said. “The catastrophic eruption of Thera. It is now estimated to have been at least ten times as powerful as Krakatau in 1883.”
“Although geologists tend to date the eruption from about 1600 B.C.,” Aleksy Fabiszak, the team’s geology specialist, said. “That volume of ejecta would be the same magnitude as the terrible Tambora eruption of 1815, the most violent of recorded history.”