The Fallen by Eric Van Lustbader

Author:Eric Van Lustbader
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

PART THREE

SHADOWS OF INDIGNANT DESERT BIRDS

ALEXANDRIA / ISTANBUL / TANNOURINE

28

The Royal Library of Alexandria was once the greatest repository of knowledge in the world. It was built at the beginning of the third century BC during the reign of Ptolemy II of Egypt. Though it at first contained the entire writings of Aristotle, Ptolemy III sought to widen the library’s knowledge. In those days, Alexandria was a booming port, visited by peoples from the lands of the known world. Ptolemy cleverly decreed that every visitor to the city was required to surrender all books and scrolls in his possession; these writings were then swiftly copied by official scribes. The originals were put into the library, and the copies were delivered to the owners.

The library grew vast. Here in ten great halls, each embracing one of the divisions of Hellenic knowledge, ranked spacious armaria, numbered and titled, gathered like nesting gulls the myriad manuscripts containing the wisdom, knowledge, and information accumulated by the known world. Alas, the great library was destroyed, in what conflagration no historian can say for certain.

All of this history flashed through Reichmann’s mind as he made his way through modern Alexandria’s teeming streets. What he knew, and most others did not, was that, contrary to general thought, the great library was not one vast structure, but many smaller ones scattered throughout the ancient city. And while it was true that there was a main building and that this building was indeed burned to the ground, either by Caesar’s troops, by uncivilized vandals, or by the terrified elders of the budding Catholic religion, during the riots to destroy the Cult of Isis, a small handful of the other, more distant structures survived.

It was to one of these—the library that housed the eleventh division of knowledge, unknown to historians and archeologists alike—that Reichmann now approached in the full bloom of Alexandria’s rosy, hazy dawn.

The building on the outskirts of the Al Hadrah district was unprepossessing. In fact, it virtually disappeared, owing to the fact that it was built into the side of a low hill. Possibly this was one of the reasons it had been spared the destruction visited on the main library. The main reason, however, was that because of the controversial nature of the material it housed, it had never been officially listed in the Hellenic archives.

The curator, an old man with a head like a watermelon whom Reichmann had known for years, though not by name, answered the ancient verdigris bellpull. Stepping into the library was like entering a monastery. The air was cool and hushed; the musty, vaguely fruity scents of books, manuscripts, and the olivewood vitrines in which the sheaves of papyrus were kept in temperature and humidity-controlled conditions perfumed the interior.

The old Alexandrian was the guardian of this long-forgotten slice of history. Who paid him and how he managed to live was anyone’s guess, and none of his business, Reichmann had long ago decided.

“SabaaH il-xeir ya ustaaza, Reichmann. Ana taHt amrak ya fendim?” Good morning.

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