We did as she suggested, and Apollonios, though oblivious to our identities, left his bench and came aside to greet us. “Do you not recognize an old friend?” Yaltha asked. “I’m Yaltha, the sister of Haran.”
A pained expression entered his face, passing quickly, followed by a gush of pleasure. “Ah, yes, I see now. You’ve returned from Galilee.”
“And I brought back my niece, Ana, the daughter of my youngest brother.” His gaze swept over me, then over Lavi, prompting her to introduce him as well.
The old treasurer bestowed a surplus of smiles on us, his belly so rotund he was forced to bend backward from his waist as a counterbalance. I could smell the cinnamon oil on him. “Do you reside with Haran?” he asked.
“We had nowhere else,” Yaltha said. “We’ve dwelled with him more than a year and today is the first time we’ve left his house, a freedom we’ve been able to seize only because he’s away from the city. He forbids us to leave the house.” She feigned a look of distress, or perhaps it was real. “I trust you won’t tell him we slipped out?”
“No, no, of course not. He was my employer, but never my friend. I find it remarkable, though, that he isolates you from the city.”
“He does so to prevent me from asking about my daughter, Chaya.”
He looked away from her to a crinkling of clouds overhead, frowning, arching back his spine, his fists bored into the small of his back. He knew something.
“I cannot be too long on my feet,” he said.
The four of us made our way to a pair of benches near his fellow debaters, the old man grunting heavily as he sat. “You’ve returned here to seek your daughter?”
“I’m growing old, Apollonios. My wish is to see her before I die. Haran will tell me nothing of her whereabouts. If she’s alive, she’s a woman of twenty-five now.”
“I may be able to help you, but first I must have your word and that of your niece and your friend that you won’t reveal how you’ve come to know what I’m about to tell you. Especially to Haran.”
We reassured him quickly and he suddenly appeared pale and breathless, sweat and oil beading in the folds of his neck. He said, “I’ve wished many times I could relieve myself of this burden before I die.” He shook his head, pausing for far too many minutes before continuing. “Haran sold her to a priest who served in the temple of Isis Medica here in Alexandria. I myself recorded the transaction.”
Having confessed, he sank back, seemingly exhausted, his head resting on the great orb of his body. We waited.
“I’ve wished for a way to repay you for my part in it,” he said, unable to meet Yaltha’s gaze. “I did as Haran asked and I came to regret it.”
“Do you know the name of this priest or where Chaya might now be?” Yaltha asked.
“I made it my business to know. For all these years, I’ve kept abreast of her from a distance. The priest died some years ago—he freed her before his death. She was raised as an attendant in the healing precinct of Isis Medica. She serves there still.”
“Tell me,” Yaltha said, and I saw the effort in her face to remain composed, “why would Haran choose to sell my daughter? He could have given her in adoption like he falsely told me he did.”
“Who can decipher Haran’s heart? I only know he wanted to be rid of the child in a way that would leave no trace. An adoption would have required triple documents, one for Haran, one for the adopted parents, and one for the royal scribe. And the parents would’ve been named, unlike the priest, who could be kept anonymous.”
He pushed himself up from the bench. “When you go to Isis Medica, ask for Diodora. It’s the only name Chaya knows. She was raised as an Egyptian, not a Jew.”
As he turned to leave, I said, “The men in the library who wear the white tunics and climb