“It’s my business to know what threatens our peace. I pay the salt boy to bring me news of them.”
“Read it to her,” Yaltha said.
Skepsis scowled, not used to being ordered about, but she complied, holding the parchment at arm’s length and squinting:
I, Haran ben Philip Levias, faithful patron of the Therapeutae for two decades, write to Skepsis, the community’s esteemed leader, and ask that my sister and niece, who are presently under the Therapeutae’s guardianship, be relinquished into my care, where they will be accorded every concern and favor. By delivering them to the men who encamp nearby, the Therapeutae will continue to enjoy my loyal generosity.
She dropped her hand as if the weight of the parchment had tired her. “I’ve sent him a message, refusing his request. The community will, of course, lose his patronage—his threat is clear enough. It will mean a little more fasting, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” I said, saddened we would cause any privation at all.
She tucked the message inside her cloak. As I watched her walk away, I understood that she was the only one standing between us and Haran.
I would write the song.
xxi.
The library was a small, cramped room in the assembly house, teeming with scrolls that lay about on the floor, on shelves and tables, and in wall niches like piles of scattered firewood. I stepped over and around them, sneezing at the dust. Skepsis had told me there were songs here that bore inscriptions of both lyrics and melody, even Greek vocal notations, but how was I to find them? There was no catalog. Nothing was sorted. My animal shed had more order and my donkeys’ fur less dust.
Skepsis had warned me about the disarray. “Theano, our librarian, is old with a weakness that makes it impossible for him to walk,” she’d said. “He hasn’t tended the library in more than a year and there’s been no one willing or able to take his place. But go and search for the songs—they’ll be instructive.”
It struck me now she’d had another motive. She was hoping I would become her ad hoc librarian.
I cleared a space on the floor, setting the lamp well away from the papyri, and opened scroll after scroll, finding not just Scriptures and Jewish philosophy, but works by Platonists, Stoics, and Pythagoreans; Greek poems; and a comic play by Aristophanes. I set about organizing the manuscripts by subject. By late afternoon I’d categorized more than fifty scrolls, writing a description of each one, as they did at the great library in Alexandria. I swept the floor and sprinkled the corners with eucalyptus leaves. I was brushing the mint-honey smell from my palms when the marvel happened, the one that had been coming all day, unbeknownst to me.
Footsteps. I turned to the door. There, in the broken light, stood Diodora.
“You are here,” I said, needing to verbalize what I saw but couldn’t yet believe.
“So she is,” said Skepsis, stepping from behind her into the room. Her old eyes sparked with delight.
I drew my cousin to me and felt her cheek wet against mine. “How did you come to be here?”
She glanced at Skepsis, who pulled a bench from beneath the table and lowered herself onto it. “I sent a message to her at Isis Medica and asked her to come.”
“I didn’t know what had become of you and my mother until I got her letter,” Diodora said, still gripping my hand. “When you didn’t return to Isis Medica, I knew something had befallen you. I had to come and see for myself that you’re both well.”
“Will you remain with us long?”
“The priestess has given me leave for as long as I wish.”
“You will share the house with Ana and Yaltha,” Skepsis said. “The sleeping room is just wide enough for three beds.” Tucking stray pieces of hair behind her ears, she studied Diodora. “I asked you to come so you could be near your mother and she near you, but I also asked for myself. Or, I should say,