Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (28 page)

As Patra finally crested the road, a detachment of city guards came into view outside the palace’s rear gate. She caught their eyes at once.

On her final approach, one of the guards called out, “No visitors today.”

Patra continued forward, stopping a few strides from the line of guards. She noted an apparent commander—armor and helmet reminiscent of a centurion—standing beside the gate’s left pillar behind them. “Please have the governor informed that Steward Supatra requests an audience.”

The commander’s lips parted, but the voice of the first guard repeated his original declaration, this time with pointed emphasis. “No … visitors … today.”

Patra glared at the audacious guard. “I understand you’ve received your orders, but−”

“Then turn around and walk away,” the guard interrupted. “Unless you need assistance leaving.”

The guard beside him smirked, and another somewhere down the line snorted his amusement. Patra stepped back and scanned the faces before her. Most simply stared ahead, expressionless. A few glanced her way.

Cassius would certainly see her if he knew she was here, but how to get word to him if this impudent brute wouldn’t even let her complete a sentence? She turned toward the obscured commander—a pair of seemingly benign eyes considering her from behind two guards.

“Commander,” she said, stepping forward. “I only ask that my name−”

“Step back!” the first guard barked, and swung his javelin down before her, inches from her face.

She halted, recoiling at the weapon’s windblast, and the shout.

“Janus,” the commander said, and the scowling guard shot him a look before stepping back into rank.

Patra stood in stunned silence, consumed with equal parts fear and rage. Left to his own, this “Janus” would be more than happy to flog an old woman unconscious, or worse.

“Janus, is it?” Patra said, backing away from the men. “I shall have to remember this name for my next encounter with my
friend
, the governor.” Janus seethed, poison shooting at her from his eyes, but his sandals didn’t move from the line. “I am the
head librarian
, in case you were unaware, and a childhood friend of Governor Cassius. Of course he wants no visitors, but he’ll absolutely wish to know what I’ve come to report … as well as how his closest associates are treated−”

Janus could hold his tongue no longer. “Blather and whine all you want, old hag. You’re not stepping foot in this gate, and unless you want my sword shoved up that−”

“Silence, Janus!” the commander ordered. “Not one more word!” He pushed through the line, and marched a few strides toward Patra, halting smartly before her. “Please accept my apologies, Steward. Unfortunately, there are no exceptions today. I have orders from the governor’s aide that the Empress herself is not permitted in, so…”

“Thomas?” Patra blurted. “Of course Thomas would order such a thing!” She cupped her hands beside her mouth and screamed, “Cassius! Cassius, it’s Patra!”

The commander raised a hand. “Again, Steward, I’m sorry.”

Patra sidestepped him and continued crying out to the palace.

“Please, be quiet, Steward. You
will
need to leave now.”

“I’ll shut her up, Marius,” Janus sneered, breaking ranks once more. Three others joined him, javelins at the ready across their chests.

“Just don’t hurt her,” the commander, Marius, said as he turned to go.

The four guards converged on Patra, wicked smiles in their helmets’ shadows.

“Of course not,” Janus sang.

Patra stumbled backward. She landed on her tailbone—a sting up her spine.

A muffled shout in the distance. Heads turned.

Another, still small, distant, but now intelligible: “Marius!”

Patra scrabbled to her knees, then feet. She craned her neck to see beyond the tall men, spotting a figure on one of the verandas. Cassius!

“Step aside!” Marius called, and the remaining rank split in half.

Two of the guards went to the gate, extracted the ground stakes, and swung both sides out.

“You may enter, Steward,” Marius said.

* * *

A servant led Patra upstairs to the governor’s second-floor vestibule, and into the expansive atrium. Sunlight streamed in through the roof’s wide, square opening, though unlike Patra’s domicile, and most others, no rainwater pool lay beneath the opening. Instead, a set of lush couches formed the traditional square, surrounding the floor’s allusive blue mosaic.

The servant motioned Patra to one of the couches just as someone entered the atrium from an abutting room. It was Thomas.

Heading out toward the vestibule (with an indifferent glance and slow blink vaguely sent her way), his blasé façade wasn’t fooling Patra for a second. She followed him with her eyes, glowering until the last of him disappeared around the column.

“An ill-timed visit, Patra,” Cassius said. He walked from the room Thomas had left, scooped up a goblet of freshly poured wine, and sank into the opposite couch.

“Agreed,” she replied, accepting her own wine from the servant. “Have you asked the Emperor to go home? ‘Come back another decade?’”

“Clever.” He gulped down half the cup.

“Thank you, before I forget …” Patra motioned in the main gate’s direction. “… They were seconds from attacking me.”

“The guards? No.” A silly idea, apparently.

“Oh yes, no question. One of them swung his javelin a hair away from my nose, called me an old hag, and threatened to shove his sword into an orifice.”

Cassius’s air of nonchalance evaporated, replaced in an instant with outrage. “Was it only one of them? What did he look like? Don’t try to protect him−”

“His name is Janus.”

Surprised, Cassius nodded, peered around, and summoned a servant to his side. He whispered to the man, and the servant dipped his head before hastening from the room.

“It’s handled,” Cassius said. “Now, what brings you here, besides the obvious? If it’s simply a plea to protect the Musaeum, please, spare me. Your friends kindled their own pyres.”

“Of course. And no, I wouldn’t waste either of our time with the obvious. A week from today, the Musaeum will surely be rubble. There’s nothing we can do to prevent that. But the collection … that’s another matter. All the knowledge and known history of the world—over five hundred years of work—it
can
be saved.”

* * *

Zenobia and her generals had gathered in the Temple of Isis, east of the Great Harbor. Lookouts perched atop the temple’s northernmost colonnade, monitoring Emperor Antonius’s lurking fleet, and relaying their maneuvers to map scribes below. Clusters of Palmyrene soldiers sat in square formations, shaded beneath the temple’s exterior colonnades, but then spilt out onto the street, continuing well into the Jewish Quarter, where armored horses and empty chariots appeared to fill every shred of open space.

Waiting to be called in, Patra sat on the steps, leaning against a column base, and observed the faces of those soldiers seated nearest the lookouts as they eavesdropped on every update. They made no attempt to mask their apprehension.

“Steward Supatra of Alexandria,” called a courtier.

Patra stood. “Here! I’m here!”

“Follow me, please.”

Patra hustled behind the quick-footed courtier, into the temple’s vestibule. Palmyrenes, Romans, and Egyptians; Hellene, Christians, and Jews, all bustled about the halls simply as
Alexandrians
, desperate to prevent an end to their way of life.

Inside the main temple, a crowd of disgruntled Palmyrene generals and advisors flowed from between the two towering statues—Isis and Osiris—and Patra tailed the nimble courtier as he scurried out of their path. The grumbling horde looked as though it would have trampled over the pair if they hadn’t moved.

When the last stragglers passed, the courtier motioned Patra into the cleared area.

Zenobia stood behind a wide table, eyes on its surface. “What happened to the light?” she said, then called, “More light.”

Servants materialized from the walls and behind columns, stoking torch sconces, and dragging iron stands closer to the table. Zenobia’s bespoke armor glinted at every layered tip.

“That’s good. That’s enough.” She peered up as Patra entered the field of light. The whites of Zenobia’s eyes shone bright, framed by a wide maroon bar painted from ear to ear. “There you are! Please, come to me. Refill me! I am starved of unbloody words.”

The servants withdrew, disappearing once more into the shadows.

Patra exhaled a rueful sigh and hung her head. “I don’t know that I’ve much better to offer, Augusta … Zenobia.”

Zenobia sank, ever so slightly, but it was there. She closed her eyes and nodded. “Well … at least come with a hug.”

“Of course!” Patra said, shuffling around the table and wrapping her arms around the cold armor.

Zenobia gently slid her long nails across Patra’s scalp, kissed her head, cupped her cheeks, and raised Patra’s eyes to hers. “Will you stay with me? Wahbi will be here soon.”

Oh, no. Oh, no no no…

“Wahbi’s coming? Coming here? I’d heard you sent him east!”

“I did. And yesterday, he turned his men around to come back.”

“Oh, Zenobia … And it’s too late to-”

“Yes. As a mother, I’m terrified, of course. But as a general, relieved my army will be whole. So, does this mean you’ll stay?”

Patra stepped back. “I’m sorry … I wish I could. The Library … my friends …”

Zenobia’s posture returned—back to business. “Absolutely. I won’t keep you. It was good to see you, nonetheless.”

“Actually, if I may have another moment …” Patra waited. Though still wounded, Zenobia beckoned her on. “I’ve just come from the Governor’s Palace. I mentioned my desire to move the collection into the library at the Serapeum.”

“That’s wise. Antonius wouldn’t harm the temple.”

“Unless he’s told what’s there. My friends and I, we bear no optimistic illusions. The Emperor views the performance as a mutiny far more threatening than a rebelling nation. And imagine, the
personal
nature … His vanity and arrogance surely fills his mind with an insatiable bloodlust.
He’
ll kill every person. He’ll destroy every last thing Musaeum members cherish.”

“No doubt. You fear he’ll be notified of your actions?”

“He may be notified. We’ll take measures to obscure our movements, but we’ve no illusions. The Serapeum’s library may very well end up in ashes. You know of the galleries beneath the temple courtyard?”

“Yes, I’ve ventured down there. Beautiful sculptures.”

“Well, I’m told the priests use a variety of secret tunnels to travel unseen between the surface structures and galleries.”

An astute smile curled Zenobia’s lips. “Their magic tricks … light from stone, the overflowing modius crown…”

“Possibly.” Patra had no desire to besmirch the priests. “But more importantly, if real, these passages are known by precious few, and convoys from the Library to the Serapeum would be difficult to conceal. If you ordered the Temple closed for its own protection, our couriers could come and go, and, once inside the walls, would be free from onlookers. Spying eyes at the gates shouldn’t presume any destination other than the Serapeum library, right?”

“Not without an alternative destination in existence. The priests are your only liability. Have you come to ask me for their deaths?”

“Oh, ah … no.” Patra scanned the columns and shadows around them. She whispered, “The servants … could you …?”

Zenobia snapped, “Everyone, out!” Dark figures skittered from corners like startled cats and shuffled out of the hall. When quiet returned, Zenobia motioned Patra to wait. Suspicious, she listened a moment, then growled, “I said
everyone
, Heptus.”

A courtier ambled from behind a column. “Apologies, Augusta. I failed to apprehend ‘everyone’ meant-”

“Everyone?” Zenobia barked. “Let us settle the definition here and now! ‘Everyone’ means everyone! ‘Everyone but Heptus leave,’ means everyone but Heptus leave!” The repentant courtier stumbled hurriedly toward the main hall. Zenobia called after him, “‘Everyone may live but Heptus,’ means only Heptus is executed! More? Are we settled now?” She turned back to Patra, smirking. “My head snake. I do hope that all you’ve shared was for the benefit of our audience?”

Patra turned to her, not shaded with artful connivery, but distraught.

Alexandria, Egypt – Present day

Joss shifted the rental van into park, but left the engine running for the A/C.

“Well that was stressful,” she said, peering past Matt to the condo complex entrance.

This property and most of its neighbors offered short-term rentals to foreign workers—specifically, the archaeologist, Jo Shelsher.

“So, uh …” Joss went on, “… I appreciate the confidence, but let’s switch before she comes out.”

Matt’s hands lay folded in his lap, and his focus drifted around his knees. “Hm? What’s that?”

“I said let’s switch. Half the drivers here seem to want to kill the other half. I mean, why do they even paint lanes on the roads?”

“Lanes?” He looked around as if just waking from a nap. “Where are we? Is this where we’re picking her up?”

“Yes.” She looked at the clock on the dash. “We’re a little early.”

Matt nodded and took a deep breath, blinking rapidly, his brow drawn tight with angst.

“So, what’s happening right now?” Joss asked, motioning to the Taria’s pointy lump under Matt’s T-shirt.

“Just a sec,” he replied, squeezing his eyes shut, one hand floating between them in a frozen
stand by
sign.

The thing never left his chest. Before the island, he’d been sharp and present most of the time, even when surreptitiously reading something. If he’d been doing any of this deep immersion stuff before, it would’ve been in bed, or when Joss wasn’t around.

The hand dropped to his lap, and he faced her, now fully alert. “Sorry about that. Just needed something to finish.” He glanced right, toward the condos, with a twitchy, nervous air leftover from the reading. “Should we go in, or is she supposed to come out?”