Hypatia's Diary, page 1
part #2 of Darwin Lacroix Adventure Series
Hypatia's Diary
Dave Bartell
Copyright © 2020 by Dave Bartell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-1-7328626-2-3
To my editor, Annie Tucker, who makes my stories better.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Libyan Desert on the edge of the Great Sand Sea
391 CE
Hypatia stood in the largest chamber of Alexander the Great’s tomb and surveyed the arrangement one last time. Seven years of meticulous planning and dozens of journeys across the western desert had led to this moment. She was not given to tears, but felt a constriction in the back of her throat as she realized this was a burial. I’ll never see you again, nor will I be alive when you return to life.
The chamber was lined floor to ceiling with the surviving scrolls from the original Library of Alexandria. The rising powers in the Coptic Church were intolerant of pagan beliefs, which included many of the ancient Greek works. Calls were being made to destroy texts that did not align with the new and growing faith. Hypatia grieved for the ancient knowledge they buried here, but hoped that a future generation, more accepting of broad ideas, would find it.
She sighed and walked down the sloping passage cut just large enough for a human. The oil lamp cast a tight circle of light, reaching only a few body lengths ahead. Some distance later, a wall emerged as the corridor pivoted hard right, and she grabbed the side for support against the steeper downward slope. Grit trickled down her collar from her hair brushing the ceiling, and she wiped her neck. The space seemed to close in on her, and she paused to take some steadying breaths. It’s just this part. Keep going.
A short distance later, the corridor widened and doubled back on itself. It continued downward through a series of steep switchbacks, before coming to a long, straight passage that flattened out. She felt her trembling leg muscles ease after walking a couple minutes on the near-level surface.
Hypatia stopped for a brief rest before the most challenging section, rough-hewn steps that descended at a severe angle. She braced one palm against the rock wall for balance in the chimney-like space and leaned backward as the lamp’s flame threatened to ignite her tunic. At last, her feet reached bottom, and she saw a distant light.
“Come, Hypatia. It is almost sunrise,” said Synesius, his voice warm and melodious. She smiled at her most trusted pupil. He could charm a viper, she thought, and knew he had with all the bribes they had paid people to look the other way as they moved the scrolls.
“Is it ready?” she asked.
“Yes. Hurry,” he said.
She squat-walked about thirty feet, her leg muscles burning again, and then stood up in a round-walled chamber. Natural light poured in from above, and Hypatia looked at the gray dawn sky. She blew out the lamp and rubbed her lower back.
“Up. Up,” said Synesius, grasping her elbow and directing her to the ladder.
She climbed, and a small group of men helped her over a wall and onto the ground. As Synesius joined her, several of the men, digging tools in hand, descended the dry well.
“How long will it take?” asked Hypatia, looking down at them, already some twenty feet below.
“Before the sun is high,” said an old man leaning on a staff.
“Good. Do you trust them?”
“Ammon has told them their families will be blessed as long as the secret is safe. You have nothing to fear,” said the old man.
Hypatia stepped closer to him and took his hand. She gazed at him for a moment, trying to fathom his thoughts, then said, “Masnsen, I thank you with all my soul. As you have guarded the oracle, I trust you to guard the mystery of Alexander’s tomb. Someday, when the outside world is less troubled, the right person will come to open it. As the oracle foretold, it will reveal to your descendants who is worthy,” said Hypatia.
Masnsen closed his eyes and nodded. A yell from below signaled that water flooded the hole, and the ladder creaked as the men climbed out.
“Go now,” said Masnsen. “By tonight, this will be just another well in the oasis.”
Hypatia and Synesius went to the edge of the lake and paddled a raft across. After a meal of dates, olives, and flatbread, they walked to the main settlement of Ammoneion, where they joined a caravan readying to leave for Alexandria. Hypatia was glad for the relative cool of springtime, as it meant they could journey during daylight.
A few hours later, the camel’s slow, rocking steps colluded with the sun’s warmth to lull her into a lucid dream, in which people dragged her out of her home. A man snatched her diary and yelled, “We have it!”
She shuddered awake, heart pounding and breathing hard. I can’t let that happen. I can’t keep it. She slowed her camel and removed the diary from a satchel beneath her robe. Clutching the small volume, she marveled at the simple invention that transformed the written word. Instead of a long roll of papyrus that could be crushed or disintegrated with the smallest amount of moisture, the codex, as it was called, had been made from fine lambskin that was cut into small rectangles, then neatly stacked and bound on one side. The compact form also allowed her to write on each side of the skins. A leather-wrapping protected the codex that could be easily held with one hand. It’s so much smaller and less fragile than the scrolls. If only we had time to copy them. She sighed and maneuvered alongside Synesius.
“I need you to take this. You said you had a safe place, a new library. Hide it there,” she said, handing him her diary.
“I will go there next month,” said Synesius. “I have business with—”
“Do not tell me where it is! You know how valuable this secret is.”
“Understood. I will hide it where it will be forgotten until the proper time,” said Synesius.
Hypatia guided her camel back into line as a strong breeze erupted from the east. She looked behind her at the sand billowing off the top of a nearby dune and burying the camels’ tracks. A good omen. She smiled.
1
Rome, Italy
Present Day
“Here it is,” said Joseph to his aunt Tessa Santarossa. They were deep in a cave beneath their family’s restaurant and wine shop, legendary for its old vintages. Joseph had taken an interest in his grandfather’s shop at an early age, and now twenty-three had been cataloging the rare wines to sell them online. This idea for the family business was long overdue.
They stood in a cramped space, with decaying wooden crates st
“I cleaned it up as best I could,” said Joseph, looking at Tessa’s raised eyebrows. Several wooden crates had come apart, loosing their bottles onto the floor. About half a dozen had broken, spilling liters of wine. Much of the substantial leakage had flowed under the crates.
Tessa picked up one bottle that Joseph had stacked along with still intact crates. A 1925 Biondi-Santi Brunello di Montalcino Riserva, a spellbinding Tuscan red. She gasped at seeing a pile of glass.
“What happened?” she asked in a gentle tone. The broken bottles were not from his carelessness.
“This crate in the middle fell apart, and the box on top tipped over. I couldn’t catch them all. I’m sorry,” he said. A rotted wooden box lay on the floor.
“No. No. It’s okay. How did you find this place?” asked Tessa.
“A few weeks ago, I found a key hidden in the sorting room, but didn’t know what it was for,” he said, referring to a small office-like area they had passed through. “Yesterday, I moved a few rows of boxes stacked against the back wall and discovered this door. I remembered the key, and it worked.”
“My god. It’s true,” she said.
“What?”
“Your grandfather once told me about a secret space where they hid wine from Mussolini’s fascists…” she trailed off and shined a light around the other crates. Most of them were in similar distress. Decades of neglect had put these old vintages at risk. “You found it.”
“Yeah, but…” he looked at the mess on the floor.
“It’s not your fault, Joseph. This box would have collapsed under its own weight. When I was a teenager, your great-grandfather Vito went apoplectic with rage one night at dinner. He blamed his brother for a collapsed shelf. His brother blamed him. It was the best supper in years.
“Anyway, I’m surprised the lot hasn’t fallen down,” she said, holding up one of the Tuscans. “Looks like you’ve cleaned up well enough. You ever tasted this?”
“No,” he said.
“Well, it’s time to deepen your education. You need to know what you’re selling.”
She walked back and collected a couple glasses from the sorting room, skewered the cork, and coaxed it out. She poured the rich liquid, and they swirled the wine. She breathed in and was transported to the hills in Tuscany. Fruit, punctuated by musky earth and raw stems. Hot sun blazed on her bare shoulders as her grandfather showed her how to trim the vines, leaving just enough leaves to shade the delicate grapes. Her hand curled with the memory of vineyard soil rolling through her fingers.
She looked at Joseph. He swirled the glass, held it to his nose and then, eyes closed, inhaled. He sighed and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. He tipped the glass, and she watched his mouth swish the liquid across his palate.
“Holy Mother Mary,” he said, wild-eyed. “It’s…” He swirled the glass and took in a larger mouthful.
“A miracle,” she said.
Halfway through their second glass, Joseph turned and stared down the rows of crates lining the walls. “How far does it go?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Grandfather Marco wouldn’t tell me about this place. Said it wasn’t safe and to stop asking about it.”
“Well, it’s mine now,” said Joseph, standing and tugging down his skinny-leg jeans. “C’mon.”
Tessa followed. No wonder Grandpa Marco left him the wine business. She read the labels and vintages as they walked. My God, even if half this wine is corked, there’s still a fortune in here.
The cases of wine stopped after a hundred meters, and the cave became danker. Slimy water trickled down one wall and streamed along the floor, making it difficult to walk even without the wine affecting her balance.
“Joseph, wait. Let’s do this another day. It’s dangerous.”
“Aw, Tess. Where’s the girl who taught me how to climb trees?
She grew a brain, thought Tessa, remembering a fearless six-year-old Joseph edging farther out an oak tree branch. She had been seventeen at the time and heading to university that fall.
“Joseph?” she called. He had disappeared around a corner. “Wait up.”
She rounded the bend and saw him running his finger over something on the wall.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. A symbol. It’s old. Looks more in your line of work,” he said.
“Let me see,” she said, squeezing in next to him.
“I can use this as the logo for my wine business!” he said and snapped a photo of a bird-like symbol chiseled into the rock. Seven points were connected with scored lines in a shape where the bottom resembled a child’s kite and the top two points extending to form a head and beak.
Tessa covered her mouth to hide her surprise.
“What is it?” asked Joseph.
“It’s an Aquila,” she replied and continued explaining after seeing Joseph’s face screw up in perplexion. “It’s a constellation in the northern sky. The Aquila, or eagle, was the most powerful icon of the Roman military.”
“Cool. The ancient Roman army was here, but so what?”
“It’s the same symbol a guy discovered last summer in that lava tube between Iceland and Scotland. What’s it doing here?” her voice drifted off in wonder.
An archaeologist by profession, Tessa had followed the discovery closely. The initial news had caused a sensation because of a massive diamond cache found halfway between the two countries. It had also led to a revolution in geology as researchers scrambled to find similar structures.
She was further intrigued when the lead archaeologist, Darwin Lacroix, revealed an ancient Roman connection with the lava tube and suggested that lava tubes occurred in multiple places across Europe. She had highlighted a quote in one of his interviews: “What if the ancients knew about these lava tubes and used them to store or hide scrolls? We’ve lost so much ancient knowledge. Imagine if we could find a long-lost library.”
A few years earlier, while cataloging an archaeological dig in Rome, she had come across a note in the inventory:
Papyrus fragment - reference to Serapeum scrolls and Synesius, unclear meaning
The fragment was found among artifacts brought from Alexandria and dated to the time when Christian rulers gained control of Alexandria around 400 CE. Synesius was a common name in that time period, but there was a Synesius who was a student of Hypatia, the famous teacher and philosopher. She was rumored to be one of the guardians of the Serapeum library, which some scholars thought was the last known place that contained scrolls saved from the original Library of Alexandria.
Tessa asked colleagues if the remains of the Library of Alexandria could have been consolidated in the Serapeum, but no one took her seriously. The evidence was lean, she knew, but many great discoveries began with a hunch. The fragment contained the words “hidden…” and “Rome church…” Against all reason, she convinced herself that Synesius wrote this scrap of papyrus as a clue pointing to more.
