I didn’t get a chance to ask him what he was talking about, because Rachel beat me to it. “There’s only one ‘now,’ Sam, dear,” she pointed out. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Sam groaned. “Not you, too, honey,” he complained. “I’m talking about a new kind of sci-rom.”
“I don’t read many sci-roms,” she apologized, in the tone that isn’t an apology at all.
He ignored that. “You’re a historian, aren’t you?” She didn’t bother to confirm it; obviously, it was the thing she was that shaped her life. “So what if history had gone a different way?”
He beamed at us as happily as though he had said something that made sense. Neither of us beamed back. Rachel pointed out the flaw in his remark. “It didn’t, though,” she told him.
“I said
suppose!
This isn’t the only possible ‘now,’ it’s just the one that happened to occur! There could have been a million different ones. Look at all the events in the past that could have gone a different way. Suppose Annius Publius hadn’t discovered the Western Continents in City Year 1820. Suppose Caesar Publius Terminus hadn’t decreed the development of a space program in 2122. Don’t you see what I’m driving at? What kind of a world would we be living in now if those things hadn’t happened?”
Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but she was saved by the butler. He appeared in the doorway with a look of silent appeal. When she excused herself to see what was needed in the kitchen, that left it up to me. “I never wrote anything like that, Sam,” I told him. “I don’t know anybody else who did, either.”
“That’s exactly what I’m driving at! It would be something completely
new
in sciroms. Don’t you want to pioneer a whole new kind of story?”
Out of the wisdom of experience, I told him, “Pioneers don’t make any money, Sam.” He scowled at me. “You could write it yourself,” I suggested.
That just changed the annoyance to gloom. “I wish I could. But until this business with the Olympians is cleared up I’m not going to have much time for sci-roms. No, it’s up to you, Julie.”
Then Rachel came back in, looking pleased with herself, followed by Basilius bearing a huge silver platter containing the main course.
Sam cheered up at once. So did I. The main dish was a whole roasted baby kid, and I realized that the reason Rachel had been called into the kitchen was so that she could weave a garland of flowers around its tiny baby horn buds herself. The maidservant followed with a pitcher of wine, replenishing all our goblets. All in all, we were busy enough eating to stop any conversation but compliments on the food.
Then Sam looked at his watch. “Great dinner, Rachel,” he told his niece, “but I’ve got to get back. What about it?”
“What about what?” she asked.
“About helping poor Julie with some historical turning points he can use in a story?”
He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. I didn’t have to say so, because Rachel was looking concerned. She said apologetically, “I don’t know anything about those periods you were talking about—Publius Terminus and so on. My specialty is the immediate post-Augustan period, when the Senate came back to power.”
“Fine,” he said, pleased with himself and showing it. “That’s as good a period as any. Think how different things might be now if some little event then had gone in a different way. Say, if Augustus hadn’t married the Lady Livia and adopted her son Drusus to succeed him.” He turned to me, encouraging me to take fire from his spark of inspiration. “I’m sure you see the possibilities, Julie! Tell you what you should do. The night’s young yet; take Rachel out dancing or something; have a few drinks; listen to her talk. What’s wrong with that? You two young people ought to be having fun, anyway!”
That was definitely the most intelligent thing intelligent Sam had said in days.
So I thought, anyway, and Rachel was a good enough niece to heed her uncle’s advice. Because I was a stranger in town, I had to let her pick the place. After the first couple she mentioned I realized that she was tactfully trying to spare my pocketbook. I couldn’t allow that. After all, a night on the town with Rachel was probably cheaper, and anyway a whole lot more interesting, than the cost of an inn and meals.
We settled on a place right on the harborside, out toward the breakwater. It was a revolving nightclub on top of an inn built along the style of one of the old Pyramids. As the room slowly turned we saw the lights of the city of Alexandria, the shipping in the harbor, then the wide sea itself, its gentle waves reflecting starlight.
I was prepared to forget the whole idea of “alternate worlds,” but Rachel was more dutiful than that. After the first dance, she said, “I think I can help you. There was something that happened in Drusus’s reign—”
“Do we have to talk about that?” I asked, refilling her glass.
“But Uncle Sam said we should. I thought you wanted to try a new kind of sci-rom.”
“No, that’s your uncle that wants that. See, there’s a bit of a problem here. It’s true that editors are always begging for something new and different, but if you’re dumb enough to try to give it to them they don’t recognize it. When they ask for ‘different,’ what they mean is something right down the good old ‘different’ groove.”
“I think,” she informed me, with the certainty of an oracle and a lot less confusion of style, “that when my uncle has an idea, it’s usually a good one.” I didn’t want to argue with her; I didn’t even disagree, at least usually. I let her talk. “You see,” she said, “my specialty is the transfer of power throughout early Roman history. What I’m studying
right now is the Judaean Diaspora, after Drusus’s reign. You know what happened then, I suppose?”
Actually, I did—hazily. “That was the year of the Judaean rebellion, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. She looked very pretty when she nodded, her fair hair moving gracefully and her eyes sparkling. “You see, that was a great tragedy for the Judaeans, and, just as my uncle said, it needn’t have happened. If Procurator Tiberius had lived, it wouldn’t.”
I coughed. “I’m not sure I know who Tiberius was,” I said apologetically.
“He was the Procurator of Judaea, and a very good one. He was just and fair. He was the brother of the Emperor Drusus—the one my uncle was talking about, Livia’s son, the adopted heir of Caesar Augustus. The one who restored the power of the Senate after Augustus had appropriated most of it for himself. Anyway, Tiberius was the best governor the Judaeans ever had, just as Drusus was the best emperor. Tiberius died just a year before the rebellion—ate some spoiled figs, they say, although it might have been his wife that did it—she was Julia, the daughter of Augustus by his first wife—”
I signaled distress. “I’m getting a little confused by all these names,” I admitted.
“Well, the important one to remember is Tiberius, and you know who he was. If he had lived the rebellion probably wouldn’t have happened. Then there wouldn’t have been a Diaspora.”
“I see,” I said. “Would you like another dance?”
She frowned at me, then smiled. “Maybe that’s not such an interesting subject—unless you’re a Judaean, anyway,” she said. “All right, let’s dance.”
That was the best idea yet. It gave me a chance to confirm with my fingers what my eyes, ears, and nose had already told me; this was a very attractive young woman. She had insisted on changing, but fortunately the new gown was as soft and clinging as the old, and the palms of my hands rejoiced in the tactile pleasures of her back and arm. I whispered, “I’m sorry if I sound stupid. I really don’t know a whole lot about early history—you know, the first thousand years or so after the Founding of the City.”
She didn’t bother to point out that she did. She moved with me to the music, very enjoyably, then she straightened up. “I’ve got a different idea,” she announced. “Let’s go back to the booth.” And she was already telling it to me as we left the dance floor: “Let’s talk about your own ancestor, Julius Caesar. He conquered Egypt, right here in Alexandria. But suppose the Egyptians had defeated him instead, as they very nearly did?”
I was paying close attention now—obviously she had been interested enough in me to ask Sam some questions! “They couldn’t have,” I told her. “Julius never lost a war. Anyway—” I discovered to my surprise that I was beginning to take Sam’s nutty idea seriously “—that would be a really hard one to write, wouldn’t it? If the Legions had been defeated, it would have changed the whole world. Can you imagine a world that isn’t Roman?”
She said sweetly, “No, but that’s more your job than mine, isn’t it?”
I shook my head. “It’s too bizarre,” I complained. “I couldn’t make the readers believe it.”
“You could try, Julius,” she told me. “You see, there’s an interesting possibility there. Drusus almost didn’t live to become Emperor. He was severely wounded in a war in Gaul, while Augustus was still alive. Tiberius—you remember Tiberius—”
“Yes, yes, his brother. The one you like. The one he made Procurator of Judaea.”
“That’s the one. Well, Tiberius rode day and night to bring Drusus the best doctors in Rome. He almost didn’t make it. They barely pulled Drusus through.”
“Yes?” I said encouragingly. “And what then?”
She looked uncertain. “Well, I don’t know what then.”
I poured some more wine. “I guess I could figure out some kind of speculative idea,” I said, ruminating. “Especially if you would help me with some of the details. I suppose Tiberius would have become Emperor instead of Drusus. You say he was a good man; so probably he would have done more or less what Drusus did—restore the power of the Senate, after Augustus and my revered great-great Julius between them had pretty nearly put it out of business—”
I stopped there, startled at my own words. It almost seemed that I was beginning to take Sam’s crazy idea seriously!
On the other hand, that wasn’t all bad. It also seemed that Rachel was beginning to take
me
seriously.
That was a good thought. It kept me cheerful through half a dozen more dances and at least another hour of history lessons from her pretty lips … right up until the time when, after we had gone back to her house, I tiptoed out of my room toward hers, and found her butler, Basilius, asleep on a rug across her doorway, with a great, thick club by his side.
I didn’t sleep well that night.
Partly it was glandular. My head knew that Rachel didn’t want me creeping into her bedroom, or else she wouldn’t have put the butler there in the way. But my glands weren’t happy with that news. They had soaked up the smell and sight and feel of her, and they were complaining about being thwarted.
The worst part was waking up every hour or so to contemplate financial ruin.
Being poor wasn’t so bad. Every writer has to learn how to be poor from time to time, between checks. It’s an annoyance, but not a catastrophe. You don’t get enslaved just for poverty.
But I had been running up some pretty big bills. And you do get enslaved for debt.
The next morning I woke up late and grouchy and had to take a three-wheeler to the Hall of the Senate-Inferior.
It was slow going. As we approached, the traffic thickened even more. I could see the Legion forming for the ceremonial guard as the Pharaoh’s procession approached to open the ceremonies. The driver wouldn’t take me any closer than the outer square, and I had to wait there with all the tourists, while the Pharaoh dismounted from her royal litter.
There was a soft, pleasured noise from the crowd, halfway between a giggle and a sigh. That was the spectacle the tourists had come to see. They pressed against the sheathed swords of the Legionaries while the Pharaoh, head bare, robe trailing on the ground, advanced on the shrines outside the Senate building. She sacrificed reverently and unhurriedly to them, while the tourists flashed their cameras at her, and I began to worry about the time. What if she ecumenically decided to visit all fifty shrines? But after doing Isis, Amon-Ra, and Mother Nile, she went inside to declare the Congress open. The Legionaries relaxed. The tourists began to flow back to their buses, snapping pictures of themselves now, and I followed the Pharaoh inside.
She made a good, by which I mean short, opening address. The only thing wrong with it was that she was talking to mostly empty seats.
The Hall of the Alexandrian Senate-Inferior holds two thousand people. There weren’t more than a hundred and fifty in it. Most of those were huddled in small groups in the aisles and at the back of the hall, and they were paying no attention at all to the Pharaoh. I think she saw that and shortened her speech. At one moment she was telling us how the scientific investigation of the outside universe was completely in accord with the ancient traditions of Egypt—with hardly anyone listening—and at the next her voice had stopped without warning and she was handing her orb and scepter to her attendants. She proceeded regally across the stage and out the wings.
The buzz of conversation hardly slackened. What they were talking about, of course, was the Olympians. Even when the Collegium-Presidor stepped forward and called for the first session to begin the hall didn’t fill. At least most of the scattered groups of people in the room sat down—though still in clumps, and still doing a lot of whispering to each other.
Even the speakers didn’t seem very interested in what they were saying. The first one was an honorary Presidor-Emeritus from the southern highlands of Egypt, and he gave us a review of everything we knew about the Olympians.
He read it as hurriedly as though he were dictating it to a scribe. It wasn’t very interesting. The trouble, of course, was that his paper had been prepared days earlier, while the Olympian transmissions were still flooding in and no one had any thought they might be interrupted. It just didn’t seem relevant anymore.
What I like about going to science congresses isn’t so much the actual papers the speakers deliver—I can get that sort of information better from the journals in the library. It isn’t even the back-and-forth discussion that follows each paper, although that sometimes produces useful background bits. What I get the most out of is what I call “the sound of science”—the kind of shorthand language scientists use when they’re talking to each other about their own specialties. So I usually sit somewhere at the back of the hall, with as much space around me as I can manage, my tablet in my lap and my stylus in my hand, writing down bits of dialogue and figuring how to put them into my next sci-rom.
There wasn’t much of that today. There wasn’t much discussion at all. One by one the speakers got up and read their papers, answered a couple of cursory questions with cursory replies and hurried off; and when each one finished he left and the audience got smaller, because, as I finally figured out, no one was there who wasn’t obligated to be.
When boredom made me decide that I needed a glass of wine and a quick snack more than I needed to sit there with my still blank tablet I found out there was hardly anyone even in the lounges. There was no familiar face. No one seemed to know where Sam was. And in the afternoon, the Presidor, bowing to the inevitable, announced that the remaining sessions would be postponed indefinitely.
The day was a total waste.
I had a lot more hopes for the night.
Rachel greeted me with the news that Sam had sent a message to say that he was detained and wouldn’t make dinner.
“Did he say where he was?” She shook her head. “He’s off with some of the other top people,” I guessed. I told her about the collapse of the convention. Then I brightened. “At least let’s go out for dinner, then,” I offered.
Rachel firmly vetoed the idea. She was tactful enough not to mention money, although I was sure Sam had filled her in on my precarious financial state. “I like my own cook’s food better than any restaurant,” she told me. “We’ll eat here. There won’t be anything fancy tonight—just a simple meal for the two of us.”
The best part of that was “the two of us.” Basilius had arranged the couches in a sort of Vee, so that our heads were quite close together, with the low serving tables in easy reach between us. As soon as she lay down Rachel confessed, “I didn’t get a lot of work done today. I couldn’t get that idea of yours out of my head.”
The idea was Sam’s, actually, but I didn’t see any reason to correct her. “I’m flattered,” I told her. “I’m sorry I spoiled your work.”
She shrugged and went on, “I did a little reading on the period, especially about an interesting minor figure who lived around then, a Judaean preacher named Jeshua of Nazareth. Did you ever hear of him? Well, most people haven’t, but he had a lot of followers at one time. They called themselves Chrestians, and they were a very unruly bunch.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Judaean history,” I said. Which was true, but then I added, “But I’d really like to learn more.” Which wasn’t; or at least hadn’t been until just then.
“Of course,” Rachel said. No doubt to her it seemed quite natural that everyone in the world would wish to know more about the post-Augustan period. “Anyway, this Jeshua was on trial for sedition. He was condemned to death.”
I blinked at her. “Not just to slavery?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t just enslave criminals back then, they did physical things to them. Even executed them, sometimes in very barbarous ways. But Tiberius, as Proconsul, decided that the penalty was too extreme. So he commuted Jeshua’s death sentence. He just had him whipped and let him go. A very good decision, I think. Otherwise he would have made him a martyr, and gods know what would have happened after that. As it was, the Chrestians just gradually waned away … . Basilius? You can bring the next course in now.”
I watched with interest as Basilius complied. It turned out to be larks and olives! I approved, not simply for the fact that I liked the dish. The “simple meal” was actually a lot more elaborate than she had provided for the three of us the night before.
Things were looking up. I said, “Can you tell me something, Rachel? I think you’re Judaean yourself, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m a little confused,” I said. “I thought the Judaeans believed in the god Yahveh.”
“Of course, Julie. We do.”
“Yes, but—” I hesitated. I didn’t want to mess up the way things were going, but I was curious. “But you say ‘gods.’ Isn’t that, well, a contradiction?”
“Not at all,” she told me, civilly enough. “Yahveh’s commandments were brought down from a mountaintop by our great prophet, Moses, and they are very clear on the subject. One of them says, ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’ Well, we don’t, you see? Yahveh is our
first
god. There aren’t any
before
him. It’s all explained in the rabbinical writings.”
“And that’s what you go by, the rabbinical writings?”
She looked thoughtful. “In a way. We’re a very traditional people, Julie. Tradition is what we follow; the rabbinical writings simply explain the traditions.”
She had stopped eating. I stopped, too. Dreamily I reached out to caress her cheek.
She didn’t pull away. She didn’t respond, either. After a moment, she said, not looking at me, “For instance, there is a Judaean tradition that a woman is to be a virgin at the time of her marriage.”
My hand came away from her face by itself, without any conscious command from me. “Oh?”
“And the rabbinical writings more or less define the tradition, you see. They say that the head of the household is to stand guard at an unmarried daughter’s bedroom for the first hour of each night; if there is no male head of the household, a trusted slave is to be appointed to the job.”
“I see,” I said. “You’ve never been married, have you?”
“Not yet,” said Rachel, beginning to eat again.
I hadn’t ever been married, either, although, to be sure, I wasn’t exactly a virgin. It wasn’t that I had anything against marriage. It was only that the life of a sci-rom hack wasn’t what you would call exactly financially stable, and also the fact that I hadn’t ever come across the woman I wanted to spend my life with … or, to quote Rachel, “not yet.”
I tried to keep my mind off that subject. It was sure that if my finances had been precarious before, they were now close to catastrophic.
The next morning I wondered what to do with my day, but Rachel settled it for me. She was waiting for me in the atrium. “Sit down with me, Julie,” she commanded, patting the bench beside her. “I was up late, thinking, and I think I’ve got something for you. Suppose this man Jeshua had been executed after all.”
It wasn’t exactly the greeting I had been hoping for, nor was it something I had given a moment’s thought to, either. But I was glad enough to sit next to her in that pleasant little garden, with the gentled early sun shining down on us through the translucent shades. “Yes?” I said noncommittally, kissing her hand in greeting.
She took a moment before she took her hand back. “That idea opened some interesting possibilities, Julie. Jeshua would have been a martyr, you see. I can easily imagine that under those circumstances his Chrestian followers would have had a lot more staying power. They might even have grown to be really important. Judaea was always in one kind of turmoil or another around that time, anyway—there were all sorts of prophecies and rumors about messiahs and changes in society. The Chrestians might even have come to dominate all of Judaea.”
I tried to be tactful. “There’s nothing wrong with being proud of your ancestors, Rachel. But, really, what difference would that have made?” I obviously hadn’t been tactful enough. She had turned to look at me with what looked like the beginning of a frown. I thought fast, and tried to cover myself: “On the other hand,” I went on quickly, “suppose you expanded that idea beyond Judaea.”
It turned into a real frown, but puzzled rather than angry. “What do you mean, beyond Judaea?”
“Well, suppose Jeshua’s Chrestian-Judaean kind of—what would you call it? Philosophy? Religion?”
“A little of both, I’d say.”
“Religious philosophy, then. Suppose it spread over most of the world, not just Judaea. That could be interesting.”
“But, really, no such thing hap—”
“Rachel, Rachel,” I said, covering her mouth with a fingertip affectionately, “we’re saying
what if
, remember? Every sci-rom writer is entitled to one big lie. Let’s say this is mine. Let’s say that Chrestian-Judaeanism became a world religion. Even Rome itself succumbs. Maybe the City becomes the, what do you call it, the place for the Sanhedrin of the Chrestian-Judaeans. And then what happens?”
“You tell me,” she said, half amused, half suspicious.
“Why, then,” I said, flexing the imagination of the trained sci-rom writer, “it might develop like the kind of conditions you’ve been talking about in the old days in Judaea. Maybe the whole world would be splintering into factions and sects, and then they fight.”
“Fight
wars?
” she asked incredulously.
“Fight
big
wars. Why not? It happened in Judaea, didn’t it? And then they might keep right on fighting them, all through historical times. After all, the only thing that’s kept the world united for the past two thousand years has been the Pax Romana. Without that—Why, without that,” I went on, talking faster and making mental notes to myself as I went along, “let’s say that all the tribes of Europe turned into independent city-states. Like the Greeks, only bigger. And more powerful. And they fight, the Franks against the Vik Northmen against the Belgiae against the Kelts.”
She was shaking her head. “People wouldn’t be so silly, Julie,” she complained.
“How do you know that? Anyway, this is a sci-rom, dear.” I didn’t pause to see if she reacted to the “dear.” I went right on, but not failing to notice that she hadn’t objected: “The people will be as silly as I want them to be—as long as I can make it plausible enough for the fans. But you haven’t heard the best part of it. Let’s say the Chrestian-Judaeans take their religion seriously. They don’t do anything to go against the will of their god. What Yahveh said still goes, no matter what. Do you follow? That means they aren’t at all interested in scientific discovery, for instance.”