Plato’s entourage left Sais and headed west beneath the blazing sun. Thanks to the enthusiastic support of Isus, legate of Sais, the philosopher had been able to acquire a total of eight slaves and four donkeys. Plato rode one of the animals, Gladius another; the third carried their food and water, while the fourth was kept in reserve. Behind them followed the slaves, laden with a variety of goods purchased in Sais. They spent just a short while on the road before turning aside to the coast, where they hired a ship. Only twelve days after leaving Sais they arrived in Carthage.
The king of Carthage was pleased to have such an esteemed guest in his domain, and he prepared extra supplies for them to take on the next phase of their journey along the main road south of the Atlas Mountains. In the town of Capsa, Plato sent back the slaves he had borrowed from Isus and took on three hardy youths the king had supplied. They headed southwest along the foothills, following a dry riverbed from Biskra to the town of M’sila. From there the road passed through a vast wasteland of desert, heading toward Iguidi. They had already reached the farthest outlands of Carthage. Now they made for Elcasia—a small oasis in a corner of the desert, and Plato’s first major goal.
The journey to Elcasia was a hard one. They split their baggage between the four pack animals, and Plato, Gladius, and the youths leaned on their walking sticks as they treaded across the shifting sands. Eight days out of M’sila, Plato climbed up a tall dune from which the sand spilled in a soundless torrent and spotted the tiny village in the distance. It was little more than a few low roofs huddled beneath the meager shade of two or three barren tamarisks.
“Elcasia,” the philosopher said simply.
The traveling party made its way straight down the far side of the dune toward the houses. Passing through a barren valley, they were startled by an unfamiliar bird taking wing. By the time they had climbed to the top of the next dune, the village was directly beneath them.
As they approached, several men emerged from the dwellings. They wore short tunics tied with leather belts and shallow hoods on their heads. Plato noted their clothing with interest—this was nothing like what the people of Persia or Egypt wore.
“We mean no harm,” Plato called out. “I am Plato of Athens, and these are my men.” It was doubtful that these people had heard of the philosopher of Athens, though it would certainly make things easier if they had.
An older man stepped out from the crowd. He said something to those around him and they formed a line with him at the head and came closer.
“Plato of Athens, long ago it was that we first heard your name. I am Seim the Elder of Elcasia. You are welcome among us.” The man opened his arms wide in a gesture of greeting. “Indeed, we have been expecting you for some time now.”
Plato frowned. “Expecting me? How is that possible?”
The old man paid no mind to Plato’s muttered question and led them into the village. Low houses squatted in a circle around a spring where the meager tamarisks grew. Their walls were made of deftly carved limestone, with large windows and doors set at regular intervals. The philosopher spotted several people peering out from the windows, some looking and then ducking out of sight. Seim told the three from Carthage to wait outside and led Plato and Gladius toward one of the stone buildings.
“It’s a temple,” Plato whispered. “See how ornate its decorations are.”
The door was open, revealing a few small flames lighting the dim interior. Before the open door, the old man reached out his right hand and made a gesture as though he were pushing something away from the entrance, though there was nothing there for him to push. He stood to one side and ushered the two of them in.
How curious.
Plato looked down at the old man’s hand as he walked through the doorway. It appeared he was still pushing something back toward the wall with it. Plato stared at the old man and the wall, making no attempt at subtlety. The old man grinned.
“Looking for this, perhaps?”
The old man relaxed his arm and Gladius jumped back with a yelp.
A large panel of something transparent—perfectly transparent—had come swinging out, pivoting on an axis set flush with the stone wall. When it had swung out all the way, it closed the entrance with a perfect seal.
“Glaes. This is glaes.” The man tapped the translucent panel with one finger. It made a hard, clear sound, like metal. “Not even an arrow from the tallest bow wielded by the strongest man may pierce it.”
Plato stared at the swinging door, speechless. He had never seen anything like it. He had heard once from a Persian trader of a material that allowed light to pass through as though it were water, but he never imagined it to be so wonderfully transparent. He realized that the people of Elcasia must be using the same material in the windows in their village. How else could they possibly admit light to their homes in the middle of a desert such as this? Plato recalled the many windowless houses he had seen in Egypt and Carthage.
There is knowledge here of a level not seen in Persia, Egypt, or any of the lands farther east. This is of a different nature than anything I have encountered—an entirely different nature.
Plato stepped silently through the entranceway. The room beyond was filled with brilliance and splendor enough to dazzle the eyes. The wall reflected a beautiful orange image of the setting sun, painting Plato’s outstretched hands and illuminating Gladius’s stern features.
“Orichalcum!” Plato gasped. In one corner of the shining wall stood a large square window where scintillating waves of green light rippled. “And what is that?”
The old man glanced over at the window, then motioned for Plato to take a seat at the table. “That is the window of the suzerain.”
“The suzerain?”
“You will meet him presently.”
As Plato watched, the rippling of the light seemed to slow, until he could look past its brilliance to see the silhouette of a man’s head. He gripped the edge of the table convulsively, with such strength that his knuckles cracked.
Now, framed by the clear green light, a large head and broad shoulders appeared. The light shone painfully bright, washing out any detail in the man’s full silhouette.
“Master Plato, our suzerain.” Seim the Elder made a short bow to Plato, then another to the silhouette.
“This man is the leader of your tribe?” Plato narrowed his eyes and stood, taking a step toward the figure in the light. It was quickly becoming unbearable to him that he could not make out the suzerain’s features, though something did give him the impression that this man was slightly more advanced in years than himself.
“Master Plato of Athens, I welcome you. I have always had a great admiration for the depth and breadth of your theories. It does the people of Elcasia much honor to receive you.”
Plato could not have cared less about pleasantries. One question weighed upon him—why, if the Elcasians were so truly honored to receive their guest from afar, did the suzerain choose to speak with him through a window? The philosopher turned to Seim and whispered. “Elder, why does the suzerain not leave his chamber? Will he not come out and sit across the table from me that we might talk? I do not call him impolite. If this is his custom, so be it. I would merely know his reason.”
Seim the Elder did not respond, instead drawing back, away from Plato and the suzerain, as though in deference to them both.
“Master Plato,” came the suzerain’s low but resonant voice. “I know you have a deep interest in the kingdom of Atlantis. I am sure that your present journey is, at least in part, to ascertain the truth of that which you have read in the ancient records maintained by a certain priest of Sais.”
“You are well informed.”
“Master Plato. For five thousand years we have protected a past glory and a great legacy that would otherwise have been lost. We have protected it because it is worth our protection, and it teaches us the truth that mankind must never forgot. Yet we find our own words too poor to relate the meaning of that memory, and our attempts at comprehension fall short. Nor are we even sure that men today would listen were we to relate that truth to them. That is why, Master Plato, we have chosen you to carry out part of our great and difficult work. We have placed much faith in your wisdom—the wisdom of the Greeks.”