As from dust ye came, so to dust ye do return.
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It was another hot day in Sais, parching winds whirling across the white cobblestones of the street. Red pitch oozed from a structure of thick pine logs that had been set to shore up a broken arch, its scent mingling with the smell of baking salt.
A small donkey laden with a mountain of woven baskets plodded over the stones, panting and shaking its head. A horsefly with huge blue eyes perched on the beast’s sweaty neck like a dangling jewel. Unguided, the ass turned at the corner and passed through another arch into an alleyway.
Now the donkey’s master appeared from behind it and gave the reins in his hand a sharp crack.
It was hot. Unbearably hot. Plato clutched at the robes he wore—white ankle-length robes, in the style of the Arabs—and hiked them up to let in a breeze. “Is that priest’s house far, Gladius?”
His follower, an Arab, answered through brown whiskers. “It is off to the side of the courtyard you will find at the other end of this lane, Master. Just a bit farther.” Plato had hired the Arab as a servant upon his visit to the island of Rhodes four or five years earlier. He had been invited there to help the local nobility set up a pre-academia and had been so impressed with the breadth of the fellow’s knowledge—quite uncommon for a member of the lower classes—that the man had swiftly become Plato’s most trusted personal assistant.
Plato squinted in the blazing sun. “It’d best be close,” he grumbled. “And this venerable priest best have the collection they say he does.”
“The magistrate in Rhodes, Telypolius, said he’d seen a stack of the scrolls himself.”
Plato wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.
They passed through the cool shade of the arch, entering a narrow courtyard where an unusually large tamarisk grew, lending shade to the uneven cobbles beneath. The sunlight passing through the leaves made countless spots on the road, tiny versions of the round orb hanging above them in the sky.
“It will be over this way. There, see the mark of the priest upon the wall.”
Beside a low doorway of white stone, a piece of wood in the shape of the sun god hung slightly askew. The baskets stacked in the entranceway were open, and one contained a mostly empty bag from which a couple grains of wheat had spilled.
“I will see if he is home,” the Arab said, setting down his pack and leaving Plato by the tree. His leather sandals slapped across the cobbles toward the house. “Is the venerable Plikton within? My master, Plato of Athens, is here to see him.” Gladius’s voice echoed in the courtyard. Windows opened in the modest stone homes surrounding the courtyard, and people looked out to see who was speaking. Some pointed and shrieked with alarm when they saw the Arab. Standing there in his grave-colored hempen tunic, sheepskin shoes, and skirt studded with copper rivets, a silver band across his forehead, he looked far more regal than Plato, who idled in the courtyard behind him, the picture of a servant with abandoned baggage at his feet.
The curtain of plaited reeds that hung in the priest’s shadowed doorway was pushed aside, and an old man stuck his head out and exchanged a few words with the Arab. Gladius turned and beckoned for Plato to follow.
The interior of the dwelling was so simple it might well have been mistaken for a storehouse or stable. The two visitors passed through the stone entrance, only wide enough for one of them at a time, into stifling darkness. It took some time for their eyes, accustomed to the blazing sun outside, to adjust. And it was frighteningly hot. Plato staggered under the assault of the scalding air and the reeking scent it carried. The Arab took his master by the hand and led him forward a few halting steps.
“Here, please sit.”
Having no other choice, Plato did as he was instructed, finding a spot upon a small round stool woven from tamarisk branches. Belatedly, he realized the low muttering voice he could hear was being directed at him.
“. . . distant relative to Solon the wise . . . distinguished family of Athens . . . son of Ariston . . . Master Plato . . . the scrolls I have . . .”
The words came to him in fragments. He nodded in the direction of the voice two or three times, then gave up trying to listen and instead peered around the dim room. As his eyes gradually adjusted, the details of the small residence became clear. In the middle of the stone-tiled floor a square hearth had been cut; a weak flame flickered upon it. Something bubbled thickly in a kettle above the flame, and it was from this source that the horrible stench and hot vapor came. Along the edges of the floor stood a haphazard assortment of jars and pots. In one corner, wooden boxes and baskets stained black with soot had been piled precariously atop slanted shelves.
Plato noticed that the muttering had ceased. He turned his attention back to the crouching figure that had addressed him.
“You are Plikton the Venerable, he who possesses the scrolls of Atlantis?”
The wizened man muttered something again, too low for Plato to hear.
“Gladius,” Plato spoke, “our gift.” He held up one finger. “No, wait.” Plato held up two fingers and shook them a few times for emphasis.
“Yes, Master.” The Arab produced two sacks of gold dust from his bag and offered them to Plato, bowing his head as he did so.
“Venerable one, please accept this trifling gift.” Plato set the two small yet bulging sacks upon the floor before the old man’s knees.
“A gift! This is most unexpected,” the man said, his voice rising clearly for once. Reaching forward, he undid the strings on one of the sacks and pinched the gold dust between his fingers with obvious satisfaction.
“Venerable one, let me explain the reason for my intrusion upon your honorable solitude—” Plato began. Then his lips curled into a frown and he withdrew his hand into his tunic, reaching around to his back. Something living had crawled in there, and he could feel it unsettlingly heavy upon his skin. He plucked it off with his fingers, threw it to the ground, and crushed it beneath his heel.
“I know well the reason why you have come,” the priest said.
Plato contemplated the venerable Plikton. Among priests there were officiants who played a role in governance and celebrants who served only at the temples. In the past, many celebrants had gone on to become ministers or generals, but the king had strongly discouraged this in recent years. With their prospects for advancement curtailed, both sorts of priest now tended to direct their efforts chiefly toward the accumulation of wealth. In particular, it was an open secret that regional legates often purchased a priest’s august opinion to help smooth over their own mistakes, lining the pockets of the clergy in the process.
The old man crouching before him did not seem to be this kind of priest.
Perhaps he left the temple due to poor health?
The old priest rose slowly to his feet and disappeared into a room in the back.
“Curse this heat,” Plato muttered. “I won’t be able to read in here either.”
He pushed away the round mat and sat his naked posterior directly on the cool stones.
A moment later the old man reappeared, dragging a small bundle of slender, woven tamarisk branches behind him. Peering closely, Plato saw that the bundle contained dust-covered scrolls of parchment inside narrow tubes.
“Master Plato, the records of the Kingdom of Atlantis.”
The philosopher’s eyes shone. Pushing back his sleeves, he drew out one of the scrolls and spread it open on the floor, heedless of the cloud of dust and grit that rose around him. But it was too dark to see. Rising to his feet again, he snatched up the parchment and hurried nearer to the small hearth in the middle of the room. Along the way, he knocked over something with one foot, making a terrible noise and splashing liquid across the floor. But he paid it no mind. Thrusting the parchment toward the flickering light of the fire pit, he could see lines of writing in the language of Etruria.
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From Atlas came many lineages of famous houses. They possessed wealth uncountable, such as no kings or nobles before them ever held and none will likely hold again. So vast was their empire that many of their possessions came from far beyond the borders of their own land. And yet to the good fortune of the people, everything that was truly necessary could be procured from their own great island.
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Plato read on, forgetting to wipe the sweat from his brow, ignoring the line of insects that had begun to march along his calf.
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The orichalcum mined within the kingdom’s borders adorned the edifices of the city of Atlantis, making their walls more beautiful than gold and stronger than bronze—
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“Orichalcum!”
Plato pulled his eyes away from the letters upon the parchment and stared at the weak, sputtering tongue of flame in the pit. The name of that legendary metal was mentioned in the few stories of Atlantis, that great continent to the west he had heard about upon his visit to Fayum the year before.
Those had been nothing more than muttered rumors, but this document in his hands right now spoke of that lost city with supreme confidence.
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Countless bridges spanned the canals that ringed the metropolis in concentric circles. Spurs connected each canal to its neighbor, so that the king and queen were able to use the network to travel anywhere within the city. The canals led withal to the open seas, and even those most central were deep enough for three-decked sailing ships to navigate. The sides of the canals rose high, allowing tall masts to pass beneath the arching bridges without hindrance. Where it was not possible to build the walls so high, the bridges were devised to open that the ships might pass. The island in the center, where the palace was built, was a near-perfect circle, defended by tall towers set with mighty gates. The stones used to build these towers were taken from surrounding islands or from the subterranean recesses of the inner and outer rings of the city. One of the towers was white, another red, and yet another black. The quarry pits beneath the city were made into safehouses, armories, and wine cellars. These cavernous holds had roofs lined with stone and double walls all around. Some buildings were made a single color, while others were speckled and mottled with different hues. The walls of the outermost ring of the city where it faced the waves were made of stone with copper reinforcement, and the inside face was covered with silver and tin, while the acropolis was constructed of flamelike orichalcum.