Imagine that the most majestic palace from Mount Olympus had been handed down to earth. This is how splendid the Musaeum was. Marble walls gleamed like hammered pearls in the sun, and a domed ceiling arched its graceful back against the sky. Inside, meeting halls, theaters, and an observatory composed the complex, along with a dining hall for scholars to break bread. A grand colonnade led from the Musaeum to the library’s main doors, and linked pathways to the zoo and botanical gardens—each another vainglory of Egypt’s new ruling family, the Ptolemies.
In the library’s interior, murals depicted the creation of the world and man’s quest for knowledge. Ten halls, each devoted to a specific subject, connected alcoves and circular reading rooms. These halls were massive, the size of any other city’s library.
I used to pretend to go on official errands and then hide in the empty alcoves to read what the great minds had to say. I would find a cushioned seat in a quiet corner, lay out my chosen scroll, and watch dust scatter and catch the sunlight as I unrolled the parchment.
The library’s works spanned thousands of years, exploring medicine, religion, astronomy, geography, mathematics, philosophy, physics, and the arts. Most scrolls and codices were either written in Greek or translated to Greek by the library’s army of translators.
My brothers were appointed as both translators and transcribers—a great honor—though their excitement quickly turned to horror once they saw the never-ending pile of work. The Ptolemies confiscated the books from every ship entering our ports so they could be copied. Usually the library kept the originals, only giving back the copies. Entire warehouses at the harbor stored countless texts that had yet to be sorted and translated.
The transcribers worked at a mad pace, sequestered in small, candlelit chambers in the back of the library. The translations and annotated editions they created were exquisite, but still there was never enough time.
I tried to offer my services to my brothers, to deliver messages or food to them—anything to give me a reason to be inside those walls. How could I be anywhere else? I was a librarian’s daughter, spoiled, imaginative, and a voracious reader.
But my simple life changed the day I found the key.
***
On my eighteenth birthday, my father surprised me with thewesekhcollar I had seen at the market. I went to put the necklace in my mother’s jewelry box, where I kept all my jewels and ornaments. A Trove of Isis, the lacquered inlay chest had been in our family for centuries. The wooden jewelry box had hidden panels and dainty drawers to hold pendants and gems.
I lifted one tray to place the collar in the bottommost compartment and discovered a panel I hadn’t known existed. When I found the secret latch and opened it, my breath caught. An ornate gold key was nestled inside the nook. I would have recognized that key anywhere. Why my mother had a key to one of the library’s chambers was a mystery.
When I read the inscription, a chill traveled over me. This was a key to the subterranean galleries, where the oldest works were kept away from the light. I had never visited the lower galleries—no one could except for the pharaoh and his most trusted associates.
I should have told my father I had discovered the key, but I did not. My curiosity burned. I obsessed about the key for days, wanting desperately to use it. When I could no longer withstand the temptation, I selected a day when an important lecture would be under way at the Musaeum and I knew the library would be empty.
To the average eye, the dull wooden door to the lower gallery appeared to conceal nothing more than a storage room. I only knew its location because my father had told me. He loved to share stories about the treasures in the lower gallery, and I had begged him once to show me the door. My knowledge became our secret.
I was betraying his trust by using the key. I had no right to wander down there alone, but on that particular day I could not stop myself. A sense of inevitability gripped me as I waited breathlessly in a nearby alcove for the perfect moment. When I could see no person in sight, I dashed to the door.
The key slid in easily and released the lock. My heart was beating so fast I could barely breathe. I grabbed a lantern off the wall and entered, leaving the door slightly cracked so I wouldn’t be locked inside. Then I hurried down the stairwell.
I held my lantern up to the shadows and gasped in awe. Thousands of papyrus scrolls filled the gallery and extended as far as my eyes could see. The authors’ names had been written on wooden plaques that hung from cords tied around ceramic canisters. Carved stones, wood, animal skins, and clay tablets lined the shelves as well. It was like tracing the history of thought back through time. Every material humans had used to cast their words had been preserved.
The number of works kept in those galleries must have been greater than the stars in our sky. As I moved through each room I could feel its hallowed ground, and when I stepped inside the last gallery, it was as though I could smell the years. Scents of faded musk and frankincense greeted me along with the reek of mold. I knew I had found the library’s oldest works.
My father often recounted how Alexandria was founded by the divine lunacy of Alexander the Great, how he had a dream telling him to come to the island of Pharos. So he did, bringing with him the ancient manuscripts from Siwa, manuscripts said to have belonged to the first rulers of Egypt, the gods. The great Oracle of Ammon and the Siwan priests had protected those manuscripts for thousands of years. But when Alexander became pharaoh and declared himself son of Zeus, he took many of the works with him to the new city, to be housed like jewels in his royal library. And here they were, these priceless treasures.
I knew I should not have been disturbing such a place, but I was struck by the sight before me. I could not move. Then I saw a small stone box decorated with strange symbols sitting at eye level on one of the shelves. My hands reached out, moving of their own volition, and before I could question my actions, I opened it.
Inside lay a dainty stack of papyrus squares with pictorial-like designs. Every square had its own image with hieroglyphs inscribed at the bottom. The paintings were rich in detail, portraying a myriad of symbols: the sun, the moon, two lovers, a hermit holding a lantern, the scales of justice, a chariot racing, and an ancient mandala of the world. I counted twenty-two in all. A papyrus scroll rested beside them.
More than anything in my life, I wanted to understand what I had found. I knelt on the floor, not caring about dust or dirt, and spread the pictures out to see them together in unity. Even though I was unschooled in the art of divination, I knew I was staring at the cycle of life, from birth to death, in all its aspects.
“What are you doing?” came a hushed whisper.
I turned around with a start, frozen in terror.
A man, slightly older than me, stood in the doorway holding up a lantern. From his modest robes, I could tell he was a student. A mane of curling black hair framed his striking brown eyes. He looked like a lion ready to pounce on his prey.
“What are you doing?” he whispered again, seeming both fascinated and astounded by my behavior.
“What areyoudoing?” I retorted, keeping my voice quiet. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment and I sat up straighter. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“And you should?”
“I’m investigating articles for my father.”
“On the floor?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief.
