Of Biblical Proportions (6/11) V Methos opened the hotel room with his key and immediately dumped his archeology student bags on the floor, grabbed a beer from the fridge, stripped off his clothes and climbed into a hot shower, still drinking his beer. The hot water felt so good running off his tired back and dirty hair. He stated to feel a semblance of peace before he remembered that Amy Zoll was coming back. Boy, that Watcher hated him, but he had to admit he liked setting off her anger. He finished bathing and went to retrieve another beer. While drinking that one he called down for room service. "Dr. Adams, there's a message here from Joe Dawson. He needs to talk to you immediately." "Thank you for letting me know." Methos put down the phone and relaxed on the bed. He knew what Joe wanted. MacLeod had become invincible. Could there be any truth in the old legend? His intellect told him no, but Methos couldn't put his finger on why he knew this. The Methuselah Stone could only make mortals live a long life; where had he learned this fact? Laughing at the irony of MacLeod being the one to absorb the crystal, Methos tried to recall everything he knew about it. His eyes closed and his mind relaxed. Subjects bounced from the time when he and Amanda had both gone after the Stone several years ago. Fond memories of Alexa replaced those of Amanda and he felt himself drift to another woman, one he hadn't seen in two thousand years: Cleopatra. Why would he think of her now? Then he bolted up in bed as he remembered the trunk-full of priceless scrolls. He needed to decide what to do about them. If he had to fly immediately to Paris, he wouldn't have time to properly preserve the ancient documents. He needed help, but could he ask Miss Priss? Could he trust her? Probably not, but he didn't see any other choice. His eyes slowly closed once more. He hadn't had a lot of sleep the night before, between going to bed late, dreaming about… What had he dreamt about? The memory was elusive. But then, he'd had to get up and find the scrolls, which had taken a heavy chunk out of the night. By the time he'd gotten back to his tent, morning had been approaching fast. It had been a long day. A yawn erupted as his last thought formed and led his dreams backward in time. Alexandria-c. 33 BCE The sound of someone pounding on the door awakened him. His roommates opened heavy lids but did little else but groan. Methos stood and opened the door. Apollonius was waiting outside. "The queen wants to see you now." He sounded disgruntled. Methos grabbed his sack containing the woolen cloak. He would find an opportunity to present it to her. Perhaps he would sing a ballad about the sheep giving him the wool in order to honor the Egyptian queen. He laughed at the absurdity. "You have intrigued her. You had better be up to the challenge," Apollonius told him, warningly. They entered the grand palace and ascended the stairs leading to the queen's private chambers. "I have heard of Celtic bards. Were you one?" "I began my training before wars upon my tribe forced me to give up the endeavor. I regret not finishing my training. I had completed the waking and sleeping rituals and was attempting to memorize the tribal histories when the Romans attacked." "You must have been but a boy." Apollonius almost sounded sympathetic for his plight. Methos started to make another understatement when Apollonius led him through an archway. The view silenced him. Macedonian Household Guards stood at attention, eyeing them suspiciously, but doing nothing to hinder their progress. The guards were stationed at many places, acting as palace security, guides and most likely as bodyguards for the queen. "Come in, Apollonius and Metopholus," a melodious voice entreated. "I'll be right with you." Cleopatra was lounging on a couch, with three sides draped with white silk netting. She was reading silently from a scroll while three men in voluminous robes stood by. They said something to her in Arabic, which made her smile and nod her head. Unfortunately Methos couldn't quite hear what they had said. The three men turned abruptly and walked out through the archway. "I've been doing statecraft since before the sun rose and now I need some relaxation time. Metopholus, would you sit right here," she pointed to a couch situated next to her, "and play me one of your songs." "Many of the stories I recite are in the language of the Gauls. The Latin translations lose the flavor of the original ballad." "Sing in Gaulish, then. Caesar must have listened to them countless of times while on his campaigns. He told me of the beauty of the language." Methos doubted Caesar took the trouble to listen to the barbarians. A warlord was generally unsympathetic to the conquered. He should know. "As you wish." He began plucking the strings, finding a rhythm and searching his memory for a suitable song. It was possible that she knew this Celtic tongue and was hiding the fact to test his competence. Inspiration assaulted him. Instead of singing a well-rehearsed ballad, a new story crept from his lips and harp. It was more of a biographical history about himself and his introduction into his adopted profession. He sang in Gaulish and let the lilting tones express the emotion. "Soorgeh slept fitfully wondering when they would come for him. The planting moon was finally setting, leaving his room in dark and shadow. Night sounds drifted through the door, leaving him unsettled. When the sun rose, he gave grateful prayers that he could now leave his bed and begin the day. "The druids watched him. The chief bard in his multi-colored cloak sat by the fire, playing his harp, composing quietly." Methos let memories guide his words. He was Soorgeh and everything was happening to him. Happy, joyous notes sprang from the harp as he relived those passionate days. He had been a bard, a musical historian and it was a perfect union between physical and spiritual living. Bards were not revered in these modern times. Scribes and scholars were the occupations of choice for such as him. But he remembered. To make sure he never forgot, he wrote them down, on a series of calfskin scrolls, tucked safely into his pack. His fingers left the harp. "That was beautiful." Cleopatra clapped and stood from her couch. "You are truly gifted. I want you to live here in my palace so I may listen to your songs often." "I would like to, but I need to study. My current quarters suit me and I would prefer to stay with my fellow students. The occasional visit here, in the evenings or mornings would be pleasant, if you wish." Her face took on a pout. Worried, he decided that this was the perfect time to present her with the gift. "I have something for you," he told her. Moving off the couch, he retrieved the bundle he had dropped and unrolled it. The black wool cape was exposed for her to admire. "This is for you, my queen. In the hills surrounding Laodicea, black sheep were plentiful. I--" "I have heard of that place." She reached down and picked up the cloak. "It is so soft--and warm," she giggled. "Thank you, Metopholus. Your gift is accepted and appreciated. Mornings or evenings--I pick mornings. I will send Apollonius for you. After my song, you can study. I know your evenings will be spent in the city at the many taverns and pleasure houses." She nodded to him, briefly closing her eyes in dismissal, and walked through another doorway, out of sight. "Come, we will go to the library; you have much to read," Apollonius told him curtly. Methos followed obediently. They left the queen's rooms and walked through the courtyard. The sun was already sending hot rays to the earth below, and he was soaked in sweat by the time he entered the shaded reading rooms. Slaves were scattered among the tables, holding gigantic feathers, fanning the scholars as they worked. Methos hardly glanced at them before leaving them behind and searching for Nebamun. Methos came up upon him inside the Polyhymnia reading room. Nebamun was seated at a table with several scrolls in front of him, copying one onto fresh parchment. "Metapholus, were you looking for me?" "Yes, I was. I have been concentrating on medicine and science. I have realized that many of the works are in rough condition. Are these the only drafts in the world, or are others scattered in Athens and Rome?" "That is a good question. We pride ourselves on the fact that we have the originals of many great works. There are numerous copies in the world, but we try and keep the ones truly written by the authors in this great library." "Which are the ones that have no copies in the world? Aren't you afraid that they could become lost?" "Why do you ask, Metopholus?" His eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. "I was thinking that I could spend part of my day making copies." Methos looked at what Nebamun was writing, "As what you seem to be doing now. I fear the loss of great masterpieces." "I could use the help. Scholars from around the world have requested copies, and it has been my life's work to fill these orders. Olympos is to leave for Rome in a short while, and I have been commissioned to copy several medical treatises for him to take. You can help me with those. After his departure we will tackle other subjects. Does this please you?" Methos smiled. It pleased him well. "I will do as you recommend." As he started his new work, he vowed to make copies of particular scrolls for his own personal collection. When Octavian made war on Alexandria, Methos would be ready. All the most precious of manuscripts would be hidden deep in the desert where the Roman war parties wouldn't be able to pillage and burn them. The Museion had been almost destroyed once before; at least now, many of the greatest works would be preserved outside of the city.