The Indigo King - James A. Owen [41]
“I don’t believe you,” Anaximander said, pressing closer with the blade. “Tell me something truthful, or your friend will pay the price, and you after.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jack said to John. “Mordred’s almost as much trouble here and now as he was in the Archipelago.”
Jack had switched to English, but Anaximander recognized the word “Archipelago,” and it startled him. He lowered the dagger and looked at the three companions appraisingly.
“Perhaps you speak truth after all,” he said finally. “You mean him no harm?”
Jack started to reply, but John cut him off. “We just want to speak with him,” he said testily. “That’s all. And then we plan to, ah, return to our homeland.”
“Fair enough,” Anaximander said. “We’ll be meeting later, at my home. Please, come with me.” With that, he turned and strode away. The companions had little choice but to follow.
The home of Anaximander was only a short distance away, but Chaz kept an eye on the streets they traversed so as not to forget where the portal was located. Of the three of them, he was the one most aware that they had a time limit.
Anaximander’s home consisted of three low bungalows connected by a courtyard where he could teach small groups of students. A few minutes before, he’d threatened the companions with violence, but now he was acting the perfect host. He offered them wine and a platter of cold figs, which they consumed with great vigor.
“You seem quite hungry,” Anaximander commented. “Did you not bring provisions for your journey? You seem ill-equipped for a long voyage.”
“We’re staying nearby,” Jack said, not exactly lying. “Everything we need is there.”
“You said you were a teacher,” said John. “What do you teach, if I might ask?”
Anaximander bowed his head at the question. “I am a philosopher of the school of my master, Thales, and I teach what I am still seeking the answers to myself: the origin of all things. I call it Aperion.”
“Wait now,” said Jack. “I’ve heard of that. It means ‘Infinite Beginning,’ does it not?”
“Not precisely,” said Anaximander. “More ‘Infinite Perpetuity.’ There is no beginning or ending, but merely an endlessly repeating process of beginnings and endings. Thus, an infinity of all things in space … and time.”
Jack nearly spit out his wine.
“Amazing,” said John, and translated for Chaz. “That’s a rather all-encompassing subject.”
“Indeed,” the teacher said. “Presently I am working on a new theory, which I call ‘multiple worlds.’ Essentially, I believe that our own world is but one of an infinite number that may appear and disappear at any given moment. Some find solidity and remain, while others flounder and disappear.”
Jack raised an intrigued eyebrow and looked at John. What Anaximander was describing was the very time paradox that Hugo Dyson had caused: The world they knew had vanished and been replaced by the Albion of the Winter King.
They both had the same thought: Was this Greek scholar in some way involved in what had taken place, or was his theory merely another coincidence?
A few more hours of discussion with Anaximander confirmed the answers to many of the questions that John and Jack had wondered about. The city was Miletus, on the Ionian coast of what they knew as Turkey. And as close as they could estimate from their fellow scholar’s calculations, the date was sometime around 580 BC.
The companions held off discussing the specifics of how and when they’d come to be in Miletus until their host had excused himself to fetch some more refreshments.
“Twenty-five hundred years!” Jack exclaimed, slumping back in his chair, “and then some. What was Verne thinking? What can we possibly solve by going back this far?”
“Remember what Bert said,” John reminded him. “Whatever it was that Hugo caused to happen in the past—uh, future—well, whenever he went—was anticipated by Verne. And we know who our adversary is. I think before we can do anything about Hugo, we’ve got to defeat Mordred, just like the prophecy said.”
“We already did that,” Jack huffed. “What if it was that defeat the prophecy referred