The Scribe of Alexandria

I have always loved words. Ever since I was a child, I would spend hours tracing the shapes of hieroglyphs on the walls of my father's house, or listening to the stories of the priests and travelers who visited our city. I was fascinated by the power of language, how it could capture the essence of things, preserve the memory of the past, and communicate across time and space.

When I was twelve, my father apprenticed me to a scribe, a man named Ptolemy, who worked at the Great Library of Alexandria. He was a learned and respected scholar, who had access to thousands of scrolls from all corners of the world. He taught me how to read and write in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, and Coptic, as well as how to copy, edit, and catalog the texts. He also introduced me to the wonders of literature, philosophy, history, science, and art that filled the shelves of the library.

I loved my work as a scribe. I felt honored to be part of such a noble and important institution, that aimed to collect and preserve all the knowledge of humanity. I enjoyed learning from the diverse and brilliant minds that frequented the library, such as Eratosthenes, who measured the circumference of the earth; Euclid, who wrote the elements of geometry; Archimedes, who invented ingenious machines; and Hypatia, who taught mathematics and astronomy. I also took pleasure in creating beautiful and accurate copies of the scrolls, using fine papyrus and ink, and adding illustrations and annotations when needed.

I worked as a scribe for twenty years, until the fateful day when Julius Caesar arrived in Alexandria with his army. He was pursuing his rival Pompey, who had fled to Egypt after losing the civil war in Rome. Caesar hoped to gain the support of the young pharaoh Ptolemy XIII, but instead he found himself in the middle of a conflict between him and his sister Cleopatra VII, who both claimed the throne. Caesar sided with Cleopatra, and soon a war broke out in the city.

One day, as I was working in the library, I heard a loud noise outside. I looked out of the window and saw flames rising from the harbor. I ran to Ptolemy and asked him what was happening. He told me that Caesar had set fire to his own ships to prevent them from falling into enemy hands, but that the fire had spread to the docks and warehouses where many scrolls were stored. He said we had to evacuate the library immediately, before it was too late.

I grabbed as many scrolls as I could carry and followed Ptolemy out of the building. We joined a crowd of panicked scholars, librarians, and scribes who were fleeing from the inferno. As we ran through the streets, I saw people crying, screaming, fighting, looting. I saw buildings collapsing, statues toppling, temples burning. I saw blood, smoke, ash. I saw everything I loved being destroyed.

We managed to reach a safe place outside the city walls, where we waited for the fire to subside. We counted our losses and mourned our friends who had perished in the flames. We also tried to salvage what we could from our precious scrolls, but most of them were damaged beyond repair. We estimated that hundreds of thousands of scrolls had been lost in the fire, along with countless works of art and artifacts. We realized that we had witnessed one of the greatest tragedies in history.

I never returned to Alexandria after that day. I left with Ptolemy and some other survivors to seek refuge in another city. I continued my work as a scribe there, but it was never the same. I felt like a part of me had died with the library. I still loved words, but they seemed hollow and meaningless without their original sources. I still copied scrolls, but they seemed like pale shadows of their former selves.

I often wonder what would have happened if Caesar had not set fire to his ships. What if he had spared Alexandria from his wrath? What if he had respected and protected its culture and heritage? What if he had not robbed us of our treasure trove of knowledge? How much more could we have learned from it? How much more could we have contributed to it? How different would history be?

But these are only words. Words that cannot change what has been done. Words that cannot bring back what has been lost. Words that cannot heal what has been broken.

Words are all I have left.