CHAPTER TWO
London had been, to Jess¸ a sprawling modern metropolis. It had been impossible to imagine anything more majestic than the buildings that had challenged that low, grey sky. On some very basic level, he had always believed that England, and London, was quite simply better than the rest of the world.
His first indication that he was wrong had been when his new friend Thomas shared the news that students in Berlin regularly scored far better than he did on the tests, but that might have been simply a fluke … until he began to talk to his fellow postulants, and began to realise that every one of them, every one, was as good as he was, or better.
And then, there was Alexandria. Oh, Alexandria.
London had been a warren of narrow, winding streets, tiny alleys, blind corners. Crowds. Dirt that never quite seemed to be scrubbed away, even in the cleanest of places. It was a wonder, but a wonder that had the sweat and dirt of humanity ground deep for more than two thousand years.
Alexandria, for all its long, turbulent history, gleamed like heaven. Everywhere it was sparkling and spotless, with broad avenues for steam carriages and wide, flat pedestrian walkways that led past preserved ancient monuments. Priceless gold-decked statues commemorated a rich and ancient legacy, and it stunned Jess, once he thought about it, that no one sneaked about at night to pry the precious stuff away. Even the poor seemed to have respect for history here. Every building was carefully maintained and fresh-painted each year in what he was told was a riotous public festival, and the streets were lined with beautiful gardens, flowers, trees, fountains, all carefully groomed. The city even smelt good.
For the most part, the people matched the place: exotic, clean, attractive, polite. Cosmopolitan.
He felt like a rude country lout, compared to most of those he saw on the trip to their lodgings. Scholar Wolfe had commissioned a large carriage to carry them all, and as it chugged smoothly along past overwhelming wonders, Wolfe stood in the aisle and talked.
‘You will be quartered at Ptolemy House,’ he said. ‘You are treated as adults; there are no childish rules, no one to coddle you. You will share rooms. The accommodations are not luxurious. There will be a staff on duty, but they are not your servants and they will not clean up your messes. Tomorrow you will begin your studies. Am I clear?’
They all murmured agreement, then shouted it when he demanded more volume. And when the carriage parked, he was the first off, gone before Jess could think of a single question to ask. Not, he sensed, that Scholar Wolfe would have been inclined to answer one.
Ptolemy House proved to be an unremarkable squared-off building near the Alexandrian University. It was not luxurious, as Wolfe had said, but Jess had dossed in far worse places in his life. It was clean and cool, and that was what counted.
Room assignments were posted in the hallway. He found his number, opened the matching door, and half-carried, half-dragged his train case inside before he collapsed boneless on the first bed he came to.
It never occurred to him that it might not be his own bed until the bathroom door opened, and an impossibly good-looking young man in a crimson robe said, ‘¿Quién diablos es usted? Who the devil are you?’ The maroon of the robe went well with his bronzed skin, and his eyes were almost as dark as his hair.
Jess had already met his fill of new people, but he dragged himself upright to a sitting position, rubbed sweat from his palm, and offered it to the new boy. ‘Jess Brightwell,’ he said. ‘I suppose we’re to share the space.’
‘No,’ the other boy said. ‘I have a private room. Get out.’
That was it. Nothing but the cold words. Jess slowly lowered his hand back to his side and wondered for a moment what exactly the right move would be, and then he just let himself fall back to the pillow. It felt good. ‘I’m too tired for it, mate,’ he said. ‘I claim this bed for England.’
That lasted about five seconds, before the Spaniard grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and heaved him bodily upright again, and threw him on the floor. ‘Out!’ he said, and showed very white teeth. ‘Final warning. This is my room. I don’t share.’
Jess had his measure now, and the shove hadn’t actually had much force behind it; the boy clearly never expected to really fight. He’d been born rich, and was used to those around him deferring to whatever he wished.
Jess rolled into a crouch, exploded upward, and slammed the boy hard against the wall with a forearm like a bar against his throat. ‘Let’s start again,’ he said, and bared his teeth this time. ‘I live here because my name’s posted on the bloody list outside. If that’s your bed, I apologise, and I’ll take the other. Fair enough?’ He emphasised it by leaning forward. The Spaniard struggled a little, but their gazes locked, and he must have seen that Jess was serious.
‘Keep the bed,’ the other boy said. His voice sounded rough and strangled under the pressure of Jess’s arm. ‘You’ve got your sweat all over it. I wouldn’t touch it now.’
‘Fine.’ Jess let go and stepped back. He offered his hand, again. ‘Let’s start over. Jess Brightwell.’
The Spaniard continued to stare at him with a slight frown grooved above those sharp eyes, and he finally took Jess’s hand and gave it a too-firm squeeze. ‘Dario Santiago,’ he said. ‘We won’t be friends.’
‘Probably not,’ Jess said. ‘But we will be sharing this room.’
Dario’s lips suddenly curved into a truly amused smile. ‘You may not prefer that, in the end.’
For some reason, Jess had assumed that Library classes would be held, well, in the Library, though that institution was more of a sprawling, vast complex than any single building. He’d expected a steady diet of classrooms and essays and tests, the same as he’d had back in London at the Library-administered public schools.
But Scholar Wolfe wasn’t so predictable.
At dawn the next morning, shrill bells rang throughout the dormitory, throwing Jess groaning from his bed, still sore and stupid with exhaustion. He hadn’t unpacked, and struggled with the suitcase locks for far too long before he remembered how to work them properly. Inside, his clothes smelt of damp, of London, and he felt a strange pang of homesickness for a moment, though not for his family so much as familiarity.
He grabbed a clean pair of trousers, shirt, underwear and a vest, and hurried for the bathroom.
Too late. Dario was already inside, with the door firmly locked. Jess cooled his heels and seethed as Dario took his sweet, leisurely time. He was still waiting when Thomas banged on the outer door, cracked it, and said, ‘Coming, English? You’re late!’
‘I’m still waiting for the shower! He’s slower than my mother.’
‘You’d better come anyway. Scholar Wolfe is not a man to keep waiting.’
That was certainly true, just from the first acquaintance at the train station. Jess cursed softly and stripped down as Thomas politely turned his broad back. He was pulling on his boots when Dario finally unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out, wreathed in a herb-scented cloud of steam. He looked fresh, perfect, and every inch a gentleman.
Jess felt like an unwashed, grainy-eyed lout, but he yanked his boots in place and followed. Thomas stood aside to let Dario pass, and raised his pale eyebrows at Jess. ‘Is there a problem?’