There was a gasp from the onlookers. Religious tolerance was weaker in Alexandria than most parts of the Empire, and for someone to claim their god was superior so publicly, in a sacred place, was provocative in the extreme. Angry mutterings rose from the ranks of those gathered.
Silus took a step forward. ‘Soaemias, release Avitus. You can still worship your god and have your son.’
‘No!’ said Soaemias. Sharp, trying to remain firm, to suppress any doubt.
Silus took another step forward. Almost within reach of the boy.
‘No!’ she cried again. ‘My son will become a god. Aziz. Make the sacrifice!’
Silus threw himself at the descending knife. The point rushed down towards the boy’s exposed neck, the fragile skin covering vessels pulsing with life-giving blood. Silus was too far away to grab Aziz’s knife hand.
But he was near enough to reach the knife.
In the auxiliaries, in the long nights in the tents with his contubernium, they had sometimes played a game to relieve the tedium. Being young men, and soldiers, and bored, it was obviously a dangerous and irresponsible game. One of them reached up as high as he could with a dagger in his hand and dropped it. It was the task of another to catch the dagger by the blade before it could hit the ground. Money was placed on the outcome. It was a stupid game, and had led to a number of visits to the valetudinarium to be stitched or bandaged, and the pain was often accompanied by a caning from the centurion’s vine stick for affecting the fighting ability of the century. Silus had had something of a talent for it, and had supplemented his meagre income successfully in this way.
But this time he wasn’t just contending with the natural force that impels all objects to the earth. He had to account for the strength of Aziz’s arm as he thrust downwards. And he could tell it was impossible to stop the blow from striking home into flesh.
So he did the only thing he could. He put his own flesh in the way of the boy’s. The knife went through the back of his hand, and the movement of his arm deflected the blow so it cracked into the boy’s collarbone.
Avitus screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Blood welled up beneath Silus’ hand, but not much, and it wasn’t the bright scarlet that meant a mortal blow.
Silus stepped backwards, ripping the knife out of Aziz’s grip, which remained impaled up to the hilt, the blade sitting between and parallel to the third and fourth metacarpal bones. He stared at his hand in disbelief. There was not yet any pain, or any blood, but he knew both would materialise at any moment.
Atius was motionless, uncharacteristically taken aback by the sudden action.
Soaemias fell to her knees at Avitus’ side, clutching him, pulling the hand away from the wound, ripping his tunic away to see the extent of the damage.
Silus gripped the knife hilt and with a cry pulled it free and hurled it aside. Now the blood ran freely down his forearm from the holes in his palm and the back of his hand, and at the same time the pain hit, a searing agony. He stared at the damage in dismay, clutching at his wrist, fear that he would be crippled flooding over him.
Atius stared and whispered a word that Silus didn’t understand at the time. ‘Stigma.’
Then Aziz let out a high-pitched howl and threw himself onto Silus. Both arms wrapped around his upper chest, knocking Silus off his feet and onto his back, the air rushing out of him, losing his grip on his sword, which flew through the air and clattered to the floor. Momentarily he was stunned, but was brought back to awareness by a hefty punch to the centre of his face. He felt his nose break, and blood sprayed outwards in all directions like the splash of water from a stone thrown into a pond. It was agonising, and he roared and grappled for his attacker.
Atius, his brief spell broken by the assault, stepped forward to help his friend, but Gannys, also shocked out of inaction, lunged at Atius. Taken by surprise, he was unable to bring his weapon into play before Gannys had closed. They wrestled, Gannys gripping Atius’ sword arm by the wrist. Gannys was no warrior, but he had bulk, and he fought with a desperate ferocity that shocked Atius.
Aziz was fighting with a similarly passionate intensity that Silus, supine, in pain, dazed, was struggling to match. Aziz straddled him, assailing him with blows to one side of his head and then the other. Silus held his forearms up to fend off the repeated blows that were raining down on him and the respite this brought him just allowed him to recover his wits. Aziz, seeing his left-right combination punches were no longer having enough impact, sat up straight, lifted his fist up high, and punched straight down towards Silus’ face.
But this time, Silus twisted to one side, and Aziz punched the mosaic floor. The crack of his breaking knuckles echoed around the temple, drawing a gasp from the onlookers. Aziz screamed and clutched his half-closed fist with his other hand, staring in dismay at the crooked bones. Silus bucked and threw him to one side.
Slowly Silus regained his feet, wiping the blood splashed across his face away with his forearm. His nose was still radiating excruciating pain, and he felt it gingerly, noting that it had adopted an unusual new angle. He held up his punctured hand, tried to flex it, and had to suppress a cry at the agony that caused. But at least he could move and feel his fingers. That gave him hope the damage was not permanent.
Aziz was on his knees, staring up at Silus with loathing, cradling his broken fist with his other hand. Silus looked around for his sword, reached down for it with his good hand, picked it up, then straightened.
When he looked back, Aziz had retrieved the knife that moments before had penetrated Silus’ hand. Silus lifted the sword wearily.
‘Put it down, Aziz. It’s over.’
A wild look came into Aziz’s eyes, the sort that Silus had seen on the battlefield, when he was face to face with a Maeatae or Caledonian warrior, one who had lost all reason, and had surrendered to the blood lust. He braced himself for Aziz to renew his attack.
But Aziz turned the knife round, hilt facing Silus, blade pointing to his own chest.
‘You understand nothing,’ he hissed.
Then he tilted his head back. The sun caught his face, lit it up like some angelic scene from Atius’ sacred book.
‘Lord Elagabal,’ he cried in a loud, clear voice. ‘Accept my life, and let your reign on earth begin today!’
And with that, he plunged the dagger between two ribs.
His aim was good. He was a skilled assassin in his own right, after all. Bright cardiac liquid pulsed out around the hilt, and flowed in a river to the temple floor. Soundlessly, Aziz toppled forward, face first, and was still, a red lake spreading around him.
The great temple was silent. All fight left Gannys as he saw his co-conspirator’s end, and he let his hands drop. Atius put his sword to Gannys’ throat, and looked at the dead fanatic, then up at Silus. Silus looked back at him, breathing heavy and stertorous, with an irritating whistle through his wonky nose.
Then they looked around.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ wheezed Silus.
Soaemias and Avitus were gone.
* * *
Avitus had wanted to stay and watch the outcome of the fight in the temple. Partly from childish excitement, but also because he knew that the outcome was important to him. If Aziz won, he would be sacrificed and become a god. If Silus won, his life would be saved. Despite his deep devotion to Elagabal, he guiltily found himself rooting for Silus.
But Soaemias had grabbed his wrist and whispered to him to run. And for all that had been promised to him in recent days, an Imperial throne, godhood, he was still a young child who could no more resist his dominant mother’s commands than he could resist a landslide.
He ran.
They fled the Serapeum, leaving the sounds of combat behind them, ignored by the onlookers who were fixated on the fighting. They burst out into the early morning light and ran through the temple complex, drawing mildly curious glances from scholars, priests and worshippers who ambled purposelessly or strode determinedly to appo
intments and destinations.
They ran down the slope leading away from the Serapeum and found themselves on the Serapic Way. The big north–south thoroughfare was now crowded with wheeled vehicles, laden donkeys and asses and many pedestrians. It was lined with shops, taverns, market stalls and small temples, and while the density of the traffic had not yet reached its peak, there were enough obstructions to impede their progress.
Despite being slowed, Avitus quickly found himself breathing fast, heart racing from tension as well as exertion.
‘Mother,’ he gasped. ‘Where are we going?’
She didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure she knew. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to doubt a parent, one who had always been absolute in their certainty about the right course of action. But now he was seeing her in a new light. She was unsure. Even desperate.
They reached the large square at the crossroads between the north–south aligned Serapic Way and the east–west Canopic Way. Here she hesitated, looked behind her. Avitus knew that if they were running, she must be fearing pursuit, capture, and whatever followed that. He could see her brow crease, calculation behind her eyes. There was his mother, not panicking, thinking. Despite his uncertainty, he felt an inner relief as he watched her regain control of herself, of the situation.
She looked around her, down at the ground. Various animals and birds milled around, the sacred and the unclean, depending on your belief system, mingling together in the dirt. A pig snuffled, pushing muck out of the way with its nose to locate a half-eaten pomegranate. A small cat, not much more than a kitten, chased after a frog, which bounced around, attempting to evade the playful feline. Two ducks, a small group of collared doves and an ibis pecked at some grain that had spilled from a cart.
Soaemias looked around her furtively, then reached down and grabbed the surprised ibis, tucking it under her cloak.
‘Stay here,’ she hissed at Avitus. ‘Don’t move.’
She ducked behind an unmanned stall, the ibis just beginning to flap. She was briefly out of sight of the milling crowds. Avitus thought he heard a muffled squawk. Soaemias reappeared, the ibis still tucked away out of view but no longer flapping. A score of yards onwards was a temple with half a dozen marble steps and an open frontage. A statue of a woman, nude from the waist up and with the head of a cow, suggested to Avitus that this temple was dedicated to Hathor, goddess of music and dance, fertility and motherhood, of all things female and feminine.
Soaemias pulled the ibis from underneath her cloak. Avitus gasped. Where once had been its black head, with its long curved bill, there was now just a stump, oozing blood over its white feathers. As Avitus watched, Soaemias threw the decapitated bird into the temple, where it landed with a soft wet thud.
‘Run,’ she hissed, and Avitus did not need telling twice. She grabbed his hand, and they rushed east along the Canopic Way.
From behind them, a shriek pierced the morning air, cutting through the hubbub of daily life. Avitus looked back, then stopped, fascinated and horrified.
A priestess staggered out of the temple, her white robes stained with the blood of the dead sacred bird that she held aloft. Everyone at the crossroads turned to stare in disbelief.
‘Sacrilege,’ she screamed. ‘Blasphemy. Murder!’
A murmur rushed through the crowds that became louder.
‘It’s the Christians,’ shouted a man from the crowd.
‘No, it’s the Jews,’ screamed a hysterical woman.
‘It’s the Romans with their cursed Olympian gods,’ yelled another.
‘It’s a desecration. Death to the Christians and their false prophet.’
‘Death to the Jews.’
‘Kill the Romans.’
Soaemias tugged Avitus’ hand urgently as the crowd erupted into violence behind them. Reluctantly, still amazed at the speed with which a peaceful street had become the scene of a full-scale riot, Avitus allowed himself to be led by his mother at a rapid trot.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked. He wasn’t sure she knew.
But then, looming in front of them, was the Mouseion, and the Great Library it contained.
She pointed. ‘There.’
* * *
‘What about Gannys?’ asked Atius as they ran to the grand temple doorway.
‘Not important,’ said Silus. ‘We’ll deal with him later.’ He grabbed a temple slave who had barely moved since the moment they had first arrived in the temple, motionless, broom in hand, a pile of half-swept leaves at his feet.
‘Where did they go? The woman and the boy?’
The slave gawped, and Silus shook him with both hands, trying to ignore the pain that shot up his arm from his damaged palm, and noticing he had left a bloody palm print on the slave’s shoulder. He pointed down the Serapic Way, and Silus shoved him aside and set off down the wide street. Others he accosted as they ran said the same thing, pointing out the direction of the fleeing mother and son.
But as they approached the crossroads of the Serapic Way and the Canopic Way, the normal din of the street crescendoed to a tumult. And now others were running, some towards the crossroads, mainly men, angry, bearing sickles and hammers, others fleeing, mainly women, carrying or dragging children, pale-faced and terrified.
A pregnant woman with a young girl dragging behind her careered into Atius. Atius held out a hand to steady her. She fell to her knees and grabbed at the hem of his tunic.
‘Please, sir, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt my daughter.’
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ said Atius, trying to sound unthreatening, but coming across gruff. ‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s a riot, sir, a big one.’
‘About what?’ asked Silus.
‘They say someone killed a sacred bird, desecrated a temple. They are saying it’s the Christians.’ She clutched at a chi-rho pendant, and Atius realised that she was a follower of the Christos herself.
‘Did you see a woman and a young boy run this way?’ asked Silus. ‘Maybe before the riot started?’
She frowned, puzzled at the seeming non sequitur. Then she nodded. ‘Yes, moments before the shouting started, a woman and a lad ran into the crossroads, and then turned east down the Canopic Way.’
Moments before? Was Soaemias responsible for this riot then? He didn’t think he could put anything past her now.
‘Thank you. Get out of here, find somewhere safe. I suspect things will get worse before they get better.’
She scrambled to her feet and rushed off. They headed on, towards the epicentre of the riot, but the nearer they got, the more crush, and the more danger. Clay pots and plates flew through the air, impacted collarbones and skulls, hammers swung, knives flashed. Roars of anger and screams of pain and outrage echoed all around. People were dying before them.
They pressed on, using their short swords sparingly. The blades parried weapons, while the hilts clubbed away the more lightly armed.
A large man with a huge blacksmith’s mallet reared up behind Silus, the hammer behind his head, ready to be brought down. Silus turned, saw him just as Atius ran him through from sternum to spine. The big man toppled over backwards, dragged by the weight of the hammer.
‘Juno’s arse, Atius, this is serious. People are dying.’
‘And a lot more are going to die when the legion marches out to restore order,’ said Atius grimly.
A mad-eyed woman whose clearly well-coiffured hair was now loose and wild grabbed Atius’ arm and bit it. He yelped and hurled her away forcefully.
‘We’ve got to stop this,’ he said.
‘We’ve got to stop Soaemias,’ said Silus. ‘She was ready to see her son die. I think she still intends the same. Besides, what can we do to stop a riot?’
‘Us? Nothing. But Origen could.’
‘Origen?’
‘You know what a powerful speaker he is, how respected he is in the city. Let me go and find him, bring him here. If he can quell the riot before the legions arrive, think how many liv
es will be saved.’
Silus shook his head, torn between his duty to Marcellus and the moral obligation to stop the violence.
‘Go,’ he said. Atius gripped him by the shoulder in thanks, then retreated south down the Serapic Way to work his way around the riot to the house of Phryne.
Silus looked around him. The crowds were separating into factions, just like the riots he had seen before at the Circus, but instead of Greens and Blues, individuals were accreting into groups of Christians, Jews, native Egyptians and ethnic Greeks. They hurled insults and missiles, cursed and ducked as insults and missiles came back at them. Soon, inevitably, men were brandishing lit torches. A house known to be a meeting room for followers of Christos was the first to begin to smoulder, then spark into flame. Soon after, a small temple dedicated to Thoth was ignited, and then groups split up to roam the city, looking for targets – human, statuary or architectural – to smash, break and burn.
Silus worked his way between the cultural and religious combatants, avoiding confrontation where he could, facing it head on when he had to. He sidled around a native Egyptian and a Greek who were locked together in a wrestling hold, each trying to get the upper hand. He stepped over two middle-aged women rolling in the dirt, spitting and scratching like cats. He jumped sideways as a youth, barely more than a child, staggered backwards towards him, clutching at the knife protruding from his belly.
Abruptly the road east became unpassable, despite its expansive width, choked with rioters. Silus cursed and took a random north-leading side alley. At the end, he jogged right, and found himself face to face with three figures, two with clubs and one with an axe. They were beating a wealthy-looking citizen, a merchant probably, who was curled up on the floor, his hands fending off blows to his head, but unable to do anything about the kicks to his kidneys. These men weren’t rioters, Silus realised instantly, but the ordinary criminals that lurked in the underbelly of every city, and they were taking advantage of the anarchy to make some money and have some fun.
They looked up as Silus came to a halt before them and turned as one.
Emperor's Axe Page 27