‘Let me through, lads. I’ve got no quarrel with you.’
The leader, whose wide ears protruded from under his curly hair, nodded at Silus’ drawn sword.
‘Nice weapon. Hand it over and you can go.’ The accent was native Egyptian. He wondered if he could use the authority of Rome to make them let him pass.
‘I am a centurion in the Roman army. Let me through, in the name of the Senate and people of Rome, and the Emperor.’
‘He’s a fucking Roman!’ said the curly-haired leader. ‘Get him!’
So much for the authority of Rome.
They rushed him all at once, three abreast. They were broad-shouldered enough between them to fill the width of the alley, leaving Silus no room to manoeuvre. They lifted their clubs and axe, and any one of them connecting in the right place with the right force would finish him. And he couldn’t parry them all. He had no time to retreat, no way forward, no adequate defence.
So Silus ran at them, and as they reached him, he dropped to the floor. The axe and clubs descended through empty air as Silus rolled towards them like a stone from a catapult when it lands. One managed to hurdle him, while two went down in a tangle of limbs and weapons. Silus continued his roll to bring him to his feet, whirled and stabbed down, his sword passing straight through the back of one of the thugs who was prone on the muddy ground. The man arched his back with a cry, then collapsed forward onto his face.
The other two regained their balance and composure and faced Silus again. But now they were hesitant. They glanced down at their fallen comrade, then at each other and advanced on Silus slowly.
‘Lads, I’m warning you. I don’t have time for this. Fuck off.’
Why did they never fuck off?
The curly-haired leader was a step ahead of his comrade, and as he neared Silus, he swung his axe back.
It was a heavy implement, designed for chopping wood and felling trees, not combat. Silus took a quick step forward, and while the axe was still in its backswing, he thrust his gladius through the axeman’s throat. Blood and air bubbled through the rent, the axe falling to the ground. The curly-haired man dropped to his knees, then slumped sideways.
Now the last remaining mugger hesitated. Silus swished his gladius around, hoping that the man would see sense and flee. For a moment it looked like he would.
Then a roar came from behind him and the merchant, who Silus had dismissed from his strategic view of the battle, came charging past him. The last thug lifted his club too late, and the plump merchant crashed into him. The thug flew backwards and the merchant landed heavily on top of him, and before he could regain his wind, the merchant started landing fierce blows onto his face and head, the power amplified by the considerable body weight behind them.
‘Egyptian scum,’ yelled the merchant, barely coherent, between punches. ‘Poor, illiterate, barbarian pieces of shit.’
The thug struggled weakly against the first few blows, then was still. The merchant continued to pound him though, face red, breath hissing through clenched teeth between curses.
Silus shook his head. These Alexandrians were crazy.
He saw the axe lying on the floor, and looked at his sword. Certainly the gladius had shown its worth, its length making it much more nimble. But if he encountered another big group blocking his way, he wondered if the axe might look more intimidating, and make a fight less likely. For a moment he weighed up the merits of each, then thought, why not have both?
He sheathed the sword, picked up the axe, and with a final glance at the merchant, who was still assaulting and abusing the dead mugger, he ran on.
Sure enough, most people looking for trouble were happy to avoid the doubly-armed, blood-covered man who looked like he needed to be somewhere in a hurry. He passed groups of men brawling, two men dragging off a large, middle-aged woman down a back alley, and a child sitting on his backside and bawling loudly.
He gritted his teeth. It wasn’t his job to save people. He couldn’t. This would soon be a city-wide riot. What difference would it make if he stopped one woman from being raped, reunited one child with its parents?
The arguments rang hollow in his ears, contrasting with the all too solid screams coming from all directions. He forced his mind onto his problem. Where was she going? Did she even know?
And then he saw the Mouseion. The cultural and intellectual centre of the city, home of the Great Library. Before he had ever been to Alexandria, he had heard of two landmarks of the city, famous across the Empire. The Lighthouse of Pharos and the Great Library. The lighthouse was too far from this part of the city. But if Soaemias was planning on making some great statement about her god, and she had been forced to flee the Serapeum, then the library, with all its history, its irreplaceable texts, its place in the hearts of the elite of the Empire, would be a good substitute.
He put the axe over his shoulder and ran into the grounds of the Mouseion, heading towards the library itself.
He ran into the structure, the one that Tekosis had shown him. He remembered the priestess with a pang of loss, then pushed the thought from his mind. The library was huge, and he wondered where to start. There was no obvious disturbance. Just worried scholars and librarians, whispering their concerns to each other, casting anxious glances at the combustible piles of scrolls and even more anxious glances at the dangerous-looking man who had just appeared in their midst.
‘What news from the city?’ one of the braver of the scholars asked.
Silus shook his head. ‘Chaos and widespread rioting. Have you seen a woman and a boy come through here?’
The scholar who had first spoken shook his head but another, emboldened by the first, spoke up. ‘They ran past my desk. Heading towards the philosophy section.’
That would be where all the books on the religions of the world were, along with discussions of the various positive and negative traits of the different gods, how they should be honoured or even whether they actually existed. If she was going to choose a place to make a final stand, it made sense that it would be there, witnessed by the writings of the scholars on all the various pantheons of the world.
‘Which way?’
The scholar pointed and Silus ran on, down a long corridor, at the end of which was a stout oak door. He hefted the axe, ready to break the door down if necessary.
He smelt burning just before he saw the tendrils of smoke sneaking under the door like demonic fingers. His heart sank. Was he too late?
* * *
Avitus watched in anxiety and confusion as his mother slammed and bolted the heavy door, then piled furniture up against it.
‘Help me,’ she hissed as she pushed a heavy wooden desk across the tiled floor. Avitus did as he was told, despite his misgivings. Mother had told him to. What else was he to do? Maybe when he was an Emperor, or a god, he could stop listening to Mother. But he doubted it.
The desk slid up against the door, and Soaemias put stools on top of it, and propped a heavy marble statue of a bearded philosopher that Avitus did not recognise against it at an angle.
When she was satisfied, she stepped back, chest heaving, and looked around. They were in a big room with shelves lined with books. Most were papyrus, though some were parchment, and most were in the form of rolled scrolls, though some of the newer-looking editions were in the form of codices. Rows of life-sized statues of philosophers looked down on them sternly over heavy beards. The room was windowless, and lit by multiple oil lamps placed strategically to maximise the light they shed, while maintaining sufficient separation from the books to reduce fire risk.
Avitus stoically assessed his environs. No exit. Barricaded in. Even for an eight-year-old, there was only one obvious conclusion.
‘Mother, is this the end?’
Soaemias looked at him, and her face twisted in grief and uncertainty. He had never seen his mother unsure before that day, and it frightened him. But in a moment, a state of calm settled over her, and she appeared to be serene once more.
&
nbsp; ‘No, Avitus, my dearest boy, most wonderful holy lord. This is the beginning.’
She walked around the room, gathering the oil lamps, blowing them out one by one, so the room dimmed, until only a single flickering lamp provided illumination.
‘Lord Elagabal, thank you for giving us this chance to show you our devotion. Take this, my only son, into your arms, and embrace him in your godhead.’
As she prayed, she opened up each lamp and poured the oil over Avitus’ head. It was warm, since it had just been close to a flame, but not scalding. Avitus was used to the concept of anointing in religious ceremonies, had anointed himself and others in various ceremonies with blood, milk, wine or perfumed oils. Mother was being very generous with the lamp oil though, and soon his hair and tunic were thoroughly soaked in the slippery fluid.
And now his mother picked up the remaining lit lamp, and carried it around the room, touching it to dry parchment scrolls, waiting for each to catch light before moving on to another.
In moments, the walls were alight, and smoke poured off them, some currents flowing downwards, most pooling around the ceiling like dark clouds. Soaemias stood in front of Avitus. The oil lamp she held in her hands lit her face from beneath, making it look strange and unfamiliar, like a ghostly vision. The room became brighter as the flames bloomed and spits and cracks came intermittently from all corners, making Avitus flinch.
‘Mother, I’m scared,’ said Avitus.
But his mother seemed not to be there any more. Just this terrifying woman who looked a bit like his mother, but whose eyes held no recognition or love, just madness.
She brought the lit lamp towards him, and he became acutely aware of the highly flammable liquid coating him. Terror froze him. He closed his eyes, fighting to find calm, acceptance.
‘O Lord Elagabal,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want to die.’
And at that moment there was a crash, and the sound of splintering wood coming from the door. He opened his eyes to stare and Soaemias spun too. The crash came again, and an axe head protruded through. When it withdrew, he saw an eye appear in the small hole that had been created. Then a voice came. A man’s voice, which he recognised.
‘Soaemias, stop! Open the door.’
Silus.
* * *
The sight Silus beheld as he peered through the small hole that his axe had made in the door chilled him, even though he could already feel the heat from the fire. Avitus stood in the middle of a large room, lined with shelf after shelf of blazing literature. He was covered in some sticky liquid, and his mother stood before him, illuminated in the flickering light from the flames, holding a lit oil lamp.
It didn’t take much imagination to work out what Soaemias was planning even if he couldn’t comprehend it. She was preparing to immolate her son for some religious purpose that was beyond him, and she was prepared to die with him.
Thoughts of Sergia and Velua flashed through his mind. His wife would have done anything to save their daughter, give her life, and had had the tragedy of seeing the little girl die before her. This woman was preparing to kill her own son. It was unthinkable.
He threw himself at the door. It was solid oak, but he was a solid man. The lock should give way, or the door frame. But it just bowed slightly at the impact, then threw him back. He tried again, ignoring the pain it caused in his shoulder, but again the door remained firm. He peered in through the hole again. Now he saw all the furniture piled up against it on the other side. He could probably shift it, given enough time. But there was none. Even if Soaemias didn’t ignite her son, the flames and smoke in the room would overcome them within moments. Already the smoke was descending from the ceiling to near the top of Soaemias’ head.
‘Soaemias, open the door,’ he shouted through the hole.
‘It’s fitting, Silus, after all your efforts to thwart me, that you are here to witness the end.’
‘Don’t, please. Just open the door.’
‘Be happy for us, Silus. We are joining our god.’
Footsteps came down the corridor behind him, three scholars, brave and curious enough to want to know what was happening. They gasped when they saw the smoke pouring out under the door.
‘Get water, blankets,’ hissed Silus. ‘Quick, you fools.’
The scholars hesitated, then raced away. Silus put his mouth back to the hole in the door.
‘You can’t do this, Soaemias. Not to your own son.’
‘It is the will of the Lord Elagabal.’
‘But how do you know? It isn’t possible to know the mind of a god. Maybe he hates sacrifice. Maybe he will reject your son, and you condemn the poor boy to an afterlife in the underworld.’
‘You know nothing of the will of the lord of mountain and sun.’
‘I agree. But what I’m saying is, how can you be sure even you know his will perfectly? We are humans. We are imperfect. If you have any doubt in your mind, you must stop this.’
There was a moment’s silence, punctuated only by cracks and spits from the fire. He poked his eye to the hole again. The profuse smoke was filling the room, the flames reaching a peak, and he could feel waves of heat washing out through the little gap. Soaemias, facing the door, was perspiring. Avitus stood completely still.
‘It’s too late,’ said Soaemias. But her voice no longer held that air of certainty. Her eyes no longer gleamed with religious zeal.
‘It doesn’t have to be like this, Soaemias. I can help you.’
‘I didn’t take you for a fool, Silus. How can you help me now? You know of my part in the plot. My husband will have me executed. And that murderer Caracalla will have my son executed for treason for the mere idea of him being Emperor.’
‘They don’t have to know. Only Atius and I know everything. I swear, by Elagabal, by Mithras, by every fucking god in the sky and under the ground, that I will keep your part in the plot secret if you just open the door.’
Soaemias’ face creased in profound distress. She turned back to look at Avitus, and tears flowed down her face, partly from the smoke, but mainly from her agony.
‘Soaemias. You are his mother. It is your job to protect him. As my wife could not protect my daughter. Live. Both of you. And maybe one day your dreams will become reality.’
Soaemias stared into Avitus’ eyes, and he looked back, all doubt gone, just complete trust in his mother’s decision.
Soaemias turned to the door, grabbed the statue, and heaved it away. Silus watched impatiently, helplessly, as the flames licked across the ceiling, and burning embers dropped alarmingly close to the flammable little boy. The smoke came lower, and now wisps reached Soaemias’ face. Breathing hard with her exertion to move the barricade, she inhaled deeply, her chest filling with smoke.
Immediately she doubled over, coughing and spluttering. She bent down on her hands and knees, sucking at the pockets of clearer air lower down, but she needed to reach up to move the stools so she could lighten the desk enough to move it. She held her breath, her head now encircled in smoke, like a mountain covered in cloud, and threw the stools away, one, then two, then a third.
But anxiety and exertion made her gasp involuntarily and again smoke hit her throat and lungs. Short of air, she gasped, retched, inhaled more smoke, and dropped to the ground. Still conscious, she reached for the table with one hand. Then the smoke enveloped her, and her head dropped, and she disappeared from view.
Silus rammed his shoulder against the door again, and it gave a little, but not enough. He considered the axe, but it would take too long. He needed the door open, and the table was still obstructing him.
‘Avitus,’ he yelled.
The boy had been watching in terrified fascination. From his position in the centre of the room and with his short stature, the smoke had not yet engulfed him. ‘I need your help,’ shouted Silus. ‘We need to move the table, together. You pull, and I’ll push. Understand?’
Avitus remained motionless.
‘Silus, your mother needs you. Y
our god needs you.’
Avitus said in a small voice, ‘Will I still be Emperor?’
Silus paused, stunned by the question under the circumstances. But it just showed how deeply his mother had indoctrinated him.
‘I’m sure you will, boy, but only if you help me now. Do we have a deal?’
Avitus nodded.
‘Grab the table leg, stay low. I’m going to count, one, two, three, one, two, three, and every time I say three, you are going to pull with all your might and I am going to push. Ready?’
‘Yes, Silus.’
‘Now. One, two, three!’
Silus rammed the door with all his might as Avitus pulled, and this time he felt something give.
‘Again. One, two, three!’
The table moved an inch and it was enough room for Silus’ shoulder barge to smash the bolt through the door frame that held it.
‘Again!’
The scholars had arrived now, with buckets of water and blankets soaked in vinegar. Fire was an ever-present threat in the library, and firefighting material was always ready.
‘Help me,’ cried Silus, and the scholars, weedy as they were, added their weight to the effort.
Three more times they rammed and Avitus pulled, and on that third attempt, the door opened enough for a person to fit through. Silus held out his hand.
‘Quick, grab hold. I’ll pull you out.’
Avitus hesitated.
‘Hurry, child!’
‘What about Mother?’
Shit. Letting her burn would solve a problem. But the boy wasn’t leaving without her. Fuck it.
‘I’ll save her,’ said Silus, ‘if you come out first.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Avitus reached out and took Silus’ hand, and before the boy could change his mind, Silus yanked him out into the corridor. He was hot and sticky, and Silus’ suspicions that he was covered in oil were confirmed. He handed him to the scholars.
‘Get him away from flame and put a blanket around him.’
‘Save my mother, Silus,’ said Avitus. ‘You promised.’
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