Silus nodded. He grabbed one of the soaked blankets and wrapped it around his back and head, one end across his face. Then, head first, he squeezed his way through the crack in the slightly open doorway.
He was a lot wider than Avitus, though fortunately not as bulky as Atius, or he would have been in trouble. For one panicked, claustrophobic moment, he got his belt stuck, and struggled with the clasp before he was able to toss it away and slide into the room.
The smoke stung his eyes and his throat, even with the soaked blanket as a mask. He could taste the vinegar, and wondered why firefighters insisted it was superior to plain water in extinguishing flames.
Between the thick smoke and his own tears, he could see almost nothing. But he knew where Soaemias had fallen. So he got to his hands and knees and felt around, like a blind beggar searching for tossed alms.
Nothing. She should be right there, by the table. Had she moved? Managed to pull herself away a little? How far might she have gone? Already the heat was overwhelming, and he was fighting a coughing fit. He couldn’t search the whole room.
But he had promised.
His fingers touched something soft. He probed. A foot. He groped around, eyes squeezed tight shut now against the acrid stinging atmosphere. Another foot. That was enough.
He gripped both ankles and heaved, still on hands and knees, slow awkward steps backwards. He expected to reach the door, and had another panicky moment when he thought maybe he had got turned around and was actually heading further into the room. Then his heels hit something solid. He found the gap between the door and its frame and manoeuvred himself backwards through it, heaving the inert body with him at every step. The smoke entered his lungs and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop coughing uncontrollably. His heart pounded as his body cried for air, and he felt dizziness encroaching.
Then several hands grasped him, ankles, tunic, shoulders, and pulled. He let himself be dragged the last few feet from the room, concentrating only on his grip on Soaemias’ feet.
And then he was out, into the cooler, clearer air, and he gasped and coughed and spluttered until the smoke was gone from his airways, leaving behind a sting and a taste of woodfire.
He crawled over to Soaemias, who lay on her back, perfectly still. Her face was blacked with soot and ash, but there was otherwise not a mark on her.
She wasn’t breathing.
He placed a hand on her torso. Her heart was beating, strong and fast. But her chest did not move.
He looked up at the scholars.
‘What do I do?’
They looked at each other helplessly.
‘I think,’ said one hesitantly, ‘that Hippocrates would suggest bleeding.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said another. ‘She needs a laxative.’
‘You two are crazy,’ said the third. ‘First we need a kid goat, pure white, that has been blessed by a priest of Apollo, and then…’
Silus stopped listening and turned back to her. Was she even worth saving? Who was he to judge that? He wasn’t a god. He killed people, yes, but that was his job. He had no orders to kill Soaemias. And so he did what he could.
He had saved the cat, applying his experience of seeing victims of drowning revived. He knew that pumping the chest forced the water out. Maybe the same would work for smoke. He pressed down on her sternum, and heard a hiss of air escape her mouth. And then when he released the pressure, he was sure a little air made its way back in. He did it again, harder. Then again, rhythmically, pumping up and down on her chest. The stench of smoke came from her mouth, though his own abused nasal passages could only just detect it.
How long should he do this for? Until she woke or her heart stopped, he guessed. He kept pumping.
And saw her eyes flicker.
He didn’t pause. He was aware of the scholars staring at him, at Avitus on his knees, praying to Elagabal to save his mother.
Soaemias arched her back and gasped a huge chestful of air. She let it out with a spluttering gasp, then inhaled again. Silus stepped back, and watched as the woman rolled onto her side, gasping, retching and coughing.
And breathing.
Chapter Sixteen
The city was in uproar. Greeks fought native Egyptians. Christians fought pagans. Romans fled. And everyone blamed the Jews, though there were few left in Alexandria since their revolt a century before.
Shops were burnt. Homes were robbed. Temples were looted and desecrated, their statues smashed, their walls daubed with blood and excrement. Men were surrounded by gangs and beaten to death on the merest suspicion of belonging to a different faction. Women were considered fair game for rape by men of all cultures and religions, as long as the culture and religion of the woman was different from the rapists.
Gangs gathered along the Canopic and Serapic ways, facing off across the great crossroads. They threw missiles – crockery, roof tiles, stones, and shouted insults, and worked themselves up to enough of a frenzy to be ready to charge at each other.
Then, marching along the Serapic Way, came the legion, fully armed and armoured, battle ready. A force against which a civilian mob, armed only with sticks and clubs, with no armour, and no discipline, stood no chance.
Nevertheless, belligerent Alexandrians of all flavours prepared to give battle. Their volatile tempers were fully triggered, and they were prepared to take on anyone.
The legions took position across the east entrance to the crossroads, shields to the fore, short swords drawn.
It was going to be a massacre.
And into the middle of the storm strode Origen. Right into the middle of the crossroads, between the factions, into the path of the oncoming legion. He was accompanied by just one man.
Atius.
Neither was armed. Origen had insisted that if Atius was to accompany him, he would have to leave his weapons behind. Atius had reluctantly agreed, realising that if Origen failed, then a sword would be unlikely to save him.
The legionary commander, Gratidius’ deputy presumably, yelled an order to prepare to advance. Atius stepped forward.
‘Hold,’ he yelled in as loud and clear a voice as he could. ‘Hold your positions, in the name of the Emperor Antoninus!’
The commander pressed forward so he stood behind the first row of legionaries.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Lucius Atius of the Arcani. I work for the Emperor Antoninus, and I answer directly to Marcellus, and to Oclatinius.’
He hoped that dropping one of those names would be enough to give the legionary commander pause. Something seemed to have hit home. Atius suspected it was the name of the legendary Oclatinius that had had the most effect.
‘Why are you stopping our advance?’
‘Because I believe this situation can be resolved peacefully, without loss of life.’
‘Bit late for that,’ muttered a legionary.
‘Silence!’ snapped the commander. ‘Tell me how, Lucius Atius.’
‘This is Origen, respected scholar and religious leader. Let him talk to the crowd. See if he can calm them down. If he fails, you can have your massacre, and you have lost nothing.’
The commander thought for a moment, then nodded.
‘Tell him he can speak. But if he does not disperse the crowds rapidly, then we will do it ourselves.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Atius nodded to Origen. The Christian leader turned his back on the legion and faced the mob.
Origen was a similar age to Atius, but physically much less imposing, a little plump, a little round in the face. And yet when he faced the crowd, his simple presence was enough to quell their angry shouts to no more than mutters. Atius, for all his martial prowess and physicality, knew he could never have held their attention the way Origen could.
For a moment, Origen said nothing, just turned his gaze in a three-quarter circle, so it took in the northerly Serapic Way, the westerly Canopic Way, and then back to the southerly Serapic Way. The moment stretched wi
thout him saying a word, and the muttering increased in intensity. Atius’ stomach clenched. What was the man doing? Surely he must know the crowd was being held back by bonds the thickness of a human hair, which could snap at any moment.
But Origen was a consummate orator, and knew exactly what he was doing. When the tension had reached just the right pitch, he spoke, in a voice that cut through the muttering, without being raised to the point of shouting.
‘We are all brothers and sisters,’ he said. ‘We share so much more than divides us.’
The crowd was silent now, straining to catch his words.
‘You know me. I am Origen. My father was a scholar of literature, and he was murdered, along with many other followers of Christos, when the Emperor’s father, Septimius Severus, ordered Christians in the Empire who openly practised to be executed. You know too, that I would have gone with him, had my mother not hidden my clothes so I would have had to leave the house naked.’
The story was indeed well known, and it drew a few smiles and chuckles from the crowd, despite the gravity of the situation and the tale itself.
‘I am a scholar, a master of philosophy, religion and literature. I am also a devout follower of the Christos, and his father, the Lord God.’
This drew cheers from the Christians in the crowd, and angry retorts from the Greeks and Alexandrians.
‘And yet I can make mistakes. Many of you here believe in gods of your own, deny what I contend is the truth of the coming of the Messiah. You believe in the gods of Olympos, or Mithras, or Serapis and Isis, or the gods of the river and the tree and the underworld. I believe you are wrong. Yet I am just an imperfect man.
‘When I was a boy, soon after my father was killed, I was studying the holy scriptures. The writings of the apostle Matthew stated that there are men who have made themselves eunuch for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven. I took this writing literally, and I visited a physician, in order that he could make me eunuch.’
And with that he lifted his tunic, and bared himself to the crowd. Atius gaped, as did everyone. Beneath his penis, small and wrinkled, was an ugly, red-grey scar which seeped and oozed. He held his tunic up, turning left and right so all could see. Then he let it fall.
‘The wound has never healed, and gives me pain to this day. And I have come to realise that it was for nothing. Only an idiot would believe that the scriptures were literally urging man to self-castration. It is a metaphor, an exhortation to be prepared to sacrifice yourself for your god and your fellow man.
‘And so I say to you, whether you are a master of philosophy or an illiterate freedman, whether you are a wealthy Greek or a poor Egyptian, whether you are a follower of Christos or Isis or Jupiter or Mithras, you can still be an idiot. But what you are also, is a neighbour. We are all one people, brothers and sisters. We all have families, desires, fears. We suffer hunger and pain, and we feel happiness and pleasure. We are the same.’
The crowd stood looking at each other uncertainly.
‘You are each and every one my brother and sister, whether or not you ever come to know the love of my Lord. So embrace each other, and then disperse. Go back to your homes, to your shops, to your temples, and remember that we are all one.’
With that he strode over to where the legionary commander had been listening with surprise and suspicion. The legionaries in front of him stiffened, prepared to block his way.
‘Let him through,’ said the commander.
The legionaries parted, and Origen walked right up to him.
‘Sir, your predecessors in Alexandria were responsible for the brutal beheading of my father. Yet I forgive you, and all your tribe. Will you shake my hand?’
The commander hesitated, and the crowd whistled and cheered.
‘Do it!’
‘Shake, shake, shake.’
The commander stuck out his hand, and with an uncertain half-smile, pumped Origen’s hand three times, hard.
There was a moment of what next? The crowd knew something had changed, at least for that moment, but what should they do?
Atius took matters into his own hands. He marched up to a priest of Osiris, who was at the front of a gathering of Egyptians. The priest, in full regalia, and carrying a crooked staff, flinched as Atius raised his hand. But Atius simply grasped the priest’s own hand and shook it enthusiastically.
Slowly others did the same, walking across the no man’s land into the enemy lines to fraternise, like soldiers in a civil war who had no real reason for enmity. The ones who were first had friends or family in the other camps. A Greek pagan with a Christian brother. A native Egyptian with a Greek business partner.
Of course, it was not that easy. Not everyone was swayed. Many still grumbled. Anger still simmered, and many peeled away from the backs of the crowd to find trouble elsewhere in the city. Atius knew the criminal gangs would raid empty shops and homes, frantically attempting to maximise their gains before order was restored. There would still be beatings and assaults, robbery, looting and rape, until the legions had brought everything back under control, and the anger had burnt itself out.
But it was enough. There was to be no massacre. At least not that day. Not that year.
Of course Atius was not to know that he had merely brought a temporary reprieve, and that within two years, Alexandria would be mourning the loss of countless sons to a terrible slaughter. Despite that day’s brief moment of concord, the city of learning and culture would soon once more see its streets flowing red with the blood of its people.
* * *
Marcellus wept openly as he clutched Avitus to his chest, his cheek pressed against the top of the boy’s head. Avitus wept too. For all his strangeness, his belief in his mother, his religious convictions, he was still a little boy who had been through a horrible trauma, while separated for the most part from his mother, and for all of it from his father.
Soaemias had been taken to her bed and was being attended by Greek physicians. Silus hoped they were of more use than those scholars who had offered their advice when she lay dying. But in fact, she seemed relatively unscathed, suffering only a hoarse voice, a pale complexion to which colour was already returning, and a thick coating of grime that her chamber slaves would soon cleanse from her.
Gannys had returned to the palace, prepared for his fate, but had sensibly chosen to say little until he knew what had happened to Soaemias and Avitus. All he had said to Marcellus until that point was that Aziz, Avitus’ kidnapper, was dead, and Silus was attempting to rescue the boy, and despite Marcellus’ threats and entreaties, denied knowing more.
It came down to Silus to provide a story that would keep his promise to Soaemias.
After he had revived Soaemias, the scholars, reinforced by numerous academics, philosophers, priests and slaves, had managed to quell the fire. Elderly bearded men wept openly at the loss of irreplaceable texts, but actually the fire had been quite localised. The Great Library of Alexandria had known fire on multiple occasions, most notably the great destruction when Caesar had fired the ships in the harbour, and the flames had spread to the docks and thence the library. But the library had survived, and Silus hoped it always would. He couldn’t contemplate a world without such a precious jewel in it.
With a small escort of academics, slaves, and some legionaries that Silus had rounded up en route, he had taken Soaemias and Avitus back to the prefect’s palace, to a relieved and delighted Marcellus.
‘Tell me again exactly what happened,’ said Marcellus, after he had released his grip on his son.
Silus went over the story that he had rehearsed in his mind multiple times. He had told Soaemias and Avitus that this would be his testimony. Only Atius and Gannys could gainsay him, and he hoped they would have enough common sense to hold their tongues until they had learned the official version of events.
Silus told Marcellus how Gannys and Soaemias, desperate for news of the boy, had gone to the Serapeum to search for him themselves, that Atius and Silus had found Aziz an
d others in the conspiracy there, that they had fought and killed Aziz, and the other conspirators, who were only hired thugs, had fled. And that Soaemias had escaped with Avitus, but then got caught up in the rioting, and trapped in a burning building.
‘And Silus rescued mother and me,’ put in Avitus enthusiastically, happy to play his role in the make-believe.
Marcellus threw his arms around Silus and gripped him hard, and Silus was worried he would start to cry again.
‘I owe you everything,’ said Marcellus.
‘Nonsense, sir. Just doing my job.’
‘You went way beyond your duty. Thank you.’ He indicated Silus’ broken nose and injured hand.
‘Family is everything, sir,’ said Silus. Marcellus looked him in the eyes and nodded his understanding.
‘And you, Gannys. Who would have thought you were a fighter?’
‘Not a good one, as it turns out, sir,’ said Gannys.
‘That makes you all the more brave. Now both of you, get yourselves to a medicus and get your wounds and bruises tended.’
Gannys and Silus bowed and made to leave.
‘Oh, Silus,’ said Marcellus. ‘What was it that triggered this riot?’
Silus gave a wry smile. ‘You know these Alexandrians,’ he said. ‘Seems like anything can set them off.’
* * *
‘This is the place where Marcus was martyred. Author of one of our sacred gospels, founder of the church here, and first Bishop of Alexandria.’
They stood at a point just outside the eastern city walls in front of a little altar on which had been placed flowers and offerings of fruits and cakes. Atius had insisted on walking Origen home, but Origen had refused to return to safety, preferring instead to walk the city and attempt to reduce tensions where he found them. They met with mixed success. Christians in particular recognised Origen and heeded his words, melting away shame-faced with bowed heads. Others were more belligerent, but none actually offered violence – Atius’ presence was sufficient to dissuade them of that, even unarmed.
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