The old man slept in his beloved map-room. Doubtless Archelon had ignored Cleitus' summons to the dormitory. The intruder must have surprised him and the servant.
The map shelf had been toppled, its contents spread against the back wall. Ripped velum, parchment, and papyrus was spread over the floor like snow. Whoever had killed the map-maker had also ensured his works were destroyed.
With shaking hands, Herodot shuffled through the remnants. He recognized a piece and raised it to his eyes. It was from the map that pinpointed Gujaritan. The piece fell from his fingers and fluttered to the floor. Archelon was dead. The map was gone. Only the scrolls and tablets remained. He shivered.
The white stone floor was streaked with blood, but it had not congealed. He managed to pull his gaze from the bodies and toward the door. Red sandal prints. Herodot's heart pounded in his ears. He looked around the map room.
A marble roller lay on the map-maker's table. It was stained with ink and as long as Herodot's forearm. He picked it up and felt its weight. It wasn't a good weapon, but it would have to do.
He followed the footprints in a painfully slow walk. The hall outside was clothed in dancing shadows. Very few torches had been left burning. A spike of fear drove into his spine.
Herodot fought the urge to take the nearest torch. Can't hear me. Can't see me.
He continued following the footprints, but there was little need. Archelon's killer was in the Library of Scrolls. The only question was for what.
The torchlight cast a long shadow that walked beside him on the wall. It slowly elongated and grew as he made his way down the hall.
He stopped at the corner and cocked his head, trying to listen. Then he heard it--the rustle of papyrus, the clink of scroll ends as they were dropped to the floor. Heart hammering in his chest, he peered around the corner.
The Library of Scrolls was dark save for a single brazier on the far wall. A shadowy figure stood before it. The man was pulling scrolls from the tall shelf, unfurling them, reading, and then dropping them to the floor.
Herodot knew the scrolls--they were undoubtedly his. The man was ransacking the area reserved for Akkadian translations. Herodot continued forward, his eyes scanning the darkened floor for obstacles and then flicking back up to the interloper.
The man cursed under his breath and dropped yet another scroll. Herodot crept closer. If he was fast, he could hit the man in surprise. He timed each step with the sound of the man opening another scroll. When he was three steps away, he took a shallow breath, jumped at the man and swung the marble roller.
Instead of smashing into the man's skull, the roller crunched down on his shoulder. The impact left Herodot's arm numb. He landed off-balance and hit the tall shelf. Scrolls rained down pelting his head.
Herodot slipped and fell on his ass. He managed to hold onto the make-shift weapon, but only just.
The figure wheeled around, gasping and howling in pain.
Akakios snarled. He stepped toward Herodot. The scribe lifted the roller and tried to hit him, but Akakios's leg kicked the weapon away from him. Akakios kicked again and connected with Herodot's chin.
The world went grey. Herodot curled into a ball as blows rained down on his back.
"You filthy Jew!" Akakios shouted in Aramaic. "Filthy ungrateful bastard! How dare you!"
The violence finally subsided. Herodot's every nerve screamed in pain. His breathing came in ragged gasps. Akakios had doubtless broken one of his ribs.
"What-- What are you doing here?" Akakios panted.
Herodot moved his arms from his face. A thin stream of blood ran from his nose. The world blurred and then his vision cleared. Akakios's face glowed in the brazier's light.
"Scrolls," Herodot whispered through gritted teeth. "My scrolls."
Akakios smiled. "No, Herodot. My scrolls."
"Can't-- Not yours."
Through the ringing in his ears, Herodot heard the shouts of men in the courtyard below. Akakios tilted his head. He heard them too.
"Do you know what that is?"
Herodot said nothing.
"That is Caesar firing the pier and his ships."
Herodot blinked. "What?"
Akakios nodded. "I heard the soldiers talking earlier. That's his grand plan."
"But the Library--"
"Should be safe," Akakios sneered. "Or will be." Akakios stepped forward and stomped on Herodot's left hand.
The pain was an exquisite lightning bolt. He screamed at the sound of cracking bones.
Akakios, his sandaled foot still crushing down on Herodot's hand, bent. His eyes were glittering with madness. "It will be if you give me the last scroll. I know you have it, because it's not here."
Herodot whimpered. "It's not with me. It's in the dormitory."
The older man chuckled. "We shall see about that. Now, where is the book?"
"I don't--"
The foot ground harder on his broken hand. Herodot screamed again.
"I know you saw it. I know you found it. Where is it?"
"T-- Treasure room!"
Akakios nodded. "And where is your translation?"
Waves of fire flowed up his arm from the broken hand. The pain made him see starlight but he tried to focus. "In--In my head."
The pressure on his hand lessened.
"Your head?"
"They don't allow scribes to work in the pit!"
"Ah." Akakios pressed down once more.
Herodot groaned from the pain.
"I always told you that memory of yours would be your death. Of course, it's why I chose you." Akakios raised his foot.
A hiss of breath escaped through Herodot's gritted teeth.
"You are going to write it all down for me. All of it."
The smell of wood smoke penetrated the open windows. The shouting outside was louder.
Akakios stepped to the roller and picked it up. He slapped it against an open palm. "Get up, boy."
Struggling through the pain, Herodot managed to get to his feet. His chest burned with each breath. He cradled his wounded left hand in his right.
"Good. Now move." Herodot stood still. Akakios slapped the roller in his hand again. "I don't have to tell you what will happen if you don't." Akakios pointed toward the hallway.
Herodot wheezed as he walked. Akakios was at least four steps behind him. The older man didn't have to worry about him running away--Herodot could barely walk. They passed a lit brazier and Herodot looked down at his left hand. The fingers were slanted at strange angles and blood welled out from the second joint on his index finger.
"Why did you have to kill the map-maker?"
"Because of you," Akakios spat. "You showed him the location of Gujaritan. You showed him the location of the cave."
The cave. The words chilled Herodot. "Rashim's cave."
"Yes."
They rounded the corner. Up ahead he saw the dark mouth of Scribe Hall. He slowed.
Akakios chuckled. "Don't worry, boy. I'll make sure there's plenty of light so you aren't scared."
Even through the pain, a flush of shame burned Herodot's cheeks. His patron knew all his secrets. The fear of darkness. The fear of enclosed spaces.
"Stop."
Herodot did.
From behind, he heard the scraping of something on the wall and then light flooded the hallway from a fresh torch.
"Move."
The scribe continued forward and entered the dark hall.
Sitting at his table, Herodot's vision wavered. He sat up as straight as he could. The pain in his chest had lessened, but each breath made his body ache.
Akakios lit the braziers and placed the torch in a holder. With Herodot seated, the older man placed a fresh scroll in the stretcher, ensured Herodot's ink reservoir was filled, and dropped a fresh stylus next to it.
"You know what I want."
Herodot looked into Akakios's flushed face.
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
Akakios smiled. "It has call
ed to me ever since I found the tablet. The last tablet."
The symbol.
"I couldn't make out Trianni's words as well as you managed, but I could tell what it meant. And the mark..." Akakios's voice drifted off. He sighed in pleasure. "The mark spoke to me. It still does."
"But you don't believe in the gods. Akakios, what--"
"Garaaga isn't a god, child. Not as we understand them. Garaaga is real," he hissed. "Even you realized that."
Herodot shook his head. "Why? Why worship something that destroys? That ruins?"
Akakios laughed. "That is my business, child. Now, write!" He pounded his fist on the table making Herodot flinch.
Herodot reached out with his good hand and picked up the stylus. The smell of burning wood was stronger now. Through the stairwell, he heard the shouts of frightened men. He thought he heard Cleitus' commanding voice among them.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his body. Rune to Sanskrit to Greek. The pages of the book flashed in his mind.
When he opened his eyes, his right hand had already begun touching the reed to the papyrus.
Akakios walked around the table and stood behind him. His breath was hot against Herodot's neck.
A scream from downstairs caused both of them to look toward the stairwell. The stench of burning wood and plaster was palpable.
"What have they done?"
"Keep writing, boy. Ignore the fools."
Heed Garaaga's call, Herodot wrote. Obey its commands. Choose your bargain, and be blessed forever.
The reed felt hot in his hands. The words seemed to burn rather than soak into the papyrus.
"You wear the symbol," Herodot said.
Akakios chuckled. "On my flesh."
"You never bathe in public. I've never even seen you shirtless."
"I haven't been nude in public since I discovered the mark and had it carved into my skin."
Herodot put down the reed and turned his head to Akakios's. "Why? Why me? Why didn't you choose another scribe?"
Akakios's grin widened. "Orphan. Jew. Outcast. You were perfect, Herodot. Someone I could raise myself. Someone who would trust me without question." Akakios placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "And someone who would join me." The fingers tightened and Herodot moaned. "Or would have." The fingers wrenched and then released. "Write, boy."
The scribe picked up the reed and drew more letters on the paper. He coughed and a spatter of blood appeared on the papyrus.
"I've been trying to sneak into the Library for days, child, and track your progress. But you noticed the grate every time. I wanted to know the moment you finished the last tablet."
"You? You were the one? Why?"
Akakios smiled. "So I could steal the scrolls from the bin before they were cataloged."
"But no one else would have even bothered to look at them."
"Cleitus would have. And Cleitus knows more than he should. Especially about the symbol."
"The symbol? Garaaga's symbol?"
"The symbol is the key. It opens the way."
"The way?"
"Write. I'm not going to tell you again." The cool surface of the marble roller tapped against Herodot's ear. "Write."
More Greek spread from his reed. Akakios twisted the scroll end for Herodot giving him fresh papyrus.
Choose your bargain.
"Bargain. What bargain would you make?"
"Knowledge, child. What else is there to have?" Akakios tapped the roller on Herodot's shoulder. The blow made him wince. "WRITE!" the older man yelled.
The scribe scratched more symbols on to the papyrus. He coughed again and wiped blood from his lips. The smell of smoke was stronger. Akakios was whispering the words as Herodot wrote.
"The sacrifice opens the way. The symbol opens the way. The--"
Herodot dropped his hand from the scroll and to the table's surface.
"What are you doing?" Akakios hissed.
Herodot turned and looked up at his patron. "No more."
Akakios took a step back and slapped the roller in his palm. "Write. Or I'll kill you."
The scribe smiled. "You will kill me regardless."
"There are different ways of dying, boy."
Herodot nodded. "Profanation," he whispered and dropped his eyes to the stylus.
"What?"
The scribe punched the stylus into Akakios's face. The rigid reed's sharpened point drove through the man's eye socket with a wet plop. Blood jetted as Akakios screamed. The patron's hands flew to his face, the marble roller banging to the floor.
Herodot moved away from the table. He reached down for the roller and moaned. The sharp pain in his chest intensified and blood dribbled from his lips. His fingers managed to grasp the heavy cylinder.
Akakios stumbled backwards, his shouts of pain echoing in the empty hall. Herodot limped toward the bloodied man, his right hand held high.
He smashed the roller into Akakios's temple. The older man's skull crunched. Akakios fell against the wall, his flailing hands knocking into the brazier. Fiery liquid sloshed from the reservoir onto Akakios's toga.
Flames engulfed him. Herodot, clutching his chest, stepped backwards from the human torch. There was no sound save the distant shouts of men and the burning of Akakios's clothing. The librarian fell forward into the papyrus bin.
The bin spilled burning scrolls. Herodot watched in fascination as they rolled under tables and benches. The dry cedar wood caught immediately.
Smoke filled Scribe Hall. Herodot picked up the scroll from the table and threw it at Akakios's twitching, burning body. The papyrus flared to life in an instant.
The fire had already caught the railings. Orange and crimson licked from the floor to the ceiling of the staircase.
Herodot turned and shuffled toward the store room, each step a chuffing agony in his lungs. The smoke thickened. His vision faded in and out as he made his way to the hallway.
The torches and braziers were out. Once he turned the corner and into the hallway's darkness, the air was clear of smoke, but he continued coughing. The pain in his chest was agony.
The darkness was complete. Herodot wheezed. He put his right hand on the wall to guide himself; his dangling left hand burned with pain.
There was a crash from Scribe Hall. Herodot loosed a tear. All the scrolls. All the writings. Everything. Gone.
He entered the vast storeroom and stumbled to his left until his elbow touched shelving. His sandals crunched on something. Herodot paused. He squatted to his knees and pawed the floor. His fingers touched a familiar surface. "Akakios. Bastard," he whispered. The man had destroyed the tablets.
He walked down to the end of the shelves where the last of Trianni's tablets had been kept, but knew what he would find. Akakios had destroyed them all. His feet were crumbling thousands of years of history into sand.
Light flickered from the hallway. The fire finally made its way from Scribe Hall. In moments, it would be in the storeroom.
Herodot raised himself and leaned back against the shelves. Death was coming for him. Somehow, it didn't seem to matter.
Is this how Isin felt when he faced the lapis man's dagger? The last Keeper bowing to inevitability?
I am now the last Keeper, Trianni had written. But Trianni was gone.
Herodot sucked in a breath. "I-- I am the last Keeper," he whispered above the crackling of the approaching flames.
The legend must survive.
There was no way out of the storeroom. No other exit. Rashim, Isin, Trianni, all would be lost in the fire. There would be nothing left unless--
Herodot looked toward the center of the room. In the wan glow of the advancing fire, he saw the rectangular grate.
He slowly dropped to his knees, screaming from the pain in his chest. A bubble of blood rose to his lips and popped. The light from the fire was growing and smoke had begun to fill the storeroom.
His right hand scrabbled and found the grate's edge. His calloused, strong fingers pr
ied at the iron. The grate moved. Fresh pain rose up from his right hand. The metal had cut him, but he continued to pull.
The grate moved another inch. Another. He pulled as hard as he could and it slid across the stone floor. He stared down into gaping darkness.
Herodot sat back on his ass and turned himself with his right hand. Back to the hole, he held out his legs and slowly lowered himself. His feet touched nothing but air. Gritting his teeth, he stretched out his right hand and pushed. He sank lower. Gravity finally took him and he fell into the hole.
The world was suffocating him. He was choking on smoke and the heat was unbearable. Where am I?
Ahead of him was impenetrable darkness. I fell asleep? Pain wracked his chest with another coughing fit. The walls were barely large enough for his body. Can't move. Can't move!
He squirmed and tried to make space, but it was futile. He couldn't turn around. There was nowhere to go but forward
Using his right arm and legs, he inched his way forward. The voices of Egyptian children chattered in his mind; Akakios's grinning face, eyes glittering with madness, floated before him and then morphed into Archelon's wild-eyed, pain-choked visage. Words written in blood appeared in the darkness, flashing in rapid succession.
"Last Keeper. I am the last Keeper," he chanted. The pain in his chest and hand drew tears. Each breath was a lightning bolt of raw nerves. He shuffled forward, crying.
From behind, he heard the sound of wooden beams collapsing, the crash of stone on stone as pillars gave way. The Library was being eaten by flame.
"Last Keeper," he wheezed as he kept moving.
A young man's brown face, the mark of the third eye emblazoned on his forehead, flashed in his mind. The boy held a charred skull in his hands, tears running down his grimy cheeks.
Another man crouched behind a savaged woman's body. Congealed blood covered her back. He was screaming at the sky, one hand bleeding from the sigil of an eye carved into his flesh.
Rashim. Isin.
The pain in his chest and his aching left hand were forgotten. Darkness had faded. All he could see was the sigil of the third eye carved in blue. Herodot's face lit in a smile.
Legends of Garaaga Page 18