Avitus opened his eyes and stared. Two men with drawn swords rushed through the door at the far end of the temple and charged towards the altar. They halted a few feet away, their gladii pointing forward, one towards Aziz, one towards Gannys. Aziz hesitated and looked to Soaemias.
‘Silus, Atius. Come to worship?’
‘I knew it,’ said Silus, breathing hard. ‘I knew you, Gannys, must be involved. But you, Julia Soaemias. I really, really hoped not. How could you do this to your own son?’
The fanaticism that would compel you to endanger or even take the life of your own child was surely alien to most, but to Silus, who had had his daughter ripped away from him by violence, something he would give his own life in an instant to change, it was incomprehensible.
‘You cannot understand, Silus. You who believes in nothing. For us, who worship the Lord Elagabal, our faith is everything.’
‘I have faith,’ said Atius. ‘My God, the same God the Jews worship, rejected the sacrifice of Abraham’s son.’
‘Ah yes, you are a follower of the Christos, aren’t you, Atius? And did not your God sacrifice his own son for the sins of others?’
‘Yes, but…’ Atius paused, confused. Silus wondered if he was wishing Origen was there to help him out, but this was not a time for a philosophical debate.
‘It doesn’t matter whether I understand,’ said Silus. ‘All that matters is the boy. Tell your man to let him go.’
A small crowd had gathered now, priests, slaves, worshippers, some scholars who had been drawn into the temple by the commotion. They looked on with fascination, unsure of what they were witnessing, but knowing that violence was imminent, and unwilling to miss out.
Aziz looked to Soaemias for instruction. But her indecision of a moment ago seemed to have vanished, her faith hardened by these non-believers who threatened her in this holy sanctuary, and by the audience who would bear witness to this ultimate act of faith. She raised her voice.
‘All you gathered here, you will carry word of what you have seen to the city, to the Empire. You are witness to the rise of the Lord Elagabal, who from this day forward will rule the heavens and the earth, supreme over all men and all gods.’
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 appointments 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 lives 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.
‘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.
‘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. Your 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.’
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.