‘Lanky, it’s you and me, Lanky.’
What’s he doing? Why’s he stopped? He grins and turns towards Seth and Henite lined up with the rest of the prisoners, at the edge of the podium, ankles chained, and dangerously close to the pyre.
Serapis, no! Lanky means to throw them into the pyre like the Priest of Isis. I’ve got to get to Seth and Henite before he does. Gut and heart pound as one. Out of my way. An inspector tries to block me. Take that, you mongrel. He slides forward into my knife, close as a lover he grabs my neck as if to kiss me. ‘Serapis, forgive me.’ My knife whines as I pull it free and he rolls towards the pyre.
‘Lad, get down, Aeson.’ That’s Dera’s voice. Where is he?
So much blood, so many tortured cries. It’s impossible to pinpoint anyone over the mass of seething, fighting bodies: the Agora’s a battlefield. And the stench… burning flesh, it’s making me dizzy. Hold on, Henite. I’m coming.
A soldier. He’s slashing his sword at me; his stomach’s open to my attack: metal slips too easily through human flesh. In sinks my knife.
I’ve got to get to Henite before Lanky does. She’s hunched over, muttering, praying. Lanky’s going to push that young priest off the podium. Desperate, he flings himself into the pyre rather than be pushed by Lanky. An acrid stench of burning flesh makes me swallow. Henite, I’m coming.
‘Aeson, I’ll get Henite.’ Dera’s voice. It’s calm, even when he shouts… but where is he? He must be close.
Another sword swipes past my arm. It belongs to a soldier. A knife spikes the soldier’s neck like a piece of chicken; blood squirts in my face and he crumples at my feet. Croc pulls the knife out and grins. ‘Twenty.’ That was close.
‘Aeson, down here!’ Follow Dera’s voice… there he is, pushing his way up the stairs towards Henite. As tall and strong as I remember him, skin an onyx gleam. Lanky’s spotted him.
Another inspector, the kill in his eyes, sword coming at me. Shit, he’s bashed my knife from my hand, the bastard! Where did it land? His sword’s at my neck; can’t move. He’s got me in an arm lock. The inspector spins me round so I face the Archbishop. Theophilus, surrounded by bodyguards, sits safe on horseback. He nods.
‘Goodbye, Aeson Biblus Catamitus,’ growls the inspector in my ear… ‘Arhhh!’ A yelp of pain and his arm goes limp. Croc got him. Thank Serapis!
‘Man, you’re out of practice.’
‘Thanks, Croc. Serapis, No!’
Dera’s nearly up the stairs. Hurry up! Lanky’s too close to Seth. I can’t get past this mass of bodies.
‘Aeson, duck.’ That’s Patch’s voice.
I’m ducking, I’m ducking. And again: that soldier’s going to lob my head off if I don’t find a weapon. Feet shuffle around bodies, dead or dying, but no sword.
‘Pretty, catch!’ There’s Patch. Thank Serapis! The metal blade glints as it spins through the air: got it… and got you. The soldier’s face freezes in shock as he slips to the ground, eyes wide with surprise.
More soldiers force their way up the crowded steps. We’re outnumbered.
‘Patch, help Dera.’ I point towards the stairs. He’s nearly at the top.
Patch lunges his knife into the chest of another monk, hilt to heart.
What’s that? An earthquake? Wood creaks, the podium groans: it was not built to hold so many.
‘What?’ Patch shouts above the roar, arms outstretched to balance himself as the podium moves, tilts downwards. Henite sways.
Oh no! The stairs have collapsed. Dera’s gone! Monks, soldiers and prisoners look down at their feet in confusion. The podium sways under the excess weight.
‘Lads, JUMP.’ Patch herds the boys. They stab at monks and soldiers in their rush to jump off the collapsing platform.
‘Aeson, JUMP: it’s gonna collapse.’ Patch’s urgency is drowned out by the groan of wood. The podium legs splinter and crack… one’s leg gone. A thick shard of wood breaks away at an angle. The podium wobbles, the side nearest the pyre slopes downwards. Need to widen my stance to keep my balance, lean forward into the tilt of the platform: that’s it.
Henite, I’ve got to get to Henite. I’m too close to the pyre. It’s hot on my legs. ‘Henite!’
She turns, she knows my voice. Her ancient eyes meet mine.
Lanky’s seen me coming; he knows my mind. He lunges at Henite and shoves her thin body into the pyre.
‘Die, heretic.’
‘HENITE!’
She smiles as she falls into the flames. Her plaits whip up, spark and disappear. I look away, cheeks hot as the red glowing cinders that spin up from the flames. The hiss of spitting flesh makes me wrench.
Got to hold it together. Seth needs me. Where’s Seth? Serapis, No! Monks follow Lanky’s lead – the black-cloaked swine push the shackled prisoners into the pyre.
‘NOOOO!’
Seth’s head jerks back as he’s shoved into the flames. He heard me. Too late.
‘Aeson, get yer arse off there!’ Patch’s voice cracks with panic. ‘Behind yer, mate.’ Patch’s knife whizzes past me, into the shoulder of another inspector. They’re still coming at me.
Wood splits… another groan, a steep tilt. The other podium leg’s given way.
Where’s Lanky? I’ll kill him.
His one eye looks my way and he jumps off the podium.
I’ll slide into the pyre if I’m not quick. That back will do. Calf muscles tense, left foot on that dead man’s rump and I’m off.
Serapis, keep that spot clear.
Feet thud the ground. Failure is heavy in my chest as I land.
Henite’s dead.
Seth’s dead.
‘Aeson, get away from the fire.’ Sparks spit and sting my skin. That was Dera’s smooth voice. Where is he?
There, fighting his way towards me, both eyes swollen like he’s been kicked in the face.
‘Dera…’ my voice cracks.
‘She’s with her god, lad.’ His hand’s on my shoulder, but I can’t feel it. I’m numb.
‘Where’s Kiya?’
‘She’s with your father.’
‘My father?’ Does he mean she’s dead too? I stare at the hissing pyre in disbelief.
‘With Rufius.’ Dera yanks a sword from a dead man’s chest and passes it to me. ‘We need to get out of here, lad.’
What’s Kiya doing with Rufius? No time for questions – that monk’s aiming straight for us. Out of the way, Dera… in goes the blade… the monk slips off my sword, agony in his young face. That thrust, into the black cloak of the boy, went through his middle like skewering a piece of chicken. So skinny, these desert monks, and so young. Where’s Lanky?
‘Man, come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.’ Croc darts past, slaps my back. Patch is behind him. Dera and I forge forward into the knot of bodies. Croc swipes at a monk. Instant death. ‘Twenty-three down.’ Croc can even grin in the middle of a kill. That’s my Croc.
‘Where’s the others?’ Croc spins his head, hair whipping around.
‘I see them, behind us.’ Patch and the boys dodge their way towards the exit nearest to Serapis Street.
‘Did you see where Lanky went?’
‘Lanky’s a deadman if I see him again.’ Croc loved the Snake People too.
‘Now what?’
‘The Serapeum.’
Dera’s strong face shines like polished jet; as a child I imagined he was made of a precious stone, not flesh. His gaze locks into me. ‘No, Aeson, lad. You must not go to the Serapeum. Please lad, come with me.’
‘Dera, we have to get the children to safety.’
‘The Serapeum is not safe.’
‘Dera, I know the prophecy, and I’m living it. If this is my destiny, I’m not hiding from it.’
Where’s Fatty? He has The Book of Wisdom. At least I can get that to Kiya like I promised. There he is, hugging the book to his chest on the Law Court steps.
‘Croc, get the children. Head for the Serapeum. I’m going to get Fatty.’ My throat’s sore from shouting above the blare of battle.
Where did Turk go?
‘Watch out! The Archbishop’s inspectors have spotted us.’ Croc points to the Temple of Phallus. An inspector points back at us, calls to some soldiers nearby and sends them towards us.
‘Shit, man. The legions are after us now.’ Croc, wide-eyed, darts me a look: time to run, man.
I take a last look at the pyre. Faceless, black-charred corpses flop on top of the statues of Isis and Phallus.
‘This is not the time to grieve.’ Dera slaps my back, grabs a child in each arm and runs.
‘Run.’ Patch and about ten lads sprint past.
‘Faster.’ They’re gaining on us.
‘When we’re clear of the Agora, take the alley by Venus Street… we’ll loose them, man?’ Croc’s hair flaps round his face as he runs.
My gut feels like it’s on fire. My legs don’t need cajoling; running will keep back the tears.
Are we all here? Patch and the gang check out the corner that leads to Serapis Street up front. Dera’s coming up my rear with the children.
‘Run, boys.’ Croc herds the kids, their nimble limbs giving it all they’ve got. The fear and grief on their dirty faces; they know this isn’t a game. They’ve just watched the woman they called mother murdered.
‘Aeson, lad. Head for the Necropolis. It’s safer.’
‘I’m going back for Fatty. You run on ahead with Croc.’ The Archbishop won’t dare attack the Serapeum.