By Bacchus, she’s thrown herself off. I knew she had balls under that dress.
‘KIYAAAAAA!’ Aeson stands frozen on the ledge, staring down at the sacred precinct in shock.
Lanky lands first, face down, black cloak on pink marble. Kiya floats down above him – her blue dress blown up like a pavilion. She lands on top of him and shrouds both of them in silk. Their bodies must be smashed – thank Bacchus we can’t see the mess.
Aeson jumps down from the ledge and runs towards the main staircase. Dark stubble casts a shadow on his usually perfect, clean Roman shave.
‘My boy – no one could survive that fall.’
‘I’m not leaving her down there. She landed on Lanky – he might have broken her fall. I have to check. Go inside, Rufius. Bolt the doors. I’ll be back for you.’
‘Aeson, it’s suicide to go down there, Aeson –’
Sweat hits my cheek as he spins to face me. Hope quivers in eyes that might have been painted by some Etruscan artist: tightly packed lashes frame sapphire ink-wells. They still turn me to pap.
‘Rufius, go into your office and bolt the door.’
I can’t stop him. He flies downstairs two steps at a time, the back of his tunic wet with sweat. If Theophilus spots him, he’ll have him killed.
‘My boy… Aeson, come back.’ My words wheeze into a cough, smoke fills my lungs. Where’s it coming from?
The books! They’re burning the books. Below hooded monks throw armfuls of books onto pyres. Four, no five pyres burn. Trapped high in my chest, my breath halts. From up here the monks look like beetles. Librarians and temple slaves try to stop them. That monk, he’s going to knife that young librarian… right through the chest. The boy looks down at the knife in surprise – I can’t believe this is happening either. The others drop their weapons; they realise we’ve lost. That’s it, run for your lives. Temple slaves and priests flee towards the entrance as more monks and soldiers squeeze into the sacred precinct. This is a greedy mob. The Archbishop’s unleashed a merciless bacchae… The Bacchae! Not Euripides! His play will be on the Archbishop’s heretical hit list. Athens had a copy, or did we pinch it? But what’s left of the Athenian Library since the looting?
‘Cassius, can your young eyes see Apollinos?’
‘No, master. We should do as Aeson says and go inside, master.’
‘Cassius, will you stop pulling on my toga… I must blow my nose.’ I’m as snotty as a street kid. Cassius passes me a cloth. ‘Thank you, Cassius. I’m too old for all this excitement, dear.’
Cassius sighs loudly and flings his arms around me. He’s overwhelmed the poor thing. ‘She had spirit, Kiya did, master.’
‘She did indeed, my boy.’ I pry him off me. At least I can save her bloody book. ‘Cassius, we have work to do. Go into my office, find The Book of Wisdom, and the copy the scribe was in the middle of, and pack them into book bags – pack as many books as you can carry. Off you go.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘And don’t forget to pack the originals – ’ Scribes always miss things out or add their own bits. The task will hold his wits together. Mine too.
Kiya’s stick. It looks sad without her on the marble floor. These knees haven’t crouched down for years but if I hold on to the ledge I can bend to reach it. Got it. I would have liked to buy her a new one. The cloth wrapped round the armpit rest is filthy. Oh, these old legs. My weight rests on it. Vanity prevented me using a stick. Who needs one when you have slaves?
What’s that almighty groan?
‘By Bacchus!’ Serapis’ head is breaking away. His enormous chin balances at the front of his neck, now a hinge of precious metals, bent and torn. The god’s eyes are gone – the centurion has prised out the enormous sapphires and pearls. His neck is a yawning hollow. Screams yelp up from the courtyard as the great head creaks and topples forward in a deep bow. The mob scatters for cover under the arcades.
Biblos slaves join me on the balcony.
‘Boys, back inside, back to work.’
They ignore me, rooted to the spot in amazement as Serapis’ head spins and falls. We jump at the thud, the balcony trembles: the head’s hit the floor.
‘Serapis has sent an earthquake –’
The air is thick with silence, as if the temple is holding its breath. Biblos slaves brace themselves for the god’s revenge. It’s not Serapis they should fear now.
Theophilus steps up on to the steps of Serapis’ inner sanctuary. ‘The old gods are dead. Serapis was rotten wood and trickery. The gods are dead.’
A cheer goes up and travels outside on a wave of victory.
What a forlorn sight: the twisted scene of greed below us. Serapis’ head smashed on impact, the huge skull cracked open on the marble floor. Serapis has lost his basket of grain. His nose is gone. The plates of metals are yanked loose at his neck like thousands of severed arteries. Precious beads and gems roll in all directions; soldiers chase them like children after marbles. Monks smash the statue with new confidence. Soldiers, intent on their plunder now nothing is sacred in the temple, yank off the silver, frantic for the layers of gold beneath.
This reminds me of the time I witnessed a pack of hyenas wrench apart a gazelle in Libya; the animal was transformed from grace to slivers of red flesh in moments.
Take that you scum. My spit dribbles down my chin. Panic wobbles in my gut. This must be what a slave feels like in the stadium: my death will be mere entertainment. Panic flicks its snakelike tail.
What’s that scurrying? Mice! Mice peer over the neck’s jagged edge and scuttle down the length of Serapis’ arms – thousands of them scramble down to the god’s hands and into the sacred precinct. They run for their lives like the few remaining priests and pagans.
A musty reek of dry rot and incense wafts out of the gaping hole at the neck of Serapis’ body.
‘Master, master –’
Thank Bacchus, it’s Apollinos. The skinny old Greek limps behind Biblos slaves laden with books, ancient yellow scrolls tucked under armpits. There’s a red gash in his leg.
‘Apollinos, quickly Apollinos.’
One, two, three, four. Good, all here.
‘That’s it, boys, quick as you can, into my office. Pack those into book bags, as many as you can strap across you. Hurry, boys. Does someone have Apicius’ On the Art of Cooking?’
Saviour of Books she called me. I’ll show you, priestess. I still have a few tricks tucked up my toga.
‘Apollinos, keep an eye out for Aeson. He’s gone after Kiya.’
‘We saw Kiya fall, master. It would take a miracle to survive it.’
My old slave looks at my hand on the pit-rest of her stick. He’s grief-stricken. So she got under your skin too did she? What’s he muttering?
‘What god are you praying to, Apollinos?’
‘Serapis, master.’
‘He can’t help her now, dear.’ I never thought to ask what god he prayed to before. ‘The gods are dead. Men built this temple and it’s up to us to salvage what we can of civilisation.’
Why’s Cassius hovering in the doorway looking lost? ‘Cassius, did you find The Book of Wisdom?’
He pulls the leather-bound codex from his bag. ‘Here, master.’
I flick through the pages: new parchment and Tyrian ink. He loved her. Aeson’s handwriting’s certainly improved…
‘Cinaedus!’ The insult pricks like quills down my spine. That’s Theophilus’ steel voice.
Where is he? On the top step of the inner sanctuary, Theophilus surveys the spoils of battle in Hades’ black cloak.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Shush, master.’
He points up at me. Monks closest to him look in my direction.
‘Heretic! You won’t get out of here with those books, Rufius. You’ll have to pass me first, Director of the Scriptorium.’ He pronounces my title as if that too is an insult.
I chuckle and whisper for Apollinos’ benefit. ‘Ha! That’s what he thinks, Apollinos.’
‘Cinaedus! Bring down the heresies. Order your slaves to throw them on the fires or we will pry them from your sinful grip.’
‘Apollinos, can you see Aeson down there with Kiya?’ All I can make out is the blue dress I made Diana give her.
‘Aeson’s kneeling beside her body, master.’
‘There’s no time for mourning. Go and get him.’
Idiot! He can’t take the main stairway without running into Theophilus. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, take the slave stairs, Apollinos.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Do you hear me? Cin-ae-dus! Bring down the books.’
Theophilus is furious. I can just about hear him above the cheers each time another piece of Serapis is thrown on the fires.
‘Don’t order me about, you jumped up bishop.’
He can’t hear me. My voice won’t project like it used to. Bloody smoke. My lungs can’t take it. Now out with the offending mucus. Can’t get enough air to spit. Out with it! Yellow-brown gunk splats on the floor polished just yesterday by diligent temple slaves.
‘Bah! That’s what I think of…’ Throw the insult Rufius, project your voice above the noise… ‘you plebby Christian scum.’
The cheek of it! Monks just laugh at me. For once I’m being serious.
‘Cinaedus, you are a stain…’
Theophilus’ words are lost in the chanting of his monks.
‘Cinaedus –’
‘Cinaedus –’
Make yourself comfortable, Theophilus. You’ll have a long wait.
Theophilus shouts orders at monks and points at the main staircase. Here they come. My heart drums in my ears, in sync with the pounding feet on the staircase. What air I can draw in makes me cough. The smoke’s getting thicker. The whole machinery of my body totters. My feet can no longer feel the floor, or the soft leather sandals they’re strapped into. I’ve never been this afraid before in my life.
Theophilus raises his staff and points it at me. Monks run ahead of him.
‘Cassius get the boys inside. We’re running out of time.’
‘Master, you must come inside too. We have to bolt the door.’ Cassius drags me away from the balcony. His nails pinch into my arm as he forces me inside my office.
‘Boys, back inside. We have work to do.’
My office is a rush of activity: tables piled high with books; stray pages cover the floor dropped in the rush and confusion. My boys sob and mutter to themselves as they pass books to each other from the makeshift scriptorium to my main office. They must all be devotees of Serapis. Why didn’t I realise that before? Why should I?
‘Stop sniffling. Those scrolls are hundreds of years old. You’ll damage the papyrus.’ Let’s get some order into this process. ‘Right, boys, we don’t have much time. What do we have in this pile here?’
We stare at the stacks of books and ancient papyri: all those words, sentences great men have angst over, contemplated, poured love and drained out their lives into. Defenceless books: many of them the only copies in existence, over a millennium of knowledge. Athens, Pergamum, Antioch, Rome, Carthage – the Great Library of Alexandria has begged, borrowed and stolen from them all. And for what?
Cassius’ face is slack with despair. ‘There’s too many books to take in one go, master.’
‘Take what you can, boys.’
A cough chokes up from my smoke-filled guts. My tongue’s sticky on my lips. Licking them makes no difference.
‘Wine, Cassius pour me a drink… no, guard the door. Just give me the bloody jug.’
That’s better. I’m glugging like a vagrant.
‘Keep at it, boys. That’s it, get the bags strapped to your chests. Quickly.’
Poor Cassius looks ready to faint at the door of my office. The sword shaking in his hand is making me more nervous than I already am. His head darts from side to side – from the grand staircase to slave stairs. ‘Master we must bolt the door. The monks have reached the second floor.’
‘No! Wait for Aeson and Apollinos.’
‘But, master the monks, they’re nearly here.’ His voice is a high-pitched panic.
Let’s get this great mound of flesh I call my body onto the landing. Kiya’s stick means I can move faster. My knees click and twinge; it doesn’t look like I’ll be having my massage today.
By Bacchus! What a bunch of savages: monks stop to bash the heads off the statues of the philosophers lining the stairs. Those old bores will slow them down at least.
I lean over the balcony and squint. There’s her blue dress… and there’s the hermit lifting her body into his great black arms. What a sorrowful sight. Kiya’s head hangs loose like a chicken that’s just had its neck wrung. She’s dead.
But where’s Aeson?