“Stay here. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
Sibiam gave Assum the torch he had used to make his way to the temple.
The boy took it reluctantly, as if even the wooden handle were ablaze.
“Wh… why don’t we go in through the main entrance?”
“For once, obey me without asking questions. If I see that the situation is safe I will give you a nod and then you will join me.” Hunched over and following the path that the shadows of the colonnade produced on the mosaic floors, Sibiam advanced slowly, aided by the complicity of the night.
The town guard had taken them to its headquarters for a long, boring interrogation until the guardsmen had eventually been convinced by what the metal manipulator had told them. The diplomatic pass that bore the Emperor’s seal had helped Sibiam build a credible castle of lies, and towards sunset they had been released.
Mindful of the scene he had glimpsed from inside the wagon, Sibiam had had not wanted to return to the underground fortress via the main road. There was something about the whole affair which disturbed him, and this was one of the occasions in which it seemed to him a good idea to use one of the many secondary entrances that only the older masters knew.
The dark-skinned giant stopped in front of a trapdoor which was hidden behind the structure of a small well. He pulled a lever and, with a smooth movement accompanied by a hiss, the trapdoor slid aside, revealing a shaft that descended vertically until the light was no longer visible. A rudimentary ladder capable of allowing one person at a time to descend had been carved into the stone walls of the shaft.
Sibiam made a gesture to attract the attention of his young companion and Assum trotted along. “What do w-… what do we do now?”
“We go down. Light my way.”
The man and the child went down slowly down the shaft until they came to a walkway illuminated at intervals by oil lamps housed in small niches arranged at regular intervals at eye level. The underground walkway, its earth floor damp with rivulets from the sewers that ran parallel to it, crept along like a sinuous snake through the foundations of the city.
“Give me the torch, keep behind me and don’t make a sound.” Sibiam held up the hand that bore the torch and the tunnel was filled with light. He walked for a long time, hearing Assum’s quick step behind him trying not to lose his rhythm. He knew the layout of the fortress by heart and knew exactly and at all times what was above his head. They walked beneath corridors, halls, rooms, gyms and stables before, exhausted, he stopped. The second trap door, the one that this time would take him up, should be there somewhere.
The torch sizzled, exhaled its last breath and went out, leaving the pair of them in a corridor with a half-moon vault. Sibiam lowered the torch and saw that the wick was completely burned out. Fortunately, he had managed to get them near the exit. Despite rummaging with his hands everywhere, though, he could not find the trap door.
Then he noticed the drape: a pale cloth which hung down from above like a curtain and seemed to draw to it the dim light of the walkways. The cloth fluttered inertly from the ceiling, supported by the hinge of the trapdoor to which it was hooked. It was white.
Sibiam walked over to it and took a piece of the fabric between his fingers, rubbing the damp fabric between his fingertips. “Wool, and excellent workmanship. Like that of…” He stopped and whirled around. “Stand back,” he said, pushing the child away.
Sibiam stood under the opening and pressed both hands against the cold surface of the trap door then pushed upwards. First slowly, then decisively. But nothing happened. The latch that swung free like a pendulum showed that it was unlocked but there was something on the other side that was preventing it from moving. The dark-skinned giant tried again, and this time he put all his strength into it, and the trapdoor finally gave way, though still without fully opening. A ray of light shone through the crack, dazzling him: a powerful light, like that of a hundred torches, accompanied by a wave of intense heat.
Sibiam drew back to shield his eyes and the trapdoor closed. “Damn,” said the man, raising his hands to his eyes, “what’s going on up there?” Then understanding dawned. “Fire!”
He shoved open the trapdoor, this time using his fists. The mechanism gave way and the owner of the white drape fell down with a crash, Sibiam jumping aside just in time to avoid the impact: a deep gash in his throat, the corpse of the soldier stared wide-eyed at them,
“One of the Praetorians.” Sibiam looked first at the boy and then at the opening. Now he could also heard the crackling of flames. “By Mars, what happened here while we were away?” He grasped the sides of the trapdoor and hoisted himself up, then reached back down and pulled Assum up after him. The tension released in his movements had preserved him from the instinctive reaction anyone would have had at finding themselves in a room enveloped in flames. Assum, though, screamed with terror.
The place looked like a giant oven. The crimson flames extended up towards the vaulted ceilings, scratching at the mosaics like claws, and the tiles of the mosaics, partly baked by the heat and partly covered by soot, fell down to the floor like a rain of hot lava. The floor of what had once been the fortress’s audience chamber was littered with bodies: Praetorian armour and black armour – the sign of a bloody and desperate battle.
Assum shouted again. A few pieces of mosaic had fallen into his hair, which now sparkled like a bush full of fireflies. Sibiam helped him remove the tiles from his head. “Go back downstairs and wait for me down there. Everything here is going to burn, but I have to find the others.”
Assum shook his head. “No, I’m not… I’m not going… alone.”
Sibiam coughed. “I understand. Very well, come on, then.” He picked up the boy and pressed him to his chest, then leaped over a brand that was about to burn his leg and walked away from the trap door.
There were no survivors in the room. A path of corpses led him out into a corridor which he knew led towards the students’ rooms. The closer he got, the more the number of bodies increased. And unfortunately, there were many more of the black cloaks than there were of the white ones.
He arranged better the heavy, trembling human bundle that had its arms wrapped around him and set off towards his room before stopping in bafflement. A shiver ran down his spine. The door to his room had literally been torn off. The same had happened to the other doors in the corridor. The doors of the masters’ rooms.
Sibiam advanced quickly because the flames behind him crackled relentlessly. Some of his colleagues had taken refuge in their rooms and found death there, but fortunately, many of the gutted rooms were empty: some, perhaps, had managed to escape, so Sibiam decided to head for the covered praetorium, where Victor Felix used to gather everyone in the event of an emergency. He expected instinct and training to lead his friends there.
And, in fact, he was right.
The covered praetorium seemed to have been miraculously spared by the fire, but the flames circled the entire perimeter of that large space which was separated from the rest of the world only by thin sheets of alabaster. The few teachers spared by the Praetorians’ swords had dragged all the students there and, like hunted lions that continue to defend their cubs despite the imminent end, they had formed a human chain that kept the little ones inside a circle, using their bodies as shields. They prayed to the gods and pleaded for mercy, but their prayers and pleas went unheeded, because the few black-robed legionaries he could see were all dead.
“They used deception to enter the fortress,” whispered Sibiam as he embraced Assum, “then they set fire to everything and killed everyone they met. Their goal is clearly to exterminate us.”
He felt the child in his arms trembling. “But why are they doing this?”
At a nod from one of the commanders, several Praetorians approached the circle and without speaking, without looking their victims in the eyes, they stabbed their swords into the priests’ flesh, and in a few instants the barrier between them and the little ones had vanished. The Praetorians stopped only to clean their blades, then they started to move forward again.
Shoulder to shoulder, the young pupils backed away, the little ones taking refuge in the arms of the older ones. Sibiam looked at their eyes. Frightened, aware, contemptuous. And the swords rose again.
“I can’t let them die like this. I am their teacher, and at this moment my place is with them.” Sibiam gently removed Assum. “Now do you understand why I told you to go back?”
The boy nodded. “But I wan… I want to stay with you anyway…”
“You cannot.”
The hiding place where they had taken refuge upon entering the great hall was a cone of shadow created by the shape of the praetorium. The corpses and debris did the rest. Assum bit his lip and bowed his head then stared at his feet while he watched his little toes curl and uncurl. Then he had an inspiration. He knelt down and took something in his hands, and when he was on his feet again he showed the extinguished torch to his master.
“I… I will stay here and wait for you. To… to make you light whe… when you come back.”
“With all these flames, do you really think that we will need more light?”
“B… but my light is bri… brighter…”
Sibiam was struck by the accidental depth of the child’s reasoning: an instinctive response that concealed an invaluable power.
“You’re right,” he said and made to get to his feet.
The child put a hand on his shoulder. “You… you’ll come back, wo… won’t you, Si… Sibiam?”
The metal manipulator turned to look at the centre of the room. The praetorians were only a few steps away from his little students. He could count at least a hundred of them: the other masters were all dead. “Yes,” he said finally, with a grimace that he tried to turn into a smile, “I will come back.”
Sibiam stood up. Slowly, so that everyone could see him. He advanced calmly, showing his open hands. The eyes of the young students were immediately upon him and suddenly lit up again, and their cries gave way to smiles and their tears to the blush of joy.
That sudden and inexplicable change of mood baffled the praetorians, who turned to look at what had so caught the children’s attention.
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” asked Sibiam, continuing to walk towards them. When he was about ten paces from the first Praetorians, he stopped and raised a hand. “I’ll take that,” he said, his eyes following the sword of the soldier which, torn by force from its owner’s grasp, floated through the air and ended up in his fist.
The other Praetorians hesitated for a moment, and then all fell upon the new target. Sibiam raised his hands and dozens of swords flew through the air, leaving as many soldiers unarmed, then fell back down to earth like little javelins attracted by gravity. Some hit their targets while the others helped sow panic: it was exactly what he needed to ease the pressure on the little prisoners, who began to flee in all directions.
Unfortunately, there were few escape routes, and most of them were still guarded by the Praetorians. Many children met certain death in their attempts to escape, but some kept cool enough heads to manage it. Sibiam caught the eye of a very young summoner and then looked up at the ceiling. The boy followed his gaze and nodded, then raised his hand and pushed the air upwards. The ceiling wavered, bent but did not yield. The metal manipulator closed his eyes and all the metal objects in the room suddenly rose from the ground. Sibiam reopened his eyes and swords, shields, spears and helmets hurtled to the point in the ceiling the summoner had attempted to breach. One at a time, like hammer blows. And at that point, the ceiling exploded.
A myriad of amber fragments fell to the ground like an alabaster rain that drove the soldiers to hide under their shields and cloaks, allowing some of the children to make good their escape.
Once the shards ceased to fall, the praetorians hesitated.
“You need to deal with him first, you idiots!”
The voice came from the other side of the hall. The image of a man wrapped in a long dark cloak took shape clad in shining armour which reflected the flames that were devouring the fortress.
“I had already sensed something this morning when I saw you at the port,” said Sibiam, touching a wound on his cheek. “But I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Why not?” asked Dagos calmly. “I am a priest of Rome.”
“So am I,” said the dark-skinned giant. “And so are they,” he added, pointing to the corpse of one of his students.
“No, you’re wrong. You are not priests of Rome. You are priests and that is all. Rome is something else entirely.”
“We fought alongside the Roman soldiers. Some of us died for them. For the victory of Rome.”
“Rome honours the gods. You fight them. This is the difference that Augustus has not yet understood.”
“But if we had not fought the way we did, Rome would have lost many battles and today the Empire would be in danger.”
“All this is questionable: the design of the gods is inscrutable. But that does not matter now.” Dagos took another step towards him and spread his arms. “There is no more time.”
At his signal, the Praetorians – who in the meantime had returned to formation – threw themselves upon Sibiam. He backed away, using the power of thought to disarm other adversaries. But not all of them. The blade of a sword plunged into his left side causing him to collapse with pain, and another struck him in the right shoulder, sinking several inches in. A third rose in a semicircular movement above his head, but instead of coming down, it flew through the air like a leaf in the wind and was lost far away.
The dark eyes of the Numidian sought those of his adversary.
“If you want to kill me, you will have to earn it,” he muttered as with one last effort he got to his feet.
Dagos made his way among the soldiers and he glared at the body of the metal manipulator as if it were transparent.
“There,” he said, pointing to the place where Assum was hidden. “There is someone over there.”
With a last effort, Sibiam turned around. Where he had left his stuttering little pupil, he could see flames higher than a torch. Under his breath he cursed the boy’s disobedience.
Completely ignoring him, a pair of praetorians walked past him. He tried to stop them by clawing at their cloaks, but his strength was now abandoning him. The blood flowed copiously from his wounds and his reflexes were slowing, but he dragged himself to the hiding place.
When he arrived, exhausted by pain, he saw one of the Praetorians kneel and hold up his sword with the blade pointing towards the shadow behind the torch. The soldier hesitated, then stabbed at the darkness.
“No!” cried Sibiam, extending an arm as a strange mist began to fall like a curtain over his vision. Another gush of blood smeared the floor.
The praetorian withdrew his blade. On its tip was a piece of scorched cloth.
“It’s just an abandoned torch. There’s no one here.”
Sibiam tried to raise his eyelids, but the mist was growing thicker. He reached the hiding place and coughed up more blood. Wedged between two pieces of marble which had fallen from the walls, the torch crackled away.
The metal manipulator laughed for the last time, before the mist gave way to the night.