Keeper of the Flame (34 page)

It seemed so remote, as though he had lived a different part of his life there.

And in a sense, he had. It was a different Bellus who had lived there. Bellus the centurion had been shed like an outworn skin. Something new and alive had been called forth, there in Sophia’s chamber, with her books and her keen mind and her shy smile.

Which is the true Bellus?

She had uncovered the part of him he had endeavored to keep hidden. But instead of scoffing and derision, she had given him encouragement. Friendship.

He had wanted so much more for her. Freedom.

Why had she pushed him away?

The solitude of the harbor pressed upon him. Caesar would be waiting. He shook off the reverie and turned his steps to the palace.

Inside the palace hall, he heard voices ahead and turned to the main audience hall.

“Ah, Pilus Prior Bellus,” Caesar held out a hand from the front of the columned room, and the eyes of a handful of senior officers turned toward him. “Restorer of the water.”

Bellus crossed the hall to the back-slaps of several of his fellow centurions.

Restorer.

The name struck him, for it spoke of his hopes for Sophia, of what he might offer. But it was not simply what he could do for her that drew him, that pulled him back to the lighthouse as though a cord stretched between them.

“ . . . with the water,” Caesar was saying, and Bellus tried to focus on him. “We must be ready to face the next threat, coming from all directions.”

Would Sophia be in danger? A mighty battle was coming, that was certain. What would that mean for the lighthouse?

“Eh, Bellus?” Caesar said. “You understand?”

“I—I am sorry, General—”

Caesar laughed. “I think my centurion needs more sleep. Portius, explain Bellus’s next assignment to him.” The general waved them out, but then called to Bellus before they left the hall.

“You have proven yourself with the water, Bellus, so I have trusted you with much more. Do not disappoint me.”

But Bellus was already planning what he would say to Sophia when he reached the lighthouse, and he barely heard his general’s final words.

Thirty-Nine

S
ophia paced through the North Wing, counting her steps, counting the hours, counting everything that had gone wrong in her life of late. Sosigenes and the Proginosko were in the grasp of Pothinus, and after the full moon of this evening, Pothinus would have no more use for her friend. She could not leave Sosigenes or the Proginosko with Pothinus. But if she recovered them, would it only be to hand them over to Caesar? She fumed at the impossible situation. She could not protect the scholars, and she could not send them away.

The day had not been completely wasted, but it was much later than she had hoped, and still she was not ready to set out.

The corridor of the North Wing was strangely dark, due to the addition of a mighty hinged wooden door in the entrance of the lighthouse. She had never before felt the need for such a thing.

Outside, the city held its breath, ready for the storm that rumbled on the horizon.

Finally, finally, there came a pounding on the door and a shout she recognized. She lifted the iron latch and swung it open.

They seemed to swarm into the Base, these men she had hired. Down to the last of them, they were dirty, poor, and frightening.

They spent their days on the rocks of the Eunostos Harbor, waiting, hoping for ships to founder on the rocks and spill their luxuries into the sea. They were ever vigilant for such spoils, but also willing to be drawn away from their watch for the promise of easy and sure money. Sophia had sent word through a servant
from the village that she had a task requiring a dozen men not afraid of a fight. She would pay well.

And here they were.

One of the pirates sallied alongside her and leaned close. “So this is the lady of the lighthouse.” Some of his letters hissed curiously through a gap left by a missing tooth. “The fearsome Sophia who rules Pharos Island from up there.” He jabbed a finger skyward and circled her, his face still close. “In need of a few good men, we hear.”

Sophia addressed herself to this obvious leader, though she backed away a few steps. She resisted holding her hands as a barrier. “I need you to go to the Library.”

Laughter erupted all around, loud cackles that reminded her of the seals that often barked off the western coast. “We don’t get much call to visit the Library, mistress.”

She shrugged. “You do not go to read books.”

“Ah, good thing, then.”

“You go to rescue someone in danger.”

The laughter settled, though amusement still played about their faces.

“We see plenty of folks in danger, mistress. But rescue’s not our usual way.”

“Then today you will redeem yourself for many ills.” She pushed through the lot of them toward the new door. “You will be well paid when we return.”

“We?” More laughter.

She turned on them. “The city is readying for war. It is not safe to travel alone. I expect your protection. And when we reach the Library, there is someone we must extract. There may be violence. Any questions?”

The group stared blankly, and she wondered if she had made the right decision. After weeks of watching the well-trained Roman army live and drill beneath her, she knew not whether this rag-tag group could remove a bird from its nest.

Sophia lifted the iron latch once more, pushed the door open, and nodded to the men. They filled in around her, and then they were off.

She left it to Ares to close the door. He no doubt hovered somewhere, though she had not seen him since she had scolded his familiarity last night.

They crossed the causeway to the main part of the island, then walked en masse through the village, drawing the stares of townspeople and the frightened yelps of children. Even here on her island she could feel the people’s fear.

Across the heptastadion, over the bridges that could be raised to allow ships to cross harbors. No boats passed now. There would be no trade today.

To her left, the Great Harbor was clogged with ships of a different sort. Roman galleys, filled with a new legion of soldiers to fortify the first and ensure Egypt’s submission.

Sophia directed their steps from her place in the center of the dozen men. Along the outskirts of the royal quarter, to draw less attention. Through the Beta district with its narrow streets and tiny shops, closed against what was to come.

The streets were deserted, but the rooftops as crowded as the stadium during the games. Strange catcalls fell on them as they passed through homes and shops. Clearly the townspeople did not know what to make of twelve pirates and the lighthouse keeper crossing the city.

But then something shifted. Sophia was not sure if she felt
it physically, in the wind, in the sounds of the city, or if it happened somewhere deep inside her, in the deeper part of her that was connected to Alexandria. But somehow, she knew.

The battle had begun.

She looked upward, to the flat rooftops of the city, and saw that the people there strained at the lips of their homes, their faces turned to the harbor. Her heartbeat seemed to slow.

And then came the sound.

The awful, wrenching sound of ships engaging, of a thousand military voices raised in battle cry, of a city manning its defenses. A chill shook Sophia’s body as though she were a reed beside the Nile.

“We must hurry,” she hissed to the men, and they responded, following her hasty steps toward the Library.

But it was too late to reach the magnificent building unaccosted. Peasants flowed through the city like water breaking through a dam. They rushed toward Sophia and her escorts, armed with clubs, with knives, with rocks and even swords. Her mouth went dry and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

Self-protection pushed them all against the walls of the nearest shop, to wait out the first deluge of angry citizens.

When it had passed, they continued, and Sophia felt sweat build along her spine.

The Library and Museum emerged ahead, and Sophia urged them on, through the widening street, up the marble steps, under the portico.

They spread into the Great Hall of the Library like a stain bleeding onto the white floor. The sudden echoing silence of the Library sucked Sophia’s breath away after the chaos of the street.

“Remember,” she said to the men, “he is old. Take good care of him. The other one—do whatever must be done.”

The twelve men dispersed into the ten halls, as though she had tossed a handful of grain to the birds. Sophia kept her place, as the Great Hall seemed the best place to supervise their mission.

She could hear their slapping sandals on the marble floors, an occasional shout as they searched the halls and alcoves. But none appeared with Sosigenes in tow, or with Pothinus in their grasp.

She feared she had been wrong.

What if he has killed him already?
Too foolish to wait until the Proginosko was perfected?

Or perhaps Pothinus had taken Sosigenes elsewhere. The Library was an obvious place to station himself. Too clear a target for anyone who wished to assassinate him.

Stupid, Sophia. And the time grows short.

She turned to the wide doorway and peered across the city to the harbor. The Egyptians had waited until nightfall to attack, knowing they would have the advantage in their own harbor.

Wooden towers on wheels were being dragged through the streets by horses, and peasants clambered up them with quivers of arrows slung across their backs. All around the city, torches flamed to life and charged through the streets.

Pothinus would have heard all of this. Known that he was not safe.

Where would he have gone?

Years ago, when she had been a young woman and in love with a scholar who made the Library his second home, there had been a room, just a storage room, in the bowels of the Library.
She had met Kallias there sometimes, when he could sneak away from his work.

Sophia found the small door to the steps as though it had been only weeks ago that she had used it last. It opened easily, revealing shabby steps descending into darkness. But at the bottom . . .
there!
She could see some light. There was something down there. Someone.

She looked over her shoulder, hoping to find a few of her hired pirates. But the Great Hall was empty.

A sound drifted up from the lower level. A cry, perhaps?

And then again. Yes, a cry of pain.

Sophia felt a tingling in her fingers that spread up her arms, but she hesitated only a moment, then plunged downward, her eyes on the yellow glow that barely reached the base of the steps.

She hit the bottom on silent feet. The murmur of voices reached around the corner. She pressed her face against the stone, then slid enough to allow one eye to peer into the room.

In the tiny storage room that held many fond memories, Pothinus stood with a knife held to Sosigenes’s throat and a wicked smile on his face.

Forty

A
ll the fight had gone out of Bellus. The day of battle was upon them, the day they had waited and prepared for since coming to this city on the sea. Caesar had given again his respect and new orders, and Bellus found that all he could think of was a woman and her books, closeted in a lighthouse high above the city.

But he had his orders, and no matter his emotions, he would not forsake his post. And so he marched his centuria to the Eunostos Harbor, west of the lighthouse, to secure the docks as he had been commanded.

In the Great Harbor to their right, past the heptastadion that led out to Sophia, the Roman fleet, including the ships of the newly arrived Thirty-Seventh Legion, floated in the bowl formed by the crescent-shaped harbor. Farther out, past the shallow reefs that endangered any passing into the harbor, the Egyptian ships blocked any escape, and certainly made ready to attack.

Somewhere to the east, the Egyptian army marched upon them as well.

In the smaller Eunostos Harbor, though, five more quiriremes floated, lashed to the docks. Egyptian ships, but they must not be allowed to join their fellows in the Great Sea.

Bellus had mounted his horse and now crossed back and forth behind his lines, the measured slap of their sandals carrying them forward to the docks.

Once the docks are secured, I will cross to the lighthouse and find her.

He glanced over his shoulder, to the royal quarter. Somewhere on the roof of Ptolemy XII’s palace, Caesar surely watched the city, watched them all fall into position like pieces of a child’s puzzle. What would he think if Bellus broke from his centuria to seek out the Keeper of the lighthouse?

I will do my duty. Nothing less. And nothing more.

But duty proved to be a burden greater than expected. They were met at the docks, not by a gaggle of fishermen mending nets after the night’s take, nor even by the band of pirates that made the harbor famous. Instead, as they marched downward to the sea and then along the stone dock, they were set upon by a horde of furious sailors, both Greek and Egyptian.

The sailors charged, erupting from water, from warehouses, from ships like a swarm of screaming monkeys. They brandished weapons of iron and wood.

Bellus jerked his horse to the left and thrust through the centuria to its flank. The ranks broke immediately. The attack was unexpected.

He assessed with lightning speed. They were equally matched in number. But certainly not in skill.

The sailors rushed the centuria with a frenzy borne of rights perceived trampled, of national fear.

His soldiers weathered the first blow. Then pushed back, their training taking over.

But emotions can be a strong ally, and the Alexandrians had waged a war of propaganda long before today’s battle began. Without training, without armor, without the razor edged blades of the Romans, still they held the centuria.

Bellus found himself beside his horse, in the thick of the battle, regretting every sword thrust that found purchase in the
gut of a sailor. He dodged wooden clubs, knocked daggers from tight-fisted grips, brought the flat side of his sword down on sun-browned necks.