Alexandria

LIV

The emergency loosened up my stiff joints and sinews. I made it down the stairs ahead of Zenon, then we raced to the Library in tandem. We pounded into the main hall, but everywhere seemed clear. Readers looked up from their scrolls and glared at us for disturbing them with indecorous behaviour. So far at least, the famous monument was in no danger. We shouted 'Fire!' to alert the assistants. If the fire spread from its seat – wherever that was – we knew the peaceful atmosphere could change in moments.

We rushed back outside. We could smell the smoke, but not see it. Scooping up the young scholars who always loitered in the portico, we hurried around the main block to the utility area where I had been yesterday. The fire was in the very building where Diogenes' scrolls had been stored, prior to removal. The Khamseen was blowing today, which unsettled us and fanned the flames.

A crowd had gathered, watching dopily. Zenon and I mobilised those who looked handy, instructing the rest to scram. With the helpers we had brought, we did what we could. The scholars responded well. They were young, fit and eager for practical experiments. They used their minds to devise sensible activities. Anything that could beat out flames was fetched quickly; some eager exhibitionists stripped off and used their tunics. Buckets were found – perhaps, like the fire platform at the Pharos, the Library had equipment stored in case of such an emergency. Its cleaners would have buckets too. Our lads soon organised a human chain to manhandle these after filling them at the great ornamental pool in the forecourt.

They did well, but the Library was an enormous construction. Zenon muttered that the marble would not burn. I reckoned he was wrong. Even marble crumbles, if it becomes hot enough; the surface splits off, so flakes the size of dinner platters crash down. Even if we could save the building, this fire might be disastrous for its historic fabric.

By the time buckets reached us, much of the water had sloshed out. The fire had taken hold, unnoticed, before we even started. Thick smoke impeded us. After yesterday, I was half unmanned by the heat, desperately trying to ensure that nobody was burned. The hideous spectre of the badly disfigured Diogenes swam in visions before me as I worked.

We were losing the battle. Any moment now, the flames would break through the workshop roof. Once that went up, fire would leap to other nearby buildings, carried over by the wind. Anyone who had seen a city blaze must have been aware we were on the brink of tragedy.

I wished we were in Rome where we could call on the vigiles. Other cities in the Empire had no fire brigades; they were discouraged, since emperors feared allowing remote foreign provinces to run any semi-military organisations. If word reached the Prefect's palace, whatever soldiers were in Alexandria could come and help us, but most of the legionaries would be in their camp, outside the city. Any message would be too late. All we could expect were dregs. I sent a lad who had long legs to run for help anyway. If we were about to lose the Library, the news would rush around the world. Once the recriminations started to fly, official witnesses would be a benefit.

Panic set in. Hopelessness quickly followed. The first bursts of youthful energy had run out. Our efforts were starting to seem pointless. We were tired and dirty, running with sweat and steam. The heat was beginning to drive us back.

Zenon rallied the young men for one last strenuous attempt. I directed them where the flames were worst. The buckets kept coming but what we achieved was pitiful. We were close to exhaustion, barely managing to hold our own. Then, trundling through the glorious porticoes, I made out the dim outline of a large, unsteady cart. Double lines of straining young men towed it on hauling-ropes. As this cumbersome edifice emerged through the smoke and teetered on a corner, I was astonished to see that my own Helena Justina led the way. Seeing me, she cried, 'Marcus! I noticed this in one of the lecture halls. The engineering students were to have a demonstration – this is based on the siphon pump invented by Ctesibius, three hundred years ago, with modern modifications by Heron of Alexandria -'

Nobody knew how to operate the beast. They had not heard their lecture yet. But my best friend in Rome, Lucius Petronius, worked with the vigiles. So I knew.

Fortunately the water tank was full, in preparation for planned demonstration. This would be better. This was for real.

We put up a couple of the most powerful students, one each end, where they had to work the two great levers of the rocker arm up and down on its central post.

'Go steadily!' I ordered as they creaked into action far too fast. They soon mastered the right pace. The hosepipe turned on a universal joint; it could be adjusted in any direction. Directing the pipe gave no trouble to inquisitive, practical lads who had come to Alexandria hoping to become mad inventors. They all wanted to be the new Archimedes, or at best follow Heron, their mentor. As the rocker arm creaked and brought the two pistons into play, advice from me was unnecessary. They were soon spraying away with the hose nozzle as if they had just come from a vigiles' training exercise in the Fourth Cohort's station yard. So, as the jealous boys on the bucket chain redoubled their efforts to compete in glory, I dared mouth to Zenon, 'We may be winning!'

True to form, he made no answer.

Eventually, the water tank on the siphon engine ran bone dry. But the blaze which had threatened to overwhelm us was now reduced to glowing embers. Buckets tell from numb hands as our helpers collapsed, completely played out. The young men lay on the ground, groaning loudly after their unaccustomed effort. Even those who practised athletics had been severely tested; I could see they were astonished at how depleted they felt. Zenon and I flopped on a stone bench, coughing.

Helena Justina, fetchingly besmirched by smuts, sat on a small patch of grass, clutching her knees. Dreamily she lectured us: 'Ctesibius, the son of a barber, was the first head of the Museion. His inventions included an adjustable shaving mirror, which moved on a counterweight, but he is best known as the father of pneumatics. To him we owe the water organ, or hydraulis, and the most efficient version of the lawyer's water clock, or clepsydra. His work on force pumps enabled him to produce a jet of water, for use in a fountain or for lifting water from wells. He discovered the principle of the siphon, which we have had demonstrated with such good effect today! However, it may be said that setting fire to the Great Library was a drastic way to illustrate pumping principles. This empirical approach may have to be rethought in future.'

Her listeners cheered. Some recovered enough to laugh.

'Ctesibius,' Helena added, her voice assuming self-mockery as she ventured into propaganda, 'had the advantage of working for benign pharaohs who supported invention and the arts. Fortunately, you now have a similar advantage, since you live in the reign of Vespasian Augustus, who was of course first brought to power in this wonderful city of Alexandria.'

'The scholars have shown today that they fully appreciate their good fortune,' I croaked. I too could sound priggish.

'Many thanks to all of you for your bravery and hard work,' cried Helena. 'And look! – Now the excitement is all over, here is the wonderful Academic Board coming to congratulate you on saving the Library!'

Through the thinning smoke, we beheld Philetus. He waddled at the head of a small bearded entourage: Apollophanes the philosopher, Timosthenes from the Serapeion, Nicanor the lawyer. On the bench at my side, Zenon growled in the back of his throat. Neither he nor I stood up. We were begrimed with smoke, our eyes red and stinging. Neither of us was in a mood to tolerate a condescending idiot.

Philetus moved among the youthful firefighters, placing a hand approvingly on one, murmuring praise to another. If he had thought to bring garlands, the oily sycophant would have draped their necks or crowned their sooty heads like triumphal Olympians. The scholars knew better than to shy away, but they looked nervous. I had worked out just how hypocritical Philetus was being about this workshop fire.

He ignored Zenon and me. He side-stepped the siphon engine too, as if appreciating mechanics, and the beauty of utility, was beyond him.

He approached the burnt-out workshop. Heat that the ancient stones had absorbed still beat off the pharaonic blocks, so Philetus only ventured as far as the granite threshold. He looked in. 'Oh dear! There seems to be nothing left of the contents.'

I stood up. Behind me, the astronomer stayed put, but he folded his fingers together like an eager member of a popular audience who is about to watch a prize-winning play.

I crossed to Philetus and sounded apprehensive. 'Really! What contents would those be, Director?'

'We were storing a large quantity of library scrolls in this building, Falco -'

'Oh no! Are you sure?'

'I had them put here myself. They are all lost!'

'We were able to save nothing from inside, sadly,' I told him, apparently full of regret.

'Then a great many valuable works of culture have been burned to ashes.'

'Are you saying so?' I stiffened up. 'Good try, Philetus!'

'What?' He was about to resort to bluster – too late.

Apollophanes, Timosthenes and Nicanor pulled back from supporting him at the same moment. Those three worthies saw where we were heading. All were up for the post of Librarian – and if Philetus fell, they would be scratching for the directorship as well. Mental repositioning began right there. The candidates were ready for huckstering even before the old Director saw that he was finished.

'Those would be the scrolls,' I spelled out slowly, 'that were taken away from here last night by a trader called Diogenes. Philetus, you sold them to him – wrongfully, secretly and for your own benefit. Not only did you dispose of irreplaceable material that had been collected over centuries, you personally took the money.'

He was about to deny it. I stopped him.

'Don't add to your misdemeanour by publicly lying. Diogenes was taken while in commission of your theft. Now the scrolls are in safe custody. They will be returned to the Library. Dress up what you have done, Philetus, however you like. I call it fraud. I call it theft.'

'You exaggerate!' He was too foolish to recognise that the end had come.

Before I could speak, someone else drawled laconically, 'Sounds good to me!' Hardly believable: that was Apollophanes, the Director's own sneak. He was a worm – but worms, it seemed, could turn.

I strode right up to Philetus and dragged him inside the smouldering store. The charred walls still glowed, as I kicked aside the burnt remains of a table. We could barely breathe in the smoke, but I was so angry I managed to speak. 'What did you say – Oh dear – there seems to be nothing left of the contents? You hoped not, of course. You wanted them to seem gone, to hide that they were missing.'

I gripped the scared Director by the tunic edge and hauled him towards me on tiptoe. 'Listen to me, Philetus; listen well! I bet you had this building torched. Why don't I arrest you here and now? Only because I can't yet prove that you had this fire set. If I ever do find evidence, you are done for. Arson to a public building is a capital offence.'

He gurgled. I dropped him. 'You disgust me. I cannot even bear to spend my time on an indictment. Men like you are so insidiously evil, you destroy everything; you drive everyone who has to deal with you to inertia and despair. You are not worth my trouble. Besides, I truly believe in this institution that you have misgoverned and plundered. The reason for the Museion lies in those young men lying exhausted outside. Today they used their knowledge, their vision, their application. They were courageous and dedicated. They justify this place of knowledge – its learning, its invention, its devotion to ideas and its development of minds.'

I shoved him out into the air. 'Send your resignation to the Prefect tonight. It will be accepted. Do it yourself is my advice. Otherwise -' I quoted words of his own back to him:' Occasionally we might suggest a very elderly man has become too frail to continue.'

Philetus would go, even if under protest. It would obviate the need for enquiries, recriminations, petitions to the Emperor, and, above all, scandal. He might yet be given a pension, or keep his right to a statue in the line of former directors, those great men whose impressive administrations had been instituted by Ctesibius, the father of pneumatic science. Who knows? Philetus might even keep his reading rights at the Library. I knew life was full of ironies.

I hated this, but I was a realist. I had served my Emperor long enough to know the style of action Vespasian wanted. Resignation would be painless and tidy, limiting awkwardness and adverse public comment. And it would be immediate.