‘Now listen,’ I said. ‘I trust you, Aedemon - so tell me, please, can I trust Zenon?’
‘Absolutely straight, ’Aedemon responded. ’His bodily humour means he is prone to bad temper - but equally, he is of impeccable moral virtue. What did you suspect he had done?’
‘On your say-so - nothing!’
‘Well you can trust him with your life, Falco.’
‘He tried to throw me off the roof I reported mildly.
‘He won’t do it again,’ Aedemon assured me. ‘Not now. I’ve put him on a regular decoction of myrrh to cleanse his rotting intestines - and I am about to prepare his personal regime of ritual chants.’
This mystic lore hardly fitted with the pure science that Zenon had always protested, but friendship can overturn many barriers.
‘He will be farting too much to lose that temper, ’Aedemon confided in me - with a rather wide grin.
As we were about to part, I asked, ‘Did you know the late Librarian, Theon?’
Aedemon must have heard what had happened. Maybe Zenon had just told him. The big physician looked sorrowful. ‘I met Theon many years ago. Now
‘Suicidal?’
‘Oh, easily! Especially if he had been thwarted.’
Regularly, by Philetus, for instance.
Even without a purge or emetic, I felt inspired as I went up to the roof.
The astronomer, that man of few words, turned away on principle.
‘Just one question, Zenon. Please just answer one for me: has Philetus been injecting cash into the Museion’s funds?’
‘No, Falco.’
‘No money has been realised from selling Library scrolls?’
‘You had your one question.’
‘Aedemon calls you a pillar of morality. Humour me. Don’t be pointlessly pedantic. Confirm the supplementary, please.’
‘As I said - no. The Director has not boosted our accounts with income from his secret scroll-selling. I’ve been waiting to receive it - but he keeps the money himself.’
‘Thank you,’ I said sweetly.
Zenon smiled. I took it as encouragement for my enquiries. Aedemon’s cure must already be working. Or had the celestial stars and planets foretold to Zenon that the downfall of Philetus might be imminent?
The Director was about to bring doom on himself. Just at that moment we spotted from the observatory roof a column of alarming black smoke. Zenon and I were horrified. The Great Library was on fire.
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.
