Aurelian ran up, long hair streaming. A ragged band of clerks and scribes followed at his heels. Sextus moved to join the prince, who threw himself into the fray around the white pillar, when he caught a strange sound-no, two strange sounds. The engineer slowed, turning, and saw one of the avenues leading into the plaza fill with running people.
They were citizens, not soldiers, and they were screaming, a mad, wild sound filled with utter fear. Sextus froze, goggling at the huge mass of men, women and children packed into the street. They came on like the tide, every face mad with panic. In the brief instant he watched, a dozen or more fell and were trampled beneath relentless, hammering feet.
"Sextus!" A gasping voice caught his ear and the engineer crouched, eyes searching the littered dead. A hand waved weakly, a body trapped under the corpses of two Arabs. Sextus leapt to his friend, grasping a bloodstained arm and dragging him into the sickly gray light. Frontius choked, coughing, and spit hair and torn bits of bloody flesh from his mouth. "Help me… up."
"I've got you," Sextus grunted, rolling a body away with his boot. Frontius was heavy, one arm hanging limp, a thin red stream spilling from his leather sleeve. "Can you stand?"
Frontius nodded weakly. One eye was half-closed by a massive purple bruise and his helmet was gone. Sextus got a shoulder under the man, then stood. Frontius gasped, head rolling back, eyes bulging, but did not cry out. Without waiting, Sextus began dragging the other engineer towards headquarters and the medikus, all thoughts of standing and fighting gone.
The mob swarmed into the plaza moments later as the two engineers trudged west along the docks. A hopeless screaming mass of people flooded around them. Half-naked men leapt into the harbor waters. Some began swimming for the island offshore, others simply disappeared under the dirty brown water. Sextus staggered, slammed in the side by a woman in a patrician gown. She shrieked, clawing at his face. Frontius groaned weakly as the engineer swung him out of the way. Sextus' bunched fist cracked across the woman's nose, throwing her to the ground. She vanished under a pressing, pushing mob. The air stank of fear and sweat and a dry, musty odor like the dust in a long abandoned room.
Grimly, Sextus struggled west along the dock, forcing his way through the steadily worsening crowd. The citizens had seen something, but the engineer didn't have the time to discover what had driven them into flight. Something bad, he hazarded, knocking aside an elderly man in a bathing towel. A phantasm or terror sent by the enemy, no doubt.
His whole attention focused on gaining another yard towards the dubious sanctuary of the headquarters, Sextus ignored the stabbing yellow heat lightning rumbling and cracking in the low clouds, as well as the drumming roar echoing down the streets from the east.
The Gate of the Sun shuddered, heavy iron-bossed cedar panels shaking with the blow of a ram. The roadway below the looming towers was crowded with thousands of Persians in heavy armor. Sunflower banners danced above their heads and golden masks gleamed in the pale sun. Once more, the pushtigbahn threw their shoulders into the ropes guiding an iron-sheathed ram.
"Swing!" chanted a bull-voiced sergeant. The ram swung back, then slammed into the gate with a crash! Wood splintered and ancient hinges groaned. Crouched along smoke-darkened walls, swordsmen tensed, waiting for the panel to shatter. "Swing!"
Dahak leapt from the roof of his rune-carved wagon, dark cloak trailing, flying above massed ranks of diquans and spearmen and sappers with shovels and picks. A shining gradient buoyed him up, cutting the tether of the earth and he landed, bare feet slapping down on soot-blackened stone, atop the northern gatehouse tower. The air around him shimmered and flexed with the faint remains of the Roman ward, but the prince's lips stretched back over chisel-sharp teeth. Feet covered with fine ebony scales stepped down among crushed, mangled bodies. Not a single legionnaire remained alive atop the tower. The shattered, twisted remains of a siege engine littered the wooden roof.
"All things fail," he growled, then muttered words in a tongue lost before the Drowning swallowed the glory of the antediluvian world. A whirling sign formed in the air around him, rotating counterclockwise, blazing with subtle, iridescent light. The sign expanded, twisting and distorting the air. The Roman pattern shattered, crumbling into flickers of light and slowly falling rain. The Lord of the Ten Serpents raised both hands, his will pressing on stone and timber and the invisible bindings of the ancients. Geometric forms splintered, power draining away into the silty earth and a flash of sullen green light lit the entire length of the rampart. "The work of men not least."
The floor under the sorcerer shook again with the blow of the ram and his flattened ears caught the sound of splintering wood, then a roar of victory from the living men crowded into the road below. The panels squealed open, pushed by hundreds of hands, and the Persian army poured into the city. Dahak smiled, lifting his head to look upon Alexandria the Golden.
So, hated child, your handiwork is cast down again… I told you I would triumph in the end!
Already, the restless dead overwhelmed the wall at a dozen points. Against their limitless numbers, the Romans lacked the men to repel every assault. Columns of shambling figures crawled over the rampart as far as the eye could see. A few of the Roman towers continued to hold out, flame spilling down sandstone, men struggling on the parapet, stabbing and hacking at the ghoulish horde surging up from below. Yet, even as Dahak watched, he saw a wall topple, borne down by the weight of so many animate corpses and the dead flood into the breach, a seething carpet of brown ants, withered hands and rotted teeth dragging down the legionaries fighting within.
Dahak laughed in delight, seeing living men torn apart by the grasping talons of the gaatasuun.
The city spread out before him, a rumpled carpet of terra-cotta roofs, temples and marble spires. Smoke billowed up from scattered points-fires set in fear or caught by accident-sending up towering pillars of black and gray to mix with the uneasy green sky. Off to his left, Dahak could see the arcades of a Roman theatre rising above clustered apartments, to his right a dense agglomeration of three- and four-story buildings, richly painted, with flat white roofs. One of the buildings was burning fiercely, flames jetting from tall, narrow windows, flinging tiny white specks into the sky. The roof tiles glowed cherry-red with heat from some tremendous inner conflagration. The sorcerer squinted, bending his attention upon the roaring fire, and suddenly barked a foul curse.
Thousands of sheets of papyrus and parchment were being born up on columns of flame.
Pages? The Library? My Library! Dahak turned towards the distant port, seeing more smoke rising, and very distantly, the sparkle of spears and armor on the long causeway connecting the island of the Pharos to the middle of the city. Khalid and his men are still fighting to enter, he realized, eyes swinging sickly back to the burning Library buildings. I need those books…