The Flame of Destiny

Alexandria, Egypt, Roman Empire

Spyro worked all by himself in the vast astronomy hall. He sat on a large chair and peered at the tiny writing on a papyrus scroll. Still looking at the scroll, he scratched his long white beard with his left hand while his right searched for a cup that had been filled with wine an hour earlier.

Long shelves full of dusty scrolls lined the walls. This was just one of the many halls of the great Musaeum of Alexandria. For centuries the Musaeum and the great library had been the center of all wisdom in the known world.

Alas, not much remained of that former glory, he thought gloomily. Its magnificent treasures were looted and worse than that - fire had destroyed many of its most valuable possessions - the wisdom of a hundred generations. A thousand scholars used to work here but only a handful remained. For how long?

He sighed. Today, it’s a struggle to get a servant to bring wine into the dilapidated hall, let alone find someone capable to do scholarly work. If ever a bright young man shows the tiniest interest in learning, he’s enlisted by the Romans to command grunts or build siege engines. Or worse, he wastes his time on one of these futile religious discussions that the Christians and Jews are so fond of.

The old scholar annoyedly looked up from his star chart when a man stormed in. Pearls of sweat dripped from his forehead. He was dressed in simple but elegant servants’ livery.

“Master, there you are, I have been looking everywhere for you,” he said in a breathless voice.

His gaze, already back on his work Spyro replied, “Anastasios, you should not exert yourself so much, that is not very Epicurean. Excess is never good. One day, you’ll collapse and I’ll regret that day very much. I wouldn’t want another servant in my old age, I would hate the idea.” He looked up to his faithful servant, “and so would you, I’m sure.”

Anastasios beamed. This almost sounded like a compliment from his grumpy master. “Forgive me. I ran all the way from the Portus Eunostus,” he replied haltingly, still searching for his breath, “I have urgent news.”

“What could be more urgent than the pursuit of knowledge which you have so rudely interrupted?”

“The Emperor,” replied Anastasios in a breathless voice, “the emperor Marcus Antoninus summons you, he wants to see you this evening,”

“Do you mean Caracalla, the boy-Caesar, co-emperor with his father Septimius Severus? What does he want?” He had heard rumors about the young Caesar’s imminent arrival in Alexandria. It brought him no joy at all.

“He wants you to consult the heavens for him, divine his future I suppose.”

“He’s an idiot, he asks the wrong person,” grumbled Spyro. “I’m an astronomer, the best in the Empire for sure; but I’m no sorcerer or diviner. I can’t do any witchcraft and magic like these imposters from Syria that the Caesars like so much.”

“Shhhhh,” Anastasios looked around as if he was expecting a squad of Praetorian guards to jump from behind one of the pillars. He continued in a low voice, “be careful what you say, he’s still the Caesar. These callous remarks can get you killed… they can get both of us killed. Even calling him Caracalla will get you in trouble. Besides, you’ve done this before for others, it pays well and you can use the gold.”

“It’s a bloody insult,” blurted Spyro, “I have to use the proceeds of false divinations for ignorant politicians and highborn brutes so I can finance my calling for learned work?”

“Master,” admonished Anastasios, “that is how the world works when the Romans are in charge.”

Spyro sighed, “I know… and I have divined before, for governors, generals, and merchants. But never for an emperor. And Caracalla is no ordinary emperor. I’ll admit that meeting him makes me a bit nervous.”

The boy-emperor was only twenty years old but had been wearing the purple toga for ten years. Caracalla wasn’t his real name, it was a reference to the short, gray Gallic cloak he was so fond of wearing. He was cunning and utterly ruthless, or so it was said, just like the northern barbarians whose fashion he copied.

Spyro trembled at the thought of Septimius Severus, Caracalla’s father, who had made a lasting impression on him when he was just a governor. It takes a special kind of cold-blooded determination to build a stable dynasty after the bloody civil wars caused by Emperor Commodus’s assassination. And the boy, Caracalla? He shuddered, it was said that he had not inherited any of his father’s gentler side and was twice as ruthless. He had his first wife murdered when he was just a teenager.

“Well, so be it. I’ll find some inspiration in the stars and think of something clever to tell him. Do you know what’s at stake?”

“I think he’s preparing for some war, master.”

“Of course, he is,” grumbled Spyro, “he’s a Roman Emperor, what else would he be doing? That’s his job. Go and find out everything you can about this war and Caesar’s preparations. If he pays well, I might as well give him some sensible advice. Better than these charlatans from the east that just ramble out drunken riddles.”

“Yes master,” replied Anastasios and he made his way out. Just before he reached the exit he turned around. “Oh, I almost forgot, a merchant from Antioch gave me this package, it’s addressed to you.”

Spyro was already peering at the star map. “Put it on my desk,” he said without looking up.

Alone again, the pursuit of knowledge suddenly seemed less urgent and it didn’t take long before his gaze was drawn towards the mysterious package. Could it be from him? With trembling hands, Spyro took the papyrus roll out of the cloth. His mouth fell open when he recognized the sign of the sender. This is from my friend Diokles! Joy shot through his old veins. It had been almost a year since he had last heard of him. What had happened to the poor man in these barbaric lands?

As young men, they had worked together for many years for the brilliant sage Claudius Ptolemy, the last of the great scholars, reminisced Spyro, before the age of ignorance started. Together, they mapped the known world. What a team! Diokles, the swashbuckling adventurer travelled to far-flung places where he measured distances with his improvised odometer and gathered information from exotic merchants, grizzled fur traders, and wandering priests. Spyro always stayed behind in Alexandria, first out of necessity, later because it suited him. He spent his time fine-tuning the geographic instruments and carefully correcting and recording every piece of information that Diokles brought back with him.

Spyro smiled when he remembered how he had to throw out so many of his friend’s stories because they just didn’t make any sense. Ten feet giants with the head of a bull, men with eight enormous spider legs fire-breathing dragons, enormous snakes, a vast underground world full of evil creatures ruled by dark priests? It could not get any crazier. He refused to use these stories in their great tome ‘Geography.’ They couldn’t tarnish their old master’s solid reputation with such fantasies, now could they?

After a while, even this work was no longer adventurous enough for Diokles. He wanted to explore the places beyond the edge of the Empire. The places where the Romans did not venture and where even the great conqueror Alexander never dared to go. Like Jason and his Argonauts, he set out to explore the Caucasus Mountains and the unknown vastness beyond. Or more like Herodotus, he smiled, the father of history or as he preferred, the father of lies, he would roam the land in search of stories.

Spyro was still reminiscing with the roll unopened in his hands when Anastasios came running back in.

“Didn’t I tell you to take it easy?” laughed Spyro.

Anastasios didn’t smile back but pointed behind him. Two large brutes with long hair and pale skin entered the hall, their heavy iron steps echoed against the wall. They wore full Roman battle gear.

Spyro shuddered. These were the new Praetorian Guards, the toughest warriors in the known world. Recruited by Septimius, because the old guard had become too corrupt and too soft. For these men, the phrase Senatus Populusque Rōmanus, ‘the senate and people of Rome,’ that was embossed on their shields, had lost all its meaning. They only cared for the Emperor and his direct offspring.

“The emperor wants to see you now. You’ve got to come, master,” stammered Anastasios, “the carriage is waiting outside. These nice men will escort us.”

They followed the guards down to the square and stepped into a large horse-drawn carriage. The Praetorians climbed on their warhorses and escorted them.

“So, what did you find out,” whispered Spyro when the carriage clattered away.

“They didn’t tell me much,” said Anastasios, “they were discussing sending supplies of Egyptian grain for the war when I arrived.”

“Did you hear any specifics?”

“Not much, I believe they mentioned sending one large grain vessel every week to northern Britannia.”

“Britannia?” said Spyro in surprise, “by Zeus, what are they seeking there!”

Anastasios shrugged his shoulders.

Spyro looked thoughtful, “one shipment a week, that means they can feed four legions. With a capable general, that’s a formidable army. So, not just a garrison reinforcement or a force for a quick punitive expedition … this is a conquering army.”

As the carriage rode by a construction site Anastasios called out enthusiastically, “look Spyro, they are building a new temple for the Christian God, a church.”

“They’re finally crawling out of their caves,” replied Spyro mockingly, “at least one group of crazies isn’t short of money. But do these Christians actually believe that their new God is better than the old gods? The Olympians have served us well for a thousand years.”

“They believe this new God is the only one, the only true god,” argued Anastasios.

“Hah,” scoffed Spyro, “he is no more real than the old ones. He’s not even the first almighty God. The Persians and Hebrews each have their own all-powerful god which they have worshipped for a thousand years already. Did it help them in any way?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “no, believe me, this is just more of the same.”

Anastasios bit his tongue. He loved his master, but sometimes the curmudgeon drove him crazy

Moments later, the carriage clattered into the courtyard of the Serapeum, one of the largest buildings of Alexandria.

“The worst is,” laughed Spyro, “even the Christians can’t agree amongst themselves. It’s a big joke. There are now more scholars discussing which body parts of Jesus are mortal than there are trying to understand the real world.”

“But that’s a fundamental part of their belief,” stammered Anastasios, “if they’re wrong about that and idolize something that is not divine, they could end up in hell.”

“It’s a fundamental waste of time,” scoffed Spyro, “the only true belief is what you can see with your own eyes.” Sometimes I feel like I’m the only sane person in this world he thought bitterly. “If you want to delude yourself with gods and mysteries, be my guest. Just leave me out of it.”

The carriage stopped in the courtyard of the Serapeum and the pair got out. They were led through the vast temple of Serapis, the largest and most magnificent temple in Rhakotis, the Egyptian quarter of Alexandria. It didn’t surprise Spyro that the Emperor had taken residence here. “As if we need any more reminders that Rome is in charge,” he growled.

Passing a great hall they were led to a large chamber that was guarded by another pair of Praetorians.

“How come they’re all so tall,” whispered Anastasios.

“They’re selected like cattle,” remarked Spyro dryly, “and they have this stupid plume on their helmet to compensate for their tiny instruments below the waistline.”

“Shhh,” hissed Anastasios when one of the soldiers eyed them angrily.

The guards stepped aside when Spyro approached. They raised their spears, forming a gate for him. But as soon as he passed, the spears dropped down and Anastasios had to remain outside.

Spyro recognized the aging Egyptian governor Tiberius Claudius Aquila. Next to him stood the young co-emperor Caracalla, trying to hide his youth with a regal scowl and a finely trimmed beard. There were several advisors of lesser stature present among them but his biggest surprise was to see Julia Domna, Caracalla’s mother.

“Spyro of Alexandria, esteemed scholar and astrologer!” announced one of the advisors.

Caracalla immediately stopped his conversation with an advisor and addressed Spyro in surprisingly polished Greek, “So astrologer, what do the stars tell us? Will we be victorious in Caledonia?”

Spyro gulped and rubbed his sweaty hands. “Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Augustus, I am honored to assist you. But I would need to ask you some more questions before I can provide you with heavenly guidance.”

Annoyedly the emperor replied, “go ahead, what do you need to know?”

“For starters, I need to know who commands the armies,” asked Spyro.

“I, of course, together with my father.”

“Good, very reassuring to have Rome’s greatest at the helm. Which tribes are you fighting and who are their leaders?”

“Why do you need to know?” asked Caracalla visibly irritated.

“Forgive me, exalted Caesar, the outcome of any war depends on both sides. I need to know so I can interpret the position of the stars correctly.”

Caracalla shook his head then turned to one of the advisors. The man immediately enumerated all the tribes they knew and then named their leaders.

Spyro smiled. The advisor had cited them in the same order as they were listed in the geographic tome that he had drawn with Ptolemy when he was still in his teens. Even the names of the tribal leaders had not changed. I doubt these chiefs live that long, he thought; they have not been very thorough in their reconnaissance.

“I also need to know when, exactly, you decided to embark on the war and when you started preparations for the campaign,” said Spyro.

“This is ridiculous,” objected Caracalla.

“Listen to him, my son,” said Julia soothingly.

“I’m sorry, but I need to calculate back the position of the stars to that moment,” said Spyro.

“We’ve been building boats for over a year,” growled Caracalla, “and the recruitment and training of specialist troops have been going on for many months.”

Quite a thorough preparation, thought Spyro, despite his age and power, Septimus remained a prudent and able commander. “I know enough now,” he announced and started scribbling on a piece of papyrus and consulting the maps he brought ignoring the murmur of the impatient and increasingly exasperated imperial retinue.

After a while, he scraped his throat. “Everyone still with me,” he said and the murmuring stopped at once. “Then let me give you the advice from the stars.”

When they anxiously looked at him and the room was in total silence, he sighed, “the omens are mixed.”

“That’s what they always say, what a charlatan!” scolded Caracalla, “I told you that the best astrologers are in Syria.”

“My son, at least let him speak,” urged Julia.

“The omens are mixed,” repeated Spyro, “but they are clear enough on one important dimension. You will drive your enemies before you and defeat all that stand in your way.”

Caracalla grinned.

“But, you won’t conquer the people. They’ll flee into the hills and forests and in the end, you’ll only conquer empty lands beyond the wall of the great Hadrian. The campaign will not bring you any value, no plunder, no slaves, no gold and … no peace.”

Caracalla grimaced in annoyance but then whispered in Latin to one of his advisors, “I’m fine with that; it’s good enough for a triumph in Rome and a new title. ‘Antoninus Caledonicus’ or even better,’ Antoninus Brittanicus’ how do you like the sound of that?”

The advisor whispered something that Spyro couldn’t hear and they both laughed loudly.

“Thanks,” said Caracalla still smiling, “your advice is most useful.”

“So, you’re halting the preparations?” asked Spyro naively, “an invasion sounds pretty useless under these circumstances.”

The Emperor just grinned at Spyro. He didn’t even consider for a moment calling it off. Spyro felt a chill run down his spine. The man really didn’t care about the lives of his subjects or his soldiers.

Caracalla raised his hand. Spyro was handed a small bag of gold and escorted out of the room by two muscular Praetorians.

When the guards left him, his knees buckled and he would have slumped to the marble floor if it wasn’t for Anastasios. The faithful servant supported him all the way to the carriage. Only when the clatter of the wheels on the pavement drowned out his voice, he dared to speak. “That boy really scares me, not even a hint of compassion. It’s a good thing Julia was there to restrain him.”

“You did rather well,” said Anastasios.

“How would you know? You weren’t even in the room,” snapped Spyro.

“Well,” said Anastasios, “You’re still alive, that’s more than can be said of some of the diviners he consulted this morning.”

“You tell me now!” shouted Spyro, “wouldn’t you suppose that was useful information for me beforehand?”

“I didn’t want to scare you, I had no doubt that you would talk your way out of it, like always.”

The scholar didn’t respond and for a while, the pair sat silently, lost in thought. Spyro was concerned. Another massive, wasteful campaign of conquest. As if the treasury was not empty enough. And what was there to gain? These Caledonians… they had no cities or secret stashes of gold. They were too wild even to be suitable as slaves. Of course, their raids on the Roman settlements were annoying, but if the Roman army could just repair the Hadrian walls and maintain a garrison, there could be some sort of peace. They could trade pelts with them and thus share in Rome’s wealth dispelling any reasons for the barbarians to go raiding. But no! Caracalla and Severus wanted a prestigious campaign and another triumph in Rome. He shook his head, these Romans, and their glory.

“Did you get the items I asked for this morning,” he asked Anastasios tiredly.

“Some of it, I have some good spices from Kushan and Ceylon but couldn’t get topaz or amber from the merchants of Antioch.”

“What about silk and ivory?”

“I met some traders, but it was very expensive.”

“It’s getting worse every year,” said Spyro “I would rather have our Emperors solve that problem. After the Parthian campaign, they brought a lot of loot, but they also destroyed the overland trade to the east.”

Anastasios didn’t reply. The clanging of the carriage on the stone pavement was the only sound for a while.

“I’m sorry,” said Spyro, “I suppose you don’t like to be reminded of the sack of Ctesiphon. For you, the Parthian expedition – which I refuse to call a victory let alone conquest - must have been hell.”

Anastasios hadn’t always been a slave. Before the war with Parthia, he was at the magnificent court in Ctesiphon. The Parthian rulers were tough cavalry commanders but valued the assistance of clever administrators that spoke the many languages of the realm. Alas, the court was ravaged by Septimus’ conquering legions and he was taken to the slave market in Alexandria.

Spyro was lucky enough to get him. Like most well-to-do Alexandrians he had slaves to serve him. But he hated the horrors of the trade and avoided dealing with the cruel slave traders. A friend told him that a learned man from the East was being auctioned on the slave market. Spyro was curious enough to visit that wretched place and he recognized Anastasios as a promising scholar. He managed to acquire him for double the going rate but didn’t mind. Anastasios had been his faithful servant ever since and Spyro trusted him completely. He was very generous to his servant and knew that Anastasios could easily purchase his freedom with his extra earnings, which he hadn’t done for some reason.

Finally, the carriage stopped at the Musaeum. The two men got out and said goodbye to the Praetorians with mock formality.

“When are you going to finally open this letter from Diokles?” asked Anastasios when they were back in the study.

Spyro looked dubiously at the papyrus roll. “It’s been a year. I wonder what trouble he has gotten himself into now,” he scoffed, “ransomed by pirates, penniless in a barbarian outpost.”

“Oh, come on master; admit that you miss the days when you went on adventures with him.”

“Do I miss adventuring with Diokles?” scoffed Spyro, “don’t be ridiculous. Sleeping in flea-infested beds? Trekking through the desert on a bouncing camel? Getting captured by robbers? Do you actually believe I miss that? Besides, I have only accompanied him once or twice and that was purely for the pursuit of knowledge… and to keep him out of trouble.”

“Do you call raiding pharaoh graves pursuit of knowledge?” asked Anastasios.

“Of course! We went there for scholarly work. If it wasn’t for these greedy Romans, everything would have been left untouched or brought back here for investigation.”

Spyro glanced at his servant. “But what about you Anastasios, don’t you want to leave this place? You should have made enough money by now with your side dealings and clever trades. Don’t you want to go back to Parthia?”

“Side dealings,” muttered Anastasios in surprise, “eh, what are you talking about?”

Spyro laughed. “Don’t tell me you gave the money away, for that church? What a monumental waste.” He laughed at his own pun.

“I would never want to leave you”, said Anastasios.

“They all say that. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind swapping places,” replied Spyro sarcastically, “I would, if I were you.”

“Please master, don’t talk like that. I’ll always remain loyal to you. You’re good to me.”

“I’m just teasing you,” Spyro smiled. “Let’s open the letter.” He walked to his desk, sat down, pulled the letter from underneath his garments, and put it on his desk.

Diokles’ new sign; a red flame was clearly imprinted in the round wax seal. He broke it and unrolled the scroll. It was longer than he had expected and the print was small.

“It’s not a letter,” he said barely able to hide his disappointment, “these are just more coordinates for our maps.” He threw the scroll to Anastasios. “Who cares about these faraway places in barbarian lands?”

“Shall I plot them anyway?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Anastasios took the letter and went to work at a small table with his usual diligence. Spyro reminisced about Diokles and wondered what his adventurous friend had been doing lately. What about the orphan girl that he tried to educate, another monumental waste of time and talent surely? The man is going senile. He tried to concentrate on his research but couldn’t focus. He just stared at the paper, lost in thoughts.

“Eh Spyro,” said Anastasios waking Spyro from his daydreams a few minutes later, “either Diokles has been drinking too much of that undiluted wine,” he said waving a map, “or these aren’t coordinates at all.”

“Probably drunk…” mumbled Spyro.

“Perhaps you should take a look.”

“Alright,” sighed Spyro and walked over to the small table.

“You’re right!” he said breathlessly when he realized what the letter contained. “These aren’t coordinates. It’s a coded message!”

He quickly went to work. He grouped the numbers in sets and then transcribed the numbers into letters. It was a variable transcription based on a secret keyword and he had to try many words before he could decode the message.

Anastasios enjoyed the sight. The last time he had seen his master so excited was when he brought him a cartload of Syrian wine many years ago.

After an hour of intensive work and with beads of sweat on his forehead, Spyro finished the transcription.

“Let’s see what our friend had to say.”

“It must’ve been important,” said Anastasios, “why else go through this trouble.”

Spyro started reading.

“To my dear friend Spyro, I am at the end of my wits.”

Spyro pulled a face, “here we go again,” he said, “he’s in trouble, as usual.”

“Disaster has struck me in the heart, everything I have worked for has been taken from me - well, even for Diokles this sounds melodramatic,” commented Spyro.

“Do you remember Samira, the girl I mentioned in my previous letters? - Of course, I do,” said Spyro, “he talks about that poor orphan in almost every letter.”

“He’s still concerned about her. Touching, don’t you think?”

Spyro rolled his eyes, “don’t be ridiculous. Some wretched barbarian woman abandoned her on a mountaintop. He looks into her eyes for a second and somehow believes she’s special. He even tries to teach her how to read and write!”

“How absurd, steppe barbarians cannot write,” agreed Anastasios, “but please read on without interruptions.”

“I have lost her, she is gone and so are her step-parents and her step-brother. Nobody knows where they are. I have looked all over the forbidden city, from the hidden valley below to the black rock above. I interrogated dozens of people. But with every answer that I get, more questions are raised. People have vanished from these mountains before. There are tales of strange creatures living in caves, it reminds me of those mosaics we saw in Memphis. I wish you were here; you could make sense of this. But I have nothing to go on.”

“He seems genuinely concerned for her,” commented Spyro then went on.

“I have stopped my search and gave up any hope of finding her. Instead, I started preparing for my long overdue trip that will take me north of the mountains and onto the barren steppes. I will continue our sacred duty of mapping the known world. I will even go to the land beyond the great northern river and search for the legendary frozen forests. I will leave in the spring because winter equals certain death for travelers on the steppes. But I am confident that in these uncharted territories, I will finally find the proof we have been looking for.”

“That you have been looking for,” Spyro interrupted the narration for a moment, “it was always his idea. I’m not interested in underground worlds and strange creatures.”

“If you have ever thought about coming to Ligeia, this is the time!” continued the message. “I am embarking on the most adventurous journey ever attempted by any man and I need your help making sense of the discoveries when I return. You will feel at home here in Ligeia. With my connections and your talents, I can assure you a warm welcome. Ligeia could be your new home.”

“That’s it.” Spyro neatly folded the letter and put it away.

Anastasios looked at him expectantly and asked. “So, when do we leave?”

“What? Are you totally out of your mind,” said Spyro decidedly, “I’m not traveling to the end of the world, to that god-forsaken place.”

“You call it a forsaken place. I have heard Diokles use other names for it,” replied Anastasios, “didn’t he call it the ‘White City’, hidden from the world? A bulwark that defends the great civilizations against the barbarian hordes on the steppes? The last free Hellenic city with the bravest warriors who ever walked the Earth, where the men are descendants from Alexander and the women have Amazon blood? A city with golden roofs and where people are richer than you can imagine in your wildest dreams? Perhaps founded by the great Alexander himself in the Age of Heroes.”

“Come on, you don’t believe any of that do you?” replied Spyro shaking his head, “it’s a myth, a figment of Diokles’ wild imagination and sense of drama. Maybe there’s some puny colony of wretched Greek speakers hiding in a small castle in the mountains, surrounded by hordes of barbarians on all sides. Not exactly my dream destination! Founded by Alexander... What nonsense! Alexander never even came close to that place, and besides, he founded forty cities, so that doesn’t mean anything.”

Anastasios was more disappointed than he cared to admit. Alexandria no longer felt safe with the cruel Caracalla poised to inherit the Empire. A beautiful, unconquered city hidden in the mountains sounded just like the place he wanted to spend his old age with his master. It wasn’t far from the places where Christianity was taking hold. Alas, there was no way to overcome his master’s legendary stubbornness!

Later, in the evening Spyro had a splendid dinner with some of the other scholars. He had a reason to celebrate. Not only had he survived his encounter with Caracalla, but it had also brought him a rich reward in gold! They had fetched the most expensive wine and even hired some musicians to put them in a joyous mood and relive the glory days of Alexandria.

Later, when he staggered towards his bedroom a little more drunk than his Epicurean habits allowed, Spyro mumbled to himself, “you see, I don’t need any great adventures to be happy. I’m perfectly content right here.”

It took him a long time to fall asleep.