Two paces from the pod and I was drenched in sweat. The heat was suffocating. I could hear my laboured breathing inside my own head. From the corner of my eye I could see leaping flames. It was impossible to describe the library; all details were lost in the smoky haze. My world was limited to the few square feet in front of me.
Our teams deployed to their given positions. I had Markham and young Van Owen. We nodded to each other for luck and got started. We’d rehearsed for this, but it was far tougher than I thought it would be. The slightest exertion made me sweat even harder. My head pounded. I couldn’t catch my breath.
We established a routine. Markham forced the armarium door. Van Owen and I stepped forward. Markham held the torch. We scooped the contents of the top shelf into the tub, then the next one down, then the next and so on. Pass the tub down the line. Grab a new one. Move on to the next armarium. Markham forced the doors … and so on.
Occasionally, someone passed us some water. Dark figures criss-crossed the room, shouting over the noise of the fire. I ignored them, whoever they were, trusting Guthrie to keep us safe. Concentrate on the job in hand. Deal with the now. Breathe. Ignore the increasing heat, the pounding headache, and the blurred vision. Just get on with it.
We shuffled up to the next armarium. Markham splintered the doors. These bloody scrolls were never ending. We were reaching for the top shelf when, over the clamour, I heard a new noise.
Something went over with a crash. I saw flames running across the floor towards us. The floor was marble. How could it burn? It must be oil – maybe a lamp had gone over. No, it wasn’t a lamp. The bloody Christians were back. Through the smoke, I could hear shouting. They must have seen or heard us. We were making no efforts at concealment. Markham stepped away from us to give himself room.
The security team swung into action. Their instructions were very clear. No violence of any kind. Absolutely no contemporaries were to be harmed. Moving as one, they charged towards the mob, sinister in their fire-fighting gear, uttering blood-curdling cries and waving their arms. Moving as one, the Christians turned and fled. Maybe they thought we were pagan demons come to defend our temple. They would regroup around the corner, find their courage and religious zeal, and be back. It would get bloody. Time to go.
I felt a sudden change in pressure and heard Guthrie’s voice raised in warning. In my ear, someone shouted, ‘Get down. Get down. Get down.’
None of us had wasted our time over the last months. We hurled ourselves to the floor.
Too late. A hot wind picked us up and I slammed backwards into an armarium, which toppled. It and a million scrolls fell down on top of me. The heat intensified to unbearable temperatures. Was I on fire? I screamed and rolled, scrabbling to get out from under the crushing weight of the cupboard.
When I opened my eyes, Markham was bending over me, backlit by orange flames. ‘Max. Can you hear me?’
I nodded. He seized an arm and Van Owen got hold of the other one.
I shouted, ‘Wait,’ tore myself free, and grabbed the half-filled tub. There might be anything in there – the exact location of Alexander’s tomb, the true story of Cambyses’ lost army, even a note from Plato saying to disregard all that Atlantis stuff – he’d had too much cheese late at night. I wasn’t leaving anything behind if I could help it.
All around, figures were grabbing what they could and flying back to the pods. Above us, I heard a crack and something massive dropped from the roof to crash and splinter on the marble floor. Flames billowed and roared hungrily.
Guthrie was yelling. ‘Evacuate. Now. Everyone out. Move. Move.’
I got seized again and we raced back to Number One as blocks of masonry, tiles, and burning wood dropped around us. The roof was coming down. The library was finished. I turned back at the door. I wanted a final look at the greatest library in the world, but it was already gone. Just fire, smoke, and destruction. I could only guess at what was being lost. Someone yanked me into the pod as a flaming beam fell across the doorway.
I heard Peterson initiate the jump and then the world went white.
The god of historians was watching out for us. We arrived at the desert site at night. We were crowded and suffocating inside the pod. Peterson ripped open the door and we all tumbled out into the crisp, cold night air, desperate for relief. I tore frantically at my smouldering fire suit. I was so hot I couldn’t bear it another second. If I didn’t get out I would scream. My gloved hands couldn’t grasp the fastenings and I panicked. Dimly, I heard Chief Farrell’s voice. He pulled my hands away and others came to help. I’ve never been undressed by so many people. My boots came off and I was down to my tee and shorts when someone wrapped me in an exquisitely cold, wet towel. I groaned with relief. Someone tipped water onto my head and neck. I sagged to the ground and took a minute off. Someone else passed me a drink and I grabbed it, suddenly realising just how desperately thirsty I was.
‘Steady,’ said Leon, crouching nearby. ‘Just sip it slowly.’
He took the bottle away, wiped my chin, let me sip a little more, and then helped me sit up.