Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Paula R. Stiles Page B

was my namesake.”
    “I rest my case. But what’s wrong with trying to bring order out of chaos?”
    “It’s not the ordering I object to; it’s the imposing of that order, afterwards, that’s going to cause the problems.”
    “What problems?”
    “Wait and see. This will not end well.”
    “What’s happened? You’re not usually so pessimistic.”
    “I had a very bad dream last night.”
    “Oh ….”
    Probus’ dreams were as good a barometer of portentous events as eagle droppings or the appearance of two-headed mice in the marketplace.
    “I dreamt the Emperor had sent us a proclamation confirming our right to Saint Nicholas’s pouch. As we processed up the mountain to the monastery, I heard a noise like waves breaking over the seawall. Rocks, sand, great pink-and-ochre boulders began to tumble down, rumbling, bouncing and cracking. I jumped out of their path and hid in a cave ….”
    “… that appeared conveniently.”
    “Don’t jest! This is serious. Once the avalanche ended, a quarter of our town was buried under fallen stone.”
    “That does sound ominous. Was there anything else in the dream?”
    “No. I woke myself up at that point.”
    “There’s nothing more in this missive. The Emperor has compiled his new Codex and wants you to announce his achievement from the pulpit this Sunday. That doesn’t sound so bad.”
    “Don’t count on it. Great disasters are oft-times born from grains of sand.”
    As the Bishop had predicted, the unpleasant codicil was not long in arriving. A scant month after the announcement of the Codex, a phalanx of soldiers in austere trappings marched through the Porta Hesperia and clanked down the Strada Memoriam to present a papyrus signed by the emperor’s sister:
    In gratified cognisance of the magnificent work created by our beloved brother, the Emperor Theodosius, Second of that name, and out of our great and abiding love for the Basileus, we, the Honourable Pulcheria, Bride of our Lord Jesus Christ ….
    “Dear saints and little chickens, she goes on worse than her brother. Skip the preamble and get to the point – if there is one.”
    “Let me see if I can find it. Ah ... here: I command you to search out, and consign to cleansing holy flame, all pagan, heretical or otherwise impious writings which have heretofore despoiled the minds and hearts of our innocent subjects ….”
    “I told you. We’re to organise a book burning. How long before she turns that vicious mind to putting people to the ‘cleansing flame’?”
    Guided by definitions in the new law code, the ‘what’ of the task was clear. Any scroll, papyrus or text, any scrap of writing not sanctioned by this code, was to be seized and burned. The ‘how’ of it was another matter.
    Celestia, a metropolis, of more than eight thousand souls – give or take a slave or two – had created itself down the side of a mountain, a cascade of fading rose, ochre and sienna limpets stuck fast to a crumbling hillside of low bushes, pines and olive trees, that tumbled, without form or reason, to a curve of harbour far below. Houses carved from the soft tufa , in many cases fronted cave dwellings burrowing far back into the mountain. Streets were vertical, better suited to donkeys than heavily armed soldiers. In a few places, fora , essential places of assembly, had been carved and levelled out of the rock.
    At least , thought Timos, we won’t have to carry the debris all the way down to the harbour for burning. We can dispose of it on-site. Scouring each neighbourhood for proscribed material and wrenching it from protesting owners would be a despicable job. This damned project would waste days.
    Muttering to himself, stepping over Pulcheria’s scroll as if it were a dead viper, Timos exited the Bishop’s study without saying goodbye.
    Watching Timos’ departing back, Probus thought, I hate being right. This is going to be a nightmare .
    On Sunday, Timos read Pulcheria’s proclamation from the pulpit.