The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (41 page)

After a pause he spoke – “My lord,” and again the tone struck Lepidus as familiar to his ear, “I serve the gods, and you the Emperor: let us both serve our masters truly. You would have news of Septimius the Centurion? It may be that the gods will permit you to see a vision: shall it be so?”

A curl of contempt was on the Roman’s lips as he answered:

“You know the proclamation. I am prepared to fulfil its terms.”

The old man shook himself like an awakening lion, and again the gesture struck Lepidus as familiar.

“I seek not gold,” he said; “give me your attention, and keep the gold for those that need it.”

“It is well,” said Lepidus; “proceed.”

A small stove was burning in the tent; the old man cast upon the charcoal some drugs that raised a dense smoke, and filled the tent with a heavy perfumed smell.

“Look!” said the old man, pointing to the smoke; and retiring behind Lepidus he crouched upon the ground.

A circle of light formed itself clearly and well defined among the smoke, and in its midst Lepidus suddenly saw the image of the bull Apis, as he had seen him once before in Memphis, with all his gorgeous scarlet and gold trappings, and the golden disc between his horns. A moment and the image suddenly grew smaller and smaller, and vanished from the eyes of the wondering Roman.

Again the circle formed, and this time he saw the Centurion Septimius sitting at his tent door, and, stranger still, he saw himself in converse with him.

But suddenly, whether it was the perfumes or the excitement that overcame him he never knew, but the circle of light, the old man, the tent spun round and round, and he sank fainting to the ground.

When he awoke from his swoon the stove was burnt out, the old man was gone, and he hardly knew whether he had been dreaming or not. He felt dull and heavy and could scarcely rise. His servant entered with a light. He glanced at his finger, on which he wore his signet-ring, with which all important despatches must be sealed, and which marked their authenticity – it was gone. He felt in his bosom for the secret orders which the general had entrusted to him rather than to the headlong Septimius – they were gone too.

Back in Philae – on the fifth day after Lepidus so hurriedly left it – Septimius was still alive. A scanty allowance of bread
and water was daily furnished him and his bonds had been somewhat loosed, but he had not seen the light of day since his capture, and his heart sank within him in hopeless despondency. Release seemed impossible, rescue hopeless. He could see no way out of his calamities, but by death. He had never seen or spoken to any one since his capture; invisible were the hands that had relaxed his bonds, and invisible the attendants who supplied his daily food.

Petamon had been stirring here, there, and everywhere, rousing priests and people, reminding them of old wrongs and old memories, and urging them to join in one strong effort, and expel the Roman despots.

The news of Lepidus’ proclamation had just reached the Island of Philae. It was the turn of Sheshonk to officiate at the altar of Isis, and, while the incense was burning, he stood for a few moments wrapped in deep thought.

“Petamon is crafty and wise,” so his meditations ran; “but Rome is strong, and we can never resist her. Better swim with the flood of the river and release that Centurion – and the gold, ay, the gold! – and the wrath of the gods, what of that? I have helped the trickery here for so many years that I hardly know whether there be gods at all. Petamon believes in them; but I am not Petamon. The gold is my god.”

The evening closed, the night was half spent, and Petamon, who had been away all day had not returned, when Sheshonk stole silently up the stair with a bundle under his arm, and, touching the spring, entered the dungeon of Septimius. The Centurion enquired in a languid voice who it was.

“A friend,” whispered Sheshonk. “Hush, Sir Centurion, and hearken. Lepidus, your second in command, has offered a thousand pieces of gold for your safe return; do you confirm the offer?”

“Ay, and add a thousand to it,” answered the Centurion.
“I have an old father in Rome, who values his son at that sum ten times told.”

“Good,” said the priest. “Petamon seeks your life and in a few days will take it; you cannot be worse than you are, therefore, you can lose nothing by trusting me – will you do so?”

“I will,” said the Centurion.

A knife was drawn across the cords which bound him, and he stretched his limbs. Cautiously the priest struck a light with flint and steel and lighted a small lantern, after which he produced from his bundle a pair of huge hawks’ heads, surmounted by the disc of the sun, with great glass eyes, and a pair of white disguises, such as the original captors of Septimius had worn. The Centurion eyed them and muttering to himself, “So much for the hawk demons,” proceeded to array himself in the disguise, while Sheshonk did the same. This accomplished the priest opened the door and they cautiously descended the stair. They met a young priest, but at a whispered word from Sheshonk he bowed and passed them by. They entered a small chamber on the west side; the priest touched a mark on the floor, and a trap-door opened at their feet, showing a dark stair. Down this they made their way, the priest stopping for a moment to draw a heavy bolt on the under side of the trap-door to impede pursuit. After some time the Centurion heard a rushing of water above him, the passage grew damper and damper, and the priest in a whisper explained that they were passing under the bed of the river. In a little while they again ascended a high flight of steps, another trap-door opened at the touch of Sheshonk, and they emerged in a small temple on the island of Snem. The priest silently opened the door, and they stole out.

The moon had set and the night was almost dark. Cautiously picking their steps they crossed the island, and found
at the other side a small skiff lying at anchor, and two swarthy Nubian rowers in attendance; a few words passed between them and Sheshonk. “We must wait,” he said, “till the day breaks; they dare not pass the cataract by night. Sleep if you can, and I will watch.”

Septimius was too glad of the permission; he had slept but ill in his dungeon, and, taking off the heavy mask, he buried his head in his garments and fell fast asleep.

In a few hours the morning broke, and ere the sun was risen Sheshonk and Septimius were on board the boat. The rowers pulled stoutly at their oars, and they soon neared the cataract, whose roar became louder as they advanced. Before them lay a stretch of the river, fenced in on either hand with desolate rocky hills; here, there, everywhere, in the course of the stream jutted out the heads of black rocks, round which the water foamed and raced like the stream of a mill dam. The Centurion shut his eyes and held his breath; the current caught them; they were hurried helplessly along for a moment, stern foremost, and were on the point of being dashed upon a rock, when a dexterous stroke of one of the oars righted them: a rush – a tumult of waters – dashing spray and the roar of the current for a moment, then the boat floated again in calm water and the danger was past.

In a few moments they reached the Roman encampment. The Nubians, at a word from Sheshonk, pulled away up the stream, while the two hawk-headed ones hurried through the camp, to the no small wonderment of several drowsy sentries.

Lepidus was just awakening with the weary disheartened feelings of one who dreads impending misfortune, when the flap of his tent-door was thrown back, and the sleepy officer fancied he must still be dreaming when he saw a strange hawk-headed phantom rush into the room.

It was no phantom, for it hugged him close in his arms,
and a voice – the voice of Septimius – issued, hollow sounding, from the depths of the mask:

“Dear old Lepidus. I never thought to see your face again.”

There was little time for greetings and congratulations. Sheshonk was urgent on them to complete their work and the legionaries, their fears dispelled by the reappearance of the young Centurion, hastened again across the desert to Philae, burning so hotly to wipe out the insult that had been offered to the Roman name that they never felt the sun.

Several boats were lying at the shore, and while Lepidus with the main body of the men made for the stairs upon the northern side, Septimius and a few chosen followers, under the guidance of Sheshonk, crept along under the western wall in a small boat and reached the secret door. It opened obedient to the touch of the priest, and silently they mounted the stair – they met the other party in the great Hall of Columns; the island seemed deserted – no living thing was to be seen.

Sheshonk’s eye twinkled.

“Five hundred golden pieces for Petamon’s head!”

“Ay, and five hundred more,” said Septimius.

The priest beckoned them on. They entered the sacred chamber where Petamon had kept his vigil on that memorable night, and Lepidus half shuddered as he looked round at the familiar paintings on the wall. The altar was prepared and the fire burning on it. The priest advanced and set his foot heavily on one side of the step in front. Suddenly altar and step, solid though they seemed, rolled away noiselessly to one side, disclosing a passage beneath. The Romans leapt down, Lepidus hastily lighting a torch at the altar fire as they did so. The passage led them to a small room in the thickness of the wall, and throwing in the light of his torch, he saw the arms and accoutrements of the two murdered soldiers, and
the fetters that had bound Petamon lying in a corner. Here the passage apparently terminated abruptly, but the priest raised a stone in the roof with his hand, and they crept up through the narrow aperture thus opened, and upon Sheshonk touching another spring, a square aperture opened, through which they glided into a chamber, and gladly hailed the light of day as it glimmered faintly through the door.

They searched the whole temple, but in vain; secret chambers they found more than one; even the dungeon of Septimius was opened, but nothing was discovered, and even the bloodhound sagacity of Sheshonk seemed for a moment at fault.

But his eye soon brightened, and he led them through the court under the high painted pillars, and opening a door in one of the sides of the pyramidal gateway, proceeded up a long narrow stair. Suddenly a rustle of garments was heard above them, and they caught sight of the robes of Petamon, his leopard-skin cloak and his golden fringe, as he fled before them. The two Romans dashed after him like greyhounds on a hare, but as they reached the top of the staircase Septimius stumbled and fell, and so checked the pursuit for an instant. He recovered himself, but in that instant Petamon, casting back on his pursuers a glance of baffled malignity sprang from the tower, and in another moment lay, dashed upon the pavement of the hall.

The soldiers and Sheshonk, horror-struck hastened down, and were standing beside the body – Lepidus had just recovered from the finger of the priest the signet-ring that he had lost, and was in the act of drawing the roll of secret orders from his bosom – Sheshonk had raised his head-dress and was wiping the perspiration from his brow, when from aloft a sharp dagger was hurled with unerring aim. It cleft the skull of the traitor, and he fell, with scarcely a groan, on the top of Petamon’s corpse.

The Romans looked up: no one was to be seen. With a party of soldiers they searched the huge gateway towers, but without a guide such a quest was hopeless, and they never traced the hand from which the dagger came.

Their main object was accomplished. Petamon was dead, and with him expired all chances of a revolutionary outbreak. Sheshonk was dead too; but as Lepidus said,
that
saved the good gold pieces.

The same evening they returned to Syene, and next day the camp was broken up, and the cohort embanked on the river and floated down to rejoin the garrison at Memphis.

In six months Septimius and Lepidus left Egypt for good, and when they were fairly out of sight of land they seemed to breathe more freely.

“I owe you many a good turn, Lepidus, old boy,” said the Centurion; “but I’ll never admit, to the end of time, that Apis would not have made splendid beefsteaks.”

“Whoever said he wouldn’t?” retorted the other, his grim features relaxing into a smile; “only I think it would need a braver man than either you or I to eat them under the nose of old Petamon.”

The wind began to freshen, and the ship headed to the deep sea, and towards home.

I have written to you previously, Sir, about my encounter in Bithynia with persons vulgarly called “Christians”, and have gratefully received your advice on how such criminals are to be dealt with, which ones are to be spared, and which offered up to punishment.

I discovered, in the course of my investigations, as I have previously mentioned, that these persons comprise a degenerate cult carried to ridiculous lengths, but that through the moderating influence of the law, many persons might be reformed and directed back to the correct worship of our gods.

The affair has, however, had a kind of sequel. If I may trouble you again with a long description of these matters, I would like to describe the case of a young girl, which seems to press beyond the bounds of the practical guidelines you have given me. If I were the right kind of poet I would find here the material for a tragedy, dealing as it does with the themes of young lovers and love lost, of conflict between a father and his child, the delicate balance between justice and compassion, and the mysteries of the world of the dead.