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Authors: John Maddox Roberts

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BOOK: The Temple of the Muses
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“I think it might be a good idea to return to the embassy,” Refus said. He and the others looked a bit shaken, although not exactly awestruck. It was the ominous implications of the god’s message that disturbed them. I was not quite ready to leave, though. As they filed out, I went over to where Achillas stood.
“Do you think old Baal-Ahriman meant to include Macedonians among those barbarians for whom night comes on apace?” I said.
He smiled, showing long, sharp teeth. “But we Macedonians have ruled in Egypt since Alexander. We’re virtual Egyptians ourselves now. No, it is my opinion that the god wants the overbearing Romans expelled from our midst. However, I am a mere humble servant of the king. I leave the interpretation of divine prophecy to the priests.” He nodded in the direction of Ataxas.
Ataxas himself had sprawled on his back and lay jerking and thrashing about, foamy spittle flying from his lips. The silver bowl lay by him on the floor, the rays from the skylight gleaming from its polished interior.
“And now, Romans,” Achillas said, “it might he best if you and your friends were to vacate this area. Alexandrian crowds are emotional and given to enthusiasm. Should they choose to interpret this event as a call for the expulsion of Romans, I would not be able to answer for your safety.”
“You have a hundred soldiers. What is the rabble outside to that?”
He shrugged, making his harness creak once more. “Our duty is to guard the princess, not some band of Roman sightseers who tagged along for the fun.”
“You have two patrician ladies in your party,” I said. “They are under the princess’s protection, surely.” We looked to where Julia and Fausta were helping Berenice to her feet. The princess was in only marginally better condition than Ataxas. Her hair and clothes had become extremely disheveled in an amazingly short time, and it looked as if the acolytes had been somewhat lax about dusting the floor.
“Of course, I shall be most diligent in guarding the princess’s honored guests.” Achillas said. “Safe journey, Roman.”
I turned my back on him and went to Julia.
“Things may get rough outside,” I said quietly. “This is a scheme to stir the Egyptians up against us. Stay close to the princess. Achillas says he’ll keep you safe, but we men are going to have to run for it.”
She frowned. “But nothing was said about Rome.”
“Yes. Very innocent. What do you want to bet that’s not the word being spread outside? Goodbye, dear. See you at the Palace.” With that, I ran. I thought they would be safe enough. Their gowns were all but identical to those of Greek ladies. As long as they didn’t yell something in Latin, nobody would take them for Romans. It was different for the men. Our togas, short hair and clean-shaven faces were unmistakable.
Outside, the rest of my party gestured impatiently for me to ascend our litter. The crowd was muttering and jabbering away, everyone confused about exactly what had happened. As yet, there was no concerted action.
“Get aboard, Decius!” Rufus called. I climbed up and settled in. The bearers hauled us to their shoulders and started to push their way through the crowd.
“What was that all about?” asked one of the staff. “What does it mean?”
“What it means,” I said, pouring myself some refreshment, “is that you each owe me five hundred
denarii.
”
“I protest,” someone said. “That leper-god never mentioned Rome!”
“I said, if you will recall, that his words would proclaim a sudden change in relations between Rome and Egypt,” I pointed out. “He said in there that Egypt was to be the foremost nation in the world. If that isn’t a change in Roman-Egyptian relations, what is?” Where only lately we had been pelted with flowers, we began to be pelted with fruit peels.
“It was an awfully short message,” Rufus said, ducking a handful of camel dung. “I rather expected something longer.”
“You have to keep it short when you’re employing conjurer’s mummery,” I said. “Another minute and we would have figured out that trick with the idol’s mouth.”
“How
did
he do that?” said a secretary. “It was awfully impressive.”
“I propose to find out,” I said. People were pointing fingers at us from all over the plaza. We were not yet into a street.
“I haven’t heard any anti-Roman slogans yet,” said the secretary. These men were used to hearing such slogans in various parts of the world.
“That’s because none of us speaks Egyptian,” I told him. “The acolytes are spreading a highly colored version of Baal-Ahriman’s words.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about this, Decius,” Rufus groused.
“All it takes is intelligence,” I told him. “That’s something best left to me. Can’t these bearers go any faster?” We weren’t under attack yet, but the jeers and pelting were getting more ominous.
“I suppose they can,” Rufus said. He began to rummage among the cushions. “Let’s see, there ought to be a whip in here someplace. Aha!” He came up with a long, snakelike lash of braided rhinoceros hide. He leaned out over the railing of our platform and brought his arm down in a mighty swing “Get a move on, you scum!” Not the most adroit of whipmen, he managed to backlash himself, drawing a stripe from his left buttock to his right
shoulder. He fell back howling and the rest of us laughed until tears ran down our faces.
“This is rare sport,” said the secretary, “but this crowd is getting meaner.”
By this time we were in a street and were almost past the Great Serapeum. The people ahead of us had not yet been told of the divine word, but they were ignorantly blocking our progress.
“That’s it,” someone said. “Time to lighten ship. You slaves get off.”
“Not on your buggering life!” Hermes said stoutly. “That mob’s ready to eat anything with a Roman haircut.”
“Insolent little bastard,” the same someone said. “He needs discipline, Metellus.”
“And you need sobering up,” I told him. I picked up the whip and climbed over the railing and went down the steps until I stood just above the carrying-poles. I sent the whip whistling through the air and made it pop thunderously. I had taken whip lessons from a charioteer of the Red faction in my youth.
“We are already going as fast as we can, master!” protested the pacesetter.
“Then get ready to run,” I said. I slashed the whip over the heads of the crowd in front of us.
“Make way!” I bellowed. “Make way for the majesty of Rome, you silly foreigners!” I popped the whip like a madman and the crowd melted away before us magically. I have no idea where they went. Into doorways and windows, possibly. When their blood was not up, there was nothing more instantly responsive to authority than the Alexandrians.
The bearers began to trot, then to run as I continued to flail the air as if bringing down a harpy with every blow. The Romans in the litter clapped and cheered me on. Soon I was wishing we had another litter to race against, for I think we made it back to the Palace in record time. After the first quarter-mile there was no crowd to speak of, since nearly everyone in the city had gone to
the Rakhotis, but this was so much fun it seemed pointless to slow down.
When we were safe within the Palace precincts, the litter almost tipped over as all the right-hand bearers collapsed at once, coughing and vomiting. Somehow disaster was averted, though, and we dismounted safely.
“I didn’t know you were so handy with a whip,” Hermes said uneasily.
“Keep it in mind,” I advised him. The rest of the Roman party congratulated me and clapped me on the shoulder.
“Just don’t forget the five hundred
denarii
,” I told them. Then I went to seek out Creticus.
T
HE LEADERS OF THE ROMAN COMMUNITY in Alexandria gathered in the assembly hall of the embassy to address their complaints and concerns to Creticus and the other officers of the Roman legation. There were quite a few of them, merchants for the most part. It was customary for upper-class Romans to despise merchants, but these were a force to be reckoned with. The wealthy grain traders were among the most influential men in our Empire. The moneylenders were similarly powerful, although if anything even less loved. There were many other merchants as well. Exporters of papyrus and books were numerous, as Egypt was virtually the only source of papyrus and the Library was the greatest book-producing organization in the world. There were dealers in ivory and feathers, in exotic animals and slaves. There was even a man whose sole business was the export of high-quality sand for the Circuses and amphitheaters of the Roman world.
“Ambassador,” said the spokesman for the group—a big-nosed, bald-headed individual named, as I recall, Fundanius—
“the situation here quickly grows intolerable. We Romans are publicly insulted as we seek to carry out our business in the streets of Alexandria. We are pelted with offal, and our wives are assailed with the vilest of language. Are you going to wait for open violence against us before you take action?”
“What action would you have me take?” Creticus demanded. “I am an ambassador, not a proconsul. I have no imperium and therefore no legions. I cannot whistle up a military force because you are getting nervous. May I remind you that Egypt is an independent nation, a friend and ally of Rome? I will carry your message to his Majesty, but that is all I am empowered to do. I will send a letter to the Senate describing the situation here.”
“What cares this mongrel king for our welfare?” Fundanius said, sneering. “And what good will a letter to the Senate do? If you sent it today, it would not reach Rome before we were all massacred in our beds.”
“A massacre of Roman citizens would probably stir the Senate to action, if that is any comfort to you,” I said helpfully.
“This is an outrage!” Fundanius shouted. “We are treated with disrespect by the Egyptian rabble. Roman citizens!”
“Sir,” said Creticus, “you are a moneylender, and men of your trade are universally hated. You should be grateful that you’ve escaped crucifixion all these years.”
“You can speak thus!” Fundanius said scornfully. “You patricians can huddle safely here in the Palace, gorging yourselves, while we who do the real work of the Empire are exposed to every peril!”
“For your information,” Creticus said, “the gens Caecilia is plebeian. I admit there is little pleasure in sharing the same class designation with moneylenders and tax-farmers.”
A book exporter stood. He was a tall man of dignified appearance.
“Gentlemen, this is unseemly. We need not refight the brawls of the Gracchi when we are in danger from without. In any case, this is not a conflict between Egypt and Rome, but rather the doing
of a malignant religious fraud from Asia Minor. Honored Ambassador, can the king do nothing about this man? With his supposed divine revelations he has whipped up the ignorant multitude against us, and it is no more to the advantage of the Ptolemaic house than it is to Rome.”
“Well, at least one of you can talk sense,” Creticus grumbled. “Just now our situation is delicate. King Ptolemy would like to take action, but he worries that rioting here could spread to the nomes and bring about fullscale civil war. For years Luculius and Pompey had their legions in Asia, within easy striking distance of Egypt. For all those years the Egyptians had to tread softly Now such Roman forces as remain under arms are preparing for trouble in Gaul. It could be a long time before we are in a position to intervene in Egyptian affairs.”
These were sobering words, and the men in the hall were Roman enough to understand their import. Whether in business, government or the legions, Romans were accustomed to thinking in terms of the world rather than just a tiny corner of it as most people did.
“What about Antonius in Macedonia?” someone asked.
Creticus snorted. “First off, the Macedonians beat him. Last word we had, he hadn’t yet been relieved. It’s a bad time of year to move troops by sea, and Macedonia is a long way from here by land.”
“Then what is to be done?” said the book exporter
“If you men feel all that concerned,” Creticus said, “perhaps now would be a good time to take a vacation from Alexandria. Cyprus is a pleasant place, as is Rhodes or Crete. Take your families there and leave your business interests in the hands of your freedmen.”
“But we cannot just leave!” protested Fundanius. “We are men of substantial property. Our homes and warehouses will be looted and burned. Most of our freedmen are Romans, too. They will be killed.”
“Gentlemen,” Creticus said, “there is no need to grow so
alarmed. Events may not take so grievous a turn. I shall continue my efforts to get Ptolemy to take action against this absurd cult.” He rose and, on that unsatisfactory note, the audience ended.
“How is Ptolemy really acting?” I asked when they were gone.
“Like a flute-player,” Creticus said. “He refuses to believe that this activity presages anything important. He says he has instructed Berenice to have nothing further to do with Ataxas, but I doubt that bubblehead pays much heed to the old drunk.”
“Have you sounded him out about that arsenal on the lake?”
“I have. He professes total ignorance and insists that Achillas is the most loyal of his servants. Funny thing about that …”
“What?”
“Well, whenever he spoke of Achillas, he had the unmistakable air of a man who speaks of someone who terrifies him.”
“Achillas is overweening and ambitious. Even little Cleopatra says he and Memnon behave insolently, and she’s only ten years old. What do you think are the chances of Achillas pulling a coup?”
Creticus cogitated for a while. “The Egyptians are resistant to any sort of change. There hasn’t been a change of dynasty since the first Ptolemy. They don’t like rule by non-natives, but they haven’t much choice in that. Before the Macedonians it was the Persians and even the Nubians. Conquest by Alexander wasn’t so bad, since they think he was a god. In any case, they’re used to the Ptolemies now, and they don’t want to see anyone else on the throne. Achillas is just another Macedonian upstart to them. Even if he married one of the princesses, they wouldn’t recognize him as legitimate ruler.”
“And with the nomes in a state of unrest, the whole country could dissolve in civil war.”
“That makes it all the more unlikely that he’s planning a takeover, doesn’t it?” Creticus said.
“If he could build a reputation as a great general,” I pointed out, “he would be more palatable to the Egyptians. And the only people left for him to fight are the Romans. How many of our recent
wars have begun with an uprising of the local populace against Romans?”
“Most of them,” he admitted.
“Mithridates did it, and so have others. It’s what will precipitate the war with Gaul, if that comes. The local king or chief or whatever sends out agitators to stir up bad feelings against the local Romans—never difficult to do at the best of times. The next thing you know, there is riot and general massacre. By the time people have come to their senses, it’s too late. They’re at war with Rome and they have no choice but to support the leader who encouraged their folly in the first place.”
“It’s effective,” Creticus allowed. “The Roman public is always for war when foreigners slaughter Roman civilians. If Egypt wasn’t so damned rich and tempting, I wouldn’t mind a quick war of conquest myself. But it’s the wrong time for a war in Egypt. Macedonia’s a fiasco and we’re preparing for war in Gaul. Even Roman legions can get spread too thin, and there would be that many more veterans to settle.”
“Keep working on Ptolemy,” I advised. “If he’s afraid of Achillas, he might not be upset to see the man out of the way.”
“What are you suggesting?” Creticus demanded.
“Just that one less troublesome, subversive soldier would be infinitely preferable to riot and war, both civil and foreign.”
“Why, Decius, I never took you for an assassin.” There was something akin to family pride in his voice.
“Nothing underhanded about it,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s open warfare between me and Achillas now, and the better man will walk away from it.”
“Spoken like a true Roman,” he said, chuckling.
Back in my quarters, I made preparations for a foray into the city. First I laid out my weapons:
caestus
, dagger and sword. I decided against the rather bulky legionary
gladius
I wore when in uniform. Instead I had a very nice short sword of the sort favored in the arena by certain types of gladiator. It was about three-fourths
the size of the military sword, light, wasp-waisted with a narrow point for stabbing and edges so sharp you could cut your eyes just looking at them.
“You’re not really going out in the streets, are you?” Hermes asked with a touching concern for my safety.
“I’ll be safe enough,” I assured him. “As long as I’m not dressed as a Roman and don’t speak Latin, nobody will notice me.” In our travels down the river I had picked up some good desert garments for protection from the sun. I had an excellent striped robe with a hood that would conceal my Roman coiffure. I kicked off my Roman sandals and slipped my feet into a pair of light, camel-skin slippers such as the caravaneers favor.
“Got your will made out?” Hermes said. “The one where you give me my freedom in the event of your death?”
“If I ever made such a will. I’d live in fear every day of my life. Don’t worry, I’ll come back safe.” Actually, I’d long since made out my will and registered it at the Temple of Vesta, with manumissions and stakes for all my slaves. But you must never allow a slave to think you softhearted.
With my weapons concealed about my person, I slipped on the long desert robe. I fought the temptation to darken my skin. Such subterfuges are rarely convincing and would make me that much more likely to be uncovered. The fact is, fair-skinned people are not all that rare in the East, what with the mercenaries who had policed Persia’s far-flung empire and Alexander’s rampaging armies and the equally polyglot Successor armies, which for the last two hundred years had included Gauls from Galatia. My typically Italian features would pass easily enough, as long as I watched my tongue. I could butcher Greek with the best of them.
“Good luck, then,” Hermes said.
“Stay out of the wine,” I cautioned.
Out in the street, I made an effort not to walk like a Roman. This was not too difficult as the desert men also have a very erect posture, but they walk more slowly. We are accustomed to the quick legionary pace, while they adopt a stride calculated to avoid heat
stroke. My main worry was that I might encounter real desert men who would want to converse, but that was no great danger. There are a number of languages spoken in the dry parts of the world, and I could always pretend to speak one of the others. In any case, the desert people are very haughty and rarely deign to acknowledge someone of another tribe.
I walked casually, as if I had already sold my goods and was engaged in a little sightseeing before mounting my camel for the caravan homeward. In a city like Alexandria such a one was all but invisible, which was what I most desired.
Most of the city streets through which I walked were quiet, if a bit uneasy. Few of these people were Egyptians and they did not look like good material for a rampaging mob.
In the Rakhotis it was different. Here there was an air of tension. People spoke in mutters instead of their usual cheerful babble. They drew away from foreigners and generally exhibited the mannerisms of people who were on the verge of violence directed against outsiders. I had seen it at work elsewhere. I had seen much the same in my recent visit to Gaul, although we had managed to temporarily calm matters there.
But I was not merely tasting the mood of the city. I had a specific goal in mind. My mission also contained a certain amount of dangerous foolhardiness, and I took pleasure in that. Before long, I stood at the steps of the Temple of Baal-Ahriman.
Many people lingered around the courtyards, as if waiting for something to happen. I mounted the stairs unnoticed, just another sightseer. Then I stood on the platform before the sanctuary of the god himself. I passed within.
As I had anticipated, the inner sanctum was deserted. In Egypt the temples are not places of assembly. When there are rites to be performed, the priests go within and perform them. The rest of the time the inner temples are deserted. The occasion of Baal-Ahriman’s address to the faithful had been an exception.
The shaft of sunlight still illuminated a small space before the ugly idol. I avoided the light and circled until I was within touching
distance of it. I looked around to make sure that I was unobserved; then I put out my hand and gripped its jaw. There was no movement whatever. It was carved from solid stone. But I did feel something odd, and I leaned close and squinted to make out the anomaly.
Near the thing’s putrid-looking lips and paralleling them were ridges of stone, also in the shape of those lips but not so prominently carved, as if the sculptor had begun one set, then changed his mind and carved another without destroying the first effort. Then I ran my fingertips over the lion’s teeth and found there were two sets. The easily visible teeth were much longer. In front of them were shorter teeth, offset in serried order like legionaries standing in open formation. I felt the interior of the mouth. The tongue was oddly rippled and I noticed that the roof of the mouth had been painted black. Why black? So as not to reflect light?
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