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Authors: John Maddox Roberts

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I looked to the pool of light where Ataxas had knelt, his hands clasped to his belly. And what had he been doing? Holding a silver bowl. A silver bowl much like the ones I had seen in Iphicrates’s study.
I searched the sanctum and found a table that held boxes of incense and the silver bowl. I took the bowl and walked back to the pool of light. Another quick scan for watchers, and I held the bowl low and directed its reflected light to the face of Baal-Ahriman. Carefully, I shifted the bowl, making the spot of light move along the god’s mouth and jaws. The ridges and false lips and serried teeth had been exquisitely placed to reflect light alternately, so that only one set at a time showed. The effect was that the jaw seemed to move as the light played across it. But what of the flashes of light that had seemed to shoot from the mouth? Even as the thought occurred to me, a wisp of incense smoke drifted past the statue’s face, and the light reflected startlingly from the white smoke. The silver bowl had contained frankincense, and Ataxas had dumped it into the brazier before going down on his knees. Every aspect of the effect had been carefully planned.
“What are you doing here?”
I almost dropped the bowl as I whirled around. It was Ataxas,
flanked by a pair of brawny acolytes. It is never a good idea to get too absorbed in your work, however fascinating it may be.
“Why, I was just admiring your handiwork. First-rate design; you have my congratulations.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, but you profane our holy of holies. And, Roman, why are you dressed as a desert nomad?” It seemed to me that his heavy Eastern accent was slipping a little.
“The streets aren’t safe for Romans these days.” I looked for a fast-exit route. “Something about your god’s predictions.”
His eyebrows went up in exaggerated puzzlement. “But my Lord said nothing about Romans.”
“No need to. Your message came across well enough.”
“You talk in riddles. You are not wanted here, Roman. Go while you still have your life.”
“Do you threaten me, you Oriental fraud?” I demanded.
He smiled, placed spread fingertips against his breast and bowed. “But how could a humble priest out of Asia Minor constitute a threat to an envoy of the mighty Roman Empire?”
“Sarcasm should be left to those with the wit to deliver it well.”
He turned to his flankers. “My sons, expel this man.” The two unfolded their arms and came for me.
I would never have accounted myself as any sort of professional swordsman, but I always took a certain pride in my capacity as a brawler. As the one on the right closed. I floored him with a left hook to which my
caestus
gave added authority. The man went down with a splintered jawbone.
The other fancied himself a wrestler and went for the classic cross-buttock throw, which I foiled by sticking the point of my dagger into his left armpit. He jumped back howling. I did not wish to complicate an already deteriorating situation with homicide, which I thought displayed admirable restraint on my part. I could have gone for my sword and killed both of them easily.
Now Ataxas was yelling, calling for guards and acolytes and priestesses and the legions of the faithful to come and slaughter
this impudent Roman for him. I took the hint and deemed myself unwelcome. On winged heels I flew from the Temple of Baal-Ahriman, stashing my weapons beneath my clothes as I did so. Ataxas pursued me, but his long, heavy robes hampered him. I was down the steps and heading for a side street before he even got out of the sanctum. The people I passed were too far from him to hear his words and only blinked in puzzlement as I ran past them. But I could hear sounds of pursuit beginning behind me.
Alexandria, I found, was not an easy place in which to shake pursuit. It was all those straight, wide streets. My beloved Rome was different. A veritable rabbit warren of a city, Rome featured so many twisting streets and narrow alleys that a few paces would carry you out of sight of those who thirsted for your blood. I ran from many a rampaging mob in my day, and no few assassins, and even a jealous husband or two, and I knew that the best way to lose pursuers was to get lost yourself. After all, if you didn’t know where you were, how could they be expected to find you?
Not so Alexandria. Luckily, I had a long head start on my pursuers. I made random turns down side streets and never went more than a block without making a turn. To my great relief I chanced upon the Alexandrian Salt Market. In that part of the world, salt is the monopoly of caravaneers who carry blocks of it loaded on camels from the Dead Sea in Judaea. Among so many long, hooded robes my own did not stand out. Of course, mine was a good deal cleaner than theirs, but one had to get close to notice that.
I worked my way well into the crowd, pretending an interest in salt and the price thereof. The buyers were many, so the market was quite crowded when Ataxas’s mob, mostly shaven-headed acolytes, stormed in looking for me. One of them grabbed a nomad and jerked his hood down, which proved to be a mistake. Not only was the man not me, but the nomads are a very proud and touchy people who consider it a mortal offense for a stranger to lay hands upon them. This one drew a short, curved knife from his sash and slashed the acolyte across the face.
The desert men thought they were attacked, which made sense, what with the recent anti-foreign sentiment that gripped the city. And, indeed, the mob may have been unclear about Ataxas’s instructions and thought that he wanted them to attack
all
men they saw in desert robes. It is little misunderstandings such as this that enliven the days of any city, and soon there was a full-scale riot going on in the Salt Market. The followers of Ataxas were greater in number, but few of them carried any weapons save for staves, whereas no adult male nomad ever goes unarmed. All had daggers, some had swords and many of them employed spears as walking sticks.
It made for a fine bloodletting, but I thought it imprudent to stay too long to enjoy the show. I quietly slipped away down a side street and began to make my way back toward the Palace. I restrained myself to a leisurely pace. No one pursued me now, and I did not wish to attract attention. As I ambled past the Macedonian barracks, I saw men forming up hastily, scrambling into their armor as they did so. With a series of barked commands, they were marched out into the street and set out for the Rakhotis at the double. Apparently, a runner had come to bring news of the riot in the Salt Market.
As I neared the Palace I stepped into a small public garden and pulled my robe off over my head. With my weapons rolled up in the robe and the bundle thrust beneath my arm, I strolled through the gate dressed in my tunic, I acknowledged the salutes of the guards and made my way to the embassy. In my quarters I stashed arms and robe and practiced looking innocent.
The summons from Creticus was not long in coming.
He looked decidedly impatient when I walked into his study.
“Decius, you were seen this morning leaving the Palace compound dressed, for some reason, as a desert nomad. I have just received word that the desert salt caravaneers and an Egyptian mob are fighting a pitched battle and troops have been sent to restore order. This cannot be mere coincidence. What have you done now?”
“Just engaging in a bit of investigation, sir.” I described to him what I had discovered.
“Do you mean to say,” he began, in that long-suffering voice that superiors always use to dress down subordinates, “that you put on a childish disguise, went out and committed mayhem and got a riot started, just so you could satisfy yourself how a foreign mountebank accomplished one of his cheap tricks?” The written word fails to do justice to this speech, which began in a near-whisper but which ascended with each word until the last few were delivered in something very much like a shriek.
“There’s more to it than that,” I maintained. “In the first place, I didn’t make those fools attack the nomads. Anyway, I am certain that it wasn’t Ataxas who designed the talking idol. It was Iphicrates of Chios. He was working with the properties of reflected light, using concave mirrors identical to Ataxas’s frankincense bowl. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he designed the system of pipes or whatever that transmitted and magnified the god’s voice.”
“Are you still fixated on that dead Greek? With all the problems we now have, with Roman-Egyptian relations in a shambles and anti-Roman riots in the offing, you are still concerning yourself with a dead foreign mathematician?”
“It isn’t just him anymore,” I said. “It’s what he was up to! Somehow, everything that has been happening here is tied in to Iphicrates, and he was murdered because of it.”
“Decius, these fancies of yours get wilder as the years go by. It was hoped that you could stay out of trouble in Alexandria, but you would find trouble if you were locked up in the Mamertine.”
Like most men of my acquaintance, he lacked the facility for building evidence into a solid image of what has happened. In fact, I am the only man of my acquaintance who has ever had that quality.
“Decius,” Creticus said. “I want you to forget about that Greek. I want you to concentrate on helping me, which means quieting the fears of the Roman community here and being agreeable
to Ptolemy and his family. You are not to investigate any murders. You are not to go near Ataxas or his temple. You are to avoid General Achillas. Is all this clear?”
“Perfectly, sir,” I said.
“And you agree to my rules?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
He looked at me for a long time. “I don’t believe you.”
“You wound me, sir.”
“Get out, Decius. Allow me not to hear about you for a long time.”
I left, relieved at getting off so lightly. Back at my quarters, I found that my adventures for the day were not yet over. Hermes came to me with a tiny, sealed scroll.
“A slave girl came here this morning and gave me this. Said it was extremely important and you were to read it at once.”
“Did you recognize the girl?”
He shrugged. “Just some little Greek.”
“Did she identify her owner?”
“Didn’t say a thing except what I’ve told you. Gave me the letter and ran off.”
“I’ve taught you better than that.”
“She was well-dressed, but all the slaves in this Palace wear good clothes. She was small, dark-haired and -eyed, like most Greeks. I think her accent was Athenian, but I don’t know Greek all that well.”
Of course, all the elocutionists teach the Athenian mode of speech, but if a slave spoke that way, she was probably actually from Athens. That told me little, slaves being an international sort of people.
“Well, are you going to read the damned letter?” Hermes said impatiently.
“These things require a sense of pace,” I informed him as I broke the seal and unrolled the little note. It was on fine papyrus and was written in excellent Greek penmanship with what appeared
to be a split-reed pen rather than a quill or an Egyptian brush. All of which was amusing but not terribly relevant. The message, however, was. It read:
To Decius Caecilius Metellus, the Younger, Greeting. We have not met. I am Hypatia, concubine to his Excellency Orodes, Ambassador of King Phraates III of Parthia. I have urgent information to convey to you concerning Parthia, Rome and Iphicrates of Chios. Meet me tonight in the Necropolis, in the tomb of Khopshef-Ra. It is the largest tomb on the south edge of the plaza dominated by the Obelisk of the Sphinx. I will be there at moonrise and will await you for one hour.
“I suppose you’ll go,” Hermes said. He’d been hanging on every word, naturally. “It’s the most foolish thing you can do, so you’ll just have to do it.”
“You think it’s a trap?” I said.
He gaped. “You think there’s a possibility it
isn’t?”
“It’s conceivable. The woman has already told Julia that she was privy to correspondence between Iphicrates and the Parthian court. She may well have something she believes is valuable.”
“Why should she betray Parthia?”
“She isn’t Parthian, she’s Greek, and Greeks will betray anybody. Besides, she’s a
hetaira,
a companion hired for the ambassador’s stay here. He’ll go home to his wife and she’ll be looking for another patron, only this time she’ll be a few years older than last. It’s not the sort of relationship that builds strong loyalty.”
“You just want an excuse to go out and seek trouble again,” Hermes said.
“Admittedly, that’s a part of it. Creticus has forbidden me to pursue this matter any further, and that, to me, is like a
bestiarius
in the Circus, waving his red kerchief at the bull.”
“The purpose of the kerchief,” Hermes pointed out, “is to lure the stupid bull onto the spear.”
“Don’t trifle with my metaphors. Or was that a simile? I am going.”
And so, forbidden by a Roman official and warned by a slave, I went forth at dusk to meet with a high-class Greek prostitute.
N
O DESERT ROBE THIS TIME. AFTER dark, a simple traveler’s cloak was sufficient. A cool wind blew from the sea across the city, making the street-torches flutter. These illuminations are something that would benefit Rome, where the streets are so dark that a man out in them and struck suddenly blind wouldn’t know it until morning. At intervals of about fifty paces along the broad streets, these torches burned atop ten-foot poles. They were made of tow or hemp soaked in oil and were tended all night long by public slaves. Between the torches and a fine, full moon, one could walk the streets of nighttime Alexandria as swiftly and assuredly as during the day. More swiftly, in fact, for at night the usual crowds were absent.
Individuals and small parties walked about, going to and from dinner parties and symposia, visiting, carrying out assignations and so forth. Alexandrians don’t always go to bed at sunset the way Romans are supposed to.
For much of the route I took the street that paralleled the
harbor. On my right hand the Pharos sent its plumes of flame into the night sky, a most impressive sight. I passed the Temple of Poseidon and the northern periphery of the Macedonian barracks, the two huge obelisks, the rows upon rows of warehouses that smelled strongly of papyrus, Alexandria’s chief export. At the Moon Gate I turned south along the Street of the Soma, then turned west at the Canopic Way.
Canopic ended at the Necropolis Gate. There I paid the guard to open the gate for me. His was a lucrative duty, because in Alexandria the Necropolis was the popular meeting-place for clandestine lovers.
“How do I find the Obelisk of the Sphinx?” I asked him.
“Just through the gate you’ll be on Set Street. Go west for three blocks and turn left on Anubis Street. You’ll find the Obelisk of the Sphinx two blocks down. You can’t miss it.” I thanked him and passed on through.
A necropolis may seem an unlikely place for lovers to meet, but the Necropolis of Alexandria is not like others. It is laid out just like the city, with broad, straight streets. The difference is that the streets are lined with tombs instead of houses. The other factor in its favor is the nature of Egyptian tombs. They are like miniature houses. Whether the chosen architecture and decoration be traditional Egyptian, Greek, Persian or other, the layout was always in the old Egyptian style. You entered a small room like the atrium of a house, where offerings were left for the dead. On the back wall of this room was a tiny window allowing visitors to look into another room which contained a portrait statue of the dead, which the Egyptians believed to contain one of the souls of the dead, or at least a place for the soul to visit when offerings were made. It also provided a refuge for the soul should the mummy be destroyed.
It was the entrance rooms of these cozy buildings that made the Necropolis a resort for lovers, and as I walked through the streets I heard all the usual, passionate sounds of a trysting-place.
There were no torches in the Necropolis, but the full moon provided more than adequate light. The Necropolis swarmed with
the inevitable Egyptian cats. I was told that the place was full of mice that came in to eat the food-offerings left in the tombs, and the cats in turn hunted the mice. This seemed to be an equitable arrangement.
As the guard had said, I had no difficulty in finding the Obelisk of the Sphinx. The granite shaft rose from a base that also supported a human-faced lion carved from white marble. The curling ram’s horns flanking the human face told me that this was yet another portrait of Alexander, done up for Egyptian tastes.
I scanned the southern edge of the little plaza and saw an imposing tomb of the antique mastaba style said to be even older than the pyramids. The oldest pyramid still standing is just a series of mastabas stacked atop one another in diminishing sizes. Old fashions were always being revived in Alexandria, just as lately, in Rome, there has been a revival of Etruscan art and decor. I went to the tomb and stood before the door.
“Hypatia?” I said in a low voice.
“Come inside,” came a feminine voice in an urgent whisper, I was determined to be foolhardy, but on the worst day of my life I was never that stupid.
“You come out here,” I said. “If there’s anyone else out here, you brought them.” I gripped my sword hilt, ready to draw at the first sign of danger. The uncertain light did not bother me. To one accustomed to running fights in Roman alleys at midnight, this was like the Forum at high noon.
There was a stirring from within; then a slight figure came outside. She wore a long gown of some pale color, with a dark
palla
drawn over her head. As she emerged she lowered the
palla
to reveal a face of classic beauty. She had the straight, level brows and high-bridged nose so admired by the old Greek sculptors. Her lips were generous, albeit set in a rather hard line. Her eyes were large and they darted around the little plaza.
“I wasn’t followed,” I told her. “I am knowledgeable at this sort of business.”
“That is what Julia told me. She said that you hunt down any
who conspire against Rome as relentlessly as the Friendly Ones.” She used the euphemism for the dreaded demons because to pronounce their real name can call them down upon the speaker.
“She speaks flatteringly, but I have been of some service to the state in the past. What have you for me?”
“A certain book, a large book of Pergamese skin-paper with vermilion handles.”
“I’ve read it in copy, but I’m sure the Librarian of the Pergamese Collection will be grateful for its return.”
“But you will find the original far more interesting. It contains more than the text in the copy.”
“And what might that be?”
“First, my price.”
I was expecting that. “How much?”
She laughed. “I have all the money I need. But you belong to the great family of Caecilia Metella.”
“They have no choice but to acknowledge me.”
“Plebeian, but with a line of Consuls and generals and great magistrates almost to the founding of the Republic.”
“You are well educated.”
“So you have great influence. I want to go to Rome. A woman without a protector is less than a slave anywhere in the world except Rome. In Rome, a woman of property has the protection of the law, even if she is not a citizen. In Rome, as a resident foreigner with the patronage of a Caecilius Metellus, I will be secure even when my beauty fades.”
“Commendable foresight,” I said. “You would do even better to contract a marriage of convenience with some impecunious citizen. There are men who do so regularly for a fee. That way, even if he divorces, you will have full citizenship rights, except, of course, for such as are restricted to men—the vote and the right to hold office and so forth. Your children would be citizens.”
“I may do so. But first I must get to Rome. A simple sea passage would get me that, but I don’t wish to be expelled from the
city because your Censors decide that immoral foreigners are corrupting the good citizens.”
“It could be done,” I said. “If one of my family or an ally holds the office of Praetor Peregrinus, it would be made easier. Elections come along every year and someone suitable should be in office before long. I can’t protect you from the courts should you operate a house of prostitution, but otherwise you should be safe. Assuming, that is, that the book contains important evidence.”
“Oh, it does!”
“You have it with you?” I asked.
“No. It is too bulky to carry through the city. But I can bring it to you. Will you be at the Roman embassy tomorrow night?”
“To the best of my knowledge.”
“There is to be a reception at the Palace for the new Armenian ambassador. Orodes will be there, with most of the Parthian embassy staff. I can get the scroll at that time and bring it to you.”
“Do so. You will not regret it.”
She came close and for the first time I noticed her perfume. Jasmine, I think. “Just what sort of obligations does Roman patronage demand?” she asked.
“Nothing a man can’t do in public,” I said.
She chuckled. “Well”—she gestured toward the dark entrance—“we could seal our bargain in there, even if it isn’t required by law. It seems to be an old Alexandrian custom.”
I have never been overfastidious, but somehow a quick stand-up in a tomb didn’t appeal to me. Especially with Julia in the same city. She had preternatural senses where other women were concerned. I didn’t really think she could set her uncle Caius Julius on me but there was no sense in taking chances.
“Our bargain depends upon your evidence being what you say it is,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”
“When did a Roman ever fail to use every advantage he could get? Suit yourself, but it’s your loss. I’ll bet you’ve never been with a real Athenian
hetaira.”
That was true, but I had never been impressed to know that their accomplishments were in the areas of conversation, eloquence and quick wits. It suggested that they might neglect the important things.
“Another time, perhaps,” I said. “Come, let’s go back to the city.” We walked back like another couple returning from a visit with the dead, my arm about her shoulders and hers around my waist. The guard at the gate opened the little sally port at our knock and collected another fee.
“If they just made this a toll-gate,” I remarked, “Ptolemy wouldn’t be such a beggar.”
She laughed musically, but that might just have been another of her accomplishments. “Are you enjoying your stay in Alexandria?”
“Except for the odd murder and attempt on my life, yes. If one cannot be in Rome, this is the place to be. How did you come to be here?”
“Seeking opportunity. I was raised and trained in the house of Chrysothemis, the most famous
hetaira
in Athens. It was a good life, as women’s lives go in Athens, but that isn’t saying much. Athenian men can’t perceive even noble ladies as any better than slaves, and there’s little satisfaction in entertaining men who just like an occasional change from their usual boys. So I saved my money and came to Alexandria. Here, among the foreign ambassadors, a genuine Greek
hetaira
is a mark of status, especially if she’s Athenian. I’ve been in turn concubine to the Libyan, Armenian, Bithynian and Pontic ambassadors, the last back when Mithridates was still king. Now I serve the ambassador from Parthia.”
“I’ve never met a woman of such impressive diplomatic credentials,” I said. “But I cannot blame you for finding Rome more congenial.”
“Yes. Mine is an unforgiving profession. One’s desirability lasts only as long as youthful beauty. Once that fades, the road
downhill is steep. I’ve known women to go from highly paid
hetaira
to mere streetwalking
porna
in two years.”
“It is a hard world,” I agreed.
“But it is looking better now,” she said. “Tell me, have you visited the Daphne of Alexandria?”
“I’ll confess, the diversions of the court have been too exhausting to seek out the more strenuous amusements of the city.”
“It isn’t as famous as the one in Antioch, but it is more than lively. You’ve been living the high life thus far, Roman. Why not come with me and sample the low?”
“Now?” I said, looking up at the full moon. “It must be near midnight!”
“Then things should just be getting lively,” she said.
I was never one to hold out against temptation for long. “Lead on!” I said.
In Rome, it was easy for people to forget that some other cities have what is known as a night life. When Romans feel in a mood for debauchery, they begin their parties early so everyone can get properly paralytic before it gets too dark for their slaves to carry them home. In other places, they just light the torches and carry on.
The Daphne of Alexandria, named for the famous pleasure-garden of Antioch, was located in a beautiful grove in the Greek quarter, near the Paneum. Lines of torches led to its entrance, and between the torches vendors wandered, selling the wherewithal necessary for an evening of revelry. To my surprise, we were expected to wear masks. These were cleverly made out of pressed papyrus, artfully molded and painted to resemble various characters from mythology and poetry. They were rather like theatrical masks save that they left the mouth uncovered to facilitate eating, drinking and whatever other uses to which one wished to devote that orifice. I took one with a satyr’s face; Hypatia, one with the licentious features of a nymph.
Then we had to have wreaths. Around our necks went wreaths
of laurel and vine leaves, and Hypatia wrapped a garland of myrtle around her beautiful black hair. I chose a generous chaplet of acorn-studded oak leaves to help disguise my Roman haircut. Not that I was greatly worried in this place, where the crowd consisted mainly of Greeks and other foreigners. There were few if any Egyptians.
At the entrance a fat fellow dressed as Silenus came to greet us. He wore the white chiton, carried the flowing bowl and wore the chaplet of vine leaves complete with dangling bunches of grapes. He recited verses of welcome in the rustic Greek of Boeotia.
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