Read The Temple of the Muses Online
Authors: John Maddox Roberts
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical
The Temple of the Muses (21 page)
“The Parthians are horse-archers,” Military Boots said. “That gives them the edge against the Romans on an open battlefield. Romans are heavy infantry and little else, on the field. But they are masters at both besieging and defending fortified positions, and you can’t take those with horses and arrows. A war between Rome and Parthia would be fought to a bloody draw, with Parthia victorious in the field and Rome taking and holding the forts, the cities and the harbors. With these machines, and the trained engineers we’ll send them, Parthia has nothing to fear from Rome.”
“I see. Ah, here are the earlier drafts of the treaty, since we no longer have the services of the late Hypatia …”
“Was it really necessary to kill her?” hissed Asiatic Slippers.
“Oh, absolutely,” said Greek Sandals. “She was about to sell us all out to the Roman.”
“We don’t allow treachery,” said Military Boots. “Not from an Athenian whore, and not from a Chian philosopher.”
“Yes, I suppose the man had to die,” said Asiatic Slippers. “Dealing with the kings of Numidia and Armenia might have been overlooked, but not blackmail. Still”—he sighed—“he was a unique resource and we shall miss him.”
“I shall read through the treaty clause by clause,” Greek Sandals said. “You may then translate into the Parthian tongue. In the absence of your lamented concubine, I fear that you must trust the accuracy of my reading.”
“At this stage,” Asiatic Slippers said, “I have no fear of double-dealing. However, you must understand that all of this hinges upon Lord Achillas making himself king of Egypt.”
“You need have no doubt of that,” said Greek Sandals. “We Greeks invented the concept of the self-fulfilling prophecy. Very shortly the god Baal-Ahriman shall prophesy that the Lord Achillas is actually the son of the late King Ptolemy, and is the true heir to the double crown. He shall put aside the usurper, the false Ptolemy. He shall marry the Princess Berenice, and possibly Cleopatra and Arsinoe as well. He will then lead Egypt back to its ancient position of glory.”
“As long as he does not move into Parthian territory,” Asiatic Slippers said.
“That is what this treaty concerns,” said Military Boots. “Let’s be about it. I would like to be out of this house by dawn.”
And they went over it, clause by clause. It was an alliance of Egypt and Parthia against Rome. Iphicrates and Achillas had convinced Phraates that, with these silly engines, he could defy the Roman legions at will. Far more ominously, it established an Egypt-Parthia axis complete with a war plan. At a time to be agreed upon, Egypt would invade up the Sinai and into Judaea and Syria as far as the Euphrates. Phraates would send his horse-archers (with all those splendid new machines) westward into Pontus, Bithynia and Asia Minor as far as the Hellespont, between them pushing Rome entirely out of all those territories. The plan was incredibly ambitious and would have been unrealistic except for one thing. We were readying for war with Gaul. Since Mithridates had died, we had been lulled into the idea that the East was utterly pacified. They might, I realized, just get away with it.
But I could not allow this. I had heard everything. I was on the spot and had the documents and the conspirators within my grasp. Most of all, I had the most agonizing need to urinate.
Just keeping quiet under a bed for hours is difficult enough, trying not to shift, scratch or sneeze. It is far worse when you’ve indulged in a bit of Chian beforehand.
“I think that concludes our business,” said Military Boots, his voice still oddly strained. “It’s getting light outside.”
“I shall send the book with the documents enclosed to King Phraates,” said Asiatic Slippers.
“And I am for the temple,” said Greek Sandals. “A good day and a fine new era to you gentlemen.”
“Not so fast!” I said, bursting up from beneath the bed, letting the delicate Egyptian fabrication smash back against the wall as I drew my sword. “I have you all …” The three had backed away, eyes going wide, startled. The first thing I noted was that Military Boots was not Achillas. It was Memnon, and he wore a bandage about his jaw where I had marked him with my
caestus.
No wonder his voice sounded strained. He had his sword out, too.
caestus.
No wonder his voice sounded strained. He had his sword out, too.
Orodes was just who I thought he was, but the other man I did not know, although he seemed decidedly familiar. He was a Greek with a close-trimmed beard and hair that just covered his ears. His hand went into his tunic and came out with an odd axe, its blade deeply curved with a short spike on the opposite side. The handle had been crudely cut to about a foot in length. I grinned at him.
“You look better without the wig and false beard, Ataxas,” I said. “But why the axe? Is it what you kill bulls with? I suppose a slave like you never learned to use a freeman’s weapons.”
“The Roman!” Memnon said, giving me a smile that must have hurt. “I swore I’d avenge the blows you struck me!”
Orodes darted toward the book. It had been rerolled and a small stack of papers stood beside it—undoubtedly the earlier drafts of the treaty. He reached for the book and I flicked out with the point of my
gladius
, opening his forearm from wrist to elbow. He squawked and jumped back.
gladius
, opening his forearm from wrist to elbow. He squawked and jumped back.
“No, no,” I said. “That’s mine. We’re going to see some treason trials and some crucifixions when I present those, first to King Ptolemy and then to the Senate.”
Memnon chuckled. “Roman, you’re assuming that you’re going to get out of here alive. You’re wrong.” He came toward me in
that flat-footed, shuffling crouch that denotes the practiced swordsman. I moved toward him as I had been taught, gladiator-style, balanced on the balls of my feet. I picked up a spindly chair to use as a shield. Memnon whipped his cloak around his left forearm for the same purpose.
that flat-footed, shuffling crouch that denotes the practiced swordsman. I moved toward him as I had been taught, gladiator-style, balanced on the balls of my feet. I picked up a spindly chair to use as a shield. Memnon whipped his cloak around his left forearm for the same purpose.
Memnon aimed a stab at my face, but his sword was a Greek type, longer than mine, with a swelling point. It was just a bit slow and I sidestepped it. sending a thrust in return. When you thrust with a
gladius
, your arm becomes a target. That is why gladiators wear armor on the weapon arm. So my arm snapped out and back, quick as a snake’s tongue. I meant to put the blade right through Memnon’s throat. but he pulled back and ducked his head and I only nicked his chin. I had my arm back so fast that he didn’t have an opportunity to cut at it. but he thrust low at my belly. I jerked backward, a little clumsily because of my long stay beneath the bed. I rotated the chair down, caught the sword and swept it aside as I stepped in and thrust at his chest. No Thracian in the amphitheater ever executed the move as neatly.
gladius
, your arm becomes a target. That is why gladiators wear armor on the weapon arm. So my arm snapped out and back, quick as a snake’s tongue. I meant to put the blade right through Memnon’s throat. but he pulled back and ducked his head and I only nicked his chin. I had my arm back so fast that he didn’t have an opportunity to cut at it. but he thrust low at my belly. I jerked backward, a little clumsily because of my long stay beneath the bed. I rotated the chair down, caught the sword and swept it aside as I stepped in and thrust at his chest. No Thracian in the amphitheater ever executed the move as neatly.
But Memnon was no mean swordsman. He brought his cloak-wrapped forearm up and across and batted my blade past his left shoulder as he slid in and sent his own blade at my belly. I brought the chair down and made an unexpected catch. His point jammed into one of the legs, split it and lodged there. I yanked the chair aside, sweeping his sword wide and stepping in to thrust my point into his belly, just below the breastbone, and lancing upward into the heart. To make a thorough job of it, I twisted the point before I withdrew it, causing a great effusion of blood to follow my blade.
Memnon crashed across the table, taking the lamps with it. This did not plunge the room into darkness, for the sun was up and light came in through the single window. For the first time since Memnon had come for me, I had a chance to see what the other two were doing.
Orodes had disappeared. I hadn’t heard him going down the stairs, but then I had been preoccupied. A fight to the death narrows one’s focus considerably. I stuck my head out the window and saw
Orodes headed toward the Palace, hugging his wounded arm to his body. Just below me, Ataxas burst out the front door and began sprinting toward the Rakhotis. He carried something bulky. I pulled back in and looked at the smashed table. The book was gone.
Orodes headed toward the Palace, hugging his wounded arm to his body. Just below me, Ataxas burst out the front door and began sprinting toward the Rakhotis. He carried something bulky. I pulled back in and looked at the smashed table. The book was gone.
I had to give chase, but I had some urgent business to transact. I was tempted to piss on Memnon, but it is inadvisable to abuse the bodies of the dead. I have never been superstitious, but it always pays to be cautious. Look at what happened to Achillas after he dragged Hector behind his chariot. A vase served adequately, and I resheathed my sword without bothering to wipe it off. Another job for Hermes.
I was out the door in time to see Ataxas’s dwindling form disappear around a corner of the theater. I ran after him, to the great curiosity of the citizens who were beginning to populate the streets.
It was an interesting race. Each of us had certain advantages and disadvantages. And the stakes were very high. Ataxas was encumbered by the heavy book. but he had a head start. He was an ex-slave who had probably never spent an hour in the
palaestra
, much less in the stadium, whereas I had had all the usual military training, although I was out of condition. If he could get to his temple, he would be safe. I was a Roman in a city where Romans were rapidly growing unwelcome and were soon to be targets of hostility.
palaestra
, much less in the stadium, whereas I had had all the usual military training, although I was out of condition. If he could get to his temple, he would be safe. I was a Roman in a city where Romans were rapidly growing unwelcome and were soon to be targets of hostility.
Here the streets of Alexandria worked to may advantage. The wide boulevards, the long, straight blocks, made it virtually impossible for him to get out of mv sight for more than a few seconds. I was gaining on him, impatient to catch him but knowing better than to put on a sudden burst of speed that would leave me gagging on the pavement before we even reached the Rakhotis.
We passed market stalls and rumbling farm carts, braying asses and groaning, ill-smelling camels and even a couple of elephants bound for some ceremonial in the Hippodrome. Chickens scattered before us and cats watched us warily. People looked at
us with interest and then went back to what they were doing. Alexandria is a city of many spectacles, and we made a sorry spectacle, indeed.
us with interest and then went back to what they were doing. Alexandria is a city of many spectacles, and we made a sorry spectacle, indeed.
I noted that the complexion of the crowd had grown darker. White kilts and black wigs came to predominate. We were in the Rakhotis. Now I became acutely conscious of my Roman haircut and generally Latin features. If I had been chasing an Egyptian, I would probably have been mobbed immediately. I had to catch Ataxas and get out of there before they decided to do it anyway.
I reached him just before the street we were on opened onto the huge plaza surrounding the Great Serapeum. I was tempted to spit him with my sword, but something that public and that outrageous would undoubtedly result in my death, probably on the altar of some disgusting god with the head of a warthog. So instead I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
He was red-faced and gasping, trembling with exhaustion as I shoved him back into a space between two buildings. A couple of cats paused in their contest over the remains of a fish long enough to hiss at us. Triumphantly, I snatched the scroll from his arms. He made a halfhearted grab for his shortened axe, but I kicked him in the crotch and that made him change his mind.
“Don’t mistake me for some helpless mathematician, Ataxas,” I said to him as he writhed on the cobbles. “It takes more than some jumped-up runaway slave to kill a Caecilius Metellus.”
“How much do you want, Roman?” he gasped. “I will make you rich beyond your wildest ambitions. There is a whole country here to loot.”
“I just want to see what Ptolemy does to you. Or possibly your own followers when they see Ataxas is a runaway Greek slave in a wig and a false beard. The king’s soldiers will go into your temple with sledgehammers and smash your trick statue and tear up the floors and walls to find the pipes you used to fake the sound of Baal-Ahriman’s voice. You’ll probably be pulled apart and devoured by priestesses with lacerated backs to avenge.”
“You place great faith in Ptolemy, Roman,” Ataxas said. “His time is over, as is the ascendancy of Rome in Egypt.” He had worked his way back up to his knees.
“Not after I get back to the Palace with this,” I said, shaking the document in his face.
“That may not be as easy as you think, Roman,” he said, with no small measure of truth. I was in the Rakhotis, and these were bad times to be a Roman in that part of the city.
“Farewell, Ataxas,” I said. “I’ll come to your execution, should you live long enough to be sentenced.” I turned and walked to the mouth of the alley. Before going out, I stopped and looked out into the street. It was getting crowded, but nobody was paying me any attention. Just as I stepped out into the street, I heard a horrible squalling sound that cut off suddenly. I could only think that it was Ataxas making some inarticulate sound of rage. Then something hit me squarely between the shoulder blades and flopped to the pavement. I turned, bewildered. Something gray and furry lay at my feet, inert. It was all so unexpected that at first I didn’t recognize the thing. Then Ataxas ran past me into the street, pointing at me, his eyes wide with horror.
“The Roman has killed a cat!” he shouted, then, in a hysterical shriek: “THE ROMAN HAS MURDERED A CAT!”
The people in the street stared, mouths agape. They stared at me, then looked down at the wretched beast, as if they could not comprehend the sheer sacrilegious horror of what they saw.
“He killed a cat!” they began to murmur, in both Greek and Egyptian. “The Roman killed a cat!” It did not take them long to get over their shock as I sidled away from the little corpse. Then:
“KILL THE ROMAN! KILL THE CAT-MURDERER!”
I began to retrace my steps at great speed. This time I was encumbered with the heavy book, and it was my second life-and-death race of the morning. I thought of that Greek with the interminable name who had run from Marathon to Sparta and back to Marathon and then all the way to Athens, where he dropped dead,
which served him right. After all,
he
didn’t have a rampaging Alexandrian mob on his heels.
which served him right. After all,
he
didn’t have a rampaging Alexandrian mob on his heels.
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