by Ben Pastor
There was no finding out more from the Ludus attendant, other than the lady seemed young, spoke in a low voice, and her woman servant was not Roman. “She had an accent, Syrian or thereabouts. Did most of the talking, too.”
Aelius placed a coin on the table. “Could she be Egyptian?”
“Thank you, sir. Could very well be. If I was you, Commander, I’d ask in the III district. Them Egyptians all know each other over there.” With a bowl in each hand, the man started for the back door, where the cages were. “Listen how they welcome a meal, the idiots—they don’t know what’s coming, on the next hunting show. Care to take a look, in case you want a dog that can bite a man’s arm off?”
“No.”
Riding back, Aelius struggled to shake the melancholy of hearing the caged dogs fight over the food. Overhead, the sun barely inclined westward. Pigeons circled isolated dovecotes, as they had when he had traveled to Pammychios’s house and found him dead. Threats and dreams of threats seemed so far from this suspended peace. Yet, two of his guardsmen had followed at a distance, riding in the fields; they’d been completely out of sight, but now he caught a glimpse of them turning their horses and heading back even as he did.
Had he continued on to the XII milestone, along this same road he’d have reached the place where Aviola Paratus lived—the Pannonian-born collaborator Tralles suggested to him, the blind veteran hungry for action and unwilling to accept retirement. At first Aelius had toyed with the idea of having him summoned to his quarters on the Caelian, but given Paratus’s infirmity and officer rank, he’d go visit him instead. He would do it now, unannounced, but he wanted to pass by the kennel again, and there would be time enough to see the veteran during the week. Before evening, instead, he hoped to speak to the head priest at Metellus’s Isis, the temple Soter had attended and patronized ever since his arrival in Rome.
The grating calls of invisible crickets in the fields followed Aelius’s return toward the Praenestine Gate; aqueducts crisscrossed, dissecting the pavement in a dazzle of alternate light and shadow, and like a wave of sounds there came over the wall the noise of the City.
After a stretch of well-kept gardens at the crossroads with Blackbird Street, the triple arch topped by the Egyptian goddess’s statue came up; and then Metellus’s Isis, across from Tetricus’s porticoed house. Restricted by shops and stalls shaded by awnings, crowded with idlers, the Via Labicana continued beyond the temple’s lovely facade, and at the end Aelius could barely make out the navy barracks and the square around the amphitheater. The Isiac sacred precinct, between what remained of two sacred woods, featured the decorations expected of its exotic quality, including the smiling heifer-face of Hathor that reminded him of Anubina.
Yet this was not the Egyptian district; Egyptian stores and concerns existed throughout the City—restaurants, community centers, shrines. Still, he heard the temple was well attended and comparatively wealthy. Given its nearness to the gymnasiums and blood sports arenas, it provided a meeting place not only for female believers (respectable ladies, one expected that), but of prostitutes as well, female and male. Up to the precinct’s gate, in the sleepy sultriness of the afternoon, they occasionally called out from the shade of porches, but mostly sat fanning themselves.
“It’s not a good thing,” the priest told him, having heard the reason for Aelius’s errand. “A terrible loss. You might already know that Lucinus Soter—we knew him by his Egyptian name, Nebos—came to Rome from Antinoopolis right after the Rebellion. As his birth name suggests (it means lord) he was well-to-do, educated, from a priestly family. One of the last to read fluently the ancient writings. His passion for textiles was a byproduct of his hailing from the world capital of fine cloth.” Preceding the visitor, he reached a small room overlooking the inner court. Completely hairless, his tanned head resembled the gilded eggs whose shells Aelius had been shown in Letopolis, supposedly Antinous’s last meal in life. Had he had eyebrows, the priest would have knitted them with his next words. “But what Soter really was, his enterprises in Rome tell loudly: He was an ambassador and a cultural representative, a support for all who came from Egypt and had difficulty becoming integrated. He was a scholar of all the Roman princes who ever furthered Egyptian religion and art. It was through his money that we restored temples and neighborhood shrines. No one in this community wants to believe he was murdered in cold blood by thieves, but we can’t think of any other reason why such a life would be snuffed. Just imagine, he was awaiting a guest from Egypt, a historian who had been recommended to him by friends, and the opportunity to discuss matters so close to his heart thrilled him greatly.”
“I am that guest.”
“Then you’ve lost a never-to-be-repeated opportunity to gain information, Commander.”
Aelius had not imagined Soter’s knowledge to be so irreplaceable. If that weren’t enough, the scent in these religious places was always heady, something between women’s perfume and sweet pickle. The walls reeked with it. He took a step closer to the window, filling his lungs with the warm outside air. He said, showing none of his disappointment, “Is there anyone else who might direct me to the principal Egyptian buildings in Rome and provide translation if needed?”
The priest made a face, something between denial and hesitation—a curious play of features Aelius did not know what to make of, except that it seemed artificial, a layering of pretension over something else. It came to him, also, that Theo had never actually said he would send word about him to Soter—had he? How else could Soter be awaiting him?
“No one knows Egyptian Rome as well as Lucinus Soter did, Commander. Not even the priests.”
Aelius chose not to insist, only because he wanted to see how long it would be before an alternative would be given to him. There was one, no doubt. Perhaps one already agreed upon, since he was after all the stranger and the soldier coming to ask about matters outside of his culture and belief. And business.
With the light of the court behind him, the priest’s figure seemed narrower than it was, nearly a cutout of a man, with that gilded egg topping it. Without preceding the description by anything like, Well, yes, there is somebody, or, I do have one more name in mind, he said directly, “He goes by Onofrius—which is Latin for unnophre, Osiris the Resurrected. A former adept of ours who turned Christian during Aurelian’s first years, when it was easy, and is now an ex-Christian.”
“Ah,” Aelius said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m sorry. Do you object to apostates?”
“Not particularly. I am not in the prosecution business.”
“Then you won’t mind.” A smile opened in the priest’s bald face, much like a thin crack on an egg.
“This Onofrius used to be a tourist guide for Egyptians on visit to Rome, and I expect he did the same for those who later wanted to see the Christians’ execution and burial places. He was never officially associated with our temple, but naturally we knew of him. Lives by his wits, and I don’t know how trustworthy he may be. They tell me he is a creditable guide, but I leave it to your judgment whether to hire him or not.”
It’s your responsibility if you choose him. Aelius took the hint. “Where do I send for him?”
“As of last report, he roomed near the Great Turtles.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
“In Mars’s Field, across the street from Severus Alexander’s Baths. One must take a right without going as far as the marble deposit. It’s a tenement area, you’ll have to ask.”
“Before or after Domitian’s racetrack?”
“Before.”
Making mental note of the instructions, Aelius asked details about Soter’s image and role among urbanized Egyptians, but it all came down to goodness, culture, affection by all, surprise at his demise. He’d heard similar words from Harpocratio, and that was the way it seemed to be with these tight-lipped southerners. The apostate Onofrius, perhaps looser than his compatriots, was beginning to sound inte
resting.
Because the priest politely led him toward the door, “One last question,” Aelius added. “Was Soter married, or had he female relatives?”
“Why, he lost his mother and sisters during the Rebellion.”
“That, I knew. But was he married or—?”
“Not he.”
The little words. Amazing how people would use small dry phrases to refuse information. Aelius realized he had struck the immovable wall of what will not be said, so he stepped out of the scented room, not without relief.
On the wall as he left the sun-filled temple precinct, his eye caught rows of religious notices in the customary Greek. Memorial inscriptions, calendars of festivals and holy days passed before his incurious eyes. The last tablet before the doorway read, In memory of our Lord Anubis’s banquet for Lucinus Soter, celebrated by his friends in the Egyptian community nine days after his death. The third tablet from the end, however, mentioned the funerary banquet held in June at Lucinus Soter’s expense, in honor and remembrance of his late Antinoopolis friend, the justified Serenus Dio. After the Greek text, signs and figures of the ancient Egyptian script—presumably a translation of the words above in the language that so few knew by now.
It remained to be seen whether a connection with Serenus’s death had caused Soter’s murder by blood and fire. Doggedly, sundown being still far, Aelius found his way to the station of the II Cohort of the Fire Police and Night Patrol, in whose district Soter’s house had stood. There, he easily pulled rank to secure information about the “lady in mourning” whom the dead man (or his watchdog) might have known. The police inspector showed him all deference, but seemed to think the question amusing in the context. Like many uniformed men he made much of masculinity and made an obscene gesture to indicate Soter.
“It’s like this, Commander. The Egyptian cloth merchant was one of those. He frequented free adult males, was private about it, so there was no reason for us to know much more. Just what we happened to observe on our beat. Of late, I can tell you he’d taken tip with a youngster who lives on Blackbird Street. He’s reportedly from somewhere around Naples. Lives off rich men. Discreet, soft-spoken, doesn’t get in trouble. No one knows much about him, other than those who’re intimate. And they don’t say much.”
“No women?”
“As far as I know, no women. The fire was definitely set, by the way. You might have heard what his secretary said, about his having been killed beforehand. It could be, but the place was a regular oven by the time we got there, and there was little left of Soter when we sieved through the house. About the other matter, would it help if I gave you the catamite’s address?”
“Yes, it can’t hurt.”
“At this hour, he might not yet have started his business rounds.” The inspector was like so many Aelius had known, bound to their jobs until routine didn’t seem reason enough to get up in the morning. He made himself useful, but only because there could be some remote benefit in doing so. So he gave directions, offered an escort, all in a placid and unhurried manner, as it probably didn’t matter to him either way if Aelius accepted. Aelius said he thought he could find the address, and would go on his own.
“Then, Commander, that’s about what I can do for you. When you get back to Court, be so good as to remember that we were helpful, here at the II Cohort. My name is Procullus Vatia: not Proculus, eh? Pro-cull-us.”
When Aelius left the police station, the long day drew close to sunset. Breathtaking green rays spread from an invisible point in the west, where buildings unknown to him—past the old Servian walls—hid from view the sinking sun, and what clouds under the horizon caused those shadow-rays to be cast. He did recognize Maecenas’s Gardens ahead, and the tower from which they said Nero watched Rome burning. It was a good old tower, curly with caper bushes, full of pigeons at this time of day, under that crown of green rays. Not at all the frightful, gleaming tower of his nightmare, bursting through with fire and collapsing upon itself to crush him.
5 August, Nones, Saturday (12 Mesore)
The address Procullus had given to him led Aelius to a narrow brick house called Caesares Septem. There, languid-eyed under a cascade of tight black curls, Soter’s companion stood on the threshold of the cozy second floor bedroom, in a thin gray tunic revealing torso and hips as through a fog. The face was a girl’s, pouting and seductive. Aelius saw dark nipples pushing through the gauze at a pert, open angle, a neat trick on a man’s body. Not girlish at all, the thighs were rather long and slender. What lay between these, under a belly unaccountably round and low, Aelius was at a loss to say.
Perhaps because he’d been stalled by that old bag of a servant until he’d just pushed his way in and upstairs, more likely because it irritated him to be here in the first place, Aelius rallied from surprise quickly enough to sum up his vexation. “Look here,” he burst out, “it happened twice to me in my days to end up with prostitutes who turned out to be men, and in both cases beat them within an inch of their lives. So, which one is it—man, woman, or what?”
“Hih! Always a big scene. That’s why I stay away from soldiers.”
“Which one is it?”
The prostitute shrugged, a bit intimidated and clearly irked to show it. Having heard the reason for the visit (Aelius described himself as a state official pursuing Soter’s case), she snapped her fingers for the servant to fetch her a wrap. “All right,” she squarely faced the visitor, “all right, so I’m a woman. You found me out. I don’t think that’s really much to His Divinity’s envoy, and in any case, I’m not answering any questions. Unless you’re ready to beat me within an inch of my life even in the state I’m in.”
Whores and their reticence, how he despised the reaction. Suddenly, by association, Aelius was mortified to discover himself thinking of Anubina still as a whore, keeping silent as she did about her daughter, but Anubina had never been so brazen. Like other impoverished girls, she’d been sold into prostitution by her widowed mother and done the best of it. The first night he met her she sat on his knees, and without making love they slept embracing in bed.
The recollection riled him even more. “This is ludicrous. Why on earth—whatever your name is—would you sell yourself as a man to those who are bent that way and would find you out at once?”
“The name is Cleopatra Minor, and that’s a stupid question.” She snatched the proffered shawl from her servant’s hands, morosely draping her shoulders and midriff with it. “How about because there are men who are a little more complicated in their tastes?” She walked into the bedroom and sat at the foot of the bed, one leg tucked under her. “It may be hard for a soldier to understand, since you’re happy to compete for the loudest belch or the grossest curse word.”
Aelius was not sure whether he should step forward or just leave. “You really know little about soldiers,” he grumbled from the doorstep, “so let’s leave it at that. I thought it was common knowledge that Soter liked men.”
“And women, I can tell you that.” She looked over with that artful pout, an expression Aelius had known on women before, falling for it occasionally. Helena, at Court, was a specialist that way, and in other ways, too. Now Cleopatra Minor was saying, “He knew who I was before renting me out, and keeping me for the past ten months. I’m carrying his, so you understand his death is distressing to me at least in three different ways.”
Aelius was beginning to feel the unique foolishness of being in a brothel, an uncomfortable precursor of excitement. Hadn’t he, in his career, come to such places, such rooms, and discovered that once his body was satisfied, a small ache—like a thorn in the chest—had not found solace? Hadn’t Anubina been the only one to cure that aching spot? At Court he’d had Helena, with the wiles of an old harlot and the sheets of a queen. Not even then had he been given what Anubina was able to create: a place of quiet and safety, as close to peace as a soldier could get. This girl was pretty, would be beautiful once the pregnancy was through, but his task by her had nothing to do w
ith beauty. Sticking to his reasons for being here, “I can guess two ways Soter’s death troubles you,” he said, “loss of upkeep by him, and the damage to your reputation as a transvestite.” But he was losing anger already. “Unless you liked him, too, in which case I’m sorry for you. It’s hard to lose someone.”
“As if you knew.” With an unexpected flourish, Cleopatra Minor grabbed her tumultuous head of curls and removed it, exposing a boyish scissor cut. At once she looked smaller, less threatening, and less attractive. She stood from the bed and Aelius stepped back to let her pass.
Outside the bedroom, a carpeted space was occupied by a table and armchairs; stepping toward them, the girl gestured for him to follow. She sat down, with a cynical look of weariness on her unpainted face. Twenty, Aelius judged, twenty-one at most. He’d known such girls in Asia and on the frontier, and somehow they seemed cut out of the same brittle substance, lacquered over with bitterness. “Anyway,” she said, “I can’t show myself in public for the next three months. Then there’ll be the child’s pension and nursing bills, so I must keep busy. Some of my old regulars are wondering what’s wrong with me. The story of mourning Soter is wearing thin, so I’m off to Naples with the excuse of learning new tricks from the boys at Fortunatus’s. You know, the male stew that originated in Pompeii, and was patronized by the deified Trajan, Hadrian, and so on.”
Aelius came over from the bedroom door, but did not sit down. “It was a bad way to die, for Soter.”
“Until a few weeks ago, I visited him often. I could have been there with him and been killed, too.”
