“You aren’t wanted here, Roman,” he growled. “Go back to your embassy and drink and fornicate like the rest of your worthless countrymen. This is Egypt.”
At our first encounter we had been on his ground, surrounded by his soldiers. This was different.
“I am in the service not only of the Senate and People of Rome, but of their ally, your king. I believe that I am far more loyal to him than you are.”
They always get that look in their eyes when they go for their weapons. With a strangled sound of rage he gripped his sheath with one hand and his hilt with the other. I was ready for that, too.
The blade was halfway out of its sheath when my own hand emerged from my tunic, now gripping my caestus. I fed him a good one, the spikes on the bronze knucklebar catching him on the jaw just in front of the ear. He staggered back with a grunt of amazement. I was amazed, too. I had never struck a man with my caestus without knocking him down. So I hit him again, on the same spot. This time he toppled amid a crash of bronze, like those heroes sung of by Homer.
The secretaries and the Librarian wore round-eyed expressions of surprise and fear. Hermes grinned happily, like the bloody-minded little demon that he was. Achillas looked very grave.
“You go too far, Senator,” he said.
“I go too far? He attacked a Roman Senator, an ambassador. Kingdoms have been destroyed for that.”
He shrugged. “A hundred years ago, perhaps. Not now.” Well, that was true enough. With a visible effort, he calmed himself. “This is not a matter worth provoking a diplomatic crisis. You must understand, Senator, that it always vexes us to see Romans come here and assume authority as if by right.”
“I quite understand,” I said. “But I am here by authority of your king.” On the floor, Memnon groaned.
“I had better see him to a physician,” Achillas said.
“I recommend Asklepiodes,” I said. “He’s nearby. Tell him I sent you.” He summoned a few slaves and they bore the fallen hero away. I still did not know why the two were there. They had been reluctant to say, and I thought it unwise to press the matter.
I turned back to the Librarian. “Now, you were about to tell me the nature of the missing book, were you not?” I slipped off my caestus and tossed it to Hermes. “Go wash the blood off that.” I told him.
“Why … ah … that is …” Eumenes took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Actually, Senator, it is one of the more valuable works in the Library. It was written by Biton and dedicated to King Attalus I of Pergamum more than one hundred years ago.”
“And its title?” I asked.
“On Engines of War.”
Hermes handed back my caestus as we left the Museum.
“That was as good as an afternoon in the amphitheater,” he said. “But that was one tough Greek.”
“Not Greek,” I corrected. “Macedonian. An altogether tougher breed.”
“I knew he was some sort of foreigner. You should have killed him. Now he’ll be coming for you.” Hermes had a delightfully simple way of looking at things.
“I’ll talk to the king. Maybe I can get him posted up the river someplace. I am more concerned about Achillas. He’s the ranking man in the royal army. See what you can find out about him.”
I do some of my best thinking while walking, and I had much to think about. So, Iphicrates never designed military machines, did he? Obviously, he had been lying. Typical Greek. But I wondered why all the secrecy. It was not as if the activity were unlawful. There had to be more to it.
Before long, we found ourselves in the quarter of the Jews, an odd race with a paucity of gods. Other than that, they were much like other Easterners. Many thought it strange that their god had no image, but until a few centuries ago, there were no statues of Roman gods, either. The early Ptolemies had favored the Jews as a balance against the native Egyptians. There was some sort of ancient antipathy between the two. As a result, Jews had flocked to the city.
The streets were quiet and almost deserted, an odd thing in Alexandria. I asked at one of the open stalls and found that it was a day of religious observance for the Jews, one that they spent at home rather than in a temple. This was commendable piety but boring for the observer.
“There’s other places in this city more lively,” Hermes said.
“Unquestionably,” I answered. “Let’s go to the Rakhotis.”
The Rakhotis was the Egyptian quarter, the largest in this most cosmopolitan of cities. It was easily the size of the Greek, Macedonian and Jewish quarters combined. In its own way, it was the oddest, to Roman eyes.
The Egyptians are the most ancient of peoples, and so profoundly conservative that they make the most reactionary Romans appear wildly mutable. The common subjects of the Ptolemies are identical to the ones you see painted in the temples of the oldest Pharaohs. They are short, sturdily built people, dark of skin, although not as dark as Nubians. The usual garment of the men is a kilt of white linen, and most wear short, square-cut black wigs. They rim their eyes with kohl for its supposed beneficial effects, believing that it protects the eyes. The old Egyptian nobility, of whom there are still a few specimens here and there, is of a different race, taller and fairer, although darker than Greeks or Italians. Their language is spoken nowhere outside Egypt.
To see them now makes it difficult for one to believe that these were the people who built the mind-stunning pyramids, but then the Greeks of today aren’t much like the heroes of Homer, or even like their more recent ancestors of the Persian wars. The Egyptians take their religion very seriously, despite having some of the most supremely silly-looking gods in the world. Everybody thinks the animal-headed gods are hilarious, but my personal favorite is the one who is depicted dead and wrapped up like a mummy except for his face but who stands upright with an erect penis protruding from his wrappings.
In the Rakhotis we found the usual uproarious street scene, with hawkers plying their wares, animals being led to the markets, and the endless religious processions that are an inescapable part of Egyptian life. Here I was not simply sightseeing. I had a specific destination, but I didn’t want to look as if I were investigating in this district.
Our first stop was the Great Serapeum. It was another example of the Cyclopean architecture that so delighted the Successors. Almost as large as the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, the Serapeum was dedicated to the god Serapis, who was himself an Alexandrian invention. The Successors thought they could do everything better than anyone else, including god-making. Alexandria was a new sort of city, and they wanted a god for their city who would blend Egyptian and Greek religious practice, so they concocted a god with the majestic, serene countenance of Pluto and melded him with the Egyptian gods Osiris and Apis, hence the name Serapis. For some reason this cobbled-together deity proved to be popular, and now he is worshipped throughout much of the world.
The Serapeum, like the Palace, forms a veritable city within a city, with livestock pens for the sacrificial animals, several cohorts of priests and attendants, rooms full of paraphernalia and treasures, fabulous art objects and even an arsenal and a private army to guard it all.
The temple itself was typical of the type, which is to say a standard Greek temple, only bigger. It sat on a lofty, man-made hill of stone, and the upper, visible part was always open to the public. It contained the statue of the god, which was surprisingly modest in its proportions. All this was for show. Since Serapis was an agglomeration of Chthonic deities, the actual worship was carried out in a series of underground crypts.
I strolled among these wonders, gawking like any other foreign tourist, but my attention was elsewhere. It was directed toward a smaller temple two streets south of the Serapeum. From it rose smoke as from a minor volcano, and the breeze carried the sounds of wailing song and clashing musical instruments. I stopped one of the priests, a man dressed in Greek sacerdotal garments, but with a leopard skin thrown over his shoulders in the Egyptian fashion.
“Tell me, sir,” I said, “
what god might be worshipped in that noisy temple over there?”
From the lofty eminence of the Serapeum he stared down his equally lofty nose at the temple in question.
“That is the Temple of Baal-Ahriman, although in better days it was a respectable temple of Horus. I would recommend that you avoid it, Senator. It is a cult brought here by unwashed foreigners, and only the lewdest and most degraded of Alexandrians frequent it. Their barbarous god is worshipped with disgusting orgies.”
Hermes tugged at my arm. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
“We shall, but only because it is within the scope of my investigation,” I said.
We descended the majestic steps of the Serapeum and crossed two blocks to the Temple of Baal-Ahriman, which was thronged with worshippers, sightseers and idlers. It seemed that the inaugural festivities were still in progress. People danced to the clanging of cymbals and the rattle of sistra, the wailing of flutes and the thumping of drums. Many lay inert, worn out by their sanctified exertions.
Incense burned in huge bronze braziers all over the temple and its courtyards. It was needed, too. Fifty bulls produce a great deal of blood when they are sacrificed, far more than the gutters and drains of the temple were designed to cope with. The incense deadened the smell and kept down the flies a bit. The heads and hides of the bulls were mounted on stakes, facing inward toward the temple.
Like most Egyptian temples, it was rather cramped inside, what with the thick walls and the usual forest of squat pillars. At the utmost end was the statue of the seated god. Baal-Ahriman was about as ugly as a god can get without turning viewers to stone. His head was that of a lion that appeared to suffer from some form of leonine leprosy. The body was that of an emaciated man with withered female breasts, a little difficult to discern because he was still wearing his cloak of bulls’ testicles. The flies were especially numerous in this inner sanctum.
“You have come to pay your respects to the great Baal-Ahriman?” I turned to see Ataxas, still draped with his snake.
“A Roman official always gives due respect to the gods of the lands he visits,” I said. I took a pinch of incense from a huge bowl and tossed it onto the coals that glowed in a brazier before the disgusting thing. The resultant puff of smoke did very little to allay the stench.
“Excellent. My Lord is pleased. He harbors only the greatest love for Rome, and would like to be numbered among the gods worshipped in the greatest city in the world.”
“I shall speak to the Senate about it,” I said, mentally vowing to start a major war before allowing his ghastly death-demon to set a diseased paw within the gates of Rome.
“That would be splendid,” he said, beaming greasily.
“Am I to understand,” I inquired, “that the god is soon to speak to the faithful?”
He nodded solemnly. “That is true. Upon several occasions of late, my Lord has come to me in visions and has told me that he will soon make himself manifest among his worshippers. He will speak forth in his own voice, requiring no intermediary.”
“I take it, then, that he will speak oracular pronouncements, which you will then interpret for the ears of the vulgar?”
“Oh, no, Senator. As I have said, he will require no intermediary. He will speak plainly.”
“Since his original home was in Asia,” I hazarded, “I presume that he will speak in one of the Eastern tongues?”
“My Lord has now made his home in Alexandria, and it is my belief that he will therefore speak in Greek.”
“And the subject of his pronouncements?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Who may know what is the will of a god, until that will is made manifest? I am but his priest and prophet. Doubtless my Lord shall say that which he deems meet for men to hear.”
Typical priestly prevarication.
“I shall look forward to his advent among men,” I assured the scoundrel.
“I shall send word to the embassy should my Lord tell me that he is preparing to speak.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“Now, please be so good as to come with me, Senator. I am sure that you have not yet seen much of our new temple.” Taking my arm, he gave me a tour of the building, explaining that the papyrus-headed capitals of the pillars were symbolic of Lower Egypt, as lotus capitals symbolized Upper Egypt. I already knew this, having taken the Nile tour, but I wanted the man in a forthcoming mood.
We passed through the back of the temple into the rear courtyard, where a feast was in progress. Great carcasses turned on spits over glowing coals. Like so many thoughtful gods, Baal-Ahriman desired only the blood of the sacrifice, and left the flesh for his worshippers.
“I beg you to partake of our feast,” Ataxas said hospitably. “My calling forbids me the eating of flesh, but my Lord wishes his guests to enjoy themselves.”
Sweating slaves stood beside the carcasses wielding curved, swordlike knives. As the spits rotated slowly, they shaved off papyrus-thin slices of the flesh and piled them on flat loaves of Egyptian bread. Hermes looked at me longingly and I nodded. He rushed off to snatch up one of the cakes, which he brought back to me rolled up around its dripping contents. Then he dashed back to get one for himself. A slave girl brought a tray laden with wine-cups and I took one. She was barely nubile, wearing one of those delightful Egyptian slave outfits consisting of a narrow belt worn low on the hips, from which depended a tiny apron of beaded strings. Aside from that, she wore a good many ornaments. This was one fashion I knew I would never succeed in transferring to Rome.
“Excellent wine,” I commented.
“A gift from her Highness,” Ataxas explained.
It had been a long time since breakfast and I had been regretting passing up Ptolemy’s invitation to share his own, so the bread and sacrificial meat were doubly welcome.
“I take it you have heard about the murder of Iphicrates of Chios?”
He paused. “Yes, I have. It was most upsetting. Who would want to kill him?”
“Who, indeed? At Princess Berenice’s reception the other evening, I noticed that the two of you were conversing. What were you talking about?”
He looked at me sharply. “Why do you ask?”
“The king has commissioned me to investigate the murder. I was wondering if Iphicrates might have said something to indicate that he had an enemy.”
He relaxed. “I see. No, we had met at a number of royal receptions where we discussed the relative merits of our callings. He, a Greek philosopher and mathematician of the school of Archimedes, had a great disregard for the supernatural and the divine. He was known to say so loudly. We were merely carrying on a debate of long duration. I fear that he said nothing to indicate who might have had reason to kill him.” He bowed his head and passed a few moments in what appeared to be deep thought. Then: “He did say one odd thing. He said, ‘Some believe in the power of the gods, and some believe in magic, but when the kings of the East want to defy Rome, they consult with me, for in geometry lies the answer to all things.’”
“That is a curious statement,” I said.
“Isn’t it? I thought it was merely more of his philosophical pompousness, but perhaps not, eh?” He shook his head, making his long, oiled locks and curled beard sway. “Perhaps he was involved in things a philosopher ought to avoid. Now, Senator, I must prepare for the evening sacrifice. Please, stay and enjoy yourself. All that we have is yours.” He gave that fluttering, Eastern bow and left. By this time Hermes had returned to my side and was tearing away at the bread-wrapped sacrificial meat.
“What do you think of him?” I asked Hermes.
“He’s done well for himself,” Hermes said, his mouth half full.
“Have you ever eaten beef before?”
“Just scraps, out at your uncle’s country estate. It’s tough, but I like the taste.”
“Take some of the fruit and olives as well. Too much meat is bad for the digestion. But how does Ataxas impress you? It seemed to me that his Asiatic accent slipped a little
while I was questioning him.” One of the priestesses gyrated by us, clashing her tiny cymbals in time to the music. Her robes were shredded and her back was colourful with red stripes from the previous day’s flogging.
“He still has chalk between his toes.”
I paused in the middle of a bite. “He was a slave? How do you know?”
Hermes smiled with superior knowledge. “You saw that big ear-bangle he was wearing?”
“I saw it.”
“He wears it to cover a split earlobe. In Cappadocia, a slave who runs has a notch cut out of his left earlobe.” There is a whole world of slave lore most of us never learn.
5
“IT SOUNDS LIKE NONSENSE TO ME,” Julia said. We stood on the steps of the Soma, the tomb of Alexander the Great. She was beautifully dressed as a Roman lady, but she had already started to use Egyptian cosmetics. It was a bad sign.
“Of course it’s nonsense,” I said. “When everybody is lying, as they usually do when you’re investigating a crime, the art is to sort through the nonsense, and especially the things they don’t say, to find the truth.”
“And why are you so sure Ataxas is lying? Just because he was once a slave? Many freedmen have done well after earning their freedom, and they usually don’t brag about their former status.”
“Oh, it’s not that. But he said that they were carrying on a dispute of long standing. But I saw them together and it was the only time that evening that Iphicrates kept his voice down. During a dispute! You heard him. He bellowed at the top of his lungs anytime anyone questioned him in the slightest fashion.” And that reminded me of something else: another man I would have to question.
SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses Page 8
