“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?
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.
SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses Page 15
