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.
10
NO 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 u
ntil 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 sa
me 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.”
SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses Page 16
