“You kept no papers of your own?” asked Gellius.
“Corvinus held them all.”
“Of course he did.”
“And this was all you got from Corvinus’ estate?” Pesach asked.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Someone else must have taken the rest, then. Or destroyed them. Perhaps Gellius and I can find more information in the public records office, or at the Emporium.” Pesach sighed and scratched his armpit, then his eyes fell across the scorched tablets that Aculeo had found in Gurculio’s house now sitting in the corner of his tiny kitchen. He picked them up curiously. “What about Flavianus’ tablets? Any idea what was on them?”
“Not a clue.”
“Who is Flavianus exactly?” asked Gellius.
Aculeo shrugged. “Marcellus Flavianus is the only one I can think of. An associate of Corvinus’. I met him once years ago when he visited from Rome. I really know nothing about him though.”
“Hm, well, whatever was on his tablets must have been important somehow. Jupiter himself knows enough people died for them,” Pesach said, emptying the last amphora of wine into his cup.
Aculeo and Zeanthes found a quiet tavern near the crossroads just before dusk. The Palace District lay to the north, a majestic tapestry wrapped around the Great Harbour, bathed in the cool Etesian winds off the bay.
“This is quite lovely,” Zeanthes said. He considered Aculeo for a moment. “You seem distracted though. Is everything alright?”
“An unrelated matter,” Aculeo said with a rueful smile. “Apologies.”
“Of course. It’s such a pleasant surprise you called on me. I take it you have some news about the murders?”
Aculeo explained the events of the past few days – the discovery of Neaera’s necklace, Apollonios’ death in the prison and his own growing suspicion that Ralla himself was involved in Neaera’s disappearance as well as the murders of Myrrhine and Petras.
“A disturbing conundrum,” Zeanthes said solemnly, taking a sip of the cool black wine. “How certain are you of Ralla’s involvement?”
“As certain as I can be without proof.”
“Then we’ll simply need to find our proof.”
“Is that all?” Aculeo said with a bitter laugh.
“Trying took Troy, as they say. It’s like Theseus and the ball of string. You have to follow it to find your way out of the labyrinth.” Zeanthes signalled to the server to bring them more wine. “Tell me more about Petras. You seem to think her death is connected to this somehow?”
“Yes,” Aculeo said. “She wore the same bracelet of yellow twine about her wrist as the others.”
“Yellow twine?”
“Yes. It’s worn by some worshippers of Sarapis.”
“Did all the victims wear such a bracelet?” Zeanthes asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“First tell me what else you know about Petras’ murder.”
Aculeo shrugged. “I’ve little else to share. I know who paid for her embalming, the name at least, but little else.”
“What’s the name?”
“Sabazius.”
“Sabazius?” Zeanthes smiled, swirling the wine around in his cup before he sipped. “Someone’s playing a game, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sabazius is another name for Dionysos.”
“The wine god?”
“Oh, he is far more than that, I assure you. And what’s more, pomegranates also play a key role in his story. So,” Zeanthes said, pushing his chair away from the table and taking a torch from its bracket on the tavern wall. “Let’s make a visit to the underworld.”
Aculeo followed the sophist along a narrow back alley towards a small, windowless mud-brick building with an unmarked door. “In here I believe,” Zeanthes said. He opened the door and led him into the dark passageway within. A set of steps carved in the soft limestone led downwards. Zeanthes headed down the stairs, his footsteps echoing off the uneven rock walls, the torchlight flickering, the air stale and thin. Aculeo reluctantly followed.
The steps ended in another passageway, which led to a great cavern. Magnificent stone arches towered overhead, stretching endlessly into the dark void beyond like still and glittering waves in a cold, dead sea, linked to the towering columns rising out of the depths of the water down below. A maze of catacombs ran beneath the city to store autumn floodwater from the Nile and supply the city’s residents through the year. Pipes fed from the cisterns to the many public fountains and pumps across the city, as well as to the palace and a select number of wealthier citizens’ homes.
“A city beneath the city,” Zeanthes said.
“Why have we come down to the cisterns?” Aculeo asked.
“Because this represents the katabasis – the descent into the underworld. The liminal boundaries where Dionysos is Lord,” Zeanthes said, his torchlight dancing off the water, dappling across the cavernous, echoing walls. “Dionysos is a son of Zeus. His mother was Semele, a sea nymph. Zeus came unto her in human form, but after he laid with her she realized he was the great god himself and begged him to show himself as he truly was. After much initial resistance, he finally relented, allowing her to see him in his true god form. His brilliance was too much for her, of course, and she immediately turned to ash. The babe Dionysos was rescued from the cinders of her womb, born with horns and crowned with serpents. Hera was enraged when she learned of her husband’s infidelity and ordered the Titans to murder the child. They tore him apart, then boiled the pieces and devoured most of him before Zeus destroyed them with a thunderbolt.
“The only part of Dionysos that was saved was his heart, which Zeus buried in a sacred grove. A pomegranate tree grew from the soil where his heart had been buried. The ripe pomegranate splits open like a wound, the red seeds spill forth like blood. It symbolizes death and the promise of resurrection, as when held in the hand of Persephone.
“Dionysos’ grandmother, Rhea, sowed seeds from the fruit into the leg of Zeus while he slept, from whence the child was re-born. He was then taken by Persephone and hidden in Heliconia until he grew to manhood. It was there that he invented wine, a most admirable gift to which we must all give thanks,” Zeanthes said with a smile.
“But when Dionysos was recognized by Hera, she drove him mad. Attended by his wild army of Satyrs and Maenads, swords and serpents, the god wandered the earth, cutting a swath of war and murder across the land. Until at last he was purified by his grandmother Rhea, and released from his madness.”
“What does this have to do with murdered hetairai?” Aculeo asked.
“You know of the Mysteries, I’m sure,” Zeanthes said.
“What of them?”
“The Mysteries celebrate the life and rebirth of Dionysos, re-enacting them, including his sacrifice.”
“A human sacrifice?”
“In ancient times, yes, but not anymore,” Zeanthes said. “The sacrifices are usually of animals as manifestations of Dionysos. A bull, for example, from whose hollowed horns wine is drunk. Or a goat whose flesh provides wineskins. Wine itself is the embodiment of Dionysos, of course. Its production from the dismembered body of the grape, the intoxicating and uninhibiting effects of the drink itself, release man from his otherwise shallow vision of reality, opening his mind and soul to the hidden reality within and without. Wine is the fruit and blood of harvest. It inspires divine madness, brings communion with the Gods. Dionysos is the God of passion, of ecstasies and excesses. Of madness. He is the God who murders, as he himself was murdered.”
“You think all this has something to do with the Mysteries then?” Aculeo asked.
“Perhaps. Perhaps. Let’s return to the bracelets of yellow twine. You see, such bracelets are also worn by some worshippers of Dionysos.”
“I thought it was Sarapis.”
“One of the many features Sarapis borrowed from other gods,” Zeanthes said. “Now, Dionysos is a god, of course, so any role he might play would be indirect. The
question is who his agents on Earth might be.”
“Ralla?” Aculeo said.
“Possibly. But as I said, first we need our proof. Taking on a man of Ralla’s stature is not something to be done lightly.”
“What is it?” Aculeo asked.
“Dionysos has a counterpart, you know. You see, it is the realm of Apollo, the God of Law and Wisdom to avenge the victim. It is Apollo’s law that murderers be purified through punishment. Blood for blood. As Apollo is a God, however, it must fall to a man to act as his agent.” Zeanthes looked him in the eye, his gaze unrelenting, the sound of splashing water echoing through the catacombs. “That would be you, dear Aculeo.”
Morning lectures had always been one of Sostra of Nicaea’s greatest joys. For any true lover of pure sophistry, sitting on the famed square porch of the Museion with one’s peers listening to the scintillating, well-reasoned thoughts espoused by other great minds, with the dawn breaking over the bay, the gardens lush with blooms, the grounds filled with glorious architecture and outstanding works of art … surely there was no better place on the face of the Earth to be!
This morning’s lecture was from a Neo-Pythagorean, whose talk obviously prompted a great deal of lively debate amongst the Chryssipians and Posidonians! When at last it broke up into the usual smaller cliques to dissect into more finite theorems, Sostra decided it was at last time to find something of physical sustenance. He politely disengaged from the others and tottered off through the portico to the vast gardens, where clusters of scholars walked and talked and jibed with one another while others sat and read in peace.
Sostra passed through the Library itself, without question the greatest wonder of the world, a grandiose and carvernous joy with its countless hallways disappearing into the distance like intricate strands of a spider’s web from the centre, each filled with stacks of shelves, every one of them filled with scrolls. It contained the greatest works known to man, from Aristotle’s own personal library (including personal copies of the Iliad and The Odyssey he’d annotated for Alexander the Great) bequeathed here by his estate, to Hippocrates’ works in medicine, from Euclid’s original essays in geometry to the poetry of Euripedes and the like. To have the time to peruse the true jewels that lie within, to simply read, a journey through the tide of ideas as great and profound as any travels on the physical earth.
He walked past the common dining area where he found a quiet shady spot and summoned a slave to whom he gave precise instructions on the proper preparation of five quails’ eggs, a small loaf of barley bread and some of that delicious fermented Pompeiian fish sauce, of which he understood they had just received a new shipment.
Sostra sat back, gazing about at the gardens filled with delicate pale pink and yellow flowers, still damp from the early morning dew. Bees buzzed over the sweet smelling blossoms, dusted with pollen, drowsy with nectar. He closed his eyes and drifted off in thought.
A moment later, he heard an odd noise, rather like a rooting animal. He opened his eyes the smallest of cracks. Ah, he realized, it’s that horrid bore Epiphaneus. What’s the matter with him sitting on a bench all by himself? He looks completely miserable. Sostra seriously contemplated just ignoring the man, for did not Zeno himself write that friendship with one’s fellow man should not be carried so far that another’s misfortunes might destroy your own inner harmony?
Still …
Sostra sighed, stood and made his way as slowly as he could over to the bench where Epiphaneus sat slumped. The man looked disturbingly dishevelled up close, his thatch of bristly white hair sticking up at odd angles from his blocklike head, his eyes watery and bloodshot, his tunic stained with wine and bits of food, and oh! he stank like a Phoenician sailor right off the boat. What’s more, he was muttering to himself like the beggars in the street, not even noticing that Sostra was standing only a foot away.
Sostra cleared his throat. “Epiphaneus, dear fellow, is, ah, everything alright?”
The other sophist gave a start, then winced in pain. “Ow … ah! This cursed skull of mine.” He glared blearily up at Sostra. “What do you want?”
“You look quite dreadful, if you don’t mind me saying so. Whatever’s the matter with you?”
Epiphaneus gave a deep, tremulous sigh. “Look over there, Sostra. The Muses’ shrine. And the garden that surrounds the cloister. What do you think of that?”
The other sophist looked over to the ornate shrine. “It’s lovely.”
“That’s hardly the point,” the other sophist roared. “Look at it – it’s completely and utterly empty! Who among us gives dedication anymore to the Muses, the goddesses of music, dancing and letter? Or is that too an outdated custom? A quaint and archaic act? It’s maddening!”
“Epiphaneus, dear friend, you should keep yourself above such worries,” Sostra said jovially. “Acts of ignorance and injustice of others afford the sufferer the best opportunity to exercise his own virtue.”
Epiphaneus glowered at him from beneath tangled white eyebrows. “Am I now such a dolt that fools like you must teach me how to piss in a pot?” the sophist cried. “Have I truly fallen this far?”
Epiphaneus’ voice had gotten so frantic they were attracting attention from others. Sostra would have been perfectly happy right now if the earth were to open up and swallow him whole. No such luck. “Epiphaneus,” he whispered urgently, “please calm yourself, I meant no offense.”
The fire and fury quickly drained from the sophist’s bloodshot eyes and he slumped back in his seat like a slackened sail on a windless sea. “Virtue, Sostra. Virtue is all that is good in the world. Health, happiness, possessions, they matter not. A poor man can live as a king if he lives with virtue, whether he resides in a prison or a palace. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Well…”
“Oh yes, you’re a Cynic. I quite forgot.”
Epiphaneus spoke these last words with such hopeless resignation that the other scholar could think of nothing else to speak upon to help the poor man. “Well,” Sostra said at last. “I’m afraid it’s getting rather late. I suppose I should really be leaving.”
“What? Why? Where are you going?” Epiphaneus demanded, his eyes tearing up. “Is something going on I haven’t been told of? Oh, wouldn’t it be just like the Chief Librarian to humiliate me in this fashion, pouring a ladle of salt into an already festering wound!”
“It’s nothing, really!” Sostra stammered, backing away a few steps. “I’m merely going to look at the new scrolls.”
Epiphaneus caught himself, looking at the other sophist in surprise. “What new scrolls?”
“The ones at the depot. There’s a new batch arrived just last week, I thought I’d …”
“Ah, well then, fine,” the sophist said, and suddenly stood up. “Let’s go.”
Sostra looked at the other man in surprise. “What? But I … you … I’m sure there’s nothing to even interest you there.”
“How could you possibly know that? You haven’t even seen them yet, have you?”
“Well, no, but … Not to mention I was going to eat something first.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Epiphaneus snapped. “You know it’s unhealthy to eat anything more than a crust of bread or a cup of wine before sunset. Upsets the balance of one’s humours. Besides,” he said, prodding the other sophist’s substantial belly, “you could stand to lose some weight. Come along, anything’s better than waiting here in this ghastly place even a moment longer.”
The Imperial Book Depot was a decidedly lengthy walk around the edge of the Great Harbour from the Library. The harbour was already full of activity, the waters thick with flax-sailed skiffs and barges sliding up to the jetties near the Emporion, loaded down with grain, amphorae of wine and other tradewares, the shouts of the sailors along the pier as they off-loaded their goods, their sails now snapping smartly in the morning breeze. Many of the ships had single, square white linen sails swinging on yards that ran their entire lengths, their cargoes in open
holds, exposed to all the elements. Others had full decks protecting their precious cargoes and two square sails at mast. A few sat in the harbour, great two and three-masted, long-oared vessels that could carry enormous loads of wares across the open sea in a single journey, now bobbing helplessly, awaiting the little dorries to tow them to dock.
The book depot, a plain, nondescript warehouse just outside the bustling Emporion, was filled with stacks of scrolls, the unsorted overflow from Caesar’s collection. There was said to be half a million scrolls housed already in the Library, in addition to another hundred thousand or so held in the sister library in the Sarapeion, making the total collection the largest in the world by far. And that in spite of the fire that Julius Caesar himself had caused some eighty years prior, which had apparently destroyed thousands of irreplaceable works of science and literature. The library in Pergamum was considered to be quite good as well, but still a distant second. Yet there were more books arriving all the time, culled from ships that came to port, or purchased abroad by Imperial agents. One never knew what other treasures might be found. It would have been such a treat for Sostra if he’d simply followed his initial instinct and let Epiphaneus wallow in his own misery.
“I suppose you heard about Gurculio’s passing,” Sostra said as they walked along the street.
“The moneylender?” the other sophist demanded, tightening his grip on the other man’s arm, wary all of a sudden. “Why? What have you heard?”
“Well, very little actually,” Sostra said. “Only that he was murdered after his symposium. What do you think happened to him?”
“Why are you asking me?”
Sostra gave the other man a puzzled look. “I was merely making conversation. It’s natural to be curious about such things, is it not?”
“No, it’s not. And it’s no business of mine or yours.”
“I suppose. Still, it’s hardly a surprise. He was such a loathsome fellow.”
Furies Page 26
