by Mike Ashley
It was one of the very few times in my life when I’ve been left speechless. After a moment, I bowed. “You are a man of faith,” I told him.
Pachrates leaned back in his chair, nodding. “Yes.” After a moment, he said, almost gently, “The Gabinian will have written his letter. You may bear it for him, if you wish.”
It made me feel . . . no, I was about to say “cynical and faithless”, but it wasn’t that at all: it was more like being caught red-handed, then let off. He knew I still wanted to find out who had been responsible for the sacrilege, he thought it was foolish, but he was still offering me one more opportunity to find out. He was a very unsettling man, the Pterophoros, and I was glad he wasn’t likely to run for market superintendent. I bowed again, and went off to find Quintus Julius Vindex.
The Gabinian was relaxing in one of the rooms set aside for guests of the Serapeion – a comfortable room, even a luxurious one, with a couch and writing table of polished olive wood. He and the young priest Theophanes were drinking wine together and, as far as I could tell, discussing religious music.
“No, no!” Theophanes was protesting, as I opened the door. “You don’t want a lot of emotive colouring in a hymn: you want simplicity and dignity, a sense of noble antiquity. The hearer should be moved without . . . oh.” He’d noticed me. “Has the Pterophoros given any orders?” he asked anxiously, getting to his feet.
I shook my head, watching Vindex, who’d also risen and was looking at me with a mixture of hope and apprehension. “We discussed the situation, and agreed that you, sir, were innocent.”
At this both men smiled, then grinned with relief.
“Why did the Pterophoros want to consult with you?” asked Theophanes. It was the same question I’d been asking myself. I could think of no answer except that, for all his disdain for slaves, Pachrates was willing to hear wisdom from anyone, and that he actually must have some respect for me. It is shameful, how that pleased me. When you’re a slave, the respect of free men is precious.
“If there had been a case to answer, I could have informed my master,” I said, to avoid giving any insult to a man who probably felt he had more right to be consulted than I did. “I know the city, too: I hoped that I could help. However –” I shrugged unhappily “– we have no clues as to who the real criminal could have been. Lord Pachrates fears that, without that knowledge, he will not be able to convince the public of your innocence, Julius Vindex. As long as you’re suspected of having defiled the altar, your life will be in danger if you remain in Alexandria.”
Vindex glowered, then sighed. “Well, as long as the temple declares that I am innocent . . . to tell the truth, I’d be glad to leave Alexandria.” He snorted. “Your city hates the Gabinians, but have you ever thought what it’s like to be in charge of those brutes? To be hated by the men and by the citizens as well, to spend every day in shouting and bullying and anger, and to be afraid to leave the palace quarter at night? No . . .” He began to smile. “If I leave Alexandria, I can go home and reassure my sister in person. Then I can rejoin my legion. Jupiter, who wouldn’t rather fight for Caesar than bully a pack of shopkeepers! Your goddess is good!”
I sighed: I’d been hoping that he’d be more forthcoming about his suspicions if he thought it would prevent him from being sent home. Clearly a vain hope.
“Well,” I said resignedly, “I am glad that an innocent man won’t suffer.”
I unbuckled his sword-belt, which I was still wearing over my shoulder, and offered it to him. He came over and took it, then hefted it a moment in his hands, staring at me. “You’re a public slave?” he asked.
I nodded. “Of long standing.”
“In Massalia public slaves clean the streets,” remarked Vindex. “They wouldn’t consult with high priests – or walk onto a sword blade to save a man from a lynch mob.”
“I have cleaned the streets,” I told him. “After riots.”
It took a moment, but he understood that, and nodded. Then, unexpectedly, he pulled the sword-belt round so that he could get at the purse, which was clipped to the leather just in front of the scabbard. “On thinking about it, I believe you may have saved my life and reputation, Peridromon,” he said, unclipping it. “Here.” He handed it to me. “It’s not as much as I’d like, but it’s all I have with me – and even though you don’t seem very servile, you can probably use money as much as any other slave.”
I caught myself licking my lips. Oh, yes, like most slaves, I have my little savings-hoard, and my hopes of one day buying my freedom: I can always use money. “Thank you, sir,” I said, managing to preserve some dignity, and not pour the contents out to inspect them at once. “I wasn’t expecting this. In fact, I came here to see if you’d like me to deliver your letter.”
Vindex smiled, went over to the writing table, and picked up a sealed letter. “Here it is. Take it to my commander, and tell him how things stand. Play it right, and he’ll tip you.”
I nodded, took the letter, and tucked it into the front of my tunic. If I played it right, his commander might give a hint who was guilty. But I’d try one more ploy on Vindex himself first. “Is there anyone else you’d like me to speak to, sir?” I asked innocently.
“Oh . . . my friend Lucius Terentius, if he’s around at headquarters. Tall man, brown hair and a scar on his sword hand; he’s from Gallia Narbonensis. Nobody else.”
That didn’t sound like a suspect. I sighed again, then nodded and started for the door.
“Oh,” said Vindex again, and the forced-casual note in his voice brought me up short, “you might tell Lord Potheinos that I’m going to have to leave Alexandria. He’s one of the king’s men, and I was invited to a party at his house a few days from now. It’s a big house on the Canopic canal.”
“I know it,” I told him. “I’ll deliver your message.”
“Good. Thank you.”
I went out, then walked slowly down the covered walkway and around the shrine of Isis into the public courtyard. I could smell the altar even before I reached it, and when I emerged from the portico into the afternoon sun, I could see that it was drenched with perfumed oils and covered with incense. The doors of the shrine were closed now, and the statue of the goddess was hidden. The crowds had done what they could to appease the goddess, then gone.
I sat down on the steps of the shrine and shook the contents of Vindex’s purse into my hand. Twenty-nine drachmae. Well. Pretty good for a sum he just happened to have on him, but I wasn’t going to be free any time soon. A healthy slave costs about three hundred; more if he can read and write, as I can. Just as well, really: I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if I were free. I would miss the streets and markets horribly.
Potheinos. I knew who he was, of course: a royal treasurer with the rank of First Friend to the king. As Vindex had said, he had a big house on the Canopic Canal, and it was something of a landmark in that part of town. Unless I was mistaken, it had a large garden, backing on that canal. Probably there was an ornamental marsh – full of frogs, as they all were at this time of year.
Pachrates was right: there was no tribunal to which I could bring an accusation. It was entirely possible that Potheinos had been acting for the Bastard himself. After all, the Bastard wanted the Gabinians in Alexandria. He would find it very inconvenient if they collected their commander’s ten thousand talents and went home. If he could take steps to ensure that the sum kept melting away even as it was collected and enrich himself in the process, he’d be very pleased with himself.
I glanced at the closed shrine behind me, then put the money back in the purse. I clipped the purse to the thong around my neck, next to my licence, and tucked it under my tunic so that there would be no misunderstandings when I delivered Vindex’s letter. I would deliver the message to Potheinus as well, and leave him to the justice of Isis.
THE WINGS OF ISIS
Marilyn Todd
It would not be a volume about ancient Egypt without at least one story about Cleopatra. The Cle
opatra we all know from history was in fact Cleopatra VII, daughter of Ptolemy Auletes. She ruled alongside her brother, Ptolemy XIII, until he expelled her from Egypt in 48 BC and, like her father, she turned to Rome for help.
Marilyn Todd is best known for her series of audacious historical whodunnits featuring the Roman courtesan Claudia Seferius, who first appeared in I, Claudia (1995).
“So then.”
With two clicks of the imperial fingers, the handmaidens fell back in a wave, but it took an imperial glare before Kames, Head of the Queen’s Bodyguard, retreated his men out of earshot as well. Cleopatra had to lift her head to look into the eyes of her Captain of Archers.
“What are they saying about me this time, Benet? That the Queen speaks nine languages fluently and can’t say no in any one of them?”
Spies, deep undercover, kept her abreast of the scheming and plotting among her so-called trusted Council. Feedback from the common people was no less important.
Benet swallowed his smile. “Nothing of the sort, your Royal Highness. Your people are behind you all the way in –” He paused, ostensibly to adjust his swordbelt. “– In Egypt’s alliance with Rome.”
“Your tact will make you a general some day.”
And a good general at that, Cleopatra decided. Benet was a born tactician, intelligent, brave and not too dishonest. Above all, he was that rarest of breeds, he was loyal.
The eagle of Rome was casting a shadow across virtually the whole of the civilized world. Iberia to Asia Minor, Libya to the Black Sea. Now that Julius Caesar had his sights set on the great prize of Egypt, the pickings were rich for, say, an ambitious young Captain of Archers for whom the matter of allegiance rated low on his list of priorities.
So far, Benet had shown no desire to serve himself above his country. But it would be foolish to take such loyalty for granted . . .
Boom, boom, boom-a-doom-a-dum-dum. The pounding of the drums, soft and insistent, cut short the briefing.
“We’ll talk later,” she told him.
Information could wait.
Mighty Isis could not.
Boom, boom, boom-a-doom-a-dum-dum.
The memory of those lazy drumbeats would stay with Cleopatra for the rest of her life. They encapsulated the point when she walked into the temple a queen – and walked out a goddess.
From this moment on, Cleopatra was to be worshipped as Isis incarnate. It was official. She was now the Great Mother, protectress of the Pharaoh, goddess of healing, fertility and magic. Ah, yes. Never underestimate the power of magic, she thought. Rising from the throne of solid gold as the ceremony drew to its close, Cleopatra felt the brush of the goddess’ wings on her face. And the wings were beating in triumph.
As she made her way across the cool marble floor of the temple, she passed Yntef the shaven-headed high priest, sweating under his leopard skin, his eyes still unfocussed from his recent trance. Renenutet, the priestess of Bast dressed as the cat-headed goddess, made obeisance. As did Tamar, Hathor’s priestess, wearing the ceremonial mask of the cow. Temple musicians lined the aisle, their harps and reed flutes playing the Queen out. The choir sang softly – young women, whose voices had been trained from early childhood to sing as sweetly as the larks which soared above the broad wheatfields of the Nile and lifted the spirits of those who laboured to bring home the harvest.
Glancing back over her shoulder, Cleopatra committed the moment to memory. The temple regalia, the black bowl of divination, the fat sacred cats, the dark ceiling studded with bright silver stars. Flaming torches high on the walls brought brightly painted frescoes to life, made them dance. Acrobats on the north wall, fishermen hauling home their nets on the south, Anubis weighing the heart of Osiris against the ostrich feather of truth on the east. Best of all was the fresh painting on the west wall: Cleopatra as Pharaoh. Let the Council take the bones out of that!
Boom, boom, boom-a-doom-a-dum-dum.
As the mighty cedarwood doors of the temple swung inwards, the Queen suddenly faltered. Priests and priestesses, acolytes, the crowd outside – all would naturally assume she had been blinded by shafts of brilliant white sunshine. They could not possibly know that, for an instant, Cleopatra had forgotten where she was. That, when she stepped into the light, she had been shocked by the alien world into which she had been propelled.
A world which babbled not only too fast, but in Latin.
A world where, in place of the calm, green waters of the life-giving Nile, the Tiber ran, brown and rancid, its lush banks long since vanished under warehouses and wharves. Despite the heat of the sunshine, she shivered. This was a world inhabited by fair-skinned people whose women were chattels, handed over from father to husband without rights, and whose men swaddled themselves in thick woollen togas, even in this merciless heat. There were other differences, too. These barbarians burned their dead. Bent their knee to feeble human gods in devotions which were no better than common horsetrading.
Yet these people ruled the world . . .
It had been easy, while Yntef conducted his ritual divination, the cloudy water swirling in the bowl beneath a film of warm and scented oil, to forget she was no longer in her beloved Alexandria, gazing out from her palace across the Great Sea, feeling its cool breeze brush her lips. Instead Cleopatra was in Rome. A city that, to many, represented the very heart of the enemy . . .
All eyes were upon the Egyptian Queen as she descended the temple steps. Precious stones had been woven into her heavy plaited wig. Amethysts, emeralds, sapphires and pearls, every facet reflecting back sunlight. Bangles and bracelets encircled ankles and arms. Each finger was adorned by a ring, as was each toe, and round her neck hung a shining pectoral of gold. There were times, and this was one of them, when Cleopatra could barely hold herself upright with the weight of the metal but, far from home, her people needed the reassurance of the pomp and the ceremony.
In short, they needed someone to look up to.
Someone to believe in, in these turbulent times.
At the foot of the steps, she held up a hand to stall her bodyguard and beckoned over her Captain of Archers. “You were about to tell me, Benet, what the people of Alexandria really feel about Cleopatra’s liaison with the Roman dictator. Do they fear I am selling them out?”
Benet had still not grown accustomed to his Queen’s forthright manner. It sat strangely at odds with the long-winded words of her political advisers, and he often wondered how she juggled court etiquette with her compulsion to drive straight to the core.
“Far from it,” he replied quietly.
Across the flagged courtyard, shaded with acacias and sacred sycamore trees, Kames scowled his resentment at a mere captain’s confidence with the young Queen.
“When Julius Caesar stormed the palace in Alexandria three years ago,” Benet said, “your Majesty’s people saw hope die in the dust of his four thousand troops.”
“Go on,” Cleopatra urged.
She was not blind to Kames’ scowls. Benet indeed walked a tightrope, but not in the way Kames imagined. Noble from birth, as with everyone else in authority – Kames, included – the Captain of Archers was blessed with the common touch. An ability to tap into the Alexandrians’ innermost feelings, secure their trust, assure them their confidences would not be betrayed. Perhaps, she reflected idly, this was because precious little of her own, highly interbred Macedonian blood ran through Benet’s veins. Benet was a true-born Egyptian.
“By the time Rome trampled the city,” he said, “our own Regency had betrayed its people twice over. First, with the coup which exiled your Majesty in Syria. Then by taking a stand against Rome, a force they could not hope to beat, instead of entering into negotiations. As a result, Egypt believed itself yoked to Rome’s plough with no chance of salvation – until, oh munificent Ra! – the Queen smuggles herself to Caesar wrapped in a rug, and overnight the balance of power swings again!”
It hung unsaid that Julius Caesar imagined that, in Cleopatra, he would be manipulating a sof
t, sweet puppet queen . . .
“From the moment your son was born, your Majesty, the people have embraced Caesarion as Egypt’s heir. Nothing, I promise, has changed in the ten months you have been absent.”
Cleopatra darted a glance across to the boy who lay cradled in his nurse’s arms, his rosebud lips slightly parted in sleep. Caesarion. Little Caesar. She smiled fondly. Who would suspect the child’s exquisite public behaviour owed more to a splash of poppy juice on a sweetmeat than a well-trained royal disposition? Caesarion was a lusty two-year-old, with a lusty two-year-old’s energy and a lusty two-year-old’s lungs. His mother had no intention of curbing either. That boy was the future Pharaoh and his spirit would never be tamed. Indomitable through inheritance, that spirit would soar. Higher than his father’s eagle it would rise. And the breadth of its shadow would be unsurpassed . . .
“You wouldn’t lie to me, Benet?”
Why should the common masses back her, when half her Council rejected Caesarion’s claim to royal blood and believed the Queen wielded far too much power as it was. Power, which should rightly be theirs –
The Captain of Archers looked deep into her eyes. “I would never lie to you, your Royal Highness.”
He knew full well that the 18-year-old chit who had mounted the throne on Ptolemy’s death had not proved the pliable young thing these shadowy figures had hoped. A truth the Roman Dictator had yet to discover . . .
“Good.” She flashed Benet a wicked grin. “Because the last man who betrayed me died the Death of One Thousand Cuts, the first slicing off his treacherous tongue.”
His eyes smiled. “A point I shall bear in mind in the future – Holy Ra!”
Cleopatra’s head turned in the direction his and 50 others were turned. For once, she was unable to control her gasp of surprise. Renenutet, still wearing the silver mask of the cat, was standing, arms outstretched, on the roof of the House of Scribes. Her pleated linen gown billowed softly round her ankles in the sticky breeze.
