Alexandria

by Lindsey Davis

  I took up the idea. 'So you think Nibytas turned the key one way, then the other, becoming frustrated. The lock was working; the doors were simply jammed. Theon did not come to help him - he was probably already dead inside the room. In the end, Nibytas stormed off, taking the key with him - probably by accident. And in his muddle, he had left the doors locked.'

  'I cannot prove it.'

  'Perhaps not. But it is neat, logical and likely. It convinces me.'

  I told Heron that when he tired of academic life, there would be a job for him as an informer. The great man had the courtesy to say he did not have the brains for it.

  LVI

  Once sluggish cases start moving, a dam-breaking cascade will often burst. Well, Aulus poked about with a stick and made a muddy mess.

  The noble Camillus decided this was the moment to challenge Roxana about her doubtful sighting on the night that Heras died. I should have stopped him, but he was acting out of friendship. He felt he owed it to Heras, so I gave him his head.

  We went to see her together. Helena and Albia insisted on that. They both wanted to come with us but we men took a firm line that we needed no chaperons. Nonetheless, under the influence of Heron, we used our common sense.

  Roxana received us meekly enough. She seemed subdued, and told us that her relationship with Philadelphion had foundered. Apparently, he now had to consider his career - though the bounder had actually claimed he was overcome by wanting to do right by his wife and family. Roxana said she knew a lie when she saw one. Aulus and I glanced at one another, but did not ask how she knew. She would never admit to telling fibs herself, but would blame her dealings with men for teaching her about deception. We were men of the world. We knew that.

  We discussed the night of the crocodile. I let Aulus do the questioning. 'We have been told that on the night in question, you saw Chaereas and Chaeteas, the zoo assistants. True?'

  'Locking up the crocodile,' Roxana agreed.

  'Well, not locking him up, it transpired, 'Aulus told her grimly. 'They were busy talking?'

  'Intently'

  'Why did you not mention this before?'

  'It must have slipped my mind.'

  'You were near enough to overhear their conversation?'

  'Is that what you were told?' asked Roxana narrowly. 'Then I must have been.'

  'You tell me.'

  'I just did.'

  I shifted. I would not have wasted any time on her. But Aulus was determined, so I let him be.

  'This time, try and remember everything. You told me you had also seen a man, near to Sobek's enclosure just before you and Heras realised the crocodile was loose.'

  'He was right there. Doing something by the gate.'

  'And were you still very near the gate?'

  No,' said Roxana, as if explaining to an idiot. 'When I saw the two assistants, then I was close by, on my own, looking for Heras. By the time I saw the other man, they had gone. Heras had arrived, so when we thought there was somebody coming, we took evasive action.'

  'What exactly?'

  'We jumped into the bushes.' She said it without a blush. Well, this was a lady who would climb up a palm tree if her life was threatened.

  'So you were ashamed of being with Heras?'

  'I am not ashamed of anything.'

  Aulus sneered. That was unprofessional, and Roxana smirked at him.

  'So who came along? I am sure you know really,' he admonished her sternly.

  Roxana was a stranger to admonishments. She looked puzzled at his tone.

  'Was it Nicanor?' asked Aulus. In court, Nicanor might have denounced that as a leading question.

  'Well, yes,' faltered Roxana. She made herself sound reluctant. 'It probably was.' Even women who say they are ashamed of nothing may balk at naming a murderer - especially one whose professional expertise means he may get himself off any charges and released back into the community, burning for revenge. 'He hated Philadelphion - perhaps enough to kill him. Yes, I suppose it must have been Nicanor.'

  LVII

  Uncle Fulvius and my father decided I had no work to do, so I could help them. They confessed they were trying to find Diogenes' coin hoard. He had lingered, but had now died of his burns. He expired without regaining consciousness, which spared him great pain but left our pair in a big loss-making situation. Since he seemed to have been a loner, their chances of discovering what he did with their cash were slim.

  'You paid him up front?' I emphasised my astonishment.

  'Who - us? We just paid him a little deposit, Marcus. Showing good faith.'

  'You lost that then!' I said, without much sympathy.

  I refused to be inveigled into helping. Since living in the same house as such a moaning bunch of martyrs then became unbearable, we did what we had come to do. I took Helena, and all the rest of my party, to Giza to see the Pyramids.

  I am not writing a travelogue. Phalko of Rome, long-suffering son of the conniving Phaounios, is a Greek comedy playwright. All I have to say is that it was near enough a hundred miles. It took us two weeks in each direction, travelling at a suitable pace for a family with a pregnant wife and young children. Twenty days of leisure with my dearest relations is of course an unbroken delight for me, always a good Roman, model husband and affectionate father. Trust me, legate.

  When we got there, a sandstorm was blowing. Sand whipped across the raised ground where the three enormous Pyramids were placed all those centuries ago. The sand hurt our bare legs, stung our eyes, tore at our clothes and made it even more difficult than it would have been anyway to deflect the attentions of the guides, with their interminable inaccurate facts, and the leather-faced local hawkers, who were lying in wait to fleece tourists. It was all exhausting. The best way for visitors to avoid the misery of the storm, was to turn their backs on the Pyramids.

  We saw the Sphinx the same day, of course. In the same weather. We stood about, all trying not to be the first to say, 'Well there it is, so when can we go home?'

  'Juno!' cried Helena breezily. 'Who is having a good time then?' That was her mistake. Several of our party told her.

  LVIII

  Theon, the deceased Librarian, was given his funeral just after we returned from our journey to Giza. It was forty days since he had died; in the Egyptian tradition his family had had his body mummified. In those forty days, he had been washed in Nile water, emptied of organs (already removed from him once, at the necropsy), packed with natron to dry and preserve the remains, washed again, repacked with his preserved organs, moisturised with scented oils and wrapped in strips of linen. Spells had been said over him. A scroll with more spells from the Book of the Dead had been placed between his hands, before more bandaging. Amulets were secreted in the bandages. A lifelike painted plaster image of his face was attached to the mummy, which received a golden victor's crown as a sign of his great status.

  I suspected more care was now lavished on the corpse than had been shown to him in life. If family, friends and colleagues had paid greater attention to a man whose mind was unbearably troubled, would Theon still be with us, instead of passing into the afterlife pampered only with the ritual processes of his embalming? There was nothing to gain by dwelling on such thoughts publicly. I had made a report to the Prefect, in which I deduced that the Librarian was despondent about his work and took his own life. I told the Prefect exactly why his work depressed him. That was in confidence. Theon's professional unhappiness was kept quiet, of course, though anyone who was alert might notice the simultaneous departure from office of the Museion Director.

  Plenty of people came to bid farewell to Theon. Philetus was not among them. We heard he had gone south, to whatever ancient temple complex he first came from.

  The funeral took place in a large necropolis just outside the city, where because of his high status, Theon had commissioned a magnificent tomb for himself. Had this been designed and constructed before he actually died? It seemed impolite for casual acquaintances to ask. It was cut from
native rock, though parts were decorated with painted stone courses, in different colours, to create a pretence that it was a building.

  We descended a flight of rock-hewn stairs into an open atrium; there an altar stood beneath the blue sky for the formal ceremonies. Throughout, we observed a curious mixture of Greek and Egyptian decoration. Ionic pillars framed the atrium, but lotus columns flanked the burial chamber. Mourners dined with their dead in a chamber where seats had been carved out, upon which were placed mattresses tor comfort.

  The coffin lay in a sarcophagus that was ornamented with Greek motifs - garlands of vines and olives. It would rest in a painted room where one row of scenes from Greek mythology (the capture of Persephone by Hades as he rode out in his chariot from the Underworld, according to Helena) ran under another scene of traditional mummification procedures. Dog-headed gods and Medusa heads shared the task of protecting the tomb from intruders - but the statue of the Egyptian god was wearing a Roman uniform. Winged Egyptian sun-disks extended over doorways, while a new statue of Theon stood outside the burial chamber, represented with a decidedly Greek fashion for the lifelike - his features familiar, his hair and beard rich and curly. 'Richer and curlier than I remember!' I muttered.

  'Allow him a little vanity' reproved Helena.

  I found his funeral a miserable business. Remembering how we had met him that night, I thought of how he must all the while have been concealing his depression, perhaps even planning how the night would end with his death. We had not known him well enough to see that, nor grieve for him fully now. I refused to have a bad conscience about it. We had listened to his complaints about the Museion; had Theon wanted, he could have warned me of the Director's wrongdoing and sought my help.

  After a while, I was too uncomfortable to stay. I slipped away, again climbed the steps into the necropolis and hung about restlessly. Helena would do our duty. She saw formal attendance today as a reassurance for his relatives and a healing process for his colleagues. I thought it all hypocritical. I was too glum to go through with it.

  The undertaker was outside. Petosiris.

  I hesitated when I saw him. The last time we met, Aulus had hustled him, while I beat up his two assistants. They were here as well, the pair Aulus had named Itchy and Snuffly - still scratching and snuffling. None of them seemed to bear me ill will, however, so we exchanged quiet nods of recognition.

  'Hope you brought the right body today,' I said, on the presumption that jaded professionals always like to have jokes at interments.

  We passed the time of day courteously, as you do, when you are hanging around a burial ground waiting for a funeral to drag to its close.

  When I first emerged, the three mortuary men had been holding a fairly serious conversation. They had broken off when they saw me. Now for some time they went on chattering among themselves. Most of their remarks were in a language that I did not speak. I understood the tone, however. I knew they were talking about me.

  Even so, I was surprised when Petosiris cleared his throat and assumed an almost apologetic manner that I recognised. In the course of my work, other men had approached me in this style, often bringing me some piece of information they claimed I needed. Usually they asked for payment. Sometimes they told me rubbish. But often it was perfectly good information.

  'These lads think I should tell you something, Falco.'

  'I am listening. Go ahead.'

  'I did that Nibytas the other day. The old man who died in the Library.'

  I pulled a face to commiserate. 'I saw the body. I heard you had to cremate him.'

  'Not popular with the relatives,' Petosiris bemoaned. 'A burnt man cannot be reincarnated. Of course,' he said, 'not everyone believes in rebirth nowadays. But for them that do, getting just an urn of ashes can be heart-breaking.'

  'Does the urn go into a tomb?'

  'Numbered shelves. Further down the necropolis. We pack them in a bit, to save space. Not as gracious as this, obviously'

  I nodded, thinking again of that wild night when Chaereas and Chaeteas hounded Diogenes. The manner of their grandfather's burial would have added to their anger. 'So what's to tell me?'

  'The thing is...' Petosiris tailed off. 'Those boys, his grandsons -they were upset about the cremation, of course, but there was something else. I thought I had to tell them what I found.'

  'It might be helpful if you told me.'

  'That's what we were all just saying...'

  Petosiris made a sudden gesture. Two gestures. He placed his hand once on his throat with his fingers splayed, then with both hands he made a quick snap, as if dividing a chicken's wishbone.

  I whistled gently. 'The bone in his throat had been broken?'

  Petosiris nodded. He knew I understood: there is a bone that breaks during strangulation. His grandsons were right. Nibytas did not die of old age. Someone murdered him.

  I thought they were probably right too about who did it.

  Helena had a point. Funerals are always worth going to.

  Philadelphion was among the small group of academic luminaries who attended. When these mourners emerged, I collared him discreetly. I told him I reckoned he probably knew where Chaereas had taken refuge. He need not tell me, but it would do Chaereas a good turn if we knew - and believed - this news from Petosiris. It would not make the old man's death any easier to bear, but it did mean the cousins had some justification for their actions against Diogenes. Chaereas had not been at the top of the Pharos, so no official action would ever be instituted against him. He could return to the zoo and carry on with his life.

  Chaereas might feel that Chaeteas had died in a good cause. I knew what I thought about that, but I passed no judgement. 'How are you managing without them, Philadelphion?'

  'Rather enjoying it! Reminds me of my roots. This kind of situation starts you reassessing.'

  'A rethink? What's this about?'

  'I don't really want the librarianship,' Philadelphion said. 'I like what I do too much.'

  All the same, he made no threat to withdraw from the shortlist. The handsome man had too much social ambition, whatever he was now saying.

  'Well, good luck, whatever happens... Helena and I have been away travelling. Help me catch up, Philadelphion. What happened about Nicanor, after Roxana landed him in trouble? I heard he was arrested, but nothing of what happened after that.'

  Philadelphion laughed shortly. 'Nothing. She retracted her evidence.'

  As I feared. I would have to tell Aulus this just showed the danger of squeezing a short-sighted flibbertigibbet who must have had her conscience sucked out by skilled embalmers. 'How did that happen?'

  'Roxana went to see him -'

  'Nicanor?'

  'Nicanor. She was upset to have caused him trouble, so the dear little thing went to apologise. It all ended with her and Nicanor becoming good friends.'

  'Soft cushion tête-à-têtes for the lawyer? No chance of a reconciliation for you then?'

  Philadelphion looked shifty. Against all credibility it seemed that Roxana and he had in fact made up their differences. Openly guffawing, I demanded how that had been achieved with the famously jealous Nicanor. Easy: her two lovers had formally agreed to share her.

  'Well, you amaze me,' I confessed. 'It does leave one vital question unanswered, however. Did Roxana really see a man letting Sobek out? Was some madman making an attempt to do you harm? If so, why and who was he?'

  'She saw someone, I believe that,' Philadelphion agreed. 'Not Nicanor. I am being extremely careful, just in case this person tries again - but nothing odd has happened. I think he must have given up.'

  'I think you are in danger. I insist on finding out who did it -'

  'Let it go, Falco,' the Zoo Keeper urged. 'Now Theon is in his tomb, let us all quietly resume our daily lives.'

  LIX

  We were leaving Alexandria. Our ship was booked; much of our luggage - now increased by many exotic purchases - was already loaded. We had been to say goodbye to Thalia, onl
y to find that she and her snake Jason had already packed up and moved on to whatever new haunts would be graced by their vivid presence.

  I had made my peace with Pa and Uncle Fulvius, who both looked too smug; I guessed they had traced their supposedly lost deposit, surprisingly, and had begun some terrible new scheme. They would remain here. So for the time being would Aulus, though from various discussions, I reckoned his period of formal study would soon end and we would be seeing him again in Rome. For Helena and me, Albia and the children, our adventure in Egypt now drew to its close. We would sail out under the mighty Pharos, back to the familiar: our own house and the people we had left behind. My mother and sisters, Helena's parents and her other brother, my pal Lucius Petronius, my dog Nux: back home.