‘If you were to tell me such,’ I said at length, ‘I might be inclined to ask what you were talking about. The only evils I have encountered in Alexandria or in Egypt are the usual sort proceeding through the ambitions and greed of those who would have what was not rightly their own.’
‘The relic you are here to seek my help in finding,’ Anastasius answered, ‘does not exist. The reason nobody knew of its existence before the arrival here of your friend Priscus is that nobody before then had heard of it. Your belief that it is identical to the object that the Brotherhood was persuaded by Leontius to seek is purely assumption. If the Brotherhood now seems to share your assumption, that does not make it true.
‘Leontius approached the Brotherhood with a scheme that fitted its own interests as he explained it. His uncle spent his entire life and fortune on researches into a past that was buried at the triumph of the Faith. He sought an intercourse with demons who, for ages, had masqueraded under the names of the national deities. In return for honours of which they had, in recent ages, been starved, he hoped to receive powers that would extend the natural course of his life – and might even put off his death indefinitely. With this would come a more than human ability to gain and hold dominion over the earth.’
‘Yet he died almost penniless,’ I observed drily. ‘And Leontius, who I imagine succeeded to these researches, still died hardly richer.’ I thought again of that old woman outside Richborough. ‘You’ll be dead within ten days,’ she’d croaked when she caught me stealing the eggs I’d been told might keep the pestilence from taking my brothers. My brothers had been taken anyway. But that had all been ten years before, and I was still here. I suppose that had started the train of thought culminating in my discovery in the mission library in Canterbury of those attacks on Epicurus. It wasn’t a train of thought to be upset now by yet more sorcery claims. If I could despise an emperor for believing in the incredible, what authority had some unrecognised Patriarch of a religion that, orthodox or heretical, I thought absurd?
‘They both perished in the same manner,’ Anastasius went on, ‘before they had been able to complete the last irrevocable step to worldly dominion. That step requires possession of an object that sleeps somewhere beneath the burning sands of the desert.
‘When you arrived last spring, Leontius made himself the connecting point between the landed interest that you knew at once was your opposition, and the Brotherhood, whose support was needed should you grow desperate enough to appeal directly to the children of the soil. The landowners would furnish him with money, the Brotherhood with the human means needed for his excavations.
‘The story of the relic is an invention of the present month. It may have been useful for bringing over those elements of the Brotherhood that have some connection with the Faith. In the end, Leontius did overreach himself. But the politics of the Brotherhood are more complex than you realise. The Christian elements never did trust him. They were outweighed by those other elements who thought him a useful idiot for destabilising the government in Alexandria. When he raised the matter of the Philae subsidy, and when you immediately had it cancelled, those in the True Faith appear to have moved – sure there would be no protest now in the higher councils – to end his life in the approved manner for the destruction of such creatures as he was suspected of wanting to become.’
‘So, there is no chamber pot of Jesus Christ?’ I asked, focusing on one of the points that really mattered, the other one being, of course, the treason of those bastard landowners. ‘Not even though much evidence points to its existence in Soteropolis?’
Anastasius sipped long and thoughtfully. Unblinking, his eyes had turned stony cold. ‘Alaric,’ he said, ‘since I plainly have no way of persuading you I am not a superstitious old fool, I see no point in prolonging our conversation. I will simply say that you are guided at present by forces beyond your understanding, and that would be beyond your control even if you did understand them. I beg you to give up the search you have begun. No good can come of it. In particular, I do urge you not to leave Alexandria again. While you remain here, you are safe. So is Egypt. So is the Empire. The moment you leave, you are once more in danger of falling into the hands of the enemies of the Empire – and the enemies of all that is good in this world. If I speak to John, he will speak to Nicetas. Your warrants will be sealed, and you can go back to Constantinople with all necessary evidence of a mission completed. If it eventually gets back that the warrants have been received throughout Egypt as a dead letter, it will be too late for any blame to attach to you.
‘But I beg you: give up this search now. Or if your pride really is committed, give up all meaningful activity in the search. I cannot otherwise do more than pray for your safety, and for the continuation of Imperial rule in Egypt – and for the continued existence of the Christian Faith itself in Egypt.’
I put my cup down and looked steadily at the man. I had no doubt he believed everything he was telling me. And it had been useful. Forget all the nonsense about ancient evils – I could now see a way to having those landowners by the balls. I looked round for a question that would bring us back to the politics of the matter.
‘You are telling me,’ I began slowly, ‘that Leontius was a sorcerer. I will not speculate how this corresponds with his known incompetence in other respects. But I will ask if his sorcery was generally known. I am hearing it from you for the first time.’
‘It was known, and, where not known for sure, it was suspected,’ came the reply. ‘You will have heard that John, my brother Patriarch, refused his body burial in consecrated ground, and that his remaining friends had to arrange an interment outside the walls of Alexandria.’
I hadn’t heard this. I’d been in the south. No one had bothered telling me on my return. But I pursed my lips knowingly.
‘I was consulted by one of your main opponents about a month ago,’ Anastasius continued. ‘I told him to obey the law made by the Emperor. Heraclius may be ill-advised on theology and on the situation in Egypt. But he is the ruler ordained by God. I told him to avoid the counsels of any outside power – a power that has nothing good in mind for Egypt or Alexandria. As I have said, however, I have less influence, even among the better classes, than might be desired.’
‘You tell me,’ I said, ‘that the relic does not exist. Am I right in believing that you are alone in this opinion?’
Anastasius nodded.
More useful knowledge. It meant my planned excavation of Soteropolis could still go ahead. It might no longer be the only way to get the land law implemented, but it was still eminently worth the effort so far as the reserve stock was concerned. As another of the nuns came in with more documents, I fell to thinking what might be and where I could find the minimum evidence needed to have those landlords up for treason or sorcery or both. This had indeed been a productive morning.
I was also thinking of my next conversation with Macarius. I’d been too easy, it seemed, about dropping the matter of the old man and his girl in the Egyptian quarter. His negligence – or his deception by silence – in this matter was far graver. There was also his use of the word ‘object’, when I’d been discussing the relic with him. Anastasius hadn’t been the only one in the know.
As we moved to vague pleasantries in front of the nun, the meeting came to an end. I took my leave of Anastasius out in the courtyard.
‘My blessing goes with you,’ he called out in a halting Latin that it was sure none around him could understand. ‘If you will not hear me in your single-minded pursuit of what is ultimately unimportant, may God in His Mercy keep you from danger.’
I looked back from my chair. He remained where we’d parted, watching me until the gate had closed between us.
Chapter 32
The web of little streets that surrounded the Heretical Patriarch’s residence was surprisingly empty as we passed back through them. On our way here, they’d been never less than busy. I think we now passed more dogs than people. Small, mangy, suspiciou
sly calm in the baking sun, they pawed through the piles of refuse in search of something that wouldn’t make even them sick. For a hundred yards at a time, the only sound was often the patter of my slaves as they hurried my chair along, and the more solid tramp of the guards beside me.
At first, the cheers might have been some trick of the breeze on the roof tiles. As we came closer to their source though, there was no mistaking them. It was the sort of massed sound I’d last heard on a trip to the Circus in Constantinople. As we turned back into the square from which we’d get more or less straight back to the Wall, we hit what seemed a solid mass of flesh. It was as if the entire Egyptian quarter had come out and packed itself into one place. Men stood there in work overalls, others in the clothes they’d worn to church. A couple of ladies sat in closed chairs. They were all looking to the middle of the square, to a fountain that no longer worked. Standing in the dry bowl, a man was haranguing them. He was a large, well-dressed man in perhaps his late fifties. I couldn’t understand him, but he was putting on an impressive display of bellows and gestures. Standing around him were a handful of lowish thugs – probably his bodyguards – and a couple of priests.
On the steps surrounding the fountain stood some dozen of the native men of quality. They weren’t landowners – merchants, more like – and they probably kept to their own side of the Wall. I didn’t know any of them. But I did know of them. I’d never yet heard that they had any time for sedition. They had as much, after all, to lose if the mob ran out of control as anyone of the possessing classes who spoke Greek. Here they were, though, openly supporting what I had no doubt was bitter hostility – at least by implication – to the Imperial government here and in Egypt.
And then – it was the crowning glory on that morning. Lurking just behind those native men of quality was that wretch who’d tried facing me down in the Great Hall of Audience. He had his hat on again, but I’d not have mistaken those Ethiopian lips anywhere, or that look of exalted hate covering the rest of his face. As I watched, he passed up a note to the speaker, and performed a little dance of triumph as it was turned into the appropriate snarling rhetoric. So much for damning the ‘wogs’! I thought. The next time I saw Nicetas, it would be with a stack of arrest warrants for him to seal. Inciting the mob to violence was treason in anyone’s book. By the time I’d finished with these turds, they’d be begging on bended knees for the deal on their land so lately thrown back in my face. Oh, I’d leave the deal unchanged. Why go for more than you need when it’s dropping so nicely into your lap?
I think the landowner saw me as we pushed our way into the square. Certainly, the next time I had a clear view through the crowd, he was no longer in his place. The speaker was still in full flow. If I couldn’t understand what he was saying, its burden wasn’t at all hard to guess. As he paused and, with a dramatic wave, pointed in the rough direction of the Eastern Harbour, where the grain fleet awaited its orders to depart, the whole mob took up that chant about the Tears of Alexander. By now, I knew that one well enough. Like regular peals of thunder, it rolled again and again from thousands of throats. For disciplined loudness, I really hadn’t heard anything to match it since my last Circus attendance. With every repeat, the speaker would throw up his arms and laugh into the sky.
No one was pressing against us. But the chair was beginning to wobble out of control as the carrying slaves panicked. I prodded the two in front with my slave stick and leaned forward with calm words and promises of money. Visibly scared, the guard officer looked at me for instructions. ‘No drawn swords,’ I mouthed in Latin. I flicked a fold of my robe over my own sword. He was still looking at me. ‘No drawn swords,’ I mouthed again, this time in Slavonic. He nodded and made the appropriate gesture to his men. Was it worth turning round and trying the back streets? Forcing a way through this seemed about as sensible as shoving your head into a lion’s mouth.
But now the two Sisters of Saint Artemisia stepped forward. They’d come with us supposedly as guides. I don’t suppose Anastasius had thought it would do with me to explain their real use. They walked straight forward into the mob, calling out something over and over again that included the name of their saint. One of them was waving her arms in the air. The sleeves of her gown fell away, showing thin and hideously scarred, but at the same time muscular, arms.
It was like passing through a night mist that was repelled by torches. As the Sisters advanced, the crowd hollowed out around them. From behind, it closed in again. So, one Sister on each side of us, we passed safely through. The speaker never let up his flow of oratory, other than to give the main crowd room for its increasingly monotonous responses. But if people looked murder at me as I sat still in my chair, with a probably failed attempt at the haughty, no one dared step into the slow-moving void created by the Sisters.
‘If you’ll pardon the expression, sir, it’s fucking chaos all over,’ the police officer shouted as we paused at the Egyptian side of the Wall. The mob was now bellowing its guts out in the square, about a quarter-mile back. By the Wall, a smaller mob – or perhaps a grouping of mobile crowds – was striking up the usual chant. Boys darted quickly in and out of the side streets, sometimes screaming abuse, sometimes throwing stones. I wondered why the police didn’t pull back to our side of the Wall. There was little enough they could do this side to keep order. And these occasional stone showers had already caused injuries.
‘It’s the grain ships, you see,’ the man explained with a look in the direction of the cheering. ‘Both the wogs and our own people think they shouldn’t go out. We’re stretched thin both sides of the Wall. If the Jews turn nasty, we don’t know how we’ll manage.’ He twisted round and shouted an order to some archers who’d appeared along the top of the Wall. They steadied their bows and let fly. They weren’t aiming to kill. It was flesh wounds they inflicted on some of the boys. They fell down screaming. The others backed off. The police moved forward to secure the vacated ground.
It wasn’t much better on the Greek side. Just like at night, the mobs were rushing up and down the streets, passing from agitator to agitator. This side of the Wall, I could at least understand what it was all about. As I’d expected, it was the grain fleet. Perhaps worse, it was also claims about the quantity and management of the supplies left in the granaries.
We’d left the Sisters behind as we passed through the gate. Now, if less scary, the streets were more impassable. We moved slowly down Main Street. Its great width served only to contain the so far aimless crowds of the hungry poor and their troublemaking leaders. All the shops were shut up and boarded. I glanced into the streets leading off, where the men of quality had their palaces. Being the richest of all the landowners, Apion took up both sides of one street, which was itself terminated by the high walls of his garden. He’d now barricaded the entry to the street, and armed his larger and more ferocious slaves to hold off any concerted attack.
How much had he known of the conspiracy? I wondered. He must have known something. It was bad enough if I’d been kept in the dark. But I was an outsider, only recently arrived. It would have been impossible for a man in his position to know nothing. If he wanted those preferments, he’d need to work considerably harder in my interest than he so far had.
I thought suddenly of the Mistress. How was she keeping in all this? I dismissed the thought. If she wasn’t willing to count on me for her safety, she was on her own – not, I had to admit, that she seemed unable to look after herself.
As we turned into the square before the Palace, the guards came forward to help clear a way through.
‘It’s bad news, My Lord,’ one of them told me as we finally passed through the treble gate into the fortified courtyard. ‘A child died of starvation earlier today in one of the poor districts – the one starting behind the Church of the Virgin. As the father carried her body through the streets, a crowd gathered and gathered behind him. It’s too big now to break up, and no one knows when it will catch fire.’
I looked up at the
high walls of the courtyard. The windows started around sixty feet up. Even if the whole mob – Greek and Egyptian – broke through the front gates, it wouldn’t get any deeper into the Palace. The mob ever in their minds, the Ptolemies had built well.
‘Has my secretary’s chair come back yet?’ I asked. It had. I nodded. Martin hadn’t needed much encouragement to retreat into his own armoured chair for going about Alexandria. Nevertheless, I didn’t want him out on his relic hunt on a day like this.
I walked by myself into the glittering entrance hall of the Palace. It was here that chairs were normally set down, and this was the first view of the Palace that visiting dignitaries would have. At the far back of the hall was a giant mosaic of Alexander putting the Persians to flight. Down the side walls were statues of every emperor from Julius Caesar onwards. Lucky for us only the most Hellenised or loyal of the natives were ever let in. As it was, I was surprised their mob hadn’t yet based one of its chants on the fact that, with Heraclius, every available space down the walls was now filled up.
It had taken so long to get across the square that the eunuch greeters had been able to raise my own household. The slaves stood in a group beside the statue of Septimius Severus. Martin – so hastily changed, he was wearing shoes of different colours – stood to their right. He bowed low at the waist. The slaves threw themselves down in a full prostration. This was a public event, and the eunuchs could be severe judges if the formalities weren’t respected. Once we were through the door behind the statue, it would be more relaxed. The idea was that I should get into my internal chair and have myself carried sedately up the ramps to the fifth floor, where we had our main accommodation. Without those eunuchs looking on, I’d do no such thing. The kava juice had been having its progressive effect on my bladder since we’d left the Egyptian quarter. I was now bursting for a piss. It would be a quick dash up the stairs provided for the slaves.
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