Flaminius stared at him. Arctos was no youngster, he knew that much. He had never seen his face, but his hands were those of an old man, wrinkled and liver spotted. Was there another arch plotter? Someone behind even Arctos?
‘Very well,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll accept your mission. As Apuleius Victor says, I was investigating this matter anyway. I’ll expect the cooperation of the civic guard and your whole espionage network.’ When the prefect waved a hand airily, he added, ‘I’ll leave you to your onerous duties here and go to speak with these Praetorians. First, however, I must find my chief agent and reassure him that I haven’t been abducted by Arctos’ men. Do I have your leave to go? Sir?’
The prefect inclined his head with all the graciousness of the long-ago monarch he was aping, and Flaminius turned and walked out of the imperial box, descending into the gloom of the stairway.
—4—
Apuleius Victor followed. As both came out into the sunlight, the impresario said, ‘Where do you intend to go now?’
‘To the gladiators’ school,’ Flaminius said. ‘I want to collect my belongings.’ He noticed the impresario’s expression. ‘Is there a problem with that?’
‘Since my Family is disbanded,’ Apuleius Victor said, ‘The school has been let out to one of the other Families attending the Games of Hadrian. Your cell had to be prepared for Memnon the Ethiopian.’
He opened the doors of the carriage and produced a bundle. ‘But I kept ahold of your belongings,’ he said. ‘Did you know you left your brooch behind?’
It glittered on top of the pile of clothes, along with a sheathed dagger. Hastily Flaminius took the latter and strapped it on. This done, he showed the impresario the lancehead brooch.
‘You know what power this gives me?’ he asked. Apuleius Victor nodded. ‘As an agent of the empire, I am requisitioning your carriage and your driver,’ he went on. ‘And also your aid until the end of the Days of Hadrian celebrations.’
Apuleius Victor looked at him expressionlessly as he got up beside the driver. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘You’ll find me in the gladiators’ school. I’ve still got my office there, even if I use it for other work these days. May I ask what the imperial agent has in mind?’
‘Firstly,’ Flaminius said, ‘I’m going to collect my own agent, as I said. Then I’ll start tracking down Arctos. You don’t happen to have any information on his syndicates, do you?’
‘Of course,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘After our raid a few days ago, we have most of them under guard in the palace of Hadrian, although Arctos himself escaped of course. Come to my office later and I’ll have a report transcribed for you, or you could visit them in the palace if you prefer. Farewell.’
He went back up the steps to the imperial box.
Flaminius saw that the driver was looking at him resentfully. ‘Take me to the Greek Quarter,’ he said. The man whipped up his horses and drove them back towards the walled city of Alexandria.
Flaminius lay back against the seat, deep in thought. Hit had taken some gall to requisition Apuleius Victor’s carriage, but he was glad. Walking back to Ozymandias’ townhouse would have been hellish in this heat.
Alexandria had been founded in this part of the country because the climate was cooler than most of Egypt, but right now in the Dog Days it was sweltering. Besides, if Arctos was back in the city, Flaminius had better not go on foot, or alone. Not that he feared for his life at Arctos’ hands, not straightaway, anyway. He knew too much for that. But if any of Arctos’ people were tailing him like Apuleius Victor’s men had been, he would be able to shake them off.
Passing through the Gate of the Sun they came into the city proper and the carriage rattled down the wide pillar lined boulevard towards the Greek Quarter. After he reassured Ozymandias that he had not been snatched by the enemy, he would take a trip down to the palace of Hadrian and its cells. If anyone could give him an idea of where he might find Arctos, it would be a gang member.
At last they left the main boulevard, the Canopic Way, and under Flaminius’ instructions the driver took them through a series of side streets.
Shortly after they were pulling up outside Ozymandias’ townhouse. Flaminius jumped down.
‘Do you want me to wait here for you, sir?’ the man asked.
Flaminius shook his head. ‘Return to your normal duties,’ he said. ‘I won’t be needing you.’
As the driver drove back down the street, Flaminius strode to the door and rapped on it. Time to find Ozymandias and renew the search for Arctos.
The porter opened the door and peered at him suspiciously.
‘You remember me,’ Flaminius said. ‘Gaius Flaminius Drusus. I want to see your master.’
The porter seemed surprised. ‘The master has gone to the palace of Hadrian,’ he said. ‘The mistress is here…’
‘Let Gaius enter!’
Nitocris’ voice was tremulous, emotional. The porter ushered Flaminius into the vestibule.
The Egyptian girl was standing in the door to the atrium, clinging on to the door jamb. ‘My brother said you had been abducted!’ she said. ‘Men snatched you and rode off with you! I told him he should have gone after them.’
Flaminius laughed heartily, striding over. ‘Just overzealous hirelings of the prefect,’ he said. ‘Haterius Nepos has got wind of what’s going on at last and he decided to waste my time. Your slave says Ozymandias has gone to the palace of Hadrian.’
Nitocris nodded emphatically. ‘To report your abduction!’ she said. ‘He said that you were in the hands of this Arctos, that they would be torturing you for information.’ Her big eyes grew even bigger. ‘He said they tortured you when you were last their prisoner.’
Flaminius flinched. ‘They did knock me about a bit,’ he admitted, ‘but then your brother and his friends set me free.’
‘Ozymandias did?’ Nitocris seemed unable to believe such heroic deeds possible of her brother-husband. She laid a hand on Flaminius’ arm. ‘Where are my manners? Will you come through into the atrium? I’ll call a slave to bring wine.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Flaminius placed his hand on hers to gently remove it, ‘I’d better be getting down to the palace before the civic guard starts quartering the city for me.’ At his touch, she trembled like a small bird. ‘Besides, there are prisoners in the cells who I want to speak to.’
‘Oh,’ said Nitocris. ‘Well… I suppose I’ll just stay here. But come back, won’t you, Gaius? Is it proper for me to call you Gaius? My brother seemed to think it was wrong, and he knows more about Roman ways than I do…’
Flaminius removed his hand. ‘Of course you can call me Gaius,’ he insisted. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’ Was he encouraging this girl’s infatuation? The empire was at stake and he was flirting with the wife of one of his chief agents. ‘I must go,’ he added. She saw him out.
Moments later, he was striding towards the palace of Hadrian, one of the palaces in the Greek Quarter, which had been home to the ruling class of the city since its earliest days. Now Romans ruled over Greeks, Egyptians, Judaeans and all the other people of the city, and the entire palace complex, which stretched as far as the Museum and the Library, was the administrative centre not only for the city but for the province as a whole. The prefect had his offices here, as opulent as any Pharaonic palace, and he spent much of his time in them when his duties did not take him elsewhere—the amphitheatre, for instance.
Flaminius strode up the palace steps.
His way was barred by two spear carrying civic guards. He flashed them his lancehead brooch. ‘I’m looking for my colleague,’ he told them, ‘Ozymandias, who used to work here as a scribe. He’s come to report my abduction.’
The civic guards lowered their spears and sent him to the main office where scribes sat cross legged on the floor, busy over their writing tablets. Ozymandias stood on one side with a man in the uniform of a civic guard commander, both studying a plan of the city.
‘Ozymandias,’
Flaminius said easily, joining them. ‘And, er, commander. You look busy. Sorry to intrude…’
Ozymandias whirled round. ‘Flaminius! You escaped?’
Flaminius laughed. ‘I had nothing to escape from,’ he said. ‘Just an urgent summons from the prefect.’
‘Is that so?’ said the civic guard commander, a bearded Roman citizen with a classic Italian look about him. With a start, Flaminius recognised him as Gabinius Camillus, who he had last seen in a compromising position with a gladiator. ‘I heard nothing of this. Really, Haterius Nepos could keep me better informed. We’ve been planning patrols to scour the Egyptian Quarter for you, tribune.’
‘Very efficient of you, commander,’ said Flaminius. ‘Luckily I’ve saved your men the trouble. But your preparations could well prove useful. I came here because one of your agents tells me that you have some of Arctos’ men locked up in the cells below.’
The civic guard commander looked away. Did he remember Flaminius from the orgy at the gladiators’ school? ‘I know nothing of anyone called Arctos,’ he said, ‘but a few nights back we made a raid on a house belonging to the syndicate and we took several prisoners. The ringleader escaped into the marshes…’
‘That’s Arctos,’ said Flaminius. ‘At least that’s the name he’s using. We have reason to believe he’s from very high up in the hierarchy. Seems to know his imperial majesty personally. And we also have believe that he’s returned to the city.’ He gave an edited account of his escapades in the Delta. The commander listened intently.
‘And you wish to question the prisoners?’ he asked when Flaminius had finished. Flaminius nodded. ‘They have already been questioned, of course,’ the commander added with a tinge of resentment. ‘I have the reports to hand.’
‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius. ‘If you could provide me with copies, I’ll read them at my leisure.’ The commander called for a scribe to begin the work of copying. Flaminius thanked him. ‘However,’ he added, ‘I think it would be beneficial if I spoke to the prisoners myself.’
‘I fail to see the bearing illegal gambling rings in Alexandria have on the legion,’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘Crime in the city is the business of the civic guard. You’ll receive the reports in due course.’
Flaminius sighed. ‘You don’t understand the true scope of Arctos’ operation.’
‘Then tell me,’ the commander invited impatiently.
‘It’s not something I’m at liberty to discuss,’ Flaminius said, ‘not at any length. But I can tell you that this is more than a crime syndicate. Arctos threatens the stability of the entire empire.’
The commander laughed. ‘Look here, tribune,’ he said. ‘I don’t quite see…’
‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘You don’t. But I do, and I know that this is a matter of the utmost urgency. What’s more, the prefect himself has ordered me to investigate. And I intend to get to the bottom of this before the province if not the empire descends into chaos. So if you wouldn’t mind, Gabinius Camillus, I would very much like it if you could see your way to permitting me to interrogate your prisoners.’
The commander looked at him long and hard. ‘I would have thought a man in my position would not be kept in the dark if the situation is so grave,’ he said at last. ‘But if you are working for the prefect, it means we’re colleagues. Very well.’ He snapped his finger at a civic guard and ordered him to assist them.
A quarter of an hour later they were down in the cellars that Flaminius remembered so well. Flaminius sat on a folding camp stool, Ozymandias stood at his side, civic guards flanked them. Standing before them was the first of the prisoners, a burly man with the look of a wrestler. He was in fact a gladiator and gave his name as Crixus.
‘Is that your real name?’ Flaminius asked, ‘or your stage name?’
‘My real name,’ the big man rumbled, ‘is Bikilis.’
‘Are you a free gladiator or a slave?’
‘Free,’ said Bikilis.
‘How did you come to join the crime syndicate?’ Flaminius asked. ‘If you are a free gladiator you could leave your Family at any time. As long as you fight well, you stand to earn substantial amounts in prize money. So what is the attraction of crime?’
‘I was promised even bigger sums of money,’ Bikilis said, ‘if I lost a few bouts when the odds were high.’
‘Wasn’t there a risk of being killed?’ Ozymandias asked him. ‘If you lost, your life would depend on the whim of the mob, or the prefect, or whoever was in the imperial box.’
Bikilis gave the Egyptian a look of manly contempt. ‘It was all in the way of a gamble,’ he said. ‘A coward wouldn’t understand.’
‘A coward wouldn’t become a gladiator,’ said Flaminius. ‘A coward might well live to a ripe old age and die in comfort surrounded by his loved ones, but each to their own. Tell me about Arctos.’
‘I’ve already told the civic guard about him,’ said Bikilis sullenly.
Flaminius glanced at the copy of the report that he had received shortly beforehand. Looking over the sheaf of papyrus he peered at the recent burns on Bikilis’ limbs.
‘The interrogator certainly didn’t stint himself,’ he commented, nodding at a brawny man in a black tunic who stood beside a glowing brazier, turning over the tools of his trade with a clinking sound. ‘But I don’t think the commander knew what he was looking for. Do you?’
Bikilis gave the interrogator an anxious look, then shrugged. ‘Depends on what you want to know,’ he said.
‘I want to know where Arctos is now,’ Flaminius told him.
Bikilis shrugged again. ‘He ran off, didn’t he?’ he said resentfully. ‘How should I know where he is? I suppose he’s gone to that encampment of his, out in the Delta. I went there once, but all those channels through the marshes… I couldn’t guide you for all the gold in Rome.’
‘No need,’ said Flaminius. ‘He did go to his encampment, but then he returned to the city. He came back today, to a meeting with someone in the Library. Who might that have been?’
‘The Mechanist,’ said Bikilis promptly.
‘The Mechanist?’ Ozymandias echoed.
Bikilis nodded. ‘Don’t ask me any more, but I know he had a contact called the Mechanist. Maybe someone at the Library or the Museum. How should I know? I’m a gladiator.’
‘Knowing might secure you a better future,’ said Flaminius. ‘You’re already a gladiator, but what if you were sentenced to become a venator? An unfree beast fighter?’
‘Or a galley slave,’ suggested Ozymandias. ‘Nothing heroic about that, just a life expectancy of at the most three months and no pretty girls swooning at the sight of your muscles. Or we could break you on the wheel, flog you raw, brand you with hot irons…’
Flaminius grinned. The Egyptian was certainly getting into the swing of things; cruel people, these barbarians, even when given Roman citizenship. He remembered Aesop’s fable of the wind and the sun; sometimes kindness can get better results than harshness. ‘Of course, there’s a chance that if you cooperate, we’ll do everything in our power to get a new life for you, somewhere none of these people can find you.’
‘I don’t know anything about the Mechanist,’ said Bikilis. ‘I never met him. All I can tell you is that if Arctos is in Alexandria, you could do worse than look for him in the City of the Dead.’
—5—
Flaminius and Ozymandias exchanged glances. ‘The City of the Dead,’ said Flaminius. ‘You mean the Alexandrian necropolis? Are you telling us that Arctos is dead?’
‘I’ve said as much as I’m going to say,’ the gladiator replied. ‘Torture me if you want. I’ve faced worse. Send me to the galleys. Why should I help you? In the arena I had a reputation as an unyielding man.’
‘I’m sure you were,’ said Flaminius. ‘Hard as a rock. Bikilis,’ he mused. ‘That’s a Thracian name, isn’t it? I knew a Thracian gladiator they called Petrus.’
‘You know Petrus?’ Bikilis’ eyes widened. Then he shook his head. ‘No.
You didn’t know him,’ he said bitterly. ‘You just watched him shed his blood.’
‘I knew him,’ said Flaminius quietly.
‘What was his true name, then?’ Bikilis asked. ‘His Thracian name, I mean. If you knew him, truly knew him, you would know his true name.’
Flaminius wracked his brain. Petrus had told him once. ‘Sitalkes,’ he said at last.
Bikilis studied the imperial agent. ‘You did know him, then,’ he said. ‘Petrus would never tell that name to people he didn’t trust or respect. When did you know him? What is he doing now?’
‘He’s with the shades,’ said Flaminius. ‘He was poisoned. By members of the syndicate!’ He didn’t point out that they had been undercover agents of the civic guard. That sort of detail was just too confusing.
Bikilis’ face, which had brightened momentarily, plummeted at this news. ‘Petrus dead,’ he said. ‘Poisoned by the syndicate.’ He shook his head. ‘I knew it went on, but not Petrus. We were in the quarries together.’
‘I thought you said you were a free gladiator,’ said Ozymandias.
‘I am free,’ the Thracian said. ‘I’m a freedman. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.’
Flaminius laughed. ‘Ozymandias knows only too well,’ he said. ‘Look here, these reminiscences are all very well, but we need to know if Arctos is alive or dead.’
‘I’ve not heard anyone say that he’s dead,’ said the gladiator. ‘But when he’s in town, he spends his nights in a ruinous mausoleum in the City of the Dead.’ He hung his head. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘It’s a start,’ said Flaminius thoughtfully. ‘Somewhere to begin.’ He raised his voice. ‘Take him back to the cells.’
‘Are you going to accept that meagre scrap?’ Ozymandias was indignant. ‘Tell the interrogator to do his work! Wring the truth from him!’
Flaminius shook his head as the civic guards marched Bikilis from the interrogation chamber. He glanced at the report. ‘We’ll see what Mycerinus the Hermopolite has to say for himself. I might need you to translate what he says. He’s clearly a native Egyptian.’
The Archimedes Stratagem Page 4