The Archimedes Stratagem

by Gavin Chappell

  He crept up the street, ducking from cover to cover towards their tracker’s hiding place. Nitocris walked straight past him.

  ‘Wait…!’ he said urgently. ‘Where are you…?’

  ‘Come out of there!’ she said stridently, halting outside the marble tomb.

  Flaminius watched in surprise as a shamefaced Ozymandias appeared. ‘I thought I’d better keep an eye on you two,’ he said in a small voice. ‘In case you got into trouble.’

  Flaminius wasn’t sure that was the Egyptian’s real reason, but he strode forwards and clasped his hand. ‘Good thinking, Ozymandias,’ he said. ‘Well, your sister’s blown your cover now. You’d better come with us.’

  ‘I saw two men in a parallel street,’ said Ozymandias as they went on. ‘They were watching you. Somehow I don’t think they’re mourners.’

  ‘Arctos’ men?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Somewhere in this labyrinth Arctos has his hideout, when he isn’t staying in the houses of his criminal friends, presumably.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Ozymandias. ‘But for all we know, the prefect’s men are keeping an eye on us.’

  ‘Like you were with us?’ said Nitocris, giving him an appraising look. ‘That was good of you, husband.’ She reached out and stroked his arm. He glowed under her attention. Flaminius looked away in embarrassment.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Nitocris a few minutes later. They were in a street where the tombs stood in ruin, doors broken in, the street itself overgrown. Baboons played along the rooftops and rats skittered about the grass grown cobbles.

  ‘Where d’you suppose we’ll find Arctos’ hideout?’ asked Ozymandias.

  Flaminius looked up and down the funereal street. ‘The Avenue of Elysium,’ he murmured. Only dead trees lined this thoroughfare, dead trees and stumps. Scanning the ground, he saw that someone had been this way in the recent past. The trail led to one tomb, large and yet more ruinous than the rest. Thoughtfully, he pushed at the door.

  It swung open easily. Inside, the tomb was dark and dank, but in the shafts of sunlight falling from the open door, he could see that bedrolls lay in one corner, beneath the shelves on which sat sarcophagi containing painted portraits of the long dead. And in another corner, Nitocris found something else of interest. She could barely carry it, it was that heavy.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said. She was carrying a gladiator helmet. And not just any helmet. Flaminius recognised it at once.

  ‘Arctos’ helmet,’ Ozymandias agreed. ‘But where’s Arctos?’

  ‘He must have come here with his friends,’ said Flaminius, ‘after the meeting in the Library. But now that he’s shed his helmet…’

  ‘…nobody has a clue what he looks like,’ said Ozymandias. ‘But you said you think you know who he is?’

  ‘I narrowed down the field of suspects,’ said Flaminius, ‘to the Roman Senate. Arctos wore a gold senator’s ring. I got quite a close look at it when he seized hold of me. A senator in Egypt. And he was very old, I’d say. Too old to be mixed up in this chicanery. But that’s all we have to go on. Not a lot.’

  Ozymandias looked round the empty tomb and shuddered. ‘The silence,’ he murmured. ‘That was what I always hated, back when I was robbing tombs richer than this one, out in the desert. The silence.’

  There was a clatter from outside. Footsteps in the litter of rubble. Flaminius dashed to the doorway of the tomb. Coming out into the light, he saw two figures vanishing round the far end.

  He hurried after them but on reaching the corner the next street of tombs was empty.

  He returned to the others, who had emerged from the tomb. Nitocris still carried Arctos’ helmet. Ozymandias looked at Flaminius quizzically. He shook his head. ‘They vanished before I could get a good look at them. But they were wearing military belts.’

  ‘Legionaries, then?’ asked Ozymandias. ‘Of the Twenty Second? Maybe it’s not the prefect keeping an eye on us, but the legate himself.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Flaminius. ‘Unless they were Praetorians. But why were they following us? And why did they run away when I went looking for them?’

  His only answer was the eerie sighing of the wind among the dead cypress trees.

  —7—

  At a loss, Ozymandias slapped his hands against his sides. ‘Well, what now?’ he asked. ‘Back to my house? It’s about time for dinner.’ He didn’t seem very enthusiastic about the prospect.

  Nitocris, on the other hand, seemed eager. ‘Yes, please come,’ she said. They began walking back through the Necropolis. Flaminius had seen all he needed to see. ‘Today has been such an adventure.’

  Flaminius looked from one to the other. It wasn’t just the pained look in Ozymandias’ eyes that made him say, ‘No, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll spend the night elsewhere. Let the emperor provide my bed and board. I don’t want to sponge off you two.’

  ‘Really, it’s no trouble,’ said Nitocris.

  ‘After all, it’s the emperor providing most of my money,’ said Ozymandias. ‘You don’t have to stay in barracks!’

  They turned down the main avenue of cypresses, where the tombs were well tended and gleaming. ‘I wasn’t thinking of spending the night in camp,’ said Flaminius. ‘I think I’ll find the information I need at the imperial waystation.’

  As they headed towards the Gate of the Moon and the city of the living, Ozymandias studied him. ‘Oh, I see. You’re looking for another lead.’

  Flaminius nodded. ‘There must be a reason why those Praetorians were trailing us. I don’t want to sound vain, but I rather think it was me who they were following. The prefect told me that while they’re in town they’re staying at the imperial waystation. So I’ll go there, and with any luck I’ll meet them and then we perhaps can exchange notes. They’re investigating the same plot as me.’

  ‘But why would they be following you?’ Nitocris asked.

  ‘And why did they run?’ Flaminius replied. ‘I don’t know the answer to either question. But one way or another I’m going to find out—at the waystation.’

  ‘It’s a long way to the waystation on foot,’ Ozymandias observed. ‘Let me lend you a horse.’

  They parted in the porch of Ozymandias’ house, Ozymandias and Nitocris standing in the doorway, Flaminius holding the reins of the magnificent bay stallion Ozymandias had loaned him, which he intended to ride across the city to Nicopolis where the imperial waystation was located.

  ‘Take care,’ said Nitocris.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ozymandias with added emphasis. ‘Take care! You know there are people looking for you. We really shouldn’t let you out of our sight. Maybe you ought to ask the civic guards to accompany you.’

  Flaminius smiled. ‘Not even Arctos is going to snatch me from the Canopic Street in the middle of an Alexandrian afternoon,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m more likely to find out what I know if I court danger.’ He shook hands with Ozymandias, embraced Nitocris. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He rode out of the Greek Quarter and down the bustling, column-lined boulevard, guiding his steed through heterogenous crowds of Nubians and Galatians, Arabians and Armenians, horse litters and elephants. Only Rome was larger than Alexandria; the city seemed big enough to fit the whole of the province of Britain into it several times. And the suburbs sprawled for miles alongside the road that led to the fashionable seaside resort of Canopus.

  Outside the city, he saw the walls of the camp and the amphitheatre looming on the horizon, and he increased his pace. The Games would be ending soon, the roads packed with citizens returning to their homes or flocking to the temples for a night of Bacchic celebration.

  Passing the camp he rode south. The waystation was near the Canopic Canal, a low two-storey building with white stuccoed walls and red tiled roof, like every other waystation Flaminius had ever stayed in from one end of the empire to the other.

  He rode into the courtyard and flung his reins to a slave who appeared from the stables, then dismounted and strode stiff legged in
to the crowded common room.

  ‘A bed for the night,’ he requested of the tough looking old man behind the bar, showing him his lancehead brooch. ‘And an evening meal.’

  ‘Coming right up, sir,’ said the waystation keeper, a retired centurion if Flaminius had ever seen one, who must have sold up the farm he’d received on demob day and taken on this job. ‘We’ve not got many rooms fit for an imperial courier, but we’ll find you a bed.’ He leaned closer. ‘Coupla Praetorians in the biggest room.’ He looked impressed, and Flaminius did his best to feign surprise. ‘Not had any Praetorians here in eight years.’

  ‘Praetorians, eh?’ Accepting a bowl of bean stew and a flagon of rough wine, Flaminius sat down at the bar. ‘Any idea what they’re doing in the province?’

  The waystation keeper wiped furiously at an invisible stain on the bar top. ‘Can only mean that the emperor is on his way,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be speaking of it to all and sundry, but I can trust a courier. Maybe you know more than me.’

  ‘Maybe I do,’ said Flaminius. Again, that common mistake, but he didn’t think he should correct the voluble old man. If he knew that he was speaking to an imperial agent, he would clam right up. ‘So when did they arrive, these Praetorians?’

  ‘Today,’ the waystation keeper said, ‘late this morning. Strange thing was, they’d just come into town after a long journey, reported to the prefect I suppose, then come here. But their clothes were clean. No travel stains. Almost like they’d been here a day or two.’

  Flaminius considered this. The prefect said that the Praetorians had been shipwrecked and encountered trouble with river pirates. This, plus the fact they had been tailing him during his visit to the City of the Dead, seemed a little curious. Were these men all they seemed?

  ‘I’d like to speak with these Praetorians,’ he told his host. ‘I’ll take a visit to the bathhouse then sit myself over in the corner there. You give me the nod when they turn up, will you?’ He placed a drachma in the waystation keeper’s hands.

  ‘Be my guest,’ said the old man. ‘You’re the imperial courier. They went out earlier, said they had to speak to a man about a gladiator.’

  After a much-needed bath, Flaminius came back into the common room to sit in the corner with a cup of wine. He had been pondering the waystation keeper’s words but could make no sense of them.

  He was still sitting there two hours later, and the common room was almost deserted now, but there had been no sign of the Praetorians. And he was tired.

  He’d almost fallen asleep while bathing. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the mauling he’d received at the hands of Arctos and his men. He was getting old! Time was, he’d take that kind of thing in his stride. But now…why, he was almost twenty-five! Old and tired. And he needed his bed.

  ‘No sign of your honoured guests,’ he said to the old man, who was mopping a spill from the bar. ‘I hope to see them in the morning. Right now, I’ll be taking to my bed.’

  The waystation keeper looked up. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ll lead you there.’

  Up a short flight of steps and along a passage he took Flaminius, holding an oil lamp high up, so flickering shadows danced across the whitewashed walls. Producing a key from his belt, he opened the third door from the far end, and ushered Flaminius inside. It was a smallish room with a bunk, a table containing another oil lamp, and a window with a view of the canal.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius as the old man departed. He sat down on the bed, took off his sandals, left his tunic on in case it got colder, but removed his belt and the dagger in its belt sheath and placed them on the table. Then he picked up the lamp, pinched its wick and as darkness descended got wearily into bed, his room lit only by a gleam of starlight from the little window and disturbed only by the shouting of crewmen aboard passing boats.

  The waystation keeper shuffled back down into the common room. Now that the imperial courier had gone to bed, it was empty. Time to shut up shop.

  Just as he was about to lower the bolt on the big main doors, he heard a pounding from outside. Opening the door he looked out irritably. His expression abruptly one of obsequious welcome, he ushered two big men into the bar.

  ‘There was a man waiting here for you,’ he said as he poured two goblets of wine. ‘Seemed eager to meet you. An imperial courier, I think.’

  The two men looked at each other. ‘Or an imperial agent?’ asked the bigger of the two.

  ‘Could be,’ said the old man, bringing them their drinks. ‘Didn’t occur to me. He’s in one of the rooms upstairs if you want to see him in the morning.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked the smaller, nevertheless a large, ill-favoured man with the build of a wrestler.

  ‘Room VII,’ the old man said. ‘Do you mean to call on him tomorrow?’

  ‘Maybe we will,’ said the first big man, draining his wine in a single gulp. ‘It’s been a long day. I’m for bed.’

  His companion copied him, and they hurried upstairs. The waystation keeper sighed, wiped the cups and hung them from hooks over the bar, then went to seek his own bed.

  Flaminius woke suddenly in the middle of the night, his eyes snapping open without his volition. For a moment he wondered what had woken him. Slumber had descended finally after the traffic of passing canal boats had decreased. Now he lay there, wide awake, he could hear one passing, but it must be very late.

  Had it wakened him? All he could hear was the hiss of hull passing through water, otherwise the hot night was still and quiet. The room was close but he had got to sleep earlier when it had been just as warm. It was silent. Too silent. As if something was holding its breath. A dark shape moved across the glimmer of light from the window.

  Someone was looming over him.

  Flaminius froze. Hands seized him, not from the direction of the window but from the other side of the bed. As he struggled in their grasp, more hands seized him from the other side. He broke free, lashed out with a fist, connected with a nose. There was a muffled grunt.

  ‘Playing rough, is it?’ growled someone else. They seized him round the neck, wrapping a forearm round, crushing into his throat. ‘You’re coming with us.’

  ‘I’ll deal with this tricky customer,’ came another voice and a fist slammed down on Flaminius’ crown. Stars and constellations exploded in the darkness. Clutching at his head, he broke free, colliding with the table, and his flailing hand found the hilt of the sheathed dagger. He drew it and whirled round. Before he could warn his mysterious assailants that he was armed, the blade sank into flesh. Something warm and sticky flooded over his hand. A grunt wheezed out.

  ‘Pluto!’ the other man cursed. Briefly the light from the window was visible again. Then something huge and dark squeezed its way through, so the room plunged into darkness. The intruder vanished from sight; starlight seeped in, and Flaminius heard something hit the ground down in the yard at the back.

  He crouched down to examine the man he had stabbed. Still alive. He could make nothing out in the darkness except that the man was still wheezing for breath.

  He went to the window. Something was blundering away down an alley. Gritting his teeth, Flaminius sheathed the dagger, swung himself over the windowsill, and scrambled down the wall. Reaching the yard, he shot off down the alleyway, hot in pursuit of the running man.

  He came out onto the canal side. There were no boats on the water, no one on the towpath. It was deserted. He went to the side and peered into the water. It was murky and still. He looked around again. No sign of anyone. The second man had got away.

  He still had the first man to question. Hurrying back up the alley he found himself in the yard. Looking up, he saw his window. How in Jove’s name had he climbed down there in the dark? Shaking his head, he went to the front to knock up the waystation keeper.

  ‘…but how did you come to be outside?’ the yawning old man was asking as he led Flaminius back up the steps. ‘I just don’t understand it.’

 
‘I told you, men broke into my room,’ Flaminius told him. They reached his door, which he now saw had been forced open. ‘I dealt with one but the other jumped out of the window and ran off. I went after him, but…’ Pushing open the door, he saw the man he had inadvertently stabbed lying cold and still on the floor of the room.

  He crouched down and rolled the motionless body over onto its back. Dead eyes rolled whitely in a slack face. In the time Flaminius had spent chasing his colleague, the man had died of the stab wound to his chest.

  ‘That’s one of them!’ said the waystation keeper in a gasp.

  Flaminius glanced up. ‘One of the Praetorians?’

  The man nodded. Flaminius returned his attention to the corpse.

  The man he had killed had been a burly fellow, big enough to be a gladiator, but he had a military belt of the kind worn by legionaries, a sword in a scabbard, and a blood soaked green tunic. Round his neck was an identification tag. Flaminius examined the abbreviated inscription: Second Praetorian Cohort of Gaianus: Gnaeus Rutilio Victorinus.

  ‘What was a Praetorian doing in my room?’ he asked of the air. ‘Two Praetorians, the one who ran must have been his colleague. And they were tailing me earlier today.’

  ‘You killed him?’ the old man said.

  Flaminius got to his feet. ‘They broke into my room,’ he said. ‘That must be what woke me. Then they tried to grab me. I fought back. Looks like I killed this one.’

  ‘You murdered a man of the Praetorian Guard?’

  Before Flaminius could say any more, the man blundered out of the room, shouting, ‘Murder! Call out the civic guard!’

  A clamour arose from the other rooms, doors burst open, questions were bellowed. As realisation sank in, Flaminius looked down in horror at the body at his feet. He had killed a Praetorian, one of the emperor’s handpicked elite. There were mitigating factors, but they wouldn’t save even him, an imperial agent. How in Jove’s name was he going to get away with this?