The Archimedes Stratagem

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘More foolery?’ Marcus Atilius asked.

  Flaminius nodded. ‘The magician’s ventriloquism,’ he said. ‘Tricks to fool peasants and the uneducated.’

  ‘I heard that!’ said Nitocris angrily. She stared at the ground, adding something like ‘Serve you right if…’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’ Flaminius began.

  ‘Alright, Flaminius,’ said Ozymandias harshly. ‘We know what you meant. The wizard was a fraud, like all such people.’ He looked bitter. ‘Now can we get on with this?’ He turned to Marcus Atilius. ‘The tribune has done as you asked him. He’s shown you the magician’s tricks.’

  ‘You must be convinced,’ Flaminius added. ‘Skimbix lured us in here and after he used his trickery to shut me in the inner sanctum he blew dust in my face—poppy seeds or some other narcotic, I should imagine—then had me carried off while I was insensible. It was all a trick to get information out of me. Something few people knew other than me. But now the arch conspirator knows it, and the emperor’s life is in danger.’

  ‘We don’t need to worry about the emperor’s life any more,’ said Marcus Atilius. There was a note of certainty in his voice that Flaminius didn’t like.

  ‘What are you talking about, you fool? The more time we squander in fruitless investigation, the closer comes the hour. You’re wasting time. You’re wasting my time!’

  Impatiently, he shoved the customs official aside and strode towards the doorway. Even as he did so, civic guards flooded into the inner sanctum. He turned and looked about him. There were too many to fight, and he was unarmed.

  ‘You fool!’ he said to Marcus Atilius, who was laughing sardonically. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done!’

  ‘I know exactly what I’ve done,’ the customs official said. ‘I’ve brought about the arrest of a man who plotted the assassination of the emperor! I’ll be promoted for this. But I’d never have got here if it wasn’t for the help of my comrades in arms.’ He bowed politely to Ozymandias and Nitocris. Ozymandias looked impassively at Flaminius. Nitocris glowered at the ground.

  Marcus Atilius clicked his fingers. ‘Take this assassin to the palace of Hadrian!’

  Flaminius ran.

  —26—

  It was a futile gesture. He dodged past two civic guards, shoved another aside, then the rest fell on him and he vanished beneath a rain of kicks and blows.

  Dragged to his feet, battered and bruised, he glared at Marcus Atilius. ‘You fool,’ he said dispassionately. ‘You have no idea what havoc you’re causing.’ His gaze travelled over to Ozymandias. ‘But you do. What have they done to you to get you on their side?’

  Marcus Atilius scowled. ‘Take him away!’ he snapped, and Flaminius was dragged from the temple.

  After being marched through the morning streets from the Egyptian Quarter to the Brucheium, he was urged up the steps of the palace of Hadrian at spearpoint. The Commissary was feared and hated throughout the empire, but it was respected. The sight of an imperial agent fallen from grace brought out the bully and the coward in all fine upstanding citizens, it seemed.

  He was taken before the commander, who stood beside his desk in the former dining chamber, hands on his hips, a sneer on his lips.

  ‘You caught him,’ he said to Marcus Atilius. ‘Good work! The prefect will be informed...’

  ‘Couldn’t he make it, then?’ Flaminius said. ‘Too busy with the Games…?’A guard struck him.

  ‘Silence!’ cried Gabinius Camillus, and Flaminius subsided, jaw aching from the blow. ‘There’ll be a promotion for you,’ the commander added, nodding to Marcus Atilius. ‘And you, I should think,’ he told Ozymandias. ‘Crassus Piso has been informed of the assassin’s capture, and he will send the news on by signal to the emperor. His imperial majesty will richly reward us.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ozymandias. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to my current job after so much absenteeism.’ His sister darted him an angry look.

  ‘Is that what all this is about?’ Flaminius exploded. ‘You betrayed me because I lost you your job? The empire’s at stake and all you care about is your career? You…’

  ‘Take this traitor below,’ said Gabinius Camillus to the guards. ‘Lock him in the most secure cell of the dungeons. Later on he will be questioned, by me personally, although I understand that Crassus Piso also wishes to speak with him, and will no doubt apply some persuasion if he isn’t forthcoming.’

  ‘You can’t torture a Roman citizen,’ Flaminius said, outraged. ‘I have rights, whatever lunatic notions you’ve got in your addle pated skull.’

  ‘You are a traitor,’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘Traitors lose all rights.’

  ‘I demand a fair trial,’ Flaminius said. ‘I demand to be taken to Rome. That’s my right as a Roman citizen…’

  He wanted nothing of the sort. He was just playing the officious ass, playing for time.

  And time was running out. It was almost noon. The emperor’s fleet would be off the coast by now.

  ‘Take him!’ Gabinius Camillus yelled, and the civic guards hustled Flaminius from the chamber.

  He was led down the steps he remembered so well, then down a torchlit passage. On one side of it was an iron door. One of the guards produced a heavy iron ring jingling with keys, unlocked the door, then shoved it with his shoulder. It took several attempts before the massive door was open enough for the other guards to fling Flaminius through.

  He landed on his face in a pile of stinking straw. With a grinding rumble, the door closed behind him, cutting off the dim torchlight. He rolled over and sat up. A small hatch clicked open in the door, a beam of light shot in and Flaminius saw an eye inspecting him malignantly. Then it slammed curtly shut and all sound and light was cut off.

  The air wasn’t too good either. In the darkness Flaminius crawled to the wall. It was dry as the desert sands. The whole cell was dry, despite being down in the depths of the building; dry and dark and cold—like an Egyptian crypt in the depths of some ancient mausoleum. It was not the first time Flaminius had been down in this level, although he had never seen this cell. But now he was trapped down here at the pleasure of the guards and Gabinius Camillus. And the prefect.

  And what was it the commander had said? Crassus Piso would want to question him. And the Praetorian had a comrade to avenge. Despite his expert knowledge of Roman law, Flaminius knew that there were circumstances when guards were bribed or simply chose to look the other way. He had a feeling that something like that was what was coming up.

  All that was as nothing to what faced the empire if Arctos’ rebel gladiators and river pirates seized power over the province. If Hadrian was assassinated. If Egypt seceded. Arctos wouldn’t rule the empire, chaos would rule. The chaos that ruled in the beginning. It was inevitable, according to most philosophical schools. Chaos was the natural order of things, so to speak. The cosmos would eventually sink back into the chaos from which it had once risen. But if the Commissary had any role to play, it was to ensure that this inevitable descent was postponed—indefinitely, it was to be hoped.

  Flaminius had been beyond the borders of the empire, into savage barbarian lands. He had seen the forces of chaos at first hand. He knew what horrors threatened civilisation.

  He had little personal regard for Hadrian, that pompous Iberian fool. But he had been raised on stories of the Long Year, the Year of the Four Emperors, when the empire had descended into anarchy. One emperor had arisen from that chaos to renew the empire and begin afresh. Rebellions had broken out now and then since those days, though nothing on such a grand scale. But how many civil wars and uprisings could the empire stand? One thing was for certain, with an avaricious maniac like Arctos in power, Rome would face a greater threat than it had done since the days of Nero.

  Lying back in the darkness he thought dark thoughts.

  Inevitable as the descent of the universe into chaos, they turned to escape. He was deep inside the palace of Hadrian, behind an iron door as thick as a gl
adiator’s bicep, locked in. Beyond it were sentries, and guards patrolled all levels of the building. Beyond that stretched a city that knew him as a traitor, a would-be assassin. How could he ever hope to escape in time to warn the emperor?

  If only he knew how the assassination was to be committed. He remembered something he heard, back in the Delta. A blaze of glory… Did Arctos intend to burn Hadrian’s ships before the emperor came ashore? Not an assassination in the amphitheatre as Flaminius had been thinking, but some kind of naval attack. Did Arctos have the resources?

  The key turned in the lock and he looked up in hopeless hope.

  The heavy door ground slowly open, and he heard the cursing of the gaoler as he shoved it wider and wider. Torchlight flooded into the straw floored little space, though under normal circumstances Flaminius would have thought it no more than a dim flickering. A tall figure stood silhouetted in the light. To his side the gaoler looked at him anxiously, keys jingling in his grasp. Armed guards stood behind them.

  ‘I have a lamp,’ said the tall man in familiar ringing tones. ‘Let me in and close the door behind me.’

  The gaoler looked in disbelief from Gabinius Camillus—Flaminius had recognised the commander despite the blaze of light that ringed him—to the door. The commander shook his head. ‘You don’t need to worry for my safety,’ he said, lighting the wick of a terracotta lamp. The gaoler shrugged and gave the door an aggrieved look.

  Gabinius Camillus entered the cell and sat down fastidiously, placing the oil lamp on the ground between him and Flaminius. As the door rumbled slowly shut, he examined the prisoner.

  Flaminius looked back at him. Was this the questioning? The torture instruments had yet to materialise. Was Gabinius Camillus prepared to listen to reason? Maybe Ozymandias had explained everything, and he had seen the error of his ways. Both of them had.

  ‘You’re going to listen to me? We don’t have much time. First of all, you’ll have to set me free. I think I’ve worked out how Arctos intends to assassinate the emperor. I…’

  ‘You’re going nowhere, gladiator,’ said Gabinius Camillus coldly.

  Flaminius thought of that night when he had surprised the Thracian gladiator Petrus, taking the woman’s part as this oh-so-respectable Roman official thrust frenetically behind him. It had been a lucky chance back then; he’d been able to turn the gladiator, make him an agent with just a little hint of blackmail. Petrus had had a substantial following amongst the mob, but rumours that he allowed prominent Roman citizens to penetrate him like a catamite would not have improved his standing. It had seemed like a lucky chance...

  ‘Gladiator?’ he echoed.

  Gabinius Camillus looked away. ‘I knew you were a fraud from the start,’ he said venomously, ‘when you turned up, claiming to be an imperial agent. I could say nothing, of course. “And how do you know that this Flaminius is not what he says he is?” Haterius Nepos would have asked. I could hardly tell him…’ He leaned forwards and hissed, ‘I could hardly say that he surprised me while I was buggering a gladiator. Or that he was my wife’s lover.’

  ‘Did you know Petrus is dead?’ Flaminius said, not bothering to deny the absurd claim.

  ‘I know,’ said the commander, nodding solemnly. ‘I saw it happen. I was in the imperial box with the prefect. I saw him vomiting as he left the arena, heard the news that he was dead. One of these crime rings, I suppose. And then what happens next? You turn up, claiming to be an imperial agent—and almost at once the Praetorians tell us there is an assassin on the loose.’

  ‘There is indeed an assassin on the loose,’ Flaminius confirmed. ‘There’s also an army of rebel gladiators and Nile river pirates bearing down on Alexandria. I don’t care who you bugger in private—and for the record, I wouldn’t touch your fat wife with a Sarmatian lance. She attached herself to me that night when you went missing. Then we found you…’

  ‘Yes, you found me!’ Gabinius Camillus snarled. ‘But mark my words, you won’t blacken my name.’

  Flaminius felt nothing but contempt for this man who could only think of his own reputation when the empire was at stake. ‘Are you going to kill me? How is that going to look? The commander of the civic guard goes to question a prisoner—a Roman citizen, may I add—and said prisoner winds up dead. You may get away with debauching gladiators, but you can’t get away with murdering a Roman citizen.’

  ‘I don’t believe you are a Roman citizen,’ said Gabinius Camillus coldly. ‘You’re a gladiator. A rebel gladiator. A conspirator against the emperor! Don’t try to deny it. If I were to kill you here and now…’ He rested a hand on his sword pommel.

  ‘Just try it, old man,’ said Flaminius dangerously.

  ‘If I were to kill you, I would be doing the empire a favour,’ Gabinius Camillus said. ‘I’ve heard the whole story, from one source or another. Even from the Egyptian who posed as your colleague. He was onto you from the start.’

  Flaminius rubbed at his brow. ‘Ozymandias?’ he said tiredly. ‘What has that gutter rat been telling you?’

  ‘He told Marcus Atilius that he was waiting for you to return,’ Gabinius Camillus said. ‘That you were plotting against the emperor, and he had been working alongside you while hoping to expose you…’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’ve been working with Ozymandias for months …’

  ‘He was onto you from the start,’ Gabinius Camillus said with eager satisfaction. ‘He knew you were a traitor. He has been playing a long game…’

  ‘He’s a liar,’ said Flaminius. ‘He’s the traitor, not me. He betrayed me!’ Was this the Egyptian’s revenge for the time he had slept with Nitocris? ‘What does his wife say?’

  ‘I’ve not spoken to the girl,’ said Gabinius Camillus dismissively. ‘No doubt she agrees with her husband, as a good wife should.’ His face twisted savagely.

  ‘This is lunacy,’ said Flaminius. ‘Can you put aside your personal grievances for a second and do something for me? There is a rebel army approaching Alexandria. Inform the prefect, have him call out the guard, liaise with the legion, whoever is left in the camp—the rest are down in the Thebaid as far as I know…’ Even if the emperor was assassinated, if Arctos’ army was neutralised before it could do any damage, power could pass into the hands of whoever Hadrian had nominated…

  ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘Do you truly expect me to make such a fool of myself? The prefect is watching the beast fights in the arena.’ That meant it was still morning, Flaminius thought; he had lost all sense of time down in this black hole. But he should have known it was still morning. By afternoon, the emperor would be dead, the city under attack, the empire in the balance. ‘He doesn’t want to be troubled by the ravings of a gladiator rebel,’ the commander went on, ‘who poses as an imperial agent in an attempt to assassinate the emperor. We have you safely where you belong. And you... You won’t leave this cell alive.’

  Flaminius felt a chill of fear. He knew this man meant it. Whatever confused ideas the commander had, he had the one man who knew his shameful secret under lock and key—at his mercy.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re going to try and kill me,’ he said. ‘You’re not even armed. You think you can kill me? I’m a young man, trained in a hard school. You’re old, gone to seed, decadent…’

  ‘I’m no beardless boy, like you, with all the men swooning after your tight buttocks!’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘I’m a man. You’re nothing but a child.’ His eyes cold with cruelty, he caressed his sword pommel. ‘If things were different, I’d deflower you where you lie. But there’s no time for that.’

  He rose. Flaminius leapt to his feet, fists clenched. But to his surprise, the commander went to the iron door and banged on it. As the gaoler struggled to drag it back open, Gabinius Camillus looked scornfully at Flaminius’ pitiful defence.

  ‘I won’t kill you,’ he said. ‘Your treacherous blood won’t stain my blade. You’re right: it would look bad. Even if you are a
traitor, I don’t want your blood on my hands. But some people in the empire are above the law. I’ll leave it to them to mete out justice.’

  The door opened. Gabinius Camillus picked up his lamp, then brushed past the gaoler. He called out orders, and Flaminius heard the receding tramp of feet.

  A look of weary resignation on his face, the gaoler began the struggle to shove the door closed again.

  —27—

  It shut with a slam, cutting off all light and hope. Very distantly, through the thick iron, Flaminius heard footsteps receding and tuneless whistling.

  He crawled back to the wall and leant against it. He had made an enemy in Gabinius Camillus. At the time he’d not put any thought to it, but the consequences of his own actions had come back to haunt him. And yet the commander of the civic guard had been afraid to kill him himself—afraid for his career. Now someone else was going to do his dirty work.

  But the guards had been dismissed. Why was that? The last he had heard suggested even the gaoler had gone. So that there would be no witnesses? But what would happen?

  Obviously, he would die. He would die in secret. Throttled or stabbed or smothered, who could tell…? Ah, he was growing morbid. He would die, and with him would die all hope for the empire.

  He heard something beyond the door, some sound. Pressing his ear against the cold iron, he strained to identify the noises. The echoes were confusing, but they grew in volume. Someone was walking down the long passage. Towards his cell? The long, empty passage. Surely it was his executioner.

  Could he escape? Could he hope to fight off the assassin, break free? The guard had been withdrawn. But he would have to fight his way through the palace of Hadrian and out into a city where he had no friends. He remembered the message he had given Ozymandias. But then he remembered something else, and the memory was like a knife blade to the heart.

  Ozymandias and Nitocris had betrayed him.