But it was the city beyond the docks that caught his attention. He knew that it was past its prime, that its zenith was before the Romans had occupied it, but it still looked magnificent.
Rome too had overawed him when he had first arrived there from the remote province of Britannia at the northern edge of the Empire. But it had been dirty, irregular, a city built hotchpotch over the centuries as the needs of an ever-changing population and an ever-expanding Empire had dictated.
This was different. It had been planned, and it had been designed by the conqueror of the whole world, the greatest general who had ever lived, and it had been built by his successors and turned into a seat of learning and culture that still beamed out across the Empire like its most famous structure, shining light into the fog and darkness of ignorance. Its vast structures of limestone and marble, obelisks and palaces and gardens and buildings whose purpose he could only guess at, overwhelmed the senses, and humbled Silus completely.
Atius summed up his feelings succinctly.
‘Fuck me, Silus,’ he said. ‘Fuck me.’
* * *
Silus couldn’t help staring around him, aware that he was marking himself out as a naive newcomer, but not caring. It was so beautiful. So magnificent. Behind him on the island of Pharos, the lighthouse was illuminated by the early morning sun, collecting its rays and hurling them out to sea from atop its 400-foot tower. In front of him, situated on a projection into the harbour, the waterfront was dominated by the Caesarion, the massive temple of the Imperial cult. It was piled high with dedicated offerings against its sides, and it was girdled with religious pictures and statues wrought in gold and silver. Within the structure he could glimpse porticoes, chambers, gardens, groves and wide-open courtyards. Further away, on a hill to the south-west, looking down over the city and the harbour, was the Serapeum, a vast complex of buildings surrounding the marble, colonnaded Temple of Serapis. And at every point along the skyline, temples of various sizes, shapes and designs jutted towards the heavens, imploring whichever god they were dedicated to to pay attention to them, to find them worthy.
Atius and Silus walked together down the gangway and onto the docks, ignoring the dock workers, paying no attention to Marcellus calling after them, or Soaemias screeching out, ‘Silus, Atius, where are you going?’ It was just all too fantastic, and at that moment, Silus could not bring his thoughts to bear on anything other than how small and humble he was, and how magnificent was this city he was so fortunate to find himself in.
That all changed when Atius kicked the cat.
It was a complete accident. Like Silus, Atius had been gazing at the rooftops, the buildings and temples, his mouth hanging open. Looking upwards, he had failed to spot the black cat basking on the walkway, soaking up some early morning rays. The cat, of course, was used to complete respect, and though it had seen Atius bearing down on it, until this moment in its life, it had always been revered so thoroughly that even laden carts and wagons had altered their courses around it, rather than have the temerity to ask it to move.
Atius would have had no such compunction, and would have gently but firmly nudged it away if he had seen it. But he hadn’t. So his large, booted foot, swinging through the air ready to take a next step, had connected heavily with the cat’s torso, and pitched it through the air. It let out a piercing shriek as it flew, legs spread wide in an attempt to slow its speed. Then its head knocked the edge of the walkway, and it tumbled into the sea with a splash and disappeared.
Atius looked around bemused, letting out a half grin.
‘Stupid creature,’ he muttered. ‘Hope it’s OK.’
But the surrounding dock workers weren’t smiling. Almost to a man, they had stopped their work and were pointing and muttering ominously. Those who did not look angry, such as a pair of long-haired, pale-skinned, Gallic-looking slaves, or a dark-skinned Aethiopian overseer, were backing away slowly.
From the corner of his eye, Silus saw a small figure sprint along the causeway and dive into the water with barely a ripple. He nudged Atius, who now noticed the stir he had caused. More workers came over to join their colleagues, who told them what had happened and indicated Atius.
Marcellus, Soaemias, Gannys and four legionaries caught up with Silus and Atius.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Atius killed a cat. I don’t think the locals like it.’
‘He did what?’ gasped Gannys.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Atius, an uncharacteristic edge of agitation in his tone.
‘You cursed fool,’ hissed Soaemias. ‘Don’t you know the cat is sacred to Egyptians?’
Silus did have some memory that they revered the little balls of fur, teeth and claws, which in Britannia were tolerated and vaguely encouraged for pest control purposes. Maybe this cat was a prized rat catcher.
‘We apologise for the accident with the cat,’ Silus called out to the men who were now forming a circle around them in large numbers. ‘We can pay the owner for its value.’
‘Silus, no,’ warned Soaemias, but it was too late. Muttering turned into shouts of anger.
‘Cat-murderer!’
‘Sacrilege!’
‘Death to the killer!’
The first missile thrown was a piece of soft fruit, which hit Silus on the upper arm, but it was soon followed by pieces of wood and pottery as the crowd smashed up cargo to use as weapons. The small party that had just disembarked crowded together, arms up to fend off the attack, and retreated slowly down the gangway back towards the boat as the dock workers advanced.
‘Stop! I have the cat!’
A slight woman, drenched from head to toe, water streaming from her long hair, was standing on the dock side. The cat was lying on its side, fur bedraggled, not moving and not breathing. The angry dock workers turned and stared, momentarily shocked into quiescence by the sight of their sacred animal dead. Then they turned back towards Silus’ party with hatred burning in their eyes.
‘Wait, wait!’ cried Silus, clinging to a desperate hope. He had seen his father drag a half-drowned Maeatae child from a river when he was just a young boy himself. To the amazement of all who had thought the little girl dead, his father had brought her back from Hades by pumping on her chest and blowing into her mouth. He didn’t know if it would work for an animal, but he had nothing to lose.
He knelt down by the limp body and touched his fingers behind its elbows. There was a heartbeat, faltering, but present. He pressed down with his palm on the chest, and was rewarded by a little spurt of frothy water coming from the mouth and nose. Inwardly reflecting on the things he had to do to get Atius out of trouble, he leant down and blew firmly into the cat’s nose and saw the chest inflate. He pressed again on the chest, rhythmically, with no idea how fast or how hard he should push, but acutely aware how much depended on saving this little animal. The mission. Finding Avitus. Atius’ life!
The cat gasped, its back arching upwards, limbs extended. The watching crowd, who had been holding a collective breath, let out a long sigh of wonder. Silus wasn’t confident yet. He had seen soldiers die who had made that same convulsive movement as they breathed their last. But the cat gasped again, coughed and spluttered, and began to breathe more regularly. Its eyes remained tightly closed, but its paw came up to bat at its nose, as if to remove a fly.
Silus sat back, and the woman who had dived into the water after the drowning animal held the creature aloft.
‘She lives! The stranger has saved the sacred cat. I will cherish her and ensure she returns to full health. The stranger’s friend will not be punished for this. I, Tekosis, priestess of Isis, so declare. Now disperse and return to your work, and the blessing of Isis, wife-sister of Osiris, mother of Horus, creator, protector of the seas and harbours and harvests and this great country of Egypt, who guarantees her worshippers comfort and luxury in the life to come, go with you.’
The crowd reluctantly dispersed, grumbling and throwing dagger glances towa
rds Atius, while showing a more ambivalent reaction to Silus, a mix of fear and respect.
Silus turned to the priestess.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You saved us.’
Tekosis cradled the cat in her arms like a baby. ‘I saved Bastet, you fool,’ she said, matter-of-factly. She spoke Greek, but her accent was strong native Egyptian, a type of intonation that he had encountered among the Egyptians that lived in Rome. He looked at her properly for the first time, her long, white robe clinging to her slender body, long, black hair cascading down her back, still dripping. Her nose was pointed, her eyes large, but the dark kohl that would normally accentuate them into an almond shape had smudged and was now smeared across her fine cheekbones.
Silus felt his breath had been taken away as thoroughly as the drowned cat’s, then realised he had been staring for way too long. She cocked her head on one side, and gave him a quizzical half-smile.
‘Um… who is Bastet?’ was all he could think of to say.
‘This is Bastet. The goddess in cat form. As all cats are. And Bastet is the soul of Isis.’
‘And you… you are a priestess of Isis?’
‘I am Tekosis, as I said. Maybe you should introduce yourself.’
‘I am Silus. From Britannia.’
‘Just another Roman, no matter where you say you come from.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I am Egyptian,’ she said, an angry flash in her eyes.
Silus was contemplating what to say next when Atius appeared at his side.
‘That was amazing, Silus. I thought I was dead meat for sure. Was that some sort of magic?’
Tekosis also waited for his reply with interest.
‘Of course not,’ scoffed Silus. ‘When have you ever known me to do any magic? I learned it from my father. The poor little beast had lost the air from its lungs, and I put some back.’
Tekosis nodded at this, seemingly satisfied.
‘Silus, Atius. Leave this native be and attend me.’ Soaemias’ voice cut into their conversation like a rusty knife.
Silus gave Tekosis an apologetic shrug. ‘I would like to thank you more properly for your help today. Where can I find you?’
‘I am the priestess of the Temple of Isis Lochias. I am easy to find.’
Silus nodded, mumbled his thanks again, and turned back to Marcellus and Soaemias.
Marcellus fanned his face with his hand, blowing air between pursed lips.
‘That was quite a welcome,’ he said. ‘I had heard the Alexandrians were excitable, but that was something else.’
‘He disrespected their sacred animal. He should be executed, as a sign of our good faith.’
Silus gaped. This was the third time Soaemias had called for the execution of one of the Arcani. He was starting to get the impression that she really didn’t like them. ‘It was an accident. And the cat survived.’
‘I was talking to my husband, not asking your opinion, Arcanus.’
Silus opened his mouth to retort, but Marcellus held up a placating hand. ‘The first and only order of business, darling wife, is to find our son. It is Silus and Atius who tracked him here, and it is their job to bring him back to us. If they fail, then maybe we can revisit this matter.’
Soaemias looked distinctly unsatisfied, but did not reply. Silus didn’t feel particularly mollified by those words either.
‘Now Silus, Atius,’ said Marcellus. ‘Perhaps you could escort us to the prefect’s palace. And maybe we will reach it without an assassination attempt, a kidnapping or inciting a riot.’
* * *
The prefect of Egypt was a position of such potential power that it was not entrusted to anyone of senatorial rank. As the breadbasket that fed Rome, anyone taking control of Egypt could hold Rome hostage, and so its administration was given to a prefect of equestrian rank. Although this lower station did not necessarily reflect on the prefect’s ability, it made it less likely that he would be able to command sufficient support to lead a rebellion or usurp the throne.
Unfortunately, the prefect received no special training in how to run the unique province, with its arcane laws and customs, its complicated pantheon and its volatile population. Lucius Baebius Aurelius Juncinus had only been in the job for a few months, and he already looked worn out.
Silus sat on a comfortable wooden chair in a meeting room decorated lavishly with gold and silver fittings and adornments. Marcellus and Silus sat with the prefect, sipping wine and eating grapes. Juncinus was an affable man in his forties with a neatly trimmed beard and a toned figure suggestive of one who continued to exercise regularly and eat frugally. Beside him sat a tall man with eastern features. Juncinus had introduced him as Gratidius, the legate of the Legio II Traiana stationed in Alexandria.
Atius had been sent off to secure accommodation within the palace for the two Arcani, and Soaemias was ordering around both her own entourage and the palace slaves to unload their luggage, make a liveable space for her and her husband, and attend her as she bathed.
The prefect noticed Silus examining the decor. ‘This was one of the Ptolemies’ palaces. I forget which one. There were so many, and they all married their sisters. But they certainly knew how to decorate in style.’
Silus nodded in non-committal appreciation. He had never been one for opulent living. His tiny, run-down lodgings in the Subura suited him fine, although he would have been even happier in a small hut in a vicus in northern Britannia, or even a tent in the forest.
‘What sort of country is this?’ asked Marcellus. ‘We had barely stepped off the boat when the crowd erupted. I get that the cat is sacred to them and everything, but still…’
‘You got off lightly,’ said Gratidius. ‘You are lucky the cat survived. A Roman soldier was executed once for accidentally killing a cat. If the creature hadn’t made it, we might have had no choice but to put your fellow up on a cross, or the city might go up in flames.’
‘Is it really that unstable?’
‘Juno’s tits, Marcellus, this place is crazy,’ said Juncinus. ‘I’ve been here a little while, but I haven’t got close to scratching the surface of how it all works. No one prepared me for any of this. I’m a good soldier, and I know Roman law, so they sent me to replace Aquila. They didn’t tell me the people who lived here are all insane.’
‘Baebius Juncinus,’ said Marcellus. ‘We need your help.’
‘Of course. How could I refuse a propraetor, former Urban and Praetorian prefect and favourite of the Emperor?’
Silus wasn’t sure if there was any irony in Juncinus’ tone, but Marcellus either didn’t think there was or chose to ignore it.
‘You may have heard I am to take up the role of Governor of Numidia?’
‘I have. Even in winter, news still travels fast from Rome. We heard of the death of Geta only two weeks after it occurred.’
Silus noted the neutral terms he used for the death of the co-Augustus, avoiding terms such as ‘murder’ and ‘committed’.
‘We have been attacked twice on the way. Once near Neapolis by what we originally thought were pirates.’
‘Pirates? That’s unusual these days. Especially that close to Rome.’
‘Quite. But we were then attacked again in Syracuse. And this time my…’ His voice caught in his throat and he took a sip of wine.
Silus finished his words for him. ‘They took the governor’s son.’
‘Took?’ Juncinus sounded confused. ‘Took where?’
‘If we knew that, we would have him back by now.’
Juncinus whistled. ‘I thought when you first mentioned pirates, it was someone trying to stop you taking up the governorship in Numidia. Someone who wants the rebellion there to succeed.’
‘That would be the obvious conclusion,’ said Marcellus. ‘But why would they abduct my son? How does that advance their cause?’
‘Well,’ said Juncinus. ‘You’re here, aren’t you? Numidia is a long way from Egypt.’
‘Simpler to kill
me.’
‘It sounds like they tried,’ said Gratidius. ‘Isn’t that so… Silus, was it?’
‘Yes, legate. And yes. The pirates would have killed him, if I hadn’t intervened. And the legionaries tell me the attackers in Syracuse pressed him pretty hard too.’
‘So they took his son when they failed to kill him, as a second best alternative.’
‘Maybe,’ said Silus.
‘You seem doubtful,’ said Marcellus.
‘It’s just… it sounds like it was the same man who tried to take Avitus on the ship, as the one who actually succeeded in Syracuse. And in each case, he hung back until the defenders were fully occupied, then chose his moment to make his attempt on your son.’
Marcellus frowned. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I may be wrong. It just feels like you either weren’t the real target, or that killing you was of secondary importance. That taking your son was their aim all along.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Marcellus. ‘Why would an eight-year-old boy be of value to anyone? Except as a hostage for a ransom. And then surely there are easier ways to make money.’
‘Maybe for leverage against you, to make you do something as Governor of Numidia that is against the interests of the Emperor.’
Marcellus shook his head. ‘Caracalla would have me replaced and executed instantly if I tried to go against his wishes. Surely that would be obvious to all.’
They all sat in contemplative silence for a moment. Then Juncinus spoke up again.
‘I still don’t know why you came to Alexandria.’
Marcellus nodded to Silus to explain, and Silus outlined the investigations that had set them on this course. Juncinus listened politely.
‘I understand, but how can I help?’
‘We were rather hoping you could tell us that,’ said Marcellus. ‘You know how the city works.’
‘I think we have already established that I don’t.’
‘But do we have your permission to search for the boy with a free hand?’ asked Silus.
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