Emperor's Axe

by Emperor's Axe (retail) (epub)

  ‘You are a revolutionary?’

  Tekosis smiled. ‘Of course not. That would be treason. Anyway, Romans and Greeks are not the only threats to the Egyptian way of life.’

  ‘Really? Who else?’

  ‘The Christians.’ Her pretty faced twisted into an ugly snarl.

  ‘How do they threaten you? Don’t they preach peace and love?’ He had learned a little from Silus, and if his friend was typical of a follower of Christos, he didn’t have a problem with the strange cult.

  ‘They want peace and love only for their own kind. If you aren’t Christian, they want you to become one, or they believe you are damned. And they believe there is only one God, like the Jews. The Christians want to destroy the old gods and supplant them with their own triple deity.

  ‘And then there are the Jews themselves. They were largely killed or chased out of Alexandria after their great revolt a hundred years ago, when they tried to tear down and desecrate temples of the old gods, like this one. But they are creeping back into the city, and who knows when they will turn against the gods of Egypt and Rome again.’

  ‘The Romans are very tolerant of other religions,’ said Silus. ‘They welcome them and adopt them. Worship of Mithras and Isis and Serapis is common in Rome. But the Christians and Jews accept no other gods, not even the divine emperors, and the Romans don’t like that.’

  ‘I know there are many Isis worshippers in Rome. Tell me, Silus, which god do you follow?’

  ‘I don’t really…’ Again he found himself struggling for words. How did she do that to him? ‘I mean, all of them I suppose. Any.’

  ‘Who is the first on your lips when you are in danger?’

  ‘I guess that would be Mithras. But it’s a long time since I was in a Mithraeum, and I’m not an initiate or anything like that. Not even a raven.’ The raven was the lowest rank of the seven grades of initiation in Mithraism.

  Tekosis stood abruptly. ‘Come. Follow me.’

  She led him out of the chamber, through a large meeting room, to a hefty wooden door at the back of the sanctuary. She took out a large bronze key, turned it in the lock and pushed the door wide. She walked through, beckoning Silus, who entered behind her.

  The room was well lit by high-up barred windows through which streamed shafts of sunlight. As elsewhere in the temple, the walls were painted in beautiful frescoes, images in which the goddess featured heavily, with a supporting cast of other gods – bearded Serapis, the Ibis-headed Thoth, beetle-headed Ra. Various strange beasts decorated the margins of the frescoes, including a fat animal that looked like an aquatic pig, and another of those long lizards with the scary teeth.

  But more impressive and eye-catching were the contents of the room. A tall marble statue of Isis and Serapis holding hands. Silver and gold cups, plates, bowls, decorated with religious symbols. And in pride of place, on a marble altar inlaid with gold at the far end of the room, was a foot-high golden statue of Isis. The goddess held a sceptre topped with an ankh symbol in one hand, and there was an empty throne on her head. One breast was exposed, and she was nursing the baby Horus. It was beautiful, and clearly sacred, as well as highly valuable.

  ‘This is the sacrarium. It holds the most precious and sacred objects of the temple.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ sighed Silus, and he meant it. The scent of incense filled the air, and the sounds of harmonious chanting drifted out of the main temple area. He was in an exquisitely decorated room, before these magnificent artefacts, in the presence of a stunning woman. He felt a little light-headed, and took two deep breaths to calm himself.

  ‘I can see it is affecting you,’ said Tekosis. ‘Isis is here with us.’

  At that moment, in that place, with that woman, he could believe it.

  ‘Do you want to know about her?’

  He nodded, eyes fixed on the figurine.

  ‘Isis is the wife-sister of Osiris and the mother of Horus. She is a kindly goddess, maternal, caring, and she helps us on the way to the afterlife. Her magic powers are great, and she protects the earth, the skies and the sea. She is the cleverest of all the gods, and she has power over fate itself.’

  ‘You sound very proud of your god.’

  Tekosis looked at him in surprise. ‘Who wouldn’t be proud of their god?’

  ‘Well, some of them are not so special. I mean look at the behaviour of Jupiter, the serial adulterer and rapist. Or Mars, who supervises destruction and death. Or Pan, who killed a nymph when she refused his advances.’

  Tekosis looked thoughtful. ‘The gods of Greece and Rome are very different in character from the gods of Egypt.’

  Silus turned towards her. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

  ‘You seem like you are seeking a deeper truth.’

  He shook his head. ‘Really, I’m a shallow man. What you see is all there is of me.’

  She looked into his eyes, and he suddenly felt like her gaze was penetrating into his soul.

  ‘I see very well, Silus.’

  Silus swallowed, then shook his head to clear it of sweet fumes and seductive thoughts.

  ‘Will you help me?’ he asked.

  ‘In your quest? No.’

  He stared at her. ‘But…’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening to me, Silus? I am Alexandrian and Egyptian. I do as I am required by the Imperial authorities and the local Boule. But I belong to Isis. And the goddess has no interest in a Roman boy.’

  ‘But think of his mother and father. Think how scared the boy must be.’

  Tekosis reached out to touch his cheek. ‘You are a good man, Silus. I will pray to Isis that you find the boy. Now, it is my time for private worship. Please excuse me.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Silus felt as deflated as a burst bladder.

  ‘I hope you will visit me again.’

  ‘Will you at least let me know if you hear anything, from your worshippers, or other natives?’

  She considered. ‘Yes, I will. Goodbye, Silus.’

  Silus looked at her for a long moment, expecting something else, though not really sure what. Then he turned and walked disconsolately away, aware that he was disappointed on both a personal and a professional level. He trundled slowly out of the temple and walked back to the prefect’s palace.

  Chapter Eight

  Atius joined in with the prayers and hymns in the little church, but his mind was elsewhere. He was disgruntled that Silus hadn’t taken him along to see the priestess, partly because it felt like his friend didn’t trust him, and partly because he would have liked to see the pretty young woman again himself. And though he was tempted to explore Alexandria, the chaos on the docks and the worry that someone who might still be bearing a grudge on behalf of the cat might recognise him made him more cautious. The overt religiousness of every aspect of the city, with its temples and sacred symbols and animals, made him realise it had been a long time since he had shown any proper devotion to his own god. So he had spied a palace slave with a necklace in the shape of a fish, and asked where he might find a place to worship the Christos.

  The church was sparsely decorated, little more than a room for worshippers to gather. It was not purpose-built, just a private dwelling that had in the past opened its doors to become a meeting place for Christians, and eventually had become purely a place of worship, a so-called domus ecclesia. At one end was an altar with a marble cross. The walls were painted in a rather amateurish way with scenes from the life of Jesus – the feeding of the 5,000, the sermon on the mount, the birth and the crucifixion.

  He wasn’t sure why he had gone to worship. He had been a follower of the Christos all his life, had been taught the tales and the instructions of the Messiah and his followers by his mother since he was in the crib. He had always taken his beliefs for granted, never questioned them, but equally never taken them particularly seriously. He broke some of the ten commandments on a regular basis, particularly the ones about lying, killing and adultery. He even recalled once when he had coveted a fem
ale servant that his neighbour had purchased, before he remembered that too was forbidden.

  The room was half full of worshippers on their knees. They seemed to come from the whole spectrum of races and classes in Alexandria – Greeks, Romans, native Egyptians, those from the eastern Empire such as Syrians and Jews. Some wore expensive clothing and jewellery, while others wore little more than rags. Atius suspected that the wealthy worshippers wouldn’t even acknowledge the poor ones if they met on the street, but in this service, they shook hands, sang, prayed and venerated the Christos together.

  The priest who led the ceremony had red-grey hair, a high forehead and a long, pointed nose. He had been looking nervous and unsettled throughout. Atius assumed it was either his usual manner, or that he was in constant fear of the authorities in a city that had experienced a massacre of Christians just a decade before.

  But after another prayer, the priest cleared his throat and announced in a wavery voice, ‘Brothers and sisters in the Christos. We are hugely honoured today by the presence of one of the greatest among our number. Origen, son of Leonides the martyr, will lead us in the Eucharist.’

  A gasp went out among the worshippers as a figure at the front, who until now had been hooded, stood and threw his hood back to reveal a man in his late twenties with Greek features, jet black hair and a round, slightly effeminate face. Atius looked at him with mild curiosity. His name obviously meant something to the worshippers, but Atius had never heard of him.

  He clasped the priest’s hand firmly. ‘Thank you, Brother John.’

  He remained respectful as he took the loaf of bread that was offered to him by the priest, and broke it in half. He spoke in a clear, unwavering voice.

  ‘Our Christos broke the bread at his last Passover meal, saying this is my body, given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’

  He passed the halves to the congregation, who each took a piece and swallowed with heads bowed and eyes closed. When all had eaten, the bread was passed back to the priest, who consumed the remainder. The priest then blessed a silver goblet of wine and passed it to Origen. Origen spoke again. ‘He took a cup and after giving thanks he gave it to them and they all drank of it, and He said, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many.”’

  He passed the wine around, and everyone took a respectful sip before passing it on. The wine was sweet to Atius’ taste, and strong, so he could feel it slide down his throat and settle in his stomach. He had taken the holy Eucharist before, although it had been admittedly some time. But it felt somehow different this time. He wasn’t sure why. Was it the foreign setting? Origen’s sincere tone? Or was there something more? Was the Christos really with them?

  When the ceremony was over, and the priest, John, had drunk the last of the wine, they all sat in perfect silence, heads bowed, eyes closed. It had been a long while since Atius had spent any time in quiet contemplation. Usually the strong wine or beer, and the perfume of the women in his company, overpowered his thoughts. But now he found himself alone, in the dark behind his closed lids, in near silence, broken only by the breathing sounds of the other worshippers.

  His thoughts drifted over his recent past. There was a lot of violence. Battles, fights, murders. What would his mother make of what he did now? What would the Christos say, if he returned in all his glory, this very day? They were uncomfortable thoughts.

  ‘Brothers and sisters, followers of the Christos.’ Origen’s words cut through his reverie. ‘Our world is a wonderful place. God’s creation includes the delicacy of a sparrow, the beauty of a rose, the might of the mountains and the river. But the devil also works on this earth, and he tempts us perpetually to turn away from God and his teachings. Some say that the outward world is so constituted that it is impossible to resist it. But he who says that, look inward, and see whether there is not some other motive that would account for his approval or assent to the misdeed.

  ‘For example, should a man have decided he will refrain from sexual intercourse with a woman, and then a woman comes to him and solicits intercourse from him, she alone is not sufficient to make him break his resolution. He does so because he likes the pleasure and does not want to resist it. But a man of greater discipline and knowledge will suffer those same incitements, and his reason and virtuous convictions will stop the excitement and weaken the lust.

  ‘So it is with all our temptations, whether it is to neglect the poor and needy, to indulge in sins of the body, to fail to show proper adoration and worship to our Lord, or even to deny our faith in times of trial, it lies within each of us to resist those temptations, and to take the righteous path. Each and every one of us can be everything the Lord wants us to be.’

  There was a moment of silent contemplation of the words. Then the priest read a passage from the Septuaguint, finishing with, ‘This is the word of the Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ replied the congregation.

  The priest said, ‘The Lord’s blessings be upon you. Go in love and peace, in the name of our Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ chorused the congregation again. They rose, briskly or slowly and stiffly depending on their age, health or weight, and clasped each other’s hands, offering each other the peace of the Lord.

  One pretty young girl, long dark hair concealing half her face, with piercing blue eyes and full red lips, clasped Atius’ hand for longer than was necessary and held his gaze with a coquettish half-smile.

  He let her hand drop and turned away. At the front of the room, Origen was shaking hands with members of the congregation, who were treating him with the respect and awe of royalty. Atius walked to the front, leaving the rejected girl behind him. He waited his turn as the congregation queued up to show their respect to the revered Christian.

  When he came face to face with the kind-looking, sombre man, all the words he had been rehearsing in his mind disappeared, and he stood before him, opening and closing his mouth like a beached fish. Origen smiled at him, and his anxiety eased, although he still couldn’t remember what it was he wanted to say.

  ‘What’s your name, brother?’

  ‘Atius,’ he managed.

  ‘A Celt?’

  Atius nodded. ‘Celtiberian, sir.’

  ‘You need not address me as sir. We are all equal under the eyes of God.’

  ‘Yes, s… brother.’

  ‘When did you begin to follow the Christos?’

  ‘All my life. I learned the stories of the Lord at my mother’s knee.’

  ‘And yet you seem uncomfortable here.’

  He was perceptive, thought Atius.

  ‘I am not as devout a follower as I should be,’ he said, dropping his head and feeling himself flush in a most uncharacteristic way.

  ‘None of us is as devout as we should be. Only the Lord himself is perfect.’

  ‘But I have committed many sins.’

  ‘None of us are free from sin. But brother, you seem troubled.’

  Atius had to admit to himself that he was. It had been so long since he had really stopped to just think, and now his thoughts were threatening to overwhelm him. To his acute shame, he felt tears welling up in his eyes, and to his horror they began to fall to the floor.

  Origen put a finger under his chin, raised his face so he could look into his eyes.

  ‘Brother, you are new here, so you may not know that I am in hiding. The authorities have taken issue with my preaching. But I reside with a wealthy widow who is a fellow follower of the Christos. She lives in a villa near the Park of Pan, next to the cisterns that supply the baths. Her name is Phryne. She would be very happy to receive you in the fellowship of the Christos, and I can talk to you more there.’

  ‘I would like that.’

  Origen nodded, the matter settled. ‘Go in peace, Atius.’ He clasped Atius’ hand.

  ‘Go in peace, sir… brother.’

  Atius stumbled out into the bright light outside the domus ecclesia and blinked. Then, mind whirring, he walked slowly back to his qu
arters.

  * * *

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Silus. Atius was staring down into a cup of grape juice, swirling it absently.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Atius defensively. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing either,’ said Silus, who had until that moment had his head in his hands, face like a professional mourner at a funeral.

  They were quiet for a moment longer. They sat at a table outside a tavern near the prefect’s palace. Silus had yet to explore the city, only seeing the sights on the short walk from the palace to the Temple of Isis Lochias. But the city was parading past him, and he was able to observe the sheer variety of peoples present. Rome of course had a diverse population, but was predominantly Italian in ethnic origin, whereas Alexandria had Jewish, native Egyptian and Greek ethnicities from its very founding. Beside this was the immigrant population, made up of the various peoples of the Empire, mainly Asian and African – Syrians, Mauretanians, Galatians, Aethiopians – as well as traders from even further east such as Parthians and Indians.

  ‘I met someone,’ began Atius, just as Silus said, ‘I like the priestess.’

  They looked at each other for a moment in surprise.

  ‘You met someone?’ asked Silus.

  ‘You like the priestess?’ asked Atius.

  ‘No, no. You first. Tell me everything.’ Atius hadn’t had a serious relationship since Menenia, their old commanding officer’s daughter who he had rescued from the barbarians in Britannia, and even that probably didn’t count as serious. Atius had never shown any intention of making things more permanent with her. So for Atius to have met someone, enough to make him look morose and thoughtful, was interesting news.

  But he wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘Tell me about the priestess.’ Silus realised that, equally, he had had no relationship of any sort since his wife had died. He hadn’t even indulged in prostitutes, not for moral reasons particularly but for lack of desire. The closest he had come to love was his fellow Arcanus Daya. And he had killed her.

  ‘I… it’s nothing. She wouldn’t help.’