Our Man in Alexandria

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘Just a minute, centurion,’ said Flaminius. ‘Get me arms and armour. I’m coming with you!’

  As a plumed helmet, shield and breastplate were brought hurriedly from the camp behind them, Ozymandias spoke sharply with Flaminius. ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ he asked as the tribune unwrapped his toga and handed it to him for safekeeping. ‘We’ve got a job to do, remember? And it’s nothing to do with riot control. I’m supposed to be looking out for you, tribune, and if I have to report to the commander that you died after taking a fancy to bashing a few rioters, I’ll hunt you down in the afterlife, and so help me Sarapis, I’ll…’

  Two of Flaminius’ new legionaries finished strapping his breastplate over the tunic he had worn beneath the toga. He settled the helmet more firmly on his head and gripped his shield handle. Then he drew his sword, which he had belted on over the armour. He turned to Ozymandias.

  ‘You’d better stay here, scribe,’ he said. ‘We won’t be able to get through to the Old Judaean Quarter until the riot is quashed, and you’d only be risking your life if you joined us. Stay here until it’s all over and then I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Ozymandias said through gritted teeth, hefting the heavy toga he held bundled in his arms. ‘You’ve got a job to do and it doesn’t involve fighting rioters.’ The centurion watched the exchange, a belligerent expression on his pugnacious face.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he butted in, ‘but the tribune has a job to do here and now. You’ve got your orders. I suggest you do as you’re told before I’m forced to detain you.’

  ‘Thanks, centurion,’ said Flaminius. He tugged a little at his helmet strap and turned in the direction of the main street. He felt absurd. It was not since the summer that he had gone into battle, and that had been as a member of a rebel army. He was under no orders. But nobody else in this city seemed to be willing to do their duty.

  He led the legionaries out into the street at the double.

  —5—

  ‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’

  This time, ordered to move by a burly centurion who looked about four cubits broad at the shoulders, the gathered citizens were more obedient. They parted as legend said the Red Sea had parted for the escaping Judaeans, and Flaminius and his men stamped their way down the street, gripping spears or swords in a threatening manner.

  At last the crowd fell away on either side and they came out into the open, where two shops were blazing fiercely and another was a blackened ruin. Bodies lay on the ground, some moving feebly, others motionless huddles. Further down the broad street was another crowd, and yet it was not gawping but fighting.

  ‘Looks like that’s the source of the disturbance, sir,’ the centurion said observantly.

  ‘Yes, I noticed it too, centurion,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’m not blind. Give them a warning, then charge them if they don’t desist.’

  ‘Lethal force?’ the centurion asked, drawing his sword.

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘These are civilians,’ he reminded the man; ‘citizens, some of them. Split them up, arrest them. Fight only if they resist. Kill only if there is no alternative.’

  The centurion stepped out from the legionaries, and bellowed in a voice that would have had the legendary Greek herald Stentor packing up and going home.

  ‘That’s enough! The legion is here now! Disperse, and go peacefully to your homes, or we will disperse you with force!’

  The men were fighting busily amongst themselves; Greeks and Judaeans, Flaminius assumed, although he couldn’t tell them apart: they were all Greeks to him. No, here were a few Egyptians, their kohl running down their cheeks. Come to that, the savagely fighting Greeks and Judaeans were also kohl wearers. It was barbaric.

  Two men held another man down and smashed him in the head with a coping stone until his face was a raw red ruin. Other men were struggling with each other, kicking and punching. Improvised missiles flew. Despite the centurion’s bellowing, only a few of the rioters paid any attention, and that was only to look up in puzzlement before returning to the fray. It didn’t look like Alexandria’s rioters were accustomed to any kind of policing.

  Flaminius was acting unofficially. Not for the first time, and the last time had landed him in serious trouble. Only his status as an imperial agent had exonerated him after his misadventures in Britain. Now he had been sent to Egypt to make something of himself and here he was, about to get himself in deep water. If he ended up responsible for the deaths of Alexandrian citizens, or even Romans, it wouldn’t go down well.

  He glanced at the centurion, who was glaring imperturbably from beneath his helmet. Wearily, Flaminius rubbed at the raven brand in his forehead. The centurion had one as well. Too many cults, that was the problem with the East.

  He nodded to the centurion again. ‘A second warning.’

  The centurion stomped forward. He opened his mouth to bellow, and a flying stone struck him in the face, knocking him backwards with a crash to the ground. His chin strap snapped and his helmet rolled across the street.

  ‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Flaminius cursed. He crouched beside the centurion, checking for signs of life. The man was stunned, that was all. Blood from a graze in the scalp flooded his heavy face. Flaminius looked up and beckoned to two legionaries.

  ‘Get the centurion out of the way,’ he commanded. ‘Get him to safety.’ He straightened up, looking in the direction of the rioters. Had it been a chance throw?

  He snatched up his shield. ‘Defend yourselves,’ he yelled. A rain of missiles battered on the legionaries. Peering from beneath his shield, Flaminius saw that a group of rioters had detached itself from the main fight and was pelting the legionaries. Now that was cheeky.

  The two legionaries grabbed the centurion by his armpits and began hauling him across the street. As they did, the centurion came to life again, lashing out with a fist so one of the men went sprawling. More missiles rained down. It was utter confusion. The centurion staggered to his feet, glaring about himself in search of his helmet.

  Flaminius turned to his men. He had no time to worry about the centurion. ‘Advance!’ he cried. Rioters ran at them and flung rocks or even burning brands that roared like dragons in the air but bounced fizzling off shields or armour.

  Flaminius found the centurion marching at his side, still helmetless but with his sword gripped in his hand. Blood painted his face a martial red. The man’s mouth was set in a downturned line.

  ‘Get back!’ Flaminius cried, but his words were lost beneath the roar of the approaching rioters. He turned to see a line of them, formed up in some kind of crude imitation of the legionaries’ own formation, surging down the street towards them.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ bellowed the blood faced centurion. ‘We’ll give them a slapping they won’t forget.’

  The legionaries charged down the street, littered as it was with debris and battered bodies. Flaminius saw at the head of the rioters a tall, thin man with long, untrimmed hair and beard, and a visionary look in his kohl rimmed eyes. A visionary look—or the look of a madman.

  He was urging his fellow rioters onwards, whirling a broken spar of wood above his head as he yelled something incomprehensible. Just as the two opposing forces met violently in the middle of the street, Flaminius caught the words ‘demiurge’ and ‘god of this world.’ Was he fighting an itinerant Cynic philosopher?

  The ensuing debate proved more reminiscent of the Colosseum than the Athenian agora.

  Gripping his hilt firmly, he alternated between smashing rioters to the ground with his oval shield and using the flat of his blade to bludgeon them when they were down. His men copied him. And yet the unarmoured rioters, armed with nothing better than knives or clubs, kept fighting. The visionary gleam Flaminius had noticed in the eyes of the leader was something he kept seeing. Were they all mad? Possessed? Had they been imbibing some strange Eastern narcotic? Or had they just drunk too much of this sickly Greek wine?

  Al
l wore Green tokens, to his chagrin, mainly ribbons tied round their upper arms. The Greens had always been Flaminius’ team. It seemed oddly wrong to be pounding a man into the dirt when he supported the same chariot team, and yet even on the most fraught days in the Circus Maximus, Flaminius had never seen the need to run amuck like these maniacs. This was something even more powerful than sport, whatever passion it was that was driving them.

  He used his shield as a cestus, punching one rioter in the face so the man hit the cobbles with a thump. Another rioter clutching a butcher’s knife came barrelling into the tribune on his other side, but Flaminius parried a clumsy blow with his sword blade, then clouted him on the crown with the flat. The man dropped to the ground, and a legionary staggering backwards under attack from two rioters stumbled over him, pounding his face into the dirt.

  Flaminius shoved his way through the mob. Nothing seemed to stop them. He saw two of his legionaries drag one rioter down and lay into him with the flat of their blades until he curled up in the gutter. Another legionary stomped through the press punching men in the face until a flying cobble hit his shield and he was knocked to the ground. Rioters crowded round him and began using their feet to good effect. The red-faced centurion and two legionaries broke up the fight, dragging rioters down and kicking them in return—their military boots were more savage weapons than the sandals or bare feet of the Alexandrians.

  Flaminius panted from his exertions, sweat ran down his skin beneath his armour. He dashed more sweat from his eyes, which were red rimmed and weeping from the thick black smoke, and looked up and down the street. Where was that tall man with the visionary eyes and the sophist’s rigmarole? Ah, there he was, at the centre of a three-sided fight with Blues and Greens clashing with each other while legionaries attempted to arrest both sides. Crazy Eyes was exhorting them all to greater effort. He didn’t seem to be partisan; perhaps he just liked mayhem.

  Flaminius certainly didn’t like him. It seemed he was the kingpin that steered the riot in the direction of destruction. He was a troublemaker. Flaminius wanted to see the mad bastard in chains, if not nailed to a cross. He hadn’t come to this turbulent city to fight civil disturbance, he was here to investigate a murder whose implications might quite well be further ethnic strife. That was bad enough, but right now he was committed to leading his men to crush this riot.

  He gestured to a couple of legionaries to back him up, and shoved his way through the mob towards Crazy Eyes.

  At the visionary’s shouted command, men in the garb of Greens flung themselves at the legionaries, gripping them round the necks and trying to drag them down. They outnumbered them. Two more grabbed Flaminius but he shrugged them from him, punching one in the face with his shield boss, kicking the other in the groin so he went staggering back into the midst of another scuffle where two Blues set upon him. Flaminius shook his head disbelievingly. In Rome, they waited until the race had been run before the fights broke out. The chariots in the hippodrome had not yet received starters’ orders.

  One of the two legionaries with him was down, receiving kicks from more Greens. On the far side, Crazy Eyes watched in uncontrolled excitement. The other legionary had fought off his attackers, and was lashing about him with the flat. Flaminius ran forwards. The mad visionary saw him and his blazing eyes flashed with wrath, but he turned and ran down the street. Pushing and shoving through knots of rioters, Flaminius ran after him. The second legionary lumbered behind him.

  The fugitive hot down an alleyway. As he vanished from sight, Flaminius cursed, and sped up. He turned the same corner and skidded to a halt a short way down the stinking passage. It was empty.

  Hearing footsteps behind him, he wheeled round, sword raised, only to stop himself at the last second. The legionary who had followed stared at him, then took in the filthy alley.

  ‘He’s gone, sir,’ he reported.

  Flaminius was rapidly losing all faith in his new legion. ‘I can see that, legionary,’ he said patiently. ‘Where can he have got to?’

  The alleyway was bare and empty, opening out into a deserted court at the far end. There was no sign the rioter had even been down here.

  The roar of the fight in the main street grew louder. The legionary looked significantly at Flaminius. ‘We’d better get back to the others,’ he said.

  Giving the alleyway a final look, Flaminius turned and led the legionary back out into the street.

  As he did, he failed to see, peering down from the flat roof above him, the wild eyed, wild haired man who he had been pursuing. The visionary’s eyes were cold now, his face dark. His kohl ran with sweat and he looked as if he wept blood. But his lips twitched in a ghastly smile.

  Out in the street, Flaminius’ men had been joined by Alexandrians in the uniform of the civic guard. Had Paulus Alexander finally sent help? There was no sign of the commander but accompanying the civic guards was a languid young man in tribune’s uniform who Flaminius found vaguely familiar. At his side was an even more familiar face, Ozymandias the Egyptian, still lugging Flaminius’ toga.

  Now that their wild-eyed leader had gone, the rioters seemed to have lost all will to fight. Many were running back down the street, vanishing into the smoke. Others knelt in the gutter, arms bound behind their backs, guarded by legionaries.

  Swatting flies with a flywhisk, the new tribune sauntered up to Flaminius, Ozymandias looking scared at his elbow. ‘Ah, tribune,’ said the newcomer sketching a salute. ‘Have we met, old man? You, er, seem to have taken charge of my men.’ The tribune looked languidly at him and Flaminius realised where he had seen him before: he had been the tribune on duty in the camp earlier that day, who had told him Avidius Pollio was away on manoeuvres.

  Flaminius saluted smartly. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Presumptuous of me. But there was a little matter of a riot going on and I found these chaps just standing around. Your centurion told me you’d gone to speak with the commander of the civic guard.’

  ‘He wasn’t much help, to be perfectly honest, but he did lend me these fellows.’ The tribune gestured at the civic guards now helping the legionaries disperse the riot. ‘Damn these disturbances,’ he said. ‘You can’t put them down. Settle them in one street and they break out elsewhere. Don’t know what they’re about. I met this Egyptian,’ he added. ‘Works for the commander. I think the fellow was worried about you.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I remember now! You came to the camp. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a missing litter and two fugitive slaves? Property of the legate, y’know.’

  Before Flaminius could answer, civic guards came running back.

  ‘Another riot has broken out,’ their leader reported, ‘outside the Old Judaean Quarter.’

  —6—

  Ten minutes later, the two tribunes and Ozymandias were jogging at the head of a joint force of Roman legionaries and Alexandrian civic guards.

  ‘Remind me,’ said the tribune, who had introduced himself as Marcus Pertinax, ‘what your role is here? You seem to be a tribune without a cohort.’

  ‘I suppose you’d say I’m on the staff,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’m with the commissary.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, you said, didn’t you?’ said Marcus Pertinax. ‘Funny that. I mean, the commissary are usually bluff old centurions. Like the one who went missing.’

  ‘Julius Strabo?’ Flaminius panted. ‘Yes, well, I suppose I’m a special case. I used to be an auxiliary tribune of cavalry, attached to the Ninth Legion.’

  ‘The Ninth!’ Marcus Pertinax whistled. ‘I’m so sorry, old fellow. I thought you were all wiped out. Caledonians, wasn’t it?’

  ‘A few of us survived,’ Flaminius replied, nodding. ‘But the legion itself no longer exists.’

  ‘And now you’ve been posted to the other end of the world,’ said Marcus Pertinax sadly. ‘To replace a centurion who’s gone missing! He was a rum sort, Julius Strabo. I don’t know how you get like that in your line of work.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He was ver
y… suspicious. Looked over his shoulder a lot. I mean, if you’re out on patrol all the time, fair enough, but not if your job is just to keep the legion in grain and whatnot. And he spent most of his time in the city, with the commander of the civic guard. All very odd. A lot of thefts from the grain stores? But you’ve not been long enough here to draw up an inventory.’

  This tribune, a lad from senatorial background, had no idea of the true function of the commissary. Although some of the day to day role involved keeping the legion supplied, their main purpose was to keep an eye on… things. Security matters. Anything that threatened the safety of the empire—or more specifically, the emperor. They weren’t meant to go missing, and they certainly weren’t meant to get themselves murdered under mysterious circumstances. What threatened the commissary threatened the emperor.

  That being said, Flaminius was stepping out of bounds by getting mixed up in these disturbances. But how could he just stand by? Besides, he’d never get into the Old Judaean Quarter until they were settled.

  ‘Did you know Julius Strabo at all?’ he asked as they marched on. Sounds of rioting from ahead confirmed that they were on the right track.

  Marcus Pertinax shook his head. ‘Like I said, old fellow, he spent more time with the commander of the civic guard. This Egyptian here might know more.’ He nodded at the taciturn Ozymandias. ‘All I can say is Julius Strabo was odd. Obsessive. Muttered about plots and conspiracies when he was in his cups. Something about the Great Fire of Rome. Incendiaries.’

  Before Flaminius could ask further, they turned a corner and saw a crowd of civilians fighting at the end of the street. There were incendiaries here, no doubt about it. Rioters with torchers were trying to set alight the shops.

  ‘Form up, men,’ barked Marcus Pertinax to the legionaries and civic guards. ‘Out swords. Give them a taste of steel, that’ll settle them.’