Our Man in Alexandria

by Gavin Chappell

  A big man in the drab clothes of a servant entered the atrium. He moved awkwardly, as if uncomfortable with his own size.

  ‘My master asks that you accompany me to the ruined temple in Delta Sector,’ he announced. ‘He apologises for not seeing you out; he is indisposed. Please come with me.’

  Flaminius and Ozymandias exchanged wry smiles and followed the servant from the house. Soon they were back within the walls, traversing the dilapidated streets of the Old Judaean Quarter. Most buildings were falling into ruin, and people lived in slum conditions. Groups of ragged youths stood idly on street corners, their hostile stares only extinguished by sight of Flaminius’ breastplate, helmet, and sword. For the first time that day he was glad he had adopted so bellicose an outfit.

  They came out into an open space in the middle of which stood a building even more ruinous than the rest. From its overgrown pillars and courts, such as still stood, Flaminius guessed it to be a temple of some kind. A high wooden fence surrounded it, containing a locked gate.

  ‘The great temple of Alexandria,’ the servant called it, producing a key and unlocking the gate. Like the more famous Temple of Jerusalem, the Judaean holy building lay in ruins. It was a reminded of the Lukuas uprising, when Greek and Judaean fought for control of the city, and only Trajan’s legions could snatch Alexandria back into imperial control.

  ‘Why has no attempt been made to rebuild it?’ he asked the servant as they walked between piles of rubble and thickets of weeds.

  ‘We have not a drachma to spare,’ said the servant, ‘and besides, it serves as a reminder.’

  ‘A reminder of how you overreached yourself?’ suggested Ozymandias. ‘Of how you brought war down on the whole city?’

  The servant glanced sullenly at him. ‘A reminder of how we were wronged. How we were cast out of the city.’

  For all Dionysius’ talk of integration with Roman culture, his own servants had other ideas. This was the bitter soil where militants and zealots bred. This, and the Temple in Jerusalem. Every time a Judaean saw those ruins, they would be reminded, as Lukuas had been, of the prophecy of the one who would lead them to victory. The Christus.

  ‘Where was the body found?’ Flaminius asked the servant.

  The man took them both to a pile of rubble in the central nave of the building. Dark blood stains ran down the stones. ‘This was where the centurion lay,’ said the servant. ‘He had been stabbed, his body defiled.’ This said, he wandered away to stand near the gate. Flaminius examined the rubble pile. There were signs that it had been disturbed. Perhaps Julius Strabo had been climbing over it when he met his murderer.

  Flaminius and Ozymandias climbed to the top of the mound and scanned the area. The temple lay in utter desolation. No one was to be seen except the bored-looking servant, waiting for them by the open gate. They went back down.

  ‘A Roman!’ said a voice from behind them. ‘You must be brave. This has become a dangerous place for your people.’

  —12—

  Delta Sector, Alexandria November 3, 123 AD

  Flaminius turned. Standing at the edge of the rubble was a tall old man with the beard and robes of an itinerant philosopher. He was watching the tribune and his Egyptian companion from the shadow of a half-toppled column, while leaning on a blackthorn staff.

  ‘You say this place is dangerous for Romans?’ Flaminius asked, skidding across the rubble, Ozymandias behind him. ‘What do you know of the death of Commissary Centurion Julius Strabo?’

  The sophist, if such was his trade, spread wide his arms. ‘I know only what I have heard,’ he said, ‘even though I live beside these ruins.’

  ‘You live here?’ Flaminius approached him. ‘And where were you the previous night? When Julius Strabo was murdered? Perhaps in the first watch of the night.’

  ‘I heard of the murder yesterday morning, before the riots,’ said the old man evasively. ‘You must understand, sir, that I am a retiring soul. I turn my back on things of this world.’

  ‘What other world is there?’ asked Ozymandias. ‘Are you a necromancer?’

  ‘Ozymandias!’ Flaminius said. ‘I’m leading this investigation.’ He returned his attention to the sophist. ‘You’re an ascetic of some kind, I see. A Greek?’

  ‘I am an Alexandrian citizen,’ said the old man. ‘Yes, I am a humble seeker after truth.’

  ‘A Greek, then,’ said Flaminius, ‘and yet you live here in the Old Judaean Quarter. Why is that?’

  ‘Cheap rents?’ suggested Ozymandias. ‘But no, you’re an unworldly man., aren’t you…? What is your name?’

  ‘Basilides,’ replied the old man. ‘I am not a worldly man, as you say, though I have a small stipend from my family who dwell elsewhere in Egypt. I live here in the poverty of the Old Judaean Quarter because I have renounced the world and its distractions, but wish to bring my wisdom to those who most need it. Otherwise I would take to the desert as have many seekers after wisdom.’

  Like most of his contemporaries in Rome, Flaminius had affected an interest in philosophy when he was a student, often going to see some of the most popular philosophers of the day disputing their theories. He’d soon grown tired of it, though, and of the feeble wisp of beard he had grown in imitation of Socrates, realising that he preferred to read Milesian tales rather than philosophic treatises, and so he left it all behind—the beard in particular.

  Only a belief in the maxims of Epicurus, and a working understanding of Pyrrho (very useful during investigations like these) still interested him. Many philosophers spoke as Basilides did, of renouncing the world. And many of them somehow seemed to remain the centre of attention amid civilisation rather than becoming Peripatetics or hermits. But this was getting away from the point.

  ‘You live beside these ruins?’ he said. ‘And yet you saw or heard nothing at the time of the murder, you say.’

  ‘We have yet to establish when the man was killed,’ said Basilides. ‘But I was not here that night. I was speaking before a group of like-minded people in the Greek Quarter. The wife of a public dignitary takes an interest in my work, and she and her friends often ask me to address them. They are good enough to provide me with generous alms.’

  ‘That,’ said Ozymandias in a sardonic tone, ‘must make renouncing the world quite difficult.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for the moment,’ said Flaminius. ‘What can you tell me about these ruins?’

  Basilides looked at the toppled pillars and pediments that surrounded them. ‘It was once the main temple of the Judaeans in Alexandria,’ he said. ‘They had temples throughout the city, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Now only this one remains, and it lies in ruins, although the Judeans still regard it as holy ground. Much the same applies to the Temple…’

  ‘…in Jerusalem, yes yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘This is also the scene of a murder. You live next to it. Why would someone choose to murder a Roman centurion in the ruins of a Judaean temple?’

  Basilides looked guarded. He beckoned them closer.

  ‘Sometimes, on certain nights, my meditations have been…disturbed.’

  Flaminius and Ozymandias exchanged glances. ‘Go on,’ said Flaminius encouragingly. ‘What causes these disturbances?’

  Basilides looked about him. Even though it was broad daylight, he seemed very nervous. He saw Dionysius’ servant standing nearby. ‘Who’s that?’ he hissed.

  ‘He’s a friend,’ said Flaminius. ‘Don’t worry, you can trust him!’

  ‘Just like you can trust us,’ added Ozymandias. ‘Now, these disturbances?’

  ‘Chanting,’ said Basilides. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with chanting. But in the middle of the night. And also wild yells, as if strange revels were being performed in the ruins.’ He shivered, looking considerably less philosophical about it all. ‘In this city exist all manner of creeds and religions and superstitions. Here are Greeks, here are Egyptians, here are Judaeans. Here are astrologers, Hermeticists, magicians.
Such chaos can be expected in a world constructed by an inferior demiurge. Some outlawed cults are rumoured to exist; worshippers of demons such as Bacchus and Hecate. Since its destruction in the war, the ruined temple has become a haunt of such folk.’

  ‘We spoke with the chief elder,’ said Flaminius. ‘He mentioned cults he disapproved of. Perhaps you know of them.’ He looked closely at Basilides. ‘The tribe of Christians?’

  Basilides’ face changed. ‘I’ve never heard of such people. My apologies.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of the Christians?’ Ozymandias was incredulous. ‘And you such an expert.’

  Basilides shook his head. ‘I am unfamiliar with that cult,’ he affirmed. ‘Was there anything else you wished to ask me?’

  Ozymandias looked impatiently at Flaminius but the Roman shook his head. ‘I think I’ve heard all I need to,’ the tribune said. ‘Where do you live? We may want to question you again.’

  Basilides gave them his address down an alleyway nearby, and then hurried away past the servant and out of the gate.

  ‘He’s hiding something,’ Ozymandias observed as soon as Basilides was gone. ‘Ha! Another one you’ve annoyed, Roman.’

  ‘Of course he’s hiding something,’ said Flaminius as they walked across to the servant.

  ‘Is he the killer, this Greek?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘Or would murder be too worldly for a man like that?’

  ‘A man so unworldly that he gives performances at the houses of the rich,’ said Flaminius sourly, ‘in return for generous alms.’

  ‘Performances?’ Ozymandias said. ‘Talking philosophy? What kind of performance do you call that? Doesn’t he sing or dance?’

  ‘We should see if he can fit us into his busy schedule,’ Flaminius replied. ‘What really interested me was not his denial of ever having heard of Christians—I’d be willing to believe that such an unworldly man might not have heard of every minor cult in the empire if it hadn’t been for his reaction. He should cultivate a little stoic gravitas, that sophist. No, what interested me was one word he used.’

  ‘Word?’ said Ozymandias. ‘Only one? He used plenty—too many. Which one did you find interesting? I thought they were all pretty dull.’

  ‘He used the word ‘demiurge’ to describe the Creator,’ said Flaminius. ‘Now, where’ve we heard that before?’

  ‘Dionysius said something about a demiurge,’ said Ozymandias after a moment.

  ‘So did Crazy Eyes,’ said Flaminius. ‘The leader of the rioters.’

  They had reached Dionysius’ servant now. Leaving Ozymandias to ponder what he had said, Flaminius hailed the bored looking man.

  ‘Now I’d like you to direct us to the embalmers,’ he said.

  ‘The embalmers?’ the servant asked, startled. He stared at Flaminius as if the Roman were mad.

  ‘Yes,’ the embalmers’ workshop in the City of the Dead where Julius Strabo was taken,’ said Flaminius. ‘I want to see what we can glean from the murdered centurion’s corpse.’

  The servant shrugged sulkily, looked from one to the other, then started giving them directions.

  The embalmers’ workshop was one of many in that expanse of gardens and groves and mausoleums known as the City of the Dead, beyond the Gate of the Moon on the west side of Alexandria. At first the embalmers were obstructive, refusing to allow Flaminius and Ozymandias entrance into the low stone edifice.

  ‘This is the emblem of an imperial agent,’ said Flaminius, tiredly showing them his lance-head brooch. ‘Refuse entrance to me at your peril. I am a representative of the Emperor Hadrian himself.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the man who had been trying to stop them entering. Like Ozymandias, he had the linen kilt and kohl-rimmed eyes of an Egyptian. ‘If you put it like that, sir.’

  He led them down a short vestibule decorated with a fresco showing the joys of the afterlife, where the dead were judged by Osiris amid a reed filled marsh. They came out into a workroom. A heady, nauseating aroma was thick in the air. Corpses lay upon slabs on every hand, young, old, and middle aged. Cat footed attendants glided from one to another.

  Directly ahead of Flaminius was the body of an attractive young woman, about Nitocris’ age, which had been negligently made decent with a linen shroud. Flaminius remembered what he had read in Herodotus about the habits of Egyptian embalmers.

  The head embalmer, so Flaminius imagined him to be, led them past another body that was being methodically gutted by two lesser embalmers. One man reached inside the cut open corpse and removed a glistening rope of intestines, which he plopped into a nearby jar.

  ‘Nothing can be left within the cadaver,’ the head embalmer explained, ‘or else the flesh itself will spoil. Here,’ he indicated another slab where a sickeningly aromatic fluid was being pasted onto another body, ‘we ensure that the corpse will not rot within the sarcophagus. It has to be eviscerated, embalmed, and filled with a mixture that ensures its continued existence. It is a similar process to tanning, in many ways. That was the trade I trained in as a young apprentice. After a few years I graduated to mastery of the more important process of embalming.’

  Ozymandias was holding his hand over his face.

  ‘After the riots,’ the head embalmer added confidentially, ‘we’ve got a bit of a backlog.’

  At last, to Ozymandias’ relief, the head embalmer led them into a small, cluttered office off the main workshop. Its walls were lined with jars, and several rugs and cushions lay on the floor alongside an abacus.

  ‘Is the embalming for a family member?’ the head embalmer asked, sitting down cross legged on a cushion. ‘It’s not for either of you gentlemen, I’m sure. You’re both in rude health, anyone can see!’

  Flaminius coughed. ‘We’ve not come to hire you,’ he told the man. ‘We want to question you about a body you were asked to deal with yesterday.’

  ‘I “deal with” any number of cadavers every day,’ said the head embalmer, ‘or at least my subordinates do. Be more specific.’

  ‘A Roman body,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Found murdered in the Old Judaean Quarter by Paulus Alexander.’

  ‘I don’t believe I know the gentleman,’ said the head embalmer. ‘Paulus Alexander, did you say?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ozymandias impatiently. ‘The commander of the civic guard.’

  ‘And who found this Paulus Alexander?’ asked the embalmer.

  ‘No one found him,’ said Flaminius. ‘He found Julius Strabo.’

  ‘So, he found Julius Strabo?’ The embalmer pointed at Ozymandias. ‘But who is Julius Strabo?’

  This was getting ridiculous. ‘The commander of the civic guard found the body of Julius Strabo yesterday,’ said Flaminius through gritted teeth. ‘You were asked to embalm the body. You ought to remember it; it had the word “Abraxas” carved into its brow.’

  The embalmer called a subordinate member of staff into the office and asked him about the delivery in question. The subordinate flicked through a sheaf of papyrus and confirmed that such a cadaver had been delivered. Flaminius said patiently, ‘And where is the corpse now?’

  ‘About to be gutted,’ said the subordinate.

  ‘Please!’ said the head embalmer. ‘How many times! Eviscerated!’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ said the embalmer indifferently. ‘About to be eviscerated.’

  ‘May we watch this evisceration?’ asked Flaminius. Roman law forbade dissection, which he thought a pity; his reading of the old Greek authors persuaded him that it could yield all manner of secrets.

  ‘It’s irregular,’ said the head embalmer airily. He dismissed his subordinate. ‘I might ask why you’re making so strange a request, but I wouldn’t be that indiscreet. You get some odd requests in my job. Yes, you get all sorts.’ He gave a greasy smile. ‘We don’t usually like to betray the secrets of our craft to the uninitiated, but of course, anything is possible. But it’s my boys, you see. They get thirsty.’

  ‘He’s asking for a bribe,’ Ozymandias whispered
into Flaminius’ ear.

  ‘I realise that,’ Flaminius whispered back. He fumbled in his belt as if about to pull out a money pouch.

  Then he produced his lance-head brooch. ‘In the name of His Imperial Majesty,’ he said, ‘I demand to witness the evisceration of Centurion Julius Strabo.’

  —13—

  Flaminius regretted his decision soon after.

  Grumbling, the head embalmer led them back into the workshop, where two of his subordinates hovered by a slab upon which lay a body. Letters had been cut into the brow, and going by this and the distinctly Roman cast to the middle-aged face, not to mention Ozymandias’ muted gasp, Flaminius realised that it was the mortal remains of Julius Strabo.

  ‘You’ve got an audience today, friend,’ said the head embalmer.

  One of the subordinates grunted, and opened a box of tools. Flaminius saw, a little queasily, that the man’s kilt was stained with blood and other body fluids, as was the other, younger embalmer, who stood back for the moment. From the box, the first embalmer took a jar, with whose contents he began to sponge down the body. He took a lot of care about this, as if he was washing a loved one.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Flaminius asked the head embalmer.

  ‘Cleaning the cadaver with palm wine!’ said the head embalmer, as if this was something any fool could see. ‘Now he’ll wash the flesh down with Nile water.’