‘May I inspect the corpse before the evisceration?’ Flaminius asked.
The head embalmer shrugged, and spat. ‘You’re the imperial agent,’ he said resentfully. ‘You don’t need to ask.’ He gave Ozymandias a glower, as if it was the scribe’s fault.
Flaminius gently moved the lesser embalmer out of the way and examined the corpse of Julius Strabo. The centurion had been a thickset man in life, with the body of an athlete gone to seed. A typical Roman, Flaminius would have said, of the type destined to become a centurion. He hadn’t been circumcised. Flaminius would have expected this if the man had gone undercover with a Judaean cult. He was about to comment on this, but remembering his earlier mistake decided to keep quiet.
He inspected the brow, where the mysterious word Abraxas had been cut. Ragged flesh, torn as much as cut, as if whoever had done it had taken several attempts with a knife that had not been too sharp—a penknife, maybe. The head wore an expression of surprise. There was a curious burn mark on the right earlobe. The only other wound was the stab wound between the man’s ribs. This was about the width of a thumb, the right size for a legionary dagger. He compared it with the dagger in his own belt, a flashy affair with a pommel in the shade of a hawk’s head. The way the man had been stabbed could mean a great deal. He tried to work out the angle of the thrust. Had it been sustained in a fight, or had it been a sudden attack?
‘There’s no way anyone could have done this,’ he told Ozymandias, ‘unless they could get right up to him. A close friend, perhaps.’
Ozymandias went pale. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m not accusing you,’ said Flaminius soothingly. ‘Just making an observation. You don’t have a dagger, do you? No, just a penknife, although you used it to good effect in the riot. From the shape of the wound, the killer was armed with a legionary dagger, like this one in my belt. But I suppose they could have stolen it. Or maybe it was an heirloom.’
He gestured to the embalmer to continue. The man grunted and produced water from a jar, with which he washed down the corpse. Now his younger companion stepped forward and took a blade from the box of tools. He made a swift cut in the left-hand side of the body, then inserted his hand and began to haul out organs. Flaminius saw the liver, lungs, stomach, intestines, and several other less identifiable viscera which the man cut from the membranes surrounding them and placed on the slab beside the corpse. Ozymandias gagged and looked away.
‘Do you leave his heart in?’ Flaminius inquired, as the organs were packed away into jars filled with natron.
‘Sarapis!’ Ozymandias complained. ‘Of course they do. He wouldn’t have much of a chance in the Afterlife without a heart.’
One of the embalmers produced a long hook and advanced on the corpse. Flaminius looked on in fascination as the man thrust it up Strabo’s long nose, inserting it deep into the skull.
Ozymandias turned away. Flaminius could understand his squeamishness, but he forced himself to watch. He might learn anything about the process, and besides, it wouldn’t do for a Roman to lose face in front of these barbarians.
Or was he just being morbid? He wasn’t quite sure himself.
Slowly, bit by glutinous bit, accompanied by a ripping and crunching sound, the embalmer removed the grey matter of the centurion’s brain from inside the skull. The process went on for a surprisingly long time.
‘I never knew centurions to have so many brains,’ Flaminius murmured.
‘Sarapis!’ Ozymandias repeated indistinctly.
Flaminius looked at the Egyptian. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot, you knew the man.’
The embalmers began to paint the body with a whitish grey soap that Flaminius identified as more natron, while one of them stuffed a mixture of aromatic herbs into the slit in the left side, then sewed it up neatly. Everything else on the slab was gathered together, including several gory rags, and the bodily fluids were sponged up, and packed into the jars.
The head embalmer turned to Flaminius. ‘Alright, imperial agent,’ he said sardonically. ‘Show’s over.’ He clicked his fingers, and the two men who had done all the work, who were spattered with fresh bodily fluids, bowed ironically like actors at the end of a play. ‘Seen what you wanted to see?’
Ozymandias rushed outside, holding his hand to his mouth.
Flaminius nodded. ‘Thank you, it’s been very illuminating. Goodbye.’ He followed Ozymandias into the sunlight with rather more dignity.
Out in the fresh air of the City of the Dead, away from the smell of death and natron, Flaminius took a few deep breaths. Ozymandias was leaning against the wall, his head bent, brown skin pale, retching. Flaminius felt guilty. The Egyptian stopped retching and looked up.
‘Had your fill now?’ he asked bitterly.
Flaminius shook his head. ‘You must have seen worse when you were a tomb robber. What about the bodies in those tombs you broke into?’
Ozymandias wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘They were dry fellows, wittier than those comedians we were just watching,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of this hell.’
They started walking. ‘Do you have enough to go on?’ asked the Egyptian after a while. ‘I hope you have. I’m getting tired of this place.’
‘You must have seen very little active work since Paulus Alexander took you on,’ Flaminius remarked. ‘You fight skilfully, but you don’t seem to be very good around gore.’
‘I’ve been in fights since I was a boy,’ said Ozymandias. ‘I’ve seen dead men before. But that evisceration was more than I could cope with, by Sarapis. Maybe I’ve spent too long crouched over a scroll of papyrus.’
Flaminius remembered his first sight of blood, other than cut fingers and the like, not long after he’d been posted to the Ninth, in Britain. A fight with rebel tribesmen. The Britons had put up a good fight, but poorly armed and poorly armoured they had been no match for a patrol of Roman auxiliaries on horseback. Flaminius had ridden down one woad painted warrior, cringing inwardly as he did. He’d been toasted in wine for it later on, in the mess, but it had not been intentional. The popping sound of breaking bones was still with him. And he’d made the mistake of inspecting the body after the fight. Very nasty. As nasty as the Britons’ habit of keeping the heads of their slain as trophies.
‘It’s something you have to get used to,’ he said at last, a little feebly.
They had reached the Gate of the Moon. Flaminius led them back inside the city walls and down the busy Canopic Street. ‘Where to now?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘Back to the palace?’
‘I think so,’ said Flaminius. ‘We’ve seen where the murder took place, we’ve spoken to some of the people, we’ve even seen the body.’ He glanced at Ozymandias with a grin, and the Egyptian shot him a look of revulsion. ‘That gave me plenty to go on. Now all we need to do is speak to the man who found the body.’
Ozymandias looked at him sidelong, but he was glancing back the way they had come. ‘The commander?’
‘Paulus Alexander, yes,’ said Flaminius.
‘We’re reporting back to him?’ Ozymandias pulled a face. ‘You Romans are hard to read sometimes. It’s all this gravitas and stoicism. Do you think you have enough to report?’ When Flaminius didn’t answer immediately, he added, ‘Surely you’re not thinking of questioning him again?’ Ozymandias stared worriedly at Flaminius. ‘You’ve already done that, remember?’
Flaminius wasn’t listening. Why was he so distracted? Ozymandias followed his gaze to see someone vanish down an alleyway.
Flaminius took his arm. ‘Come on,’ he instructed the Egyptian. ‘I think we’re being followed. I thought we were when we left the Old Judaean Quarter. Now I’m sure. Let’s make it difficult for them, whoever they are.’
—14—
‘Leave it to me,’ said Ozymandias confidently. ‘I’ve lived in this city all my life. You’ve only been here a day or two. Come on!’
He led Flaminius down the street.
‘Turning sharply
westward will lead us in the direction of the Greek Quarter,’ Ozymandias droned in a lecturer’s drone. ‘Here the Ptolemies once reigned as kings of Upper and Lower Egypt, titles that went back millennia, to Menes, the first Pharaoh.’ In an undertone he added, ‘Are they still following us?’
Flaminius gazed around him, as if fascinated by the architecture. He caught sight of a figure watching from around a corner. ‘Yes. Carry on.’
They walked down the street in the direction of Hadrian’s Palace. A large public garden stood on one side of the wide thoroughfare, and Ozymandias took Flaminius in through the open gates. Gravel paths wound between beds of flowers and shrubs. Palm trees and tamarisks swayed in the breeze above them.
A deep pool shone brightly in the middle of the small park, beside which sat couples gazing entranced into the waters where exotic fish swam and darted, while small packs of Greek children and their Egyptian nurses roamed the surroundings. It looked to Flaminius like a smaller scale version of the gardens of Sallust in Rome.
‘You think we can lose them in here?’ asked the Roman.
Ozymandias nodded. ‘Don’t forget, I know the ins and outs of this place,’ he said. ‘I used to come here with my sister all the time. Very romantic.’
Flaminius followed him down a narrow pathway until it opened out into a small glade between plane trees. Here a seat sat unoccupied and away from the eyes of all. Graffiti covered the trunks of the trees. It was a trysting place. Luckily no one was trysting at this hour.
‘We can sit here,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Nice and quiet. Pray no one finds us; that would be embarrassing. But no tail will expect us to go here.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Flaminius, sitting down on the stone bench. ‘I don’t much care for being followed. That said, I’d like to find out who exactly it is who’s tailing us.’
‘If they’ve followed us all the way from the Old Judaean Quarter,’ Ozymandias said, sitting next to him, looking around surreptitiously as he did so, ‘Someone who lives there.’
‘I’d never have guessed,’ said Flaminius. ‘What luck that Paulus Alexander partnered me up with such an observant fellow.’ He frowned. ‘Obviously, it’s someone from the Old Judaean Quarter, but who and why?’
‘That Basilides wants to keep an eye on you,’ Ozymandias said. ‘Perhaps he’s sent his fellow cultists to follow us.’
‘I suppose that’s possible,’ said Flaminius, ‘Assuming he has fellow cultists. But what would he get out of it?’
‘Well, maybe Dionysius told his servant to follow us,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Did it look like that gangling lout?’
‘Dionysius?’ Flaminius said. ‘Why would he want me tailed? I’m no threat to him, am I?’
‘No threat?’ said Ozymandias. ‘Your investigation could lead to serious trouble for his people. They’ve been decimated in this city. If it gets out that Roman citizens are being murdered in their ruined temple, there would be more riots, and even the prefect couldn’t put up with it.’ He adopted the pompous tones of a Roman official. ‘What Greeks and Egyptians and Judaeans get up to in their spare time is one thing, but Roman citizens cannot be murdered willy-nilly.’
Flaminius tapped his lips with his fingertips. ‘I suppose he might well feel threatened,’ he said. ‘His people are on a knife’s edge at the moment. This might tip the scales, to mix metaphors. But surely you can’t think he’s responsible for the murder.’
‘We don’t know who killed Julius Strabo,’ said Ozymandias, ‘but he was investigating sinister cults in the Old Judaean Quarter.’
‘Dionysius seemed to think it was the Christians,’ remarked Flaminius.
‘Who knows what those eaters of men could be up to?’ said Ozymandias.
‘Now, now,’ said Flaminius. ‘You know the emperor doesn’t approve of these slanderous accusations. Christians are to be treated like everyone else. They have rights in accordance with their status…’
‘I think we must have shaken off pursuit,’ said Flaminius a while later, ‘whoever it was. Let’s see if we can make it to the palace of Hadrian and speak to Paulus Alexander.’
Ozymandias peered out of the trees. ‘No one’s around,’ he said, ‘but it’s not surprising seeing as it’s noon. Everyone is out of the sun, apart from crazy Romans like you.’
‘All the easier to spot our tails, if they’re still about,’ said Flaminius. ‘We can go to the palace and wait for Paulus Alexander to wake up from his nap.’
‘With nothing to report,’ Ozymandias grumbled, as they stepped out into the blazing light. He mopped his brow with the hem of his kilt and looked around him. ‘Well, it’s not far to go.’
As they left the gardens, a bird hung in the sky overhead, a tiny dot. Flaminius thought it must be a hawk, or a solitary vulture. The street was deserted except for a few stray cats nosing around some rubbish. The Egyptians revered cats even more than most beasts. As they crossed the sun-drenched roadway, he heard a noise from behind and looked over his shoulder, expecting more feline antics.
A man dodged into the cover of a colonnade.
‘We haven’t shaken them off,’ said Ozymandias. He glared up at the sun. ‘Ra’s not exactly helping,’ he added bitterly.
‘We can’t go back to the palace,’ Flaminius decided. ‘I don’t want anyone knowing my business, if it’s a nosy Judaean elder or something more sinister, and anyway, I don’t think I want to talk to Paulus Alexander anymore now.’
Ozymandias looked curious, but Flaminius would say no more. They started walking, Ozymandias still in the lead. The sun baked the dusty street. The silence—an hour earlier the city had been bustling—was eerie.
‘Something more sinister?’ Ozymandias said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re believing in these scary Christians with their orgies and Thyestean feasts?’
Flaminius frowned. ‘That sophist Basilides knows more than he’s saying,’ he said. ‘He seems to be well connected, but who knows what he gets up to? Why does he live in such a down at heel area if he’s receiving generous alms from highborn women?’
‘He said he knew nothing about the Christians,’ Ozymandias commented, ‘but it was obviously a lie. Why should he deny knowledge of the cult?’
Flaminius shrugged. ‘Because he’s one of them. He spoke of the demiurge. That links him, in my mind, with the leader of the rioters.’
‘Riotous sophists?’ Ozymandias said. ‘Or riotous Christians?’
Flaminius glanced over his shoulder. Three men were following them down the street, in open sight. His eyes narrowed.
‘Haven’t we seen their sort before?’
Ozymandias followed his gaze. ‘They look like the Greens who were rioting the other day.’ He shivered despite the heat. ‘Let’s get away from them.’
After reaching a crossroads they passed the palace of Hadrian. Flaminius didn’t want to shelter there. It seemed like a bad idea to lead their followers to the centre of operations, if that was what it was. Of course, he could have challenged them. But here, in the middle of a deserted city, the mysterious pursuers would have no compunction against attacking them, and they now outnumbered Flaminius and Ozymandias. It seemed better to shake them off.
They came out onto the Canopic Street, the main east-west boulevard Flaminius remembered from first coming here. In the noonday sun it was deserted, apart from a patrol of legionaries ambling lazily towards them. Flaminius saluted the men, who had not noticed him until the last minute, and they snapped hastily to attention.
‘Is all well?’ he asked.
‘Yessir,’ said the first legionary. He took off his helmet and dabbed at the sweat on his brow with a linen cloth.
‘Put your helmet back on, man,’ barked Flaminius. ‘We’ve seen some dubious characters lurking about round the palace of Hadrian. I want you to go that way and monitor the situation. If they’re up to no good, arrest them and take them to the camp for questioning. They may be connected with the riots.’
The legionary replaced his helme
t and snapped a salute. ‘Sir!’ Hurriedly, he led his two companions north up the side street.
‘Well,’ said Ozymandias admiringly, ‘that’s got rid of them. There’s some good in walking round dressed like a lobster.’
Flaminius fanned at his face. He’d been too hard on that legionary. It really was very hot in this armour.
‘Now we’ve dealt with them,’ he said, ‘I think we’d better find shelter before I pass out.’
Ozymandias led him up the steps of a temple and they recovered in the shade of its forecourt. Flaminius removed his helmet.
‘All very impressive, this,’ he said, ‘and useful in a fight, but I’d prefer even my toga under these conditions.’
Ozymandias fussed around him. ‘You Romans must come from the frozen north not to realise how foolish it is to go out in this heat. We Egyptians know better.’
They dozed in the shade of the temple until the sun began to descend and people came out from their houses and shops. In a short time, the city was bustling again; camel trains and elephants passed, Greeks and Egyptians and Romans busied themselves in the street.
‘Do we go to Hadrian’s Palace now?’ asked Ozymandias.
Flaminius tensed. ‘No,’ he said, waving the Egyptian back into the cover of the colonnade. ‘Get back.’
They watched as the men they had seen before pushed their way through the crowded street, eyes taking in everyone in sight.
‘They must have got away from those legionaries,’ said Ozymandias with a curse. ‘I say we wait until they’ve gone and then head straight back to Paulus Alexander.’
Flaminius shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk to the commander right now. We need to lead them off the trail.’
‘We’ve shaken them off now,’ said Ozymandias.
Flaminius shook his head. ‘We thought that earlier. We’ll not lose them here in the Brucheium. We need somewhere with narrower streets. A maze, a warren of them.’
‘The Egyptian Quarter?’ Ozymandias asked.
‘The very place,’ said Flaminius, smiling. ‘That’ll confuse them. We can lie low at your house. Then, when the coast’s clear, tomorrow probably, we can speak to Paulus Alexander.’
Our Man in Alexandria Page 10