‘But anyone can become a Christian,’ Nitocris murmured. ‘The Judaeans are less welcoming.’ She went to the container of beer and poured jars for all of them.
‘Right,’ said Flaminius, when she returned. ‘In some provinces of Asia Minor, the cult is quite widespread. It’s caused governors in the past considerable concern. The Christians first came to Roman attention when they were held responsible for the Great Fire of Rome, but no one believes that they were incendiaries these days. Emperor Hadrian isn’t exactly the life and soul of any gathering, in my experience, but he’s not a tyrant like Nero. He’s much more reasonable, and sees no reason to persecute people for following a different way of life—as long as it doesn’t affect the stability of the empire.’ He sipped at his beer.
‘You’ve met the emperor?’ Nitocris’ big eyes grew even bigger with awe.
Flaminius nodded. ‘Once or twice,’ he said. ‘In the line of duty.’ He laughed. ‘I once rescued him from an assassin’s blade, so we’re quite well acquainted, you could say.’
He was showing off, he knew it. It was childish of him. But seeing the Egyptian girl’s astonishment, it was somehow irresistible. He was beginning to feel light headed. Perhaps it was just the beer, but he wondered if the blow to his head might not be troubling him again.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think any Christians have anything to do with it.’ Nitocris hung on his every word, although her eyes darted away whenever he looked at her. ‘I think I have a good idea who murdered Julius Strabo, though.’ But he shook his head when they tried to get him to identify the killer.
Ozymandias was examining his wounds. Nitocris had bound them with clean linen after applying bread poultices. Now there was hardly any food left in the house.
He had been given the place by his patron, the commander, after his manumission. He could hardly complain, since it gave him and his sister somewhere to live. Their father had died while Ozymandias was a slave and by the time of the scribe’s manumission, Nitocris had been dependent on the charity of others. His work as a scribe provided for both of them, both a roof over their heads and money for life’s necessities.
Abruptly Flaminius keeled over.
Nitocris knelt over him, placing a hand on his brow. ‘He’s feverish,’ she said swiftly. ‘Get blankets. These Romans aren’t used to our climate; they often catch fever when they first come here. And he’s been wounded several times.’
Concerned, Ozymandias complied. This favourite of emperors was proving something of a liability. As he wrapped the tribune in blankets until he looked like an occupant of the tombs he had robbed, he wondered what this would mean. Nitocris dabbed at Flaminius’ brow.
‘How long do you suppose he’ll be like this?’ he said. ‘I’m sure he was close to solving the case. If only he’d been less close mouthed. Now we’ll have to wait until this fever breaks, Sarapis curse it, before we know.’
‘Are you sure you want to know?’ Nitocris asked.
‘Of course I do,’ said Ozymandias impatiently. ‘Don’t you? They killed Julius Strabo, whoever they were.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re right,’ said the girl. ‘We must cure this fever as best we can. Then you and this Roman can continue your investigation.’
Ozymandias wrung his hands. ‘But what can we do? We’re not medics. I could go to the medic in the palace, but he would charge a fee.’
‘You can borrow money from your patron,’ she said.
‘You don’t want me to get into debt with the commander,’ Ozymandias said. ‘You know what a usurer he is.’
Sighing, Nitocris sat back on her heels. ‘Then we shall have to wait until this Roman shakes off his fever. Assuming he lives.’
Ozymandias stood up. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’ve convinced me. I’ll go and speak with the commander. I want Julius Strabo’s killer found, and I really think the only man who can do that is Flaminius. Look after him while I’m gone.’
He hurried through the dusty streets. It was cooler now, and people of a dozen races thronged the thoroughfares, many of them doing their afternoon shopping. Roman patrols were to be seen on every corner, legionaries reinforcing Paulus Alexander’s civic guard. Nervous to be out alone, Ozymandias was glad of the sight of so many legionaries, although he heard grumbling from some of the passing citizens. Having been pursued and attacked by mysterious thugs already, he was happy to see order restored in the city.
Reaching the palace of Hadrian, he went looking for the medic. Walking down a corridor he saw Paulus Alexander, speaking with one of his chief officers.
‘…Haterius Nepos is very insistent that we see no more rioting, and now he has recalled the legate of the Twenty Second we have enough men to patrol the whole city. But we don’t want to spark off any more rioting even if…’ He paused, seeing the scribe. ‘Ozymandias,’ he said. ‘Where is Gaius Flaminius Drusus? I’ve been too busy to concern myself with the case, but I was hoping for a report.’ He frowned. ‘I did hear a peculiar account about some kind of trouble in the Egyptian Quarter, although how your investigation took you so far across the city…’
‘We were attacked, sir,’ said Ozymandias. ‘We don’t know who they were, but they were seen creating a disturbance during the riots. As you can see, I was wounded.’
Paulus Alexander’s eyes widened. ‘And Flaminius? You’ve not come to tell me of his death?’
Ozymandias shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘but he was also wounded, and it seems his wounds have turned bad. He’s not used to the climate, of course. He’s suffering from fever.’
‘Fever? In Alexandria? How unusual. Have him brought to the palace,’ said the commander, turning away. ‘I’m sure the medic Achilles will deal with him.’
‘I don’t think it would be a good idea to move him,’ said the scribe, trotting after him. ‘He’s in my house in Rachotis.’
‘Very well, I’ll send Achilles back with you to tend to him,’ said Paulus Alexander. ‘Go and give him my orders.’
Ozymandias hurried away.
Flaminius woke from wild, lurid dreams of the horrors of Egypt to see Nitocris’ concerned face gazing down at him. He was hot, hotter than the sands of the Libyan desert. A cooling hand caressed his brow, and a soft wet sponge dabbed at his sweat soaked scalp.
‘Maybe there’s nothing for me in Britain,’ he found himself saying. ‘Maybe I have all I need here in Egypt.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ said Nitocris, scowling and looking away. ‘You’re making no sense. Try to get back to sleep. You’re feverish.’
Flaminius raised an aching hand to wipe the sweat from his face. He took hold of Nitocris’ slim hand. ‘Have I been raving?’ he said.
Carefully, she took her hand from his. ‘You have indeed,’ she affirmed, blinking delicately. ‘I don’t know what about. Murder, and druids, and… I really don’t know what else. Do you truly know the emperor?’
‘Hadrian?’ he said vaguely. ‘We’ve met a couple of times. We… didn’t really get on.’
‘I was raised to believe that the emperor is a god,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe that now, of course.’
‘Hadrian’s no god,’ Flaminius assured her, ‘or if he is, he’s one of those capricious ones, prone to flinging lightning around the heavens.’ She laughed, and he added, ‘How long have I been feverish?’
‘A few hours,’ she told him gently. ‘Try to get some rest. My brother has gone to get you a medic.’
‘Not that fool from the palace of Hadrian,’ he complained, ‘who wanted to open up my skull?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose so. We’re worried he will charge a fee. Physicians often do.’
‘He can send the reckoning to the Peregrine Camp in Rome,’ Flaminius said, ‘if he’s needed. I’ve done very well under your own ministrations.’ He ached all over, and his hair was slick with sweat, but he knew he was on the mend. ‘You’re a very skilled healer.’
‘My father was a scribe,’ she said, ‘but my mother l
earnt something of herbalism and the healing arts from the priests of Imhotep.’
‘Imhotep?’
‘The Aesculapius of my people, Roman,’ she told him.
‘Talented as well as beautiful,’ he grinned, and she looked away, flustered. ‘Call me Gaius.’
‘You’re getting better, certainly,’ she said, not meeting his gaze.
‘I just don’t understand why such a beautiful woman isn’t married. Was there anyone?’
She stared at him, her big eyes wide. ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘I am married! Didn’t you know? Ozymandias is my husband.’
—17—
Was he still in a fever dream?
‘Ozymandias is your brother,’ Flaminius argued. ‘How can he be your husband if he’s your brother?’
Odd things happened in the more barbarous corners of the empire, but brother marrying sister? The authorities wouldn’t allow it, surely. It must be one of the oldest taboos; incest. Oedipus had been punished horrifically for committing incest unwittingly with his mother. In Rome, it was held to be against the laws of god and man and nature. And Ozymandias had boasted that Osiris civilised the Egyptians long before Rome was founded!
‘It’s a well-established custom,’ Nitocris told him defensively, and he could tell she had met criticism before. ‘In ancient times, it was only Pharaoh and his sister who married. But in more recent centuries, when we have been ruled by foreigners, the custom has spread among the Egyptian people. We must keep our blood pure.’
Flaminius felt sick, and it wasn’t just his fever. His friends and acquaintances in Briton had possessed some strange customs, certainly, and he had seen some odd things in Caledonia. But this...! Out of Africa, always something new. Who was it who had said that? Some Greek, probably. Egypt wasn’t exactly what they’d have had in mind, but what Flaminius had heard was very new, coming from this oldest of countries. And he had thought the customs of the Judaeans peculiar.
‘I see,’ he said tiredly, remembering how brother and sister had embraced last night. Something had nagged at his mind even then. ‘I see.’ He closed his eyes for a moment.
He was woken by a shaking at his arm. His eyes cracked open gummily and he saw Ozymandias and another man gazing down. Sunlight filtered painfully in through the doorway.
The newcomer looked familiar. He was proffering a phial containing some kind of cordial. ‘Drink this, tribune,’ he said. ‘It will make you feel better.’
As Flaminius complied instinctively, the man reached out and examined his head. ‘I would still prescribe a craniotomy,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Your recent skull trauma has undeniably weakened you.’
It was the medic from the palace of Hadrian. ‘No thank you!’ Flaminius said.
The medic produced a leather bag which he opened to reveal a set of sharp knives. ‘We don’t know if it will turn out to be ephemeral, tertian or quartan fever,’ he said, ‘but if we want to ensure that it does not become serious it will be necessary to bleed you.’
‘I think I’ve lost enough blood already,’ said Flaminius faintly, indicating his bandages.
The medic shook his head humourlessly. ‘Not under controlled conditions,’ he said, ‘nor let by a qualified phlebotomist. Your work will deteriorate if you suffer recurrent attacks of fever.’ He looked round Ozymandias’ hovel. ‘This situation is too close to the Delta marshes,’ he added. ‘Fever is caused by miasmas from swamps. Bad air, you know. You should relocate to your legion’s barracks.’ He shook his head. ‘A craniotomy is also indicated.’
‘No!’ said Flaminius firmly. ‘No craniotomies. No relocation.’
‘Very well,’ said the medic with a mournful sigh. ‘A simple bleeding it is.’
Flaminius did not enjoy being bled. Despite facing death on the battlefield numerous times without betraying any sign of cowardice, he still disliked the idea of having his blood let by some oleaginous Greek. But after some urging from Ozymandias and Nitocris, he relented.
Not long afterwards, Flaminius found that he was on the mend. Whether it was the departure of the medic, the effects of the cordial, or even the bleeding, he was soon feeling more himself. Enthusiastically he tucked into the food Ozymandias had brought back along with the medic.
‘I’ve learnt a lot today,’ he said. ‘I hope you two are happy together.’ He nodded significantly at Ozymandias and Nitocris.
The scribe looked to Nitocris for an explanation, and she pointed at them both. He gave an embarrassed grimace.
‘You must find our Egyptian customs strange,’ Ozymandias said. ‘I know full well that brother-sister marriage is seen as a vile act in other countries. But neither of us had anyone else to turn to. We married when I received my manumission and moved here.’
‘It’s not for me to criticise local customs,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’m sure a good night’s sleep will do us both some good. Tomorrow we can begin again.’
‘Carpocrates must be found and interrogated,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Even if he was not the murderer, he has admitted to mutilating the body. He’s also guilty of assault. I spoke to the commander and he has given the man’s description to the patrols. Unless Carpocrates flees the city, it’s just a matter of time.’
‘You have been busy while I’ve been suffering from fever,’ Flaminius said approvingly. Whatever his notions of a suitable marriage partner, Ozymandias was efficient. ‘I don’t believe that Carpocrates was the killer, and whatever you might say about him, maniac, fanatic, robber, braggart, I don’t think he’s a man who would lie—not about murder. So unless he knows who killed Julius Strabo, the whole enterprise could well be a waste of our time.’
‘The man’s a criminal,’ said Ozymandias. ‘He must face justice.’
‘But he’s not significant to my investigation,’ said Flaminius, ‘except as a material witness. I don’t want to waste time searching for a man who may only be able to confirm what we already know about the case.’
‘Then what do you suppose we should do?’ Ozymandias said. ‘We’ve gone up a blind alley.’ He frowned. ‘Before your attack of fever you said you thought you had a good idea of who the killer could be. I hope you haven’t forgotten.’
Flaminius sat back against the wall.
‘It would have been convenient if the killer was this Carpocrates,’ he admitted regretfully. ‘Very neat, it would have been. Julius Strabo investigates strange cults in the Old Judaean Quarter. Carpocrates is a fanatic. He believes that his salvation lies in flouting the laws of the gods, if I gathered correctly from our little chat. What has led the man to such a strange conclusion I couldn’t say…’
‘If the world is ruled by a false god,’ said Nitocris quietly, ‘then his laws would be evil.’
She began to fill bowls with lentil stew, which she handed to them. As they ate, Flaminius scratched his head. ‘Yes, I suppose so. You’ve missed your vocation; you should become a sophist yourself. All this is by the by, though. The man has no scruples; in fact, even worse, he believes that morality is the law of a false god. He would have killed Julius Strabo if he had learnt that the man was a spy, he’d have revelled in it. He’d even have thought that it would aid his salvation, according to his twisted logic. But he denied killing Julius Strabo, admitting instead to mutilating the body. That puts him in the clear, to my mind.’
Nitocris filled jars with beer and gave them to the two men.
‘He had the motivation,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Who benefits, yes? He would have benefited. He doesn’t want his cult spied upon by representatives of the law. He was bluffing when he said that to you. Double bluff, maybe. Anyway, he is an evil man and deserves to be crucified for what he has done.’ Absently, the scribe rubbed at his bandaged wounds. ‘Justice has to be seen to be done. To discourage others of his bent.’
‘A civic guard’s solution,’ Flaminius scoffed. ‘Crucify Carpocrates and no one will dare murder another imperial agent! Would that work? No, it would make a martyr of Carpocrates and incite his follower
s, and meanwhile the real murderer would be free to murder again.’
‘If I might make a comment,’ said Nitocris quietly, ‘you seem to be going around in circles. It’s late. Sleep on it and continue your investigation in the morning.’
Flaminius glanced at her, this grave young woman who had been so kind during his attack of fever. He had come to care for her, almost forgetting that other barbarian woman who waited for him on the far edge of the world. His mind was still reeling from what he had learnt, but he was grateful to this couple, despite their outlandish customs, for providing him with help and shelter.
‘Speaking with Paulus Alexander again is our first priority in the morning. We must go over his account of the finding of the body, make sure we know just when it all occurred. Then we can get a better idea of what happened to Julius Strabo. If the patrols find Carpocrates, we may be able to get information out of him, but I wouldn’t trust him to speak truth even under torture.’
Flaminius rolled himself in his cloak and lay on the ground by the fire. As the embers glowed in the gathering darkness, he thought about Nitocris, and fell to wondering if he would ever see Drustica again.
—18—
Rachotis, Alexandria, November 4, 123 AD
As Flaminius and Ozymandias were leaving the alleyway the following day, they saw a patrol of Romans marching towards them.
The morning sun was still cool enough to be pleasant and much of the dusty street lay in shadow, but the light glittered harshly on the helmets and armour of the approaching legionaries. Locals scurried to get out of the way of the marching men; patrols were a new sight in this part of town, and they were treated with due deference. At their head was a man in the plumed helmet of a tribune, and with his grim-faced men at his back he strode straight up to Flaminius and gave him a smart salute. It was Marcus Pertinax.
Flaminius sketched a salute in return. ‘Good morning, tribune,’ he said, smiling in welcome. ‘What’s the occasion?’
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