But Marcus Pertinax was not smiling. ‘Legate’s orders,’ he rapped. ‘I’m to take you straight to his presence. He wants to discuss your investigation.’
Flaminius exchanged uneasy glances with Ozymandias. ‘You can tell Avidius Pollio,’ he murmured, ‘that I’ll be happy to discuss it with him—when I’ve got something to discuss. For the moment, may I ask to be left to complete said investigation?’
Marcus Pertinax’s whole demeanour had changed overnight. He shook his head, his mouth downturned. ‘I was told not to accept any excuses,’ he replied. ‘You’re to come with me.’ He nodded at the six heavily armed centurions who accompanied him. ‘I’m authorised to use force, if necessary.’
Flaminius’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. He looked at Ozymandias again, spread his arms, then clapped his hands. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you leave us with little choice!’
‘Not the Egyptian,’ said Marcus Pertinax. ‘He’s to report at once to the commander of the civic guard in the palace of Hadrian.’ He jabbed at Ozymandias with a finger. ‘You understand? Chop-chop!’
Ozymandias shrugged, and turned to Flaminius. ‘It’s been an interesting partnership,’ he said. ‘But it looks like it’s coming to an abrupt end. Bear in mind that I want to see Julius Strabo’s killer caught just as much as you do—if not more. Hopefully I’ll see you around.’ He strode away up the street.
Flaminius drew closer to the tribune. ‘You can drop the brusque manner, friend,’ he said. ‘It impresses the barbarians, but I know the real Marcus Pertinax. What’s all this about?’
Marcus Pertinax grimaced. ‘I told you. Legate’s orders. He’s had reports about you, and they’ve not been good ones.’ His glance turned to Flaminius’ bandaged wounds. ‘Are you fit to travel? It’s quite a march to the camp. Word is that you’ve been under the weather.’
Flaminius wasn’t feeling his best, but he wasn’t going to reveal that to Marcus Pertinax or anyone else. ‘A touch of fever. I’ve become more accustomed to a colder climate. The wounds, well, they go with the job, of course. I’m fit to walk to the camp. I won’t be borrowing anybody’s litter on this occasion.’
Marcus Pertinax’s lips didn’t even twitch. They marched in silence.
By the time they reached the camp of the Twenty Second Legion, the sun was riding high in the sky, shining down on the groves, temples and tombs that dotted the plain lying between the city walls and those of the fortress. Out of the city and away from the marshes, with the cooling sea breeze on his face, Flaminius began to feel much better.
Marcus Pertinax and his men marched Flaminius up to the gates in the southern wall, where they gave the password to the legionaries on duty, then led him through the gates and up the Praetorian Way to the headquarters building in the middle of the camp.
Long rows of barrack blocks and granaries stood on either side of the roadway, their red tiles glowing dully in the late morning sun. The gravel beneath the legionaries’ feet crunched and hissed as they marched. A lot more legionaries were at large in the camp than on Flaminius’ earlier visit, and he realised that they must have returned with the legate. At last they halted to salute the legionaries on guard in the entrance to the headquarters block.
‘Tribune Marcus Pertinax reporting. Bringing in Gaius Flaminius Drusus, as requested.’
The centurion in charge saluted. ‘The legate awaits your prisoner in his office,’ he barked. ‘Pass through.’
At the double, Marcus Pertinax and his men marched Flaminius into the courtyard beyond, before Flaminius had any opportunity to query the centurion’s phrasing. Prisoner? Surely there was a mistake here. He had been brought here under duress, but he hadn’t been arrested! He wasn’t a prisoner!
Was he?
He was marched along the echoing marble corridors of headquarters, across a cool, shady peristyle and up to a most imposing doorway where two more legionaries stood on guard, their armour and weaponry polished until they gleamed, while a military clerk sat at a desk, writing busily on a waxen tablet. This wasn’t where he had been taken when he first came here; when Marcus Pertinax had been duty officer in the legate’s absence, he had been stationed out in the main courtyard, dozing a little in the sun. But the legate was back now, and the running of the camp was now going smoothly.
Marcus Pertinax saluted the legionaries then identified himself and his prisoner. One of them opened the door quietly and slipped inside. Flaminius stood to attention with his escort. Silence fell. He glanced at the remaining guard, who was staring forwards, face immobile as if he was paralysed. Flaminius shifted his feet and coughed. He glanced at Marcus Pertinax, who gave every indication he had just seen a gorgon.
He remembered how much he hated military routine. And now, having demanded his presence so peremptorily, dragging him away from his investigation, the legate was keeping him waiting. Just to prove a point. Just to prove how terribly important he was.
Of course, in many ways Avidius Pollio must be an important man. He was a senator who the emperor trusted sufficiently to permit him entrance into Egypt, with a legion at his command. No one was going to take over the empire with a single legion, even from Egypt. But the emperor had to choose particularly trusted senators to serve as legates in the Twenty Second.
The guard reappeared at last. ‘Tribune Flaminius?’ he said deferentially. ‘This way, sir.’
Mollified a little by this show of respect, Flaminius followed the guard into the office of the legate.
The room beyond was high roofed, large and lavishly furnished, with a wide green porphyry desk in the middle, piled with papyrus sheaves of reports, and marble busts lining the walls. A mosaic depicting the war between the Lapiths and the Centaurs took up much of the floor. Highly polished armour and a red cloak hung on a stand in one corner.
Lounging in front of Flaminius, leaning against the desk with his arms folded, was a short, fat man with iron grey hair and a cold face dominated by a proud, arrogant nose. A grizzled beard jutted from his chin, and he wore a toga emblazoned with the thick purple stripe of a senator.
‘So glad you could drop by, tribune,’ he said, shaking Flaminius by the hand. ‘I’m Avidius Pollio, legate of the Twenty Second Legion. My apologies for not being here to greet you in person on your arrival, but I had been detained by troubles in the Thebaid.’ He went back round his desk and sat down, then signed to the guard to leave.
‘This isn’t going to be a reprimand, of course,’ he said, fidgeting absently with a large signet ring on his left hand. ‘But I did ask you to report to me yesterday.’
Flaminius’ heart pounded. Anything that began with the dread phrase “This isn’t going to be a reprimand” was bad news; he knew that from his days in the Ninth. He reminded himself that he was now an imperial agent, not a junior tribune of auxiliary cavalry.
‘I was unavoidably detained, sir,’ he said. ‘As you can see, I was in a fight. Wounded. Also, I had a touch of fever. And of course, there was my investigation.’
‘Oh yes, your investigation…’ said the legate. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that you directly disobeyed an order, but we’ll put that issue to one side for the moment.’ He gave a mirthless grin. ‘Now, before he vanished, your predecessor became… obsessed isn’t too strong a word, yes, obsessed with these strange cults. This corner of the world seethes with them. Some of them, of course, are dangerous; they’re sometimes a front for anti-Roman sentiment…
‘The legion has more important matters, however. Military concerns. That’s what we’re here for, young man. That’s what we in the legions are here for. Military, not civil, concerns. I don’t know how much you are aware of the political situation in these parts, but the civil side of things is handled by a prefect appointed by His Imperial Majesty, d’you see, young man. Responsibility for the policing of the province is divided between military police at their various stations in the nomes—the nomes being a local name for subdivisions of the province, young man—and an array of civil guards, day guards,
night guards, desert guards, river guards, canal guards, caravan guards, rural and civic guards, all levied from the native Egyptians as part of this blasted system of forced labour, and employed to counter the depredations from the borders: in the east Arabs, in the south Nubians, Egyptians in the inaccessible regions of the Delta and the desert…’
‘Egyptians?’ Flaminius asked.
Avidius Pollio nodded. ‘Oh yes, native Egyptians on the run from this cursed system of forced labour. I know, it’s a bit of a mess. “Who guards the guards?” eh? It’s been like this since the Judaean revolt. To cut a long lecture short, the policing of this particular very important city is in the able hands of the commander of the Alexandrian civic guard.’
‘Yes, I’d gathered,’ said Flaminius, nettled both by the legate’s allusion to his youth and the wearisome lecture on local policing. ‘I’ve had dealings with Paulus Alexander and some of his men.’
‘I, too, have spoken with the commander of the civic guard,’ said Avidius Pollio. He lay his hands on the desk. ‘The situation on the frontier is difficult now. That in Judaea and Syria is also problematic. I need a good man in intelligence. When Julius Strabo developed his eccentric obsessions, when he finally vanished from sight, I was…inconvenienced. You imperial agents seem to think you are a law unto yourselves! When the centurion vanished, it came as something of a relief, if I’m entirely honest. I was glad to see the back of the fellow, to have an excuse to send to Rome for a replacement. And so I got you.’ He glanced at a report. ‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus. Any connection with the Gaius Flaminius of the histories?’
‘My family considers him to be a distant ancestor,’ said Flaminius, and saluted again. The moment seemed to call for some such action.
‘When I was notified of the riots in Alexandria, thank all the gods I was within a day’s march. Such of my men I could spare I marched through the night to ensure that we could reinforce the civil power here. Speaking with the prefect and his subordinates I could discern no very good reason for the riots. Then I learnt of the murder of Julius Strabo, and your arrival. I heard from the commander that you had been speaking with the Judaean elders.’
‘Yes sir,’ Flaminius replied. ‘One of them, at least.’
‘Continuing Julius Strabo’s investigation?’
‘No sir,’ said Flaminius. ‘Investigating his murder. To determine how he died, I have been forced to follow up his own investigation. As you say, he was obsessed with these obscure cults. My own investigations suggest that the same cults had some connection with the riots…’
‘Yes yes yes,’ said Avidius Pollio, cutting ruthlessly through his explanations. ‘But all this is irrelevant! Had I wished Julius Strabo’s death to be investigated, and I am not saying I do not, but it’s hardly top priority, had I wished it I would have discussed the matter with the commander of the civic guard. It is not a matter for my commissary officer.’
‘Sir.’ Flaminius saluted again.
‘Stop doing that,’ said the legate irritably. ‘Young man, I have need of you on the frontier. All manner of things are going on, and I lack intelligence. I need someone to coordinate my scouting and my spying. Why else are you here?’
Flaminius was about to salute, but restrained himself. ‘Sir, I was sent here under orders to determine if Julius Strabo was alive or dead, and if dead to bring his killers to justice.’
The legate shook his head. He had an ugly look on his face.
‘Not by me you weren’t,’ he snapped. ‘Are you or are you not my commissary officer, sent here from the Peregrine Camp in Rome? You seem to think you’ve been seconded to Paulus Alexander’s mob! If I order you to give over this investigation to the civil power, then you will do so at once, is that understood?’
Flaminius had had about as much as he could take of this soft voiced bully. ‘Sir, may I remind you that I am an imperial agent?’
‘I know exactly what you are, young man! According to the reports I’ve received, you have been exhibiting signs of eccentricity and instability. And even,’ the legate paused to root through a sheaf of papyrus scrolls, ‘according to the recommendations of the medic Achilles, are in severe need of a craniotomy; whatever that might be! Whether that precludes your ability to carry out your tasks as an agent of the commissary I am not qualified to decide. However, you are…’
Flaminius overrode him. ‘However, I am a direct representative of the emperor, just as you are. I was sent here by my chief, Commissary Centurion Probus, to investigate Julius Strabo’s disappearance, and bring those responsible to justice. Only once I have fulfilled that mission will I be in a position to assist you in gathering military intelligence.’
Avidius Pollio sat back in his chair, gripping its arms as if afraid he would fall off. ‘I’ve never heard the like,’ he muttered. ‘Even from Julius Strabo, who was capable of remarkable insubordination when the fancy took him. By all the gods! A centurion’s orders, even a chief centurion’s orders, are preferred over mine, I, Avidius Pollio, senator of Rome and legate of the Twenty Second Legion.’
Flaminius wondered where exactly this senator had been recently. The power of the senate was a thing for the historians, people like his old acquaintance Suetonius. The emperor had absolute power. And the commissary was one way in which he wielded it. Imperial agents were outside the law, and their orders countermanded those of even the most pompous legate. But Flaminius was only one man. Whatever his authority, vested in his lancehead brooch, it was not enough to stop this legate imprisoning him for insubordination. Even if Avidius Pollio received an official reprimand later on, it wouldn’t help Flaminius in the here and now. He would have to tread carefully.
But the legate was thinking along similar lines.
‘What we seem to have here,’ Avidius Pollio said, ‘is a conflict of interests. I requested a replacement for my missing commissary officer; I need someone trained to give aid in coordinating military intelligence. You, however, have been sent here to investigate a murder. It would make a lot more sense to me to avoid wasting important manpower on such a trifling matter and to hand over the whole business to the civil power. But I will give you until noon tomorrow to solve the case, after which point, you will be assigned to more fitting duties in the field, whether or not you succeed.’
‘And if I don’t succeed?’ Flaminius asked.
‘Then the murder investigation will be placed in the hands of those best suited to carry it out,’ said the legate, ‘the civic guard.’
Flaminius had been sent here to investigate Julius Strabo’s disappearance. If he brought the man’s killers to justice nothing could stop him requisitioning a berth on the next ship to Rome. Then he could report to Probus, and then—return to Britain, and Drustica. But in the meantime, he would have to stay on the right side of the legate.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’d like to request the continued assistance of the scribe Ozymandias.’
—19—
An hour later Flaminius strode into the antechamber where Ozymandias sat on his rug, reed pen poised over a sheaf of papyrus. He looked up guiltily as the Roman entered. ‘Coming, Ozymandias?’ Flaminius said.
Ozymandias darted a glance towards the inner office. ‘I’ve been reassigned to other duties,’ he hissed.
‘Such as?’
Ozymandias gestured at the papyrus, inadvertently spraying its creamy surface with ink. ‘My usual job. Scribe to the commander of the civic guard.’
Flaminius folded his arms. He tapped the brooch that he now wore attached to his breastplate. ‘You’re back with me, friend,’ he said. ‘We haven’t finished our investigation. Come on.’
He turned to leave. Ozymandias put down the ink spattered papyrus and clambered obediently to his feet.
‘Where are you going, scribe?’
Flaminius turned. Standing in the door to the inner office was Paulus Alexander, looking questioningly at the Egyptian.
‘Oh,’ said Ozymandias. ‘I… er, that is…I was just goin
g…’
‘…to finish off those requisition orders like I told you half an hour ago,’ said the commander. As Ozymandias sank back down onto his reed mat, Paulus Alexander turned to Flaminius. ‘Please join me in my office, tribune,’ he said.
Flaminius followed him inside. Paulus Alexander sat down behind his desk, where the fan slave stood looking bored. Flaminius kicked over a stool and sank down onto it. The older man regarded the younger man with distaste.
Flaminius broke the silence. ‘I was surprised to find you’d reassigned Ozymandias.’
Paulus Alexander called another slave who brought them cups of Greek wine. ‘I understood that the legate has spoken to you,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’ve just come back from his office.’
‘Well?’ said Paulus Alexander.
‘Avidius Pollio’s in perfect health,’ Flaminius said, and took a sip of his wine. ‘Fighting fit, I assume. I’ve never met him before, of course. He was out on manoeuvres when I came here, you know.’
Paulus Alexander pursed his lips. ‘Did he not speak to you about your conduct?’
Realisation dawned. Flaminius eyed Paulus Alexander. ‘You made a complaint?’
Paulus Alexander coughed. ‘The legate consulted me, in fact,’ he said. ‘I understand he ordered you to present yourself to him and you did not obey. He was considering putting you on a charge for insubordination. I spoke up in your defence, explaining that according to my medic that you suffered concussion during your valiant defence of property during the riots, and that you also contracted fever. I hope it has not recurred?’
‘Not yet…’ said Flaminius quietly.
Paulus Alexander was clearly fishing. ‘He didn’t recommend that you yield the murder investigation to my office?’
‘He said something about that,’ Flaminius said. ‘I disagreed. He seemed to think I was here to help coordinate his intelligence operations while dealing with some kind of border incursions. That was not why I was sent here.’
Our Man in Alexandria Page 13