Our Man in Alexandria

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘Surely you have been assigned to the commissary of the Twenty Second Legion?’ Paulus Alexander looked puzzled. He sighed. ‘Although he was older than you by two decades, you do remind me in many ways of your predecessor. He was equally… ah… independent in his attitudes.’

  ‘I was sent here from Rome,’ Flaminius said, ‘to investigate Julius Strabo’s disappearance. Yes, I was assigned to the legion; yes, I was to be the centurion’s replacement, temporarily at least. But my priority is to learn how he was murdered. You of all people should understand that it may compromise the security of the empire if imperial agents can be murdered and their killers escape justice.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Paulus Alexander. ‘Your mission is very important. Which is precisely why I am suggesting that you should stand down, perhaps make a request for leave, while other, more…competent agents complete your work.’

  Flaminius shook his head savagely. ‘This is my case,’ he said, and banged on the desk. ‘Avidius Pollio has given me until noon tomorrow to complete it and I will not waste any more time in discussion with you.’

  Paulus Alexander sat back, looking disapprovingly at Flaminius’ fist on his desk. He spread his arms. ‘I’m not hindering you,’ he said. ‘Simply giving you my own professional opinion, reinforced,’ he added, holding up a papyrus sheet, ‘by that of the medic Achilles. You’re unbalanced, in his opinion, and only surgery will restore your humours to their correct equilibrium.’

  Flaminius gritted his teeth. He was certainly not feeling in good humour right now. He was sweating freely. Was that the heat, or was his fever manifesting itself again? The gods of Egypt forbid he should spend the next two days struck down by disease. If he had been a superstitious man, he’d have vowed an offering at the nearest temple of Aesculapius. Hecatombs of oxen would be worth it if he could just get this case completed before Avidius Pollio hauled him off to some flyblown desert fortress to fight barbarians.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that you’re not stopping me,’ he said. ‘In that case, let me go about my business.’

  Paulus Alexander pointed at the exit. ‘My door is always open,’ he said.

  ‘And your scribe?’ Flaminius asked.

  ‘My scribe?’ Paulus Alexander seemed to have forgotten the starting point of the discussion. ‘The Egyptian Ozymandias? Who at one point you accused of murdering Centurion Julius Strabo? What of him?’

  ‘Ozymandias was working closely with Julius Strabo,’ Flaminius said, not liking to be reminded of his earlier blunder. ‘He has also been invaluable in my investigation.’

  Paulus Alexander smiled. ‘He’s a very useful fellow,’ he said. ‘He’s my scribe.’

  Flaminius was starting to feel heated again. He didn’t know if it was latent fever or justifiable exasperation. ‘You can get another one for the duration, surely. He can’t be the only scribe employed by the civic guard.’

  Paulus Alexander sighed. ‘It will be inconvenient,’ he said, ‘but since this investigation is so important, very well, I’ll second him to you for the duration.’

  Flaminius couldn’t understand the man’s attitude. The implications of Julius Strabo’s murder could affect the security of the empire. His own future also depended on his success. If he could wrap this case up neatly in the next two days he would be able to justify it to Probus if he got on a fast ship to Ostia and left this province for good as soon as the case was closed. Otherwise he might be stuck in Egypt, at the beck and call of Avidius Pollio, fighting desert raiders for years. Of course, the security of the empire was his main concern.

  ‘Will you ask the scribe to join us?’ Paulus Alexander asked. The commander was too important to get out from behind his desk and do it himself.

  Flaminius went to the door and called Ozymandias. The scribe came in, looking worriedly from one to the other. Paulus Alexander began glancing through a sheaf of reports. Flaminius was sure the one on the top was his own medical report. Without looking up, the commander said, ‘You’re now reassigned to Tribune Flaminius, scribe. Until tomorrow. Then you’re back with me.’

  He glanced up and flashed Flaminius a curt smile. ‘Was there anything else, tribune?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ Flaminius said. ‘Ozymandias, come with me.’ He led the Egyptian from the office.

  ‘Well, this is flattering,’ said Ozymandias as they came outside in the bright glare of the late morning sun. ‘I don’t know if I’m coming or going, but having all you gentlemen fighting over me is a novelty. Wait until Nitocris hears about this! She’ll laugh.’

  Flaminius took them to the shade of a wineshop. The Phrygian tapster brought them two beakers of cheap wine at an obol a beaker and they sat down at the bar. Ozymandias ordered some flatbread and olives as well.

  He leant against the bar. ‘So, back to the investigation,’ he said. ‘What’s all this about only having until noon tomorrow?’

  Flaminius sipped his wine irritably and explained. Ozymandias shrugged. ‘I thought you were equal to the legate, a direct representative of the emperor.’

  ‘And so I am,’ said Flaminius. ‘Unfortunately, Rome is a long way away, and the emperor is currently bumming around Bithynia from the last I heard. Avidius Pollio has an entire legion at his back, but I’ve only got you, as long as Paulus Alexander lets you come out to play.’ He bit a chunk out of a piece of flatbread and added indistinctly, ‘So we’d better get Julius Strabo’s killer identified and brought to justice.’

  Ozymandias nibbled at an olive. ‘The patrols are still searching for Carpocrates,’ he said. ‘As soon as they bring him in, we can pin it on him, have him crucified, end of story.’

  Flaminius was tempted. Apart from the uncertainty of Carpocrates’ arrest, it would get him off the hook and out of Alexandria. Nothing to turn his nose up at. But even if Carpocrates was captured, it wouldn’t change the man’s innocence—of Julius Strabo’s murder, that is.

  ‘Another civic guard trick?’ he said. ‘Can’t find the real killer so pin it on the first bystander so justice is seen to be done? You worked with Julius Strabo a long time. Don’t you want his killer identified?’

  ‘Of course,’ protested Ozymandias, ‘if it’s possible. I was just thinking of you, that’s all.’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘We do this by the book,’ he said. ‘We find out who killed Julius Strabo, whatever it takes. Now, we know it wasn’t Carpocrates, so who could it be?’

  ‘Basilides,’ said Ozymandias. ‘If Carpocrates didn’t do it, the killer was someone involved with some kind of strange cult, the cult Julius Strabo was investigating. The centurion mentioned a man with a Greek name like that; Basileus, Basilides. Maybe it was the same man. And Basilides may be a sophist, but he used the same word that Carpocrates did, didn’t he? Demiurge. They’re both believers in the same superstition.’

  ‘Basilides denied any knowledge of the Christians,’ said Flaminius.

  ‘Obviously a lie,’ Ozymandias said scornfully. ‘You could tell by the way he said it. And that’s suspicious. I think they’re both in it, Carpocrates and Basilides. Basilides befriended Julius Strabo when he learnt that he was investigating them, then stuck a dagger in his ribs when they were together. Then Carpocrates turned up and carved a meaningless word into Julius Strabo’s brow. For reasons best known to himself.’

  ‘A dried-up stick like Basilides killed a tough centurion of the commissary?’ Flaminius looked thoughtful. ‘He must be stronger than he looks.’

  Ozymandias shook his head. ‘Strength’s nothing to do with it. You saw from the body that whoever did it must have got right up close. They must have been friends. All they needed was to stick the dagger in with enough force. Julius Strabo wouldn’t have been expecting it. Look.’

  He got up and urged Flaminius to join him. Then he took his reed pen from behind his ear and used it to show how Basilides could have stabbed Julius Strabo. Flaminius nodded.

  ‘You’ve got a point there,’ he admitted, fastidiously brushing ink off his
breastplate. Some of the other customers were watching them idly. ‘Well, I think it’s high time we went back and asked a few probing questions.’

  ‘Of Basilides?’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘Of Paulus Alexander.’

  —20—

  Palace of Hadrian, Alexandria, November 4, 123 AD

  The commander looked up as the new scribe showed them both in. ‘Tribune,’ he said. ‘This is unexpected. Have you had second thoughts? Your place is with your legate, of course. Police matters are for the civic guard, I’m sure you agree.’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘I’m not one to give up that easily,’ he said. ‘No, Ozymandias and I came back because we agree that you are the one we should be questioning.’

  Paulus Alexander spluttered, ‘Surely you can’t be suggesting that I had anything to do with Julius Strabo’s death?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Flaminius. He called to Ozymandias, who was chatting quietly with the scribe who had taken over his duties. ‘We’re not suggesting anything of the sort, are we, Ozymandias?’

  Ozymandias looked up. ‘What’s that? Oh! No, no we’re not. Of course not!’

  Paulus Alexander sighed heavily and flapped a hand at the new scribe for him to leave. Once the Egyptian had returned to the outer chamber, the commander gestured to Flaminius to sit down. The Roman did so, but Ozymandias was left standing. After a while, he sat down on the floor.

  Flaminius sat back, arms folded, and gazed at Paulus Alexander. The commander stared at him. ‘Just what is this?’ he asked. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t request that you take the medic Achilles’ advice.’ He picked up the report and studied it.

  Flaminius shifted. ‘Aren’t you going to offer us wine?’ he asked.

  Paulus Alexander clapped his hands to call the wine slave, who provided the requested refreshment shortly after. As his two guests sipped their wine, Flaminius on the stool, Ozymandias sitting quite happily on the mosaic floor, the commander inspected his reports.

  He looked up finally. ‘What exactly can I help you with, tribune? You wish to question me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘We want to go back over Julius Strabo’s death.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Paulus Alexander said dismissively.

  ‘But I want to know more,’ said Flaminius, leaning forward. ‘I want to know more about Julius Strabo.’

  Paulus Alexander indicated Ozymandias. ‘The scribe here worked more closely with your predecessor than I,’ he reminded the tribune. ‘You should speak with him.’

  ‘I already have,’ Flaminius said. ‘But I want your own account. When did the commissary centurion first approach you about these cults?’

  Paulus Alexander shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sometime in the summer, I think. He was posted to the legion the previous year. I had little to do with him; military intelligence is not my field. Then he approached me with wild claims concerning Bacchic cults in the Old Judaean Quarter.’

  ‘You say “wild claims”,’ said Flaminius. ‘You doubted him?’

  Paulus Alexander drew himself up. ‘The Judaean people are not Greeks,’ he said. ‘Nor are they Thracians, or any other wild and ecstatic people. Their religion is sober and god-fearing. They do not hold orgies.’

  Flaminius waved a hand to acknowledge this. ‘I’ve spoken with Dionysius,’ he said. ‘Ironically enough, considering his name, he’s a most temperate man. He also denied that the Judaeans have such cults. But he put the blame upon a splinter group, a breakaway cult known to their enemies as Christians. They believe, if I’ve got this right, that a sorcerer crucified in the days of the Emperor Tiberius was this Christus, or Messiah, who the Judaeans say will become king of the world.’

  ‘That’s utter nonsense,’ said Paulus Alexander.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Flaminius. ‘Dionysius said that this group have orgies, that they break the laws of the gods in the belief that they will be able to escape this fallen world and attain a spiritual existence elsewhere… if I’ve got this right.’

  Paulus Alexander grimaced. ‘I really couldn’t say, tribune,’ he replied. ‘You seem to know all there is to know about this obscure cult.’

  ‘But Julius Strabo knew a lot about them,’ Ozymandias said. ‘He spoke about them all the time. He told you about them.’

  Paulus Alexander gave the scribe a haughty look. ‘I don’t believe you were invited to give your contribution,’ he said. ‘Julius Strabo certainly made some wild claims. These Christians were never mentioned by that name.’

  ‘And you doubted what he had to say,’ Flaminius said. ‘Of course, quite correct of you. His Imperial Majesty has indicated that Christians are not to be treated as criminals per se, and that slander about them is not to be taken as fact.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Paulus Alexander eagerly. ‘It seemed to me that Julius Strabo had been listening to much the same slander that His Imperial Majesty alluded to. Naturally, I was sceptical.’

  ‘And yet you allocated Ozymandias to help him in his investigation,’ said Flaminius.

  Paulus Alexander shrugged. ‘I could have been wrong,’ he said. ‘I helped him, yes. I did not hinder his investigations. Why should I? But I had my doubts.’

  ‘And yet Julius Strabo was murdered while investigating them undercover,’ Flaminius pointed out.

  Paulus Alexander shook his head and pursed his lips. ‘Going undercover was very rash of him,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Had he consulted me, I would have advised against such a course. As it was, he vanished from everyone’s sight, even that of the scribe here. Months later I received a message from him, asking him to meet me, since he had evidence that these rumoured cults did indeed exist. Naturally, I went to meet him. And found him dead.’ He shook his head again. ‘Such a waste. He was a good man in his own way. We shall not see his like again.’

  ‘I’m sure, wherever he is, he appreciates the eulogy,’ said Flaminius. ‘I didn’t ask for an oration; I want facts. What did he tell you originally, and who did he say were his informants?’

  Paulus Alexander looked pensive. ‘He first came here in the summer, as I said. He looked feverish. Foreigners tend to develop fevers not long after coming here. And the fevers tend to breed crazy notions. It seemed that this was exactly what happened to Julius Strabo. He said he had been approached by an informant. The man was afraid, Julius Strabo said, but felt it was his duty to speak out. An underground cult had grown up in the ruins of the Old Judaean Quarter. The nameless informant ascribed it to the after effects of the rebellion, and the slaughter of the Judaean militants. Whether that is true or not, he claimed that this misguided cult believed it to be a positive virtue to break the laws of god and man, that in this perverse way they could somehow achieve salvation.’ Paulus Alexander shook his head. ‘Needless to say, this is entirely contrary to the beliefs of the Judaean religion.’

  ‘Who was this informant?’ Flaminius asked. His wounds were starting to itch, and he rubbed surreptitiously at them.

  Paulus Alexander shook his head. ‘I never knew. Julius Strabo would not say, and besides, the man was a fantasist, or so I thought at the time. I told him that he was listening to slander, that there was nothing behind it. He, it seems, decided to find proof. He wanted me to believe.’

  ‘Why you, in particular?’ Flaminius said.

  ‘Because, in my position as commander of the civic guard, I was best placed to extirpate any cult of this nature. I did not believe him. Now he is dead. Perhaps we will never know what really happened.’

  ‘We know there is a cult,’ said Flaminius, rubbing frantically at his itching wounds. ‘They believe that the world is ruled by a demiurge whose laws they must break.’

  Paulus Alexander glanced at his reports again. ‘I’m sure you think there is such a cult,’ he said soothingly. ‘Perhaps Julius Strabo could also have benefited from a craniotomy. Perhaps we should call Achilles here straightaway.’

  ‘There is the man who attacked us,’ said Oz
ymandias. ‘I told you about him. You said you would give the patrols a description of him. We think he’s implicated.’

  Paulus Alexander consulted another report. ‘Ah, yes. I have a note of that discussion here. Yes, I passed on your concerns and your description, but we have had no news of such a person, should he exist.’

  Flaminius leapt to his feet and tore off one of his bandages. The sword-cut was inflamed and it seeped pus. ‘Look!’ he shouted. ‘Do you think I did this to myself?’

  Paulus Alexander sat back, eyes wide. He looked meaningfully at Ozymandias. The Egyptian took Flaminius by the arm and rewrapped the bandage. ‘This isn’t the way to convince the commander that you’re sane,’ he said.

  ‘Go on,’ Flaminius muttered obsessively. ‘Wrap me up in your bandages. You’ll make a mummy of me, won’t you? I know this dark land, Egypt. You’re obsessed with death. Why else did you build all those pyramids? It’s morbid, that’s what it is.’ He was flushed and his brow glistened with sweat.

  Ozymandias led Flaminius back to his stool. He hissed urgently in Flaminius’ ear. ‘Stop acting the fool, Roman. We’ll never get anywhere with you like this.’

  Flaminius gave him a glassy stare, then a cunning look stole over his face. He tapped a nose. ‘Don’t let the commander think I’m mad, eh?’

  Ozymandias glanced at Paulus Alexander, who was scrawling hastily at the bottom of one of his reports. ‘Sarapis forbid! But it’s too late for that. We’ve got to do something right now, something that’ll impress him persuade him that we’re turning up results, not going out of our tiny little minds. Calm down, Roman, calm down and let’s think.’

  ‘Play for time,’ Flaminius gasped. ‘You question him. I’m feeling out of sorts.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Ozymandias muttered. He rose and turned to his patron. ‘Sir, may I ask you a few questions?’

  Paulus Alexander looked up. ‘Yes, scribe, what is it? I was about to ask you to summon the medic.’