Ozymandias coughed. ‘The tribune is feeling unwell,’ he said, as Flaminius sat there sweating and panting. ‘Maybe a visit from Achilles wouldn’t hurt. In the meantime, however, he has asked me to continue questioning you.’
‘Questioning me?’ said the commander. ‘Interrogating me more like. Next you’ll want to put me to the torture.’ He barked a laugh.
Ozymandias laughed politely in return. ‘We’d established that Julius Strabo came to you with his concerns because you were best placed to deal with these strange cults. That you refused to believe his frankly wild claims, but nevertheless assigned me to shadow him—that is, to help him. That he vanished from sight and yet you made no attempt to find him…’
‘I passed on my concerns to the legate,’ Paulus Alexander said. ‘He sent for the young tribune here. Don’t get above yourself, scribe.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Then I found the message from Julius Strabo in the house you gave me. I passed it onto you and you went to find him and found him dead.’
‘And found him dead,’ Paulus Alexander echoed. ‘Proving only that he had crossed one or other ruthless person who did not care for his investigation. It all adds up to... nothing very much. You have given me nothing to work with. Flaminius here is a sick man. It seems very doubtful that he will be able to complete his commission by the end of tomorrow. The civic guard will complete his work, and I have no doubt that in lieu of any more compelling evidence they will find that Julius Strabo was killed after probing dark secrets that will no doubt remain hidden. You have nothing else in the way of evidence, do you, scribe? Nothing to suggest who it was who murdered the commissary centurion?’
‘Well, no, not really.’ Ozymandias looked desperately at Flaminius, who was muttering deliriously and shaking. Paulus Alexander began to roll up the scroll he had been reporting. ‘Wait!’ said the Egyptian hastily. ‘There is one lead. We have one suspect.’
Paulus Alexander looked up and the scroll slipped from his fingers. ‘Who?’
‘A man we encountered during our investigations,’ said Ozymandias. ‘With your permission, I’ll have him brought in for questioning.’
Paulus Alexander sighed. ‘If you really think this will help you,’ he said, ‘bring this man in. Question him. You have my authority to employ the interrogation division.’ He glanced pityingly at Flaminius, slumped shivering on his stool. ‘But I doubt your partner will be able to help you.’
—21—
Flaminius woke from fevered dreams into sweat soaked horror. Where was he? Where was Ozymandias? And who was this, peering down at him?
‘Tell me about your condition. I find it fascinating.’ The voice was reedy yet authoritative.
Flaminius blinked the sweat from his eyes. It was the medic, Achilles, who had treated him the other day. Flaminius was back in the surgery, lying on a pallet. His clothes had been removed and he wore only a loincloth, which was soaked with perspiration. Sweat stood out on his skin. His body was a mass of aches.
‘What was that you said?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Ozymandias? What happened?’
‘You suffered a relapse of your fever,’ said Achilles, absently making a note on a wax tablet. ‘Ephemeral, it seems. That’s unusual. It’s also unusual that you should have contracted it in Alexandria, of all places. The city was founded because of its location, with cooling winds from the sea driving away such miasmas as bring fever. Of course, you’ve spent time near Lake Mareotis, an unhealthy spot. But you’ve only been here for a very short time, I understand. Were you suffering from fever before you came?’
‘No,’ said Flaminius through gritted teeth. ‘Now where is Ozymandias?’
‘Nevertheless,’ the medic went on, ignoring his question, ‘I’m concerned by your increasingly eccentric behaviour. I really do believe that you have also contracted brain fever, which will only be alleviated by a craniotomy.’ He gestured at the tray that lay on a low table near the pallet. ‘I have all my surgical tools ready.’ Flaminius saw a nasty jumble of wicked little knives and saws glinting in the lantern light.
‘Thank you!’ said Flaminius wildly. ‘But no! Where is Ozymandias?’
The medic peered thoughtfully at him. ‘Fascinating how certain stimuli can trigger more serious bouts of the brain fever,’ he murmured, making another note. ‘Ozymandias? The ancient Egyptian king and conqueror?’
‘No, you fool,’ Flaminius said, ‘the scribe. He works for Paulus Alexander.’
‘Oh, I don’t know the names of these people,’ Achilles said. ‘The scribe you were with is still working on your case, I believe. The commander has allocated him men of the interrogation division and they have brought in a man for questioning.’
Flaminius sat up. ‘They’ve captured Carpocrates?’
‘I do not know the names of criminals, either,’ grumbled Achilles, ‘I have my own sphere.’ He picked up one of his surgical instruments. To Flaminius’ horrified eyes it resembled a chisel, and he realised that it was the trephine with which he planned to make his craniotomy. ‘Now, if you would like to lie back down, I shall begin surgery.’ He peered at Flaminius. ‘I could budget for a draught of poppy juice should you wish to sleep through the operation.’
‘No thank you!’ Flaminius leapt to his feet and Achilles clutched the trephine as if it was a weapon. He drew himself up to his full height, which was not very impressive.
‘I wish it to be on record that I am giving it as my medical opinion that you should be restrained, for your own good and that of society as a whole.’
Flaminius found his clothes and hastily pulled them on, though they stank of sweat. The breastplate and helmet he left where they lay, but he strapped on his sword belt, noting that the dagger was missing, and transferred his brooch to his tunic. He turned to see the medic standing before him, still clutching the trephine.
‘Where is the interrogation room?’ he asked.
‘I believe it is in the cellars,’ Achilles spluttered. ‘But you can’t go there now…’
Flaminius shook his head. Wildly, he tapped the lance-head brooch. ‘On the contrary, I can go anywhere I like,’ he said.
‘I shall call for the guard,’ Achilles snapped. ‘You are in no fit state to be out of bed.’
Flaminius drew his sword. ‘Out of my way!’ he barked.
Achilles cringed away, dropping the trephine in the process. Flaminius brushed past him and ran from the room.
In the corridor outside, he sheathed his sword. It would only lead to more trouble if he was seen roaming the place fully armed. If patrolling guards saw him, they would ask awkward questions. Perhaps they wouldn’t even get that far; they’d draw swords and cut this maniac down. The medic seemed ready to give it as his professional opinion that Flaminius should be locked up in a madhouse. He had no real idea of how long he had been in a state of fever, but the previous time it had lasted for hours. None of this was helping him complete his investigation in time for noon tomorrow.
And what had Ozymandias been up to while he was unconscious? Flaminius hurried down the passage, looking for a stairway leading down to the cellars. Was he intending to torture a confession out of Carpocrates, even though Flaminius was sure the man was not the killer? In which case, Carpocrates would be crucified—no great loss to society—but the real killer would go scot free.
Two guards appeared ahead, their spears aslant over their brawny shoulders as they walked with the slow, purposeful gait of men on patrol. Flaminius slowed down, and gave them both a salute. They saluted in turn, pausing to eye him dubiously, but continued on their way. Flaminius glanced over his shoulder, then dodged around a corner. He must look a sight. His hair was plastered to his head and he knew he must be whey faced and bright eyed. He needed a wash and a brush up, a dip in the pool at the nearest bathhouse.
But all that would have to wait. Somewhere in this building Ozymandias was carrying out an interrogation, and it was imperative that Flaminius should also be present.
He
found a flight of steps leading downwards, and took them. A single cresset flickered on the wall, but all else was dark and shadowed. There was a door at the bottom. From somewhere ahead he could hear people talking. Warily, he tried the door. It was not locked. He pushed it open and entered.
It was cool and dark in the cellar. More cressets flickered on the walls. A rank smell of burnt flesh hung in the air. Dark, brawny figures stood together on one side, while on the far side of the room, an old, bearded man hung in chains from the walls. Sitting cross legged before him, gazing up eagerly, was a younger man in white kilt and black skull cap.
The younger man was talking. ‘…and I’ll ask you again. Why did you deny any knowledge of the Judaean cult referred to by its enemies as Christians?’ Flaminius realised with a shock that it was Ozymandias.
The old man raised a weary head. It wasn’t Carpocrates. It was the sophist Basilides.
‘I told you. I felt nervous, scared. Common, unenlightened people have such prejudices against the Elect. Naturally enough; those who remain in thrall to the Archons and follow their laws despise those who have learnt the truth…’
‘Enough of your sophistry, old man,’ Ozymandias said. He rose and gestured to the burly guards. ‘Will you speak plainly, or shall I let my friends here spend more time with you?’
Flaminius noticed fresh burn marks on Basilides’ chest.
‘All I am saying is that I lied to you and the Roman tribune,’ Basilides said, ‘because I was afraid you might connect me with the killing of the centurion.’ He looked rueful. ‘I am not a believer in martyrdom. I see no reason to die for my beliefs! It seems I was unsuccessful in my endeavours to distance myself from the crimes of others. I spoke to you at the ruins only to warn you about the dangers you faced!’
‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ said Ozymandias. ‘You have no respect for the laws of god or man, and none for their representatives. You have no respect for the laws of Menes, or Numa, or of Moses, or the Medes and the Persians, for that matter. You think this conjurer who claimed to be the Judaean Christus liberated you from all such laws.’
Flaminius listened, perturbed. Was Ozymandias saying that this sophist was a Christian himself?
Painfully, Basilides shook his head. ‘You’re confused, I’m afraid. I believe that Christus descended from the true god, Abraxas, who exists far beyond this world, that he showed we mortals how to liberate the divine spark and return to its origin.’
Flaminius remembered that Abraxas was the word that had been cut into Julius Strabo’s brow.
‘That process of salvation can only be achieved through knowledge,’ Basilides went on, ‘the hidden wisdom hinted at in Christus’ parables and teachings. I myself received this wisdom from Mathias, who was Christus’ apostle. It is the key to salvation. Salvation cannot be achieved by that sin which comes into the soul like a serpent.’
‘In one breath,’ Ozymandias said scornfully, ‘you admit to belonging to this perverted cult of this demon Abraxas and yet you deny that you believe its precepts. You’re clearly not opposed to lying.’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe I should let the interrogators at you again.’
Flaminius had seen enough.
‘I see you’ve begun without me,’ he said affably, strolling into the middle of the room. Two men, civic guards, came up on his either flank, swords drawn. He flashed them his brooch and smiled. ‘I’m with the scribe,’ he said.
Ozymandias turned to stare at Flaminius’ shadowy figure. ‘Let him past,’ he told the guards. The tribune brushed past them and stepped out into the torchlight. He looked up at Basilides’ chained form. The old man’s chest was raw with burns.
‘I assume this man is not a Roman citizen,’ he said.
Ozymandias shook his head, offended. ‘You asked Basilides his background when we first met him,’ he reminded Flaminius. ‘I had it checked and double checked. He is a Judaean with Alexandrian citizenship. He is not exempt from torture.’
‘Very well,’ said the tribune. Basilides was bearing up well under his ill treatment at the hands of the guards, showing a stoic fortitude that would have not surprised Flaminius if he had truly been a sophist. ‘You’re a Christian?’
Basilides gave him a weary look. ‘That is not what we call ourselves.’
‘But you believe that this conjurer Jesus was the Judaean Christus?’
‘He was the Logos incarnate,’ Basilides said. ‘He descended from Abraxas the bornless god to the terrestrial plane to liberate us from the demiurge, and bring us into Eternity, which is represented by the serpent Ouroboros.’
Flaminius glanced enquiringly at Ozymandias. The Egyptian made a face. ‘He’s been talking like this since we brought him in. I can’t make head nor tail of it. But he denies any connection with Julius Strabo’s murder.’
Some of Basilides’ jargon was familiar to Flaminius. ‘It sounds much like the peripatetic sophists I listened to when I was a student,’ he muttered. ‘But he seems to have incorporated some Judaean notions. Much the same as Carpocrates.’ He looked Basilides in the eye. ‘You belong to the same cult, then? Is Carpocrates a Christian too?’
‘That’s not what we call ourselves,’ Basilides repeated, but broke off abruptly when Ozymandias struck him across the mouth.
‘Enough!’ Flaminius said, and Ozymandias sat down again sullenly. ‘I’ll ask you again, Basilides. Do you follow the same Bacchic cult?’
‘No,’ said Basilides wearily. ‘I do not belong to the same cult as Carpocrates! I have been explaining this to your colleague for several hours.’
‘Not explaining it very well, it seems,’ said Flaminius heavily. ‘You deny all connection with Carpocrates, and yet you certainly speak in the same way he does, this bizarre mishmash of Judaism and marketplace sophistry. I thought you were a philosopher yourself, but now it seems that you’re a member of some cult; the same orgiastic cult of this crucified conjurer.’
He tapped his lips thoughtfully.
‘Carpocrates denies that he murdered the centurion, and for a variety of reasons I’m inclined to believe him. You live near the ruined temple where the body was found, you belong to the same cult Julius Strabo was investigating, and we first met you when we were inspecting the scene. The name of your bornless god was cut into the brow of the murdered man. You’re an intelligent man: you can see how it would make you look suspicious. You befriended Centurion Julius Strabo while he was undercover investigating your cult, then learnt who he was and murdered him. After all, murder is only illegal under the laws of the demiurge, who you despise.’
Flaminius heard the cellar door open again, but he was intent on Basilides’ reaction to this accusation and did not turn to see who had joined them. The man shook his head wearily.
‘You claim that you were not present that night,’ Flaminius added. ‘You say you were at the house of a Roman. Are there any witnesses of this?’
‘I can confirm that Basilides was present at my house on the night when Julius Strabo was murdered.’
Flaminius turned on hearing the familiar voice. The commander of the civic guard stood in the doorway to the cellar. Two guards loomed on either side of him.
—22—
Flaminius’ head pounded. Wiping sweat from his brow, he stared at Paulus Alexander.
‘This Christian was in your house?’ he echoed. ‘When Julius Strabo was murdered? How can you be so sure? Weren’t you in the Old Judaean Quarter when the centurion was murdered?’
Paulus Alexander shook his head. ‘I found the body,’ he said. ‘But some time had elapsed before he was killed.’
‘And you say that the sophist Basilides was in your house at the time?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘How can you be certain?’
Paulus Alexander turned to the civic guards. ‘Take Basilides down,’ he instructed them. ‘Give him recompense, and healing salve for his injuries.
‘You,’ he said, turning to Ozymandias, ‘I want to see in my office. And I would request your presence, Tribune Flamini
us, accompanying the scribe under guard. The medic Achilles came to me only moments ago, telling me that you had forced your way out of his care. You really are a sick man, tribune. First you break free from your physician, then you subject a respected citizen of Alexandria to this ordeal.’
Before Flaminius could protest, the two guards seized him. The commander departed the cellar as the interrogators set Basilides free, and the guards marched Flaminius and Ozymandias up the steps after him.
Passing scribes and guards watched as the Roman tribune was led up the main staircase. Ozymandias walked nearby, and Paulus Alexander strode at the head of the little procession.
‘What did you think you were doing, interrogating Basilides?’ Flaminius hissed to Ozymandias. The Egyptian shot him a glance.
‘I thought we’d agreed that Basilides must have been the murderer,’ he said. ‘You keep insisting it couldn’t have been Carpocrates.’
‘Basilides is an old man,’ Flaminius said. ‘That was the main problem with that theory. Anyway, I wouldn’t have sanctioned torture of an Alexandrian citizen. That kind of thing creates a terrible scandal, you know, even if it is permissible by law. The city has seen enough riots. I just wanted him questioned.’
Ozymandias shrugged. ‘That’s how we question people in the civic guard,’ he said. ‘How else can you be certain that you’re getting an honest answer if you don’t apply a little encouragement?’
Flaminius shook his head wearily. He still seemed to be suffering from the fever; his limbs shook almost as if he was afraid of the two civic guards who marched on either side of him. ‘If I’d known what you were doing, I would have stopped you.’
‘Well, you didn’t,’ said Ozymandias spiritedly. ‘You were dead to the world. I was carrying on your work, alright? Julius Strabo was my partner. I want justice to be done. And the commander himself gave me permission to use whatever means necessary, although he seems to have forgotten that.’
Our Man in Alexandria Page 15