‘He must have been delayed,’ said Nitocris. ‘Never mind him, we’ve got to get out!’ She ran towards the fire.
‘Traitor!’ howled a voice, and a scrawny, naked man’s body thudded into Flaminius. At once they were down on the ground, fighting. From the snarling voice, Flaminius deduced that his unseen assailant was Carpocrates.
As they fought, all around them, people were running, screaming, choking in the smoke. The dim glow of the fire glinted on frightened white eyeballs.
‘I knew you were a spy,’ Carpocrates shrieked as his sharp fingernails bit into Flaminius’ throat. ‘You didn’t fool me with your disguise. I know who gave you those wounds! I’ll kill you this time!’
‘You won’t!’ Flaminius vowed. ‘And now I’ve seen your foul rites I’ll make sure you’re publicly executed!’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Carpocrates shrieked triumphantly. ‘You’re one of us now!’
Screaming people scrambled past them until they were alone in the smoke-filled crypt. Flaminius couldn’t understand what the madman was saying.
‘If you think I’ve joined you just because I underwent your pathetic initiation ritual…’
Carpocrates shrieked with laughter. ‘You did!’ he shouted. ‘You did, you did! In front of the eyes of all! Now you’re one of us, spy, like it or not!’
Flaminius broke out into a fit of coughing. His fever was building up inside him again. He gripped onto the crypt wall. ‘You fool!’ he said weakly. ‘I joined to get evidence against you. I’ve no intention of joining your foul cult!’ His eyes were streaming, his voice was hoarse.
‘But it’s we who have evidence against you,’ Carpocrates sniggered, eyes gleaming in the fire from the passageway. ‘Everyone saw you! You want to know what you killed, in that pile of meal?’
Despite the heat from the doorway, Flaminius went cold. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded.
Carpocrates shrieked with laughter. ‘A baby, freshly delivered this morning by an initiate! You beat it to death and then devoured its flesh and drank its blood! You’re one of us now!’
Snarling, Flaminius flung himself at the cult leader. They rolled across the floor and down the passage as fire blazed all around them. Detritus from years of neglect, dried leaves and broken twigs, all had gone up as the pile of clothes burnt. Now the passage was filled with fire and smoke. Fallen bodies lay on the floor.
Flaminius shoved the man aside and tried to work out a way to vault the flames. Where was Nitocris?
Carpocrates seized his ankle. Flaminius kicked out at him and the cult leader rolled back into the wall.
The tribune heard shouting voices from the far side of the flame, the thud of booted feet. Gathering up all his reserves of energy, he hurdled the fire. Feeling like his hair was on fire, he ran staggering down the passage beyond.
People were all around him in the blackness, dark silhouettes. Were they Christians following him or others? He forced his way through the smoke and heat, towards the starlight and the clean air. Men shouted at him and tried to stop him. He pushed past.
At last he was out in the open air, amidst the ruins. Figures streamed from the tunnel on either side. A naked girl ran up and embraced him.
‘I thought you still in there!’ It was Nitocris. ‘My brother is here, and the civic guard.’
‘Roman!’
Ozymandias appeared from the gloom, guards on either side of him. He waddled angrily up to them. All around, Christians were struggling in the grip of tough looking men in civilian clothes. Ozymandias stared suspiciously at Flaminius and Nitocris, both naked and covered in soot.
‘What were you doing?’ the Egyptian barked. ‘What were you doing with my sister? I’ll kill you!’
For the second time that night Flaminius found himself struggling with a madman. Nitocris shrieked.
‘Enough, scribe!’ Paulus Alexander marched up out of the darkness. Watchmen hurried past, carrying leather buckets of water to put out the fire underground. ‘Men, restrain him!’
Two men in civilian clothes—they must be civic guards, Flaminius realised, in plainclothes—seized Ozymandias and pulled him away from Flaminius. Paulus Alexander’s armour was smeared with soot, but otherwise he was neat and tidy as ever.
‘What do you think you’re doing, scribe?’ he barked. ‘Attacking the imperial agent?’
‘Sir!’ Ozymandias bobbed his head abjectly. ‘I didn’t know you were with us.’ His eyes, rimmed with kohl that had run down his face, gleamed. ‘I found this imperial agent embracing my own wife. Both are naked! What would you do if you found your wife with another man?’
Paulus Alexander surveyed the scene. Naked Christians crouched abjectly at the feet of civic guards in civilian dress, with the whining dog that had been in the crypt earlier running round yapping. The smoke was clearing as the watchmen put out the fire in the crypt.
‘It seems to have been something of a drama,’ the commander remarked drily. ‘Tribune Flaminius,’ he added, turning abruptly to look the naked man up and down. ‘What has been going on?’
Flaminius glanced at Nitocris as she went to Ozymandias, arms out beseechingly. Her brother turned his head and looked away. Nitocris’ arms drooped.
Flaminius’ head was a whirl of confusion. ‘I sent Ozymandias to you with a message,’ he said. ‘You got it?’
‘Of course,’ Paulus Alexander said. ‘And so I despatched the scribe and this patrol to raid the cult headquarters. I knew that you intended to penetrate their mysteries, but I did not realise that you were going quite so….’ He surveyed Flaminius’ nudity, and that of the others, then settled on Nitocris with quiet relish. ‘Undercover,’ he finished.
Ozymandias embraced Nitocris. She sobbed on his scrawny chest.
Flaminius felt nauseous, ready to vomit. ‘We witnessed the rites of the Christians,’ he said. He remembered what Carpocrates had said. Was it really true, or had the man been trying to demoralise him? For that matter, where was Carpocrates? Eight of the Christians were in custody, the rest either escaped or dead in the crypt.
‘I see,’ said Paulus Alexander. He surveyed the bedraggled prisoners derisively. ‘And these pathetic creatures are the sinister perverts and anthropophagi of legend?’
Flaminius frowned. ‘I can well attest that their rites are orgiastic,’ he said guardedly. ‘But that isn’t something I’ll speak about here. More importantly, their leader is missing. I last saw him underground. He had realised that I was a spy and we fought as the flames rose higher. I escaped. I thought he followed me down the tunnel. I don’t know if he got through the guards…’
‘Impossible,’ said one of Paulus Alexander’s men. ‘We had that exit surrounded. No one could have got past us.’
‘That means,’ said Paulus Alexander, brushing soot from his breastplate, ‘that the leader is still down there.’
A throng of people entered the ruins through the gate, which hung from its hinges as if someone had smashed it open. Among them Flaminius recognised one as Basilides. He limped as he walked, as if the after effects of the torture he had endured had yet to leave him. At the head of the crowd were several old men, including the Judaean elder Dionysius. He was staring around him in horror, both at the guards in their civilian clothes and their naked prisoners.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ the elder asked. ‘I received word that a patrol had been sent to investigate some kind of disturbance here. Has someone tried to burn down the ruined temple? I did not know there was enough left to burn.’ He eyed the naked Christians in revulsion, then peered at Flaminius as if trying to work out where he knew him from.
Paulus Alexander took off his plumed helmet and mopped at his brow. ‘My apologies, sir,’ he said. ‘It seems that the ritual of a forbidden cult went sadly awry. We fear that some cult members remain in the crypt where the fire broke out.’
‘The cult is orgiastic in nature,’ Flaminius explained wearily. ‘A dog tied to a lamp was encouraged to pull the lamp over so the place
was plunged into darkness, a darkness under cover of which the Christians indulged their lusts. I suppose the idea was that the guilt was out of their hands, that the darkness could be blamed on a brute animal, and thus what happened in the darkness went unseen by god or man. This time, however, the clothes of the Christians were set alight by burning lamp oil and the members of the cult found themselves trapped underground in the crypt they used for their orgies. It seems at least two did not escape.’
Dionysius was staring at him, barely listening to his words. ‘Do I know you, young man?’ he said faintly.
‘This is the imperial agent, Gaius Flaminius Drusus,’ Paulus Alexander explained. ‘He was undercover, it seems, spying on the orgy.’
Dionysius stared at him, then turned back to peer incredulously at Flaminius. The tribune could picture himself: naked, shaven headed, with kohl rimmed eyes, his skin grimy with soot. He must have looked as degraded as the worst of the Christians.
Ozymandias and his wife were sitting on a fallen column a little away from the others, deep in furious conversation. The scribe had taken a cloak from one of the guards and wrapped his wife in it. Flaminius wanted to go to them, to explain…what? What could he say? He could fully understand the Egyptian’s feelings.
‘This is terrible,’ Dionysius was saying. Basilides nodded. ‘Our friend here had persuaded us that the Christians were peaceful people, if misguided.’ He shook his head. ‘I myself have been guilty of repeating the slanders against them… But I had come to believe that they were that indeed, slanders. Now it seems that all our suspicions were correct, that the rumours were right. This is what the tribe of Christians is, in truth.’ He gestured at the prisoners. ‘They must all be executed for their crimes. But it has to be made clear that these offenders are not Judaeans. These people are Greeks and Egyptians, surely. They cannot be linked with my people. We have suffered enough.’
Paulus Alexander glanced at Basilides. ‘This is only an extremist cult,’ he said. ‘Not all Christians are like these.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Basilides, speaking at last. ‘I am horrified. Disgusting antics! It is Carpocrates who led these people astray. I warned the commissary centurion about him but my attempts to see Carpocrates brought to justice were worse than useless. And where is he? Has the ringleader escaped?’
‘The guards say no,’ Flaminius told him. ‘No one could escape without being caught by them, as these cultists were. By my calculations, two of the Christians are still in there, Carpocrates included.’
A watchman marched up and saluted. ‘I can confirm that some of the Christians did not escape,’ he said. ‘We found three corpses, partially burnt. They had choked in the smoke, it seems. Two of them, at least. The other one… My men are bringing the bodies up now. You can see for yourself.’
Watchmen carried three charred bodies before the gathered people. The Christians groaned to see them. One was the man who had been on guard. Another was a mangled heap of flesh, too small to be that of an adult. The third…
Pity stirred his heart. It was Carpocrates. His body was barely scorched, but he was indisputably dead. The cause of death was clear. He had not died from burns, nor from inhaling smoke.
A dagger jutted from his chest.
Paulus Alexander crouched down by the corpse and examined the hilt. To Flaminius’ horror he saw that it was wrought in the form of a hawk’s head. Grim faced, the commander got to his feet.
‘This is your dagger, tribune,’ he said accusingly. ‘Why did you murder Carpocrates?’
—30—
The crunch of marching feet heralded the appearance of legionaries. At their head was Tribune Marcus Pertinax. He looked round suspiciously and his eyes lit on Paulus Alexander.
‘We received word of more disturbances,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I was expecting riots. It looks more like an impromptu gymnasium. Bit cold tonight for standing round naked.’
‘Tribune,’ Paulus Alexander acknowledged him. ‘Your fellow officer stands accused of murder.’
Marcus Pertinax scanned the gathering again, looking keenly round for another Roman. He showed no sign of recognising Flaminius.
‘Never mind these trumped-up charges,’ Flaminius said impatiently. ‘We’ve got the entire cult here, all of Carpocrates’ followers.’ He beckoned Marcus Pertinax and Paulus Alexander closer. ‘One of these people here killed Julius Strabo.’
‘Who in Hades are you?’ Marcus Pertinax said in tones of revulsion.
‘This is Tribune Flaminius,’ said Paulus Alexander, his voice heavy with weariness. ‘Why he’s stark naked and otherwise following Egyptian fashion is not yet clear to me. But it is his dagger we found in Carpocrates’ heart. He must be put on trial.’
Marcus Pertinax studied Flaminius. Gradually recognition dawned. ‘Investigating those thefts from the grain stores has taken you up some strange byways,’ he told his fellow officer. ‘You really can’t go around murdering people, old man. Not even criminals. Not without orders! It’s not Roman.’
‘I didn’t murder him,’ Flaminius said.
Marcus Pertinax looked at the blade. ‘Isn’t that your weapon?’ he asked. He raised his voice. ‘Can anyone here confirm or deny that it is Tribune Flaminius’ dagger?’
‘I’ve seen it on him,’ said Ozymandias quietly. Flaminius gave him a betrayed stare.
‘Well, it’s just not looking good, is it, old man?’ Marcus Pertinax said.
‘I do own that dagger,’ Flaminius confessed. ‘But it wasn’t on me when I came here. All I was wearing was a kilt. And I took that off before the orgy began.’
Marcus Pertinax shook his head. ‘What you do in your spare time is your own affair, but…’
‘Flaminius will be taken to the cells in the palace of Hadrian pending trial,’ Paulus Alexander announced. ‘He may be able to claim mitigating circumstances; I personally can vouch that his behaviour has been decidedly eccentric since he sustained a blow to the head while supressing the recent riots. I have medical testimony in my office that he requires a craniotomy…’
‘These Christians should be the ones on trial,’ said Flaminius angrily. ‘I can give an eye witness account of their criminal behaviour. Let me question them…’
‘I don’t really know what’s going on here,’ Marcus Pertinax admitted, ‘but Tribune Flaminius is a Roman citizen and an officer of the Twenty Second Legion. He will be tried for murder, if that’s what he’s suspected of, under military conditions. The legate must be informed.’ He gave an order to one of his men, who set off from the ruin at a run.
Paulus Alexander shook his head. ‘This is a civil matter,’ he said; ‘an accusation of murder. It will be dealt with by the civic guard. According to public law, murder is punishable by death.’ He turned to his men. ‘Take the suspect to the palace of Hadrian.’
‘But I will be accompanying you, sir,’ said Marcus Pertinax grimly. ‘The legion looks after its own.’ He looked pained at Flaminius. ‘Can this man not be provided with some clothes? He is a Roman officer.’
Clothes were provided, a stained chiton and worn sandals, and thus clad Flaminius was marched under guard from the ruin. Alongside the civic guards, some carrying the body of Carpocrates, came Marcus Pertinax and his legionaries; the Christians, also under guard; and several others including Ozymandias and his sister. After Ozymandias’ betrayal Flaminius felt as if he was alone and friendless. Even Marcus Pertinax seemed to believe that he had murdered the cult leader.
Desperately, he wracked his brains, trying to remember when he had last seen the dagger. He knew he had had no such weapon when Nitocris was disguising him back in Rachotis, he’d commented on the fact. Recently, he had changed clothes so many times, as well as spending some time naked, that he found it difficult to recall when he had last worn his sword belt. He certainly didn’t have it on him now. The chiton he wore was too small for him, and it stank of somebody else’s sweat. He didn’t want to know whose.
Not that he was exactly
sweet smelling himself, he told himself, as he was marched through the midnight streets by the civic guard. His kohl was running down his face, his skin was smirched with soot, and he could feel the fever growing in him. He hoped no one saw his shaking hands and assumed that he was a coward.
And yet they might be right. He was afraid. This alien city, with its weird cults and barbaric customs, had him firmly in its grasp. If the evidence had piled up against him, and he had no one to argue his case, it seemed doubtful that he would ever extricate himself from this mess. Even his status as imperial agent would not save him here.
Guards stood on duty outside the palace of Hadrian, cressets burned sombrely in the echoing passages as the procession clattered into the main hall. The Christian prisoners were led away to the cells, and Flaminius with them. Nitocris remained with her brother.
To his relief, Flaminius was accorded the privilege of a cell of his own, a dank, musty hole containing a wooden bench and a vile smelling bucket, illuminated by the light from a torch in the passage outside. There was something to be said for being a Roman citizen even under these circumstances: the Christians were sharing a similar cell.
If he had been with them, he was sure they would have killed him. So much for their inoffensiveness! So much for the judgement of Trajan. He lay down on the hard bench and tried to get some sleep.
—31—
Palace of Hadrian, Alexandria, November 5, 123 AD
At last the guards returned and he was marched from the cell and up into the main hall. Sunlight streamed in through windows high in the concave roof; he gathered that it was now morning. The time he had spent in the cold cell had not done his fever any good and he was shaking visibly.
Despite this, he was required to stand before the tribunal and answer Paulus Alexander’s questions. Avidius Pollio was also there, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he sat with Marcus Pertinax and several other officers of the Twenty-Second Legion. Flaminius remembered that the legate’s deadline for closing the case was noon of today.
Our Man in Alexandria Page 20