Our Man in Alexandria

by Gavin Chappell

  Also present were several civilians including Ozymandias and Nitocris, Dionysius and Basilides, and the medic Achilles.

  ‘You stand accused of murdering the Alexandrian citizen Carpocrates,’ Paulus Alexander began. ‘Please tell those present why you were present in the crypt beneath the ruined Judaean temple.’

  ‘As you well know, commander,’ said Flaminius, dashing sweat from his brow, ‘I was sent to Alexandria to investigate the disappearance of Commissary Centurion Julius Strabo. He was investigating certain cults, believed by him to be subversive, who he maintained were at work in the city. On arrival, I was informed by you, commander, that the centurion had been found dead, apparently murdered, in the ruined Judaean temple. My own investigations were impeded by the volatile political situation, and my first attempts to view the scene of the crime were frustrated when riots broke out.’

  ‘During those riots,’ Paulus Alexander said, ‘you sustained certain injuries. Is that not so?’

  Flaminius regarded the various wounds he had been dealt over the last few days, and nodded his head jerkily. ‘At one point I was knocked out. Nevertheless, when I had recovered I continued my investigation and made several discoveries…’

  He went into some detail. Although Paulus Alexander showed no interest in what Flaminius had learnt, Avidius Pollio listened closely.

  The commander called the medic Achilles.

  ‘I put it to you as a medical man,’ the commander began, ‘that the accused has been adversely affected by the blow to the head he sustained whilst engaged in riot control.’

  The Greek physician nodded emphatically. ‘The patient showed several signs of fever, even brain fever when I examined him, and even became violent. I have repeatedly made recommendations that the tribune undergo surgery, to whit a craniotomy…’

  Avidius Pollio interrupted. ‘All this is of no account. My tribune has been accused of murder. Prove that he killed this no-account Greek sophist or whatever the hell the man was, and then release him into my custody. The legion deals with its own.’

  Paulus Alexander shook his head. ‘This, I repeat, is a civil matter and will be dealt with accordingly. You will respect this tribunal, sir. Please do not speak unless asked to speak.’

  Avidius Pollio fixed him with a glare. Barking, ‘And stop shaking, man,’ to Flaminius; ‘Makes you look like a coward!’ the legate sat down again and began a whispered conference with Marcus Pertinax and the other officers.

  ‘Let us hear the testimony of the man who Flaminius has worked with most in the city,’ Paulus Alexander said. ‘Step up, Ozymandias Rachotides.’

  Ozymandias took his place before the assembly, looking about himself nervously. He turned towards Paulus Alexander, but had trouble meeting the commander’s eye.

  Ozymandias had seen Flaminius and his own sister-wife together naked. He must have drawn what were unfortunately the right conclusions, the tribune realised. Or had Nitocris confessed to him? This certainly didn’t look good.

  ‘Give us your opinion of the man who has been your colleague over the last few days,’ Paulus Alexander said. ‘Is he a murderer?’

  Ozymandias shrugged. ‘He is a Roman tribune,’ he said. ‘I understand that he was sent here because of some disgrace he was involved in in the distant north of the empire. He is certainly a killer, I know that much.’

  ‘He’s a soldier!’ protested Avidius Pollio.

  ‘Legate,’ said Paulus Alexander reprovingly, ‘I will not tell you again.’ He turned back to Ozymandias. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged the scribe. ‘You say he’s a killer. Have you seen him kill anyone?’

  Ozymandias nodded. ‘I’ve seen him fight. I think he killed someone… I was fighting them myself! We were beset by Carpocrates and his thugs.’

  ‘You’d clashed with Carpocrates before?’

  Ozymandias nodded again. ‘First in the riot. Then the next day he followed us across the city and attacked us by the canal in Rachotis. We fought back, but had to be rescued by a Roman patrol.’

  ‘How well did your colleague acquit himself?’

  ‘He was wounded,’ said Ozymandias, ‘but as I said, I think he killed some of the thugs. Carpocrates got away. Some miasma from Lake Mareotis affected Flaminius and he had a spell of fever.’

  By now Flaminius was unable to control his shaking. He wanted to ask the commander to postpone the tribunal. But that would make it look like he was trying to put off the inevitable. It might seem to incriminate him.

  ‘So the tribune has been suffering both from concussion,’ Paulus Alexander said, ‘and from fever. He doesn’t seem to be a well man. Even the sweet air of Alexandria does not suit him. He should never have come here. He certainly seems to have been irrational in recent days.’

  He called Nitocris next.

  ‘Now, girl,’ he said. ‘You were present, rather than your brother-husband who has just spoken, when the Greek Carpocrates was killed. Will you tell us a little more about what happened?’

  Nitocris stood with her head bowed, speaking in a voice only a little above a whisper.

  ‘I first met the tribune when my brother brought him home,’ she told them. ‘I had already encountered Julius Strabo, and secretly helped him gain access to the Christian cults in the city. I had become a Christian myself some years earlier, but kept it from my brother. When both my brother and the tribune learnt of this, they saw that it could help them with their investigation. They hit upon the plan of spying on the Christians to make sure that they had enough evidence to arrest them—then arrest them and question them until they could identify the killer of Centurion Julius Strabo.’

  ‘Why did they think that they would be able to identify the killer by questioning the Christians?’ asked Paulus Alexander.

  Nitocris shrugged helplessly. ‘I suppose because they thought that the Christians had murdered him. They had learnt he was a spy and killed him was the idea. For some reason the tribune did not think that Carpocrates himself was the killer.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘My brother went to warn the civic guard, ask them to raid the place and arrest the Christians,’ said Nitocris. ‘I disguised the tribune as an Egyptian and together we went to the ritual. I told the Christians that he was my brother, who I had persuaded to join them.’

  ‘Did you then participate in the ritual? Please speak up, girl.’

  Nitocris nodded quickly. She raised her voice. ‘We took part in the ritual. Then there was a fire…’

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ said Paulus Alexander. ‘You participated in the ritual. Can you provide the tribunal with more details?’

  Nitocris flushed. She looked nervously at her husband. Her voice sank again. ‘We were… naked,’ she said. ‘We were all naked.’

  ‘Was this normal?’

  Nitocris nodded. ‘In Carpocrates’ rituals, yes. Other Christian groups had different ceremonies.’

  ‘And both you and the tribune took part in this, this ritual nudity?’

  Nitocris nodded again. ‘The tribune was initiated into the cult,’ she said. ‘There were rituals he took part in that did not involve me.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘His earlobe was branded.’

  Paulus Alexander turned to Flaminius. ‘Can you confirm this?’

  Flaminius was pale and haggard. Sweat dripped off his face. He looked up and dabbed at his ear, then nodded.

  ‘The man’s clearly unwell!’ Avidius Pollio barked. ‘Call a recess, for the sake of all the gods!’

  ‘I will call a recess when I finish questioning the girl Nitocris,’ Paulus Alexander assured him. He turned to her. ‘Did Tribune Flaminius participate in any other rituals? Either with you or without you.’

  Nitocris nodded again, and swallowed, then licked her lips. ‘He … he was given a stick. They brought in what looked like a heap of meal. Flaminius was told to beat it. Whatever was in there was alive, I think. It… bled into the flour. The blood and flour made dough, which was cooked o
n a brazier. We ate the resulting cakes. It was said to be the body of Christus.’

  Paulus Alexander waved a report.

  ‘My men say that in the crypt they found the burnt and beaten remains of a new born baby.’

  A shocked gasp susurrated through the hall. Flaminius felt sick. A roaring in his ears almost blotted out the commander’s next words. ‘What else happened in the crypt?’ Paulus Alexander was saying. But before Nitocris had a chance to reply, Flaminius collapsed.

  Avidius Pollio was on his feet. ‘The man’s ill!’ he roared. ‘He needs medical attention.’

  Paulus Alexander rose. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Take him to the surgery.’ He turned to the medic Achilles. ‘Please attend to the tribune, medic. I think you know what to do.’

  —32—

  Flaminius ran down a long, dark passage that stretched endlessly away from him. Behind him was a thunderous echo of pursuing feet. His heart was pounding, he was wet with sweat. He was naked.

  In the distance he heard chanting: Iao, Iao, Iao! Iao Abraxas, bornless god! Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata, Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata, Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata!

  Onwards the feet pounded. He wanted to look behind him, to see what horror pursued, but somehow he couldn’t. Sweat slicked his skin, the blood was surging in his head; he was no longer sure if it was footsteps that followed him or the echo of his own booming heart. Was he running round and round the labyrinth of his own mind?

  His legs were flailing. Something had tangled itself round them. He staggered and almost fell. He wanted to look down, to see what it was that had grasped him, but for some reason he couldn’t move his head. The darkness was closing in round him as if it was some palpable thing, as if he ran through a maze of solid, viscous blackness.

  There was light ahead of him. Distant, dim, far-off. But it was light. He sprinted for it desperately.

  The things that followed were growing closer, the chanting was growing louder: Iao, Iao, Iao! Iao Abraxas, bornless god! Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata, Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata, Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata! Iao, Iao, Iao! Iao Abraxas, bornless god! Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata, Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata, Ιao Abraxas Αdon Ata! IAO, IAO, IAO

  ‘Iao!’

  His eyes flickered open. The scream from his lips still echoed from the walls of the surgery. Leaning over him, wickedly sharp trephine glinting in his hand, was Achilles the medic. Flaminius’ eyes widened.

  Something was holding him down. He stared in horror at Achilles. The Greek returned his gaze remorselessly. Flaminius yelled again, words he didn’t understand himself. He realised that he was strapped down.

  A civic guard appeared, and tried to force Flaminius back down as he struggled against the straps that tied him to the surgical table.

  ‘Keep that maniac off me!’ Flaminius shouted.

  ‘Come on, sir, try not to struggle,’ grunted the guard. ‘Haven’t you got some way to knock him out?’ he asked the medic. ‘He was easier to deal with when he was still out of it.’

  ‘Please don’t struggle,’ the medic added weight to the guard’s words. ‘I know you must be feeling very frightened right now. Your madness and fever had almost taken over. But all I need to do is open up your skull and release that pressure…’

  Freeing his arm from the restraints, Flaminius sank his fist into the guard’s face. The man fell backwards, grabbing at his forearm as he did. A strap snapped. Whether it was due to his own struggles or if the guard had inadvertently contributed, Flaminius would never know, but it was enough for him to wrench himself free. The guard’s head collided with a shelf full of jars containing strange liquids that hissed and spat as they sprayed out across the surgery floor.

  ‘I really must protest!’ the medic shouted, waggling his trephine in remonstrance.

  Flaminius rolled off the table, danced gingerly through the broken glass and spilt liquids, then freed the sword from the guard’s scabbard. Spinning round, skidding in the spillage on the floor, he menaced the medic, still intent on opening Flaminius’ skull with the trephine, then sprinted from the room.

  Out in the corridor he saw two guards lumbering towards him, alert expressions on their beefy faces. Confronted by a man in a loincloth sword in hand, with shaven head and streaks of kohl running down his cheeks, they halted in bewilderment. Flaminius didn’t stop running, and dodged between them. One man tried to grab him but his hand slithered off Flaminius’ sweaty shoulder, and then the tribune was through.

  Running like Pheidippides himself, glad of the time he’d spent in athletics as a youngster, he sped down the passage. Soon he reached a flight of stairs. There was nothing like a healthy mind in a healthy body, he told himself, and that was just what he had right at the moment—nothing like it. But he knew where he was now, and he ran up the steps as fast as he could, spinning round at each landing to sprint up the next flight.

  Two more guards appeared at the head of the third flight. One grabbed Flaminius by the left arm as he ran past them, the other tried to snatch the sword from his grasp. The second guard got the flat of the blade across the face for that, staggered against the bannister, tripped and went rolling down the stairs.

  Flaminius broke free of the other guard who drew his own sword. The tribune parried a swing, shoved the man backwards with his left hand, then turned and ran.

  He came out into the antechamber of Paulus Alexander’s office. Ozymandias was sitting up alert as Flaminius raced in. The scribe leapt to his feet.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing, Roman?’

  Flaminius shoved the scribe aside and ran to the inner door. Even as he did, it opened and Paulus Alexander peered out testily—to find Flaminius’ stolen sword pricking his throat.

  ‘Back inside,’ said Flaminius grimly. ‘And give me the keys.’ He could hear sounds of pursuit from beyond the antechamber.

  Ozymandias darted in after them. Flaminius saw Avidius Pollio at Paulus Alexander’s desk, turning around to see what all the noise was about. As Paulus Alexander backed into the room, Flaminius’ sword at his throat, the legate’s face fell.

  Flaminius locked the door with his left hand, keeping the sword raised in his right. ‘Sit down, all of you,’ he said. Men started shouting outside. Someone tried the door, then began banging on it. ‘I’m sorry to have to go to such lengths, but I’ve just escaped having my own skull opened and I might just want to repay the favour to someone.’

  ‘What do you hope to achieve?’ Paulus Alexander said, sitting back behind his desk. Ozymandias sat by the window. The fan-slave moved as if to sit down, but at a look from Paulus Alexander he returned to his lonely duty.

  The guards had stopped trying to smash down the door but Flaminius heard someone give orders for a battering ram to be procured.

  ‘Why in Hades was that medic going to cut open my skull?’ Flaminius demanded.

  The legate shifted awkwardly. ‘You are clearly under a lot of strain, tribune,’ he said. ‘Achilles assured me that the operation would cure you of this brain fever.’

  ‘We hadn’t finished the inquiry,’ Flaminius pointed out, ‘or did you complete it in my absence?’

  ‘We did finish the inquiry,’ Paulus Alexander told him. ‘Our verdict was that you killed the Greek Carpocrates while your mind was disturbed.’

  ‘You’re a sick man, Tribune Flaminius,’ barked Avidius Pollio. ‘You can’t be blamed for your actions, even now. But you’re a problem that needs fixing. Why couldn’t you just stay in the medic’s care and allow him to operate?’

  ‘He’s a madman, sir,’ Ozymandias said bluntly, ‘Remember that. He’s not acting rationally. It’s the only explanation.’

  ‘Thank you for speaking in my defence, friend,’ Flaminius said ironically. ‘Oh, you’re all so eager to help me, aren’t you? Somebody in this room killed Carpocrates, but it wasn’t me.’

  Paulus Alexander frowned. ‘You were fighting with Carpocrates when everyone else fled the fire, and it was your dagger that was found in him.’ He looked censorious. ‘Be
sides, there’s clear evidence that you, perhaps unwittingly, had already butchered a new born baby that night.’

  Flaminius glared at him. ‘Unwittingly, as you say. I remember that incident well. But I have no memory of killing Carpocrates—much as I would like to.’

  ‘You see?’ said Avidius Pollio soothingly. ‘You really did have cause to murder him. Not that I don’t sympathise. He was a vile fellow by all accounts, and tricking you into killing and eating a child… Well, words fail me. If I was in your position I might have done the same. But as the commander has said, we are here to see that the rule of law is carried out. We can’t have anyone, not even imperial agents, committing public murder.’

  ‘You mean if it went on behind closed doors, it would be acceptable?’ Flaminius spat.

  There was a crash from the door. Either the guards had found a battering ram already, or they had improvised.

  ‘The legate doesn’t mean that at all,’ said Paulus Alexander wearily. ‘But if the whole business had not happened in the presence of a contingent of civic guard, not to mention their leader, he would have been better able to ensure you were exonerated. I don’t like to think about the lawlessness that imperial agents may be responsible for from time to time. But the evidence is compelling, and I am not willing to suppress this killing. Carpocrates died with what has been positively identified by your colleague Ozymandias as your own dagger in his ribs.’

  He steepled his fingers. ‘Mitigating factors have been considered. I asked that we avoid a public trial, partly due to your ambiguous status as an imperial agent, partly because it is clear that you are a very sick man, as the legate agrees, and that your killing of Carpocrates is due to this unfortunate factor.’

  Flaminius laughed harshly. ‘Are you saying that you’re willing to suppress this whole episode because I’m a lunatic who also happens to be an imperial agent? If I truly had killed Carpocrates, I would be grateful for the fact that you’re willing to sweep the dirt behind the wall-hanging because it could be an embarrassment to your career. Unfortunately, I did not kill Carpocrates.’