Paulus Alexander stared at the stand where hung his sword and armour. ‘Now is the time,’ he murmured, ‘to decide at last what I am: a son of Israel or a citizen of Rome.’
‘What are you babbling about, man?’ the legate barked.
In a single stride, Paulus Alexander was at the stand. He drew his sword.
‘Stop him!’ Ozymandias rushed forward. Paulus Alexander menaced the scribe with his sword. Then he reversed the blade, and thrust it into his own heart.
Ozymandias looked in horror from one remorseless Roman face to the other. Avidius Pollio and Flaminius watched dispassionately.
‘He’s made his choice,’ the tribune said. ‘Let him die like a Roman.’
Vomiting blood, face white as chalk, Paulus Alexander fell facedown. The force of his fall thrust the sword deeper inside.
Avidius Pollio gave an approving nod. ‘Good man,’ he said. ‘He’s saved everyone the embarrassment of a public trial.’
A fly sailed in through the open window and settled on Paulus Alexander’s outstretched arm. The legate walked to the doorway, where the civic guards who had been attaching a repaired door to the hinges watched the scene open mouthed.
‘I’ll speak with the prefect. When Haterius Nepos hears about this, I’m sure he’ll agree that the Christians must be publicly executed in the arena. Only by making an example of them can we hope to deter the threat to public morals posed by this new religion, this vile superstition.’
He called out into the passage and in marched two legionaries. The legate pointed at Paulus Alexander’s body. Two more flies had joined the first.
‘Take this to the embalmers. And send a message to the commander’s wife. Tell her he died with honour.’
Respectfully, the legionaries took the corpse by shoulders and feet, then carried it from the room. Avidius Pollio followed behind them. Only Flaminius and Ozymandias, and the sublimely impassive fan-slave, remained in the office.
‘Nitocris told me what happened in the crypt,’ said Ozymandias after the silence had grown too awkward.
‘Ah,’ said Flaminius.
It was an inadequate response. Nitocris had been dutybound to tell her brother-husband, of course. But there are times when the primary virtue is to stay silent. ‘We had to, really, or be found out. I’m sorry. But I had to see what was happening, and there was no alternative.’
‘And now those Christians will be executed for their crimes,’ said Ozymandias flatly. ‘Perhaps it will deter Nitocris and other impressionable women from joining such groups in future. But I doubt the cult will be rooted out so easily.’
They had been weak people, under the influence of that cunning, manipulative, evil man, Carpocrates. Flaminius himself might have come under Carpocrates’ sway. Paulus Alexander had done, in identical circumstances.
‘At least Julius Strabo’s killer has received his just deserts,’ he said, gazing at the flies now circling round the pool of blood on the mosaic floor. Someone should call for a slave to clean it up.
‘Yes,’ said Ozymandias tersely. ‘The commander will face judgement in the underworld.’ He gazed out of the window.
It was midday. Flaminius had fulfilled Avidius Pollio’s demand, solved the mystery of Julius Strabo’s murder before noon. Along the way, there had been any number of other discoveries, of course. But what mattered most was that his mission was accomplished and he could return to Probus with the news. Then, back to Britain, and Drustica. As if Egypt had been nothing but a bad dream.
‘And I’m without a patron,’ Ozymandias added at last. He glanced at Flaminius. ‘I had some idea, you know. About what Nitocris had been up to. I suspected something was going on between her and Julius Strabo, that old goat.’ He shook his head. ‘I put up with it. Can you imagine how that made me feel? To be almost certain that you were a cuckold, but to smile at your wife’s seducer, your own colleague? And I did it for her.’
‘You did?’ Flaminius said.
‘Without my job here, my patronage from Paulus Alexander,’ Ozymandias went on, ‘we’d both have been in the gutter, Nitocris and I. Working for Paulus Alexander gave us a life other Egyptians could only pray for. If I made trouble about Julius Strabo, we might lose that. So I feigned ignorance. And where’s that got me? Now I have no patron. I don’t know who will replace Paulus Alexander, but no doubt the new commander will have his own scribe. I’ll be lucky if I can stay on here at all.’
Flaminius shifted awkwardly. He needed his own clothes. He needed his lancehead brooch, not to mention somewhere to pin it. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to find another position,’ he reassured the scribe.
Ozymandias gave a hollow laugh. ‘Without a patron? I’d be better off a slave. My home was provided by Paulus Alexander, my money too. Now Nitocris and I will be in the gutter for the rest of our lives.’
‘I’m sorry!’ Flaminius said. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘You’ve never been a slave, or a freedman for that matter,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Everything comes to your sort so easily…!’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Flaminius laughed. ‘Look, Ozymandias, I’m not without some clout in these parts. I’ll ask the prefect to find you work. We’re equals, me and him, remember? Both representatives of the emperor.’ He hadn’t met the prefect yet, of course, and any persuasion would have to be done by letter, from Rome if not from Luguvalium. But he couldn’t leave Ozymandias and Nitocris in the gutter. ‘Now we’d better be getting back to your place. I’ll ask them to take us by litter. You’ll go home in style.’
The litter slaves dropped them off at the end of the alley. The still waters of Lake Mareotis were visible beyond the houses, blue and tranquil. Beyond them, shimmering in the haze, lay the reed beds of the Nile Delta.
Flaminius, still wrapped in his borrowed cloak, followed Ozymandias up the alleyway. They’d spoken little during the journey. Even now Ozymandias was very quiet. Flaminius didn’t interrupt his broodings.
‘Nitocris?’ the scribe called as he led Flaminius through the courtyard and past the tethered goat. ‘I’m back.’
Footsteps pattered on the hard earth floor, and Nitocris appeared in the doorway. Her eager face paled on recognising her brother’s companion.
‘He’s come back for his clothes,’ Ozymandias said and pushed past her. Uncomfortable, Flaminius followed. Nitocris remained in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. She refused to meet his gaze.
‘My apologies,’ Flaminius murmured. ‘There was no other way.’
She gestured for him to go in.
Ozymandias sprawled on the paillasse, a pottery jar of beer clutched in his hand as he stared up at the rafters. Flaminius saw his own clothes bundled on the ground beside the hearth. To his relief his lancehead brooch sat on top of them. He got dressed hastily, then pinned the brooch to his breast.
Nitocris entered and sat unspeaking on the paillasse beside her man. Her big eyes watched Flaminius’ every movement.
He turned. ‘Well, that’s me done,’ he said, forcing cheeriness into his voice. ‘I’ll put in a good word for you, Ozymandias, with the prefect. Who knows, you may end up with a better place than this one.’
‘Just get out,’ said Ozymandias, not looking at him. Nitocris didn’t speak, but she continued to stare at Flaminius in that enigmatic way, reminding him again of the fabled sphinx. Flaminius had not seen the sphinx, nor the pyramids for that matter, nor the singing statue of Memnon, or even Canopus, that resort infamous for debauchery throughout the empire. He had seen so little of Egypt, but what he had seen in Alexandria had not encouraged him to stay for a sightseeing tour.
‘Gaius!’
As he reached the doorway, Nitocris ran to him. She placed something in his hand, a phial.
‘It’s a febrifuge,’ she told him as he peered curiously at the solution inside. ‘Like the one the medic gave you to reduce the symptoms of your fever. But there’s enough in there to last you until you are fully cured. I obtained it from the priests of the Se
rapeum. Just take it, Gaius, and go,’ she added, darting a glance at her husband-brother.
Flaminius tried to find something to say, but in the end he just nodded. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Clutching the phial, he walked out into the sun washed, deserted streets of noontime Alexandria.
Epilogue
The mirror atop the Pharos was blazing brightly in the afternoon sun when Flaminius emerged from the Alexandrian library. Remembering his first view of the lighthouse, he strode down the colonnade towards the wharves where ships were moored, ready to set sail on the evening tide.
The noon day sun had been too much for him. Fearing he would experience another lapse of fever he had taken a sip of the febrifuge which had lessened the symptoms. He hoped the sickness would leave his system when he returned to healthier climes.
Noticing the famous Museum and its world renowned Library as he passed the old Palace of the Ptolemies, he had entered the great hall to get out of the sun, introduced himself as an independent scholar to the assistant librarian on the desk, then settled down to drowse over an original copy of Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica. Now he was looking for a vessel to requisition.
‘Rome?’ he called to men aboard. ‘Going to Rome? Portus?’
They shook their heads, indicating ships further down the wharves. Flaminius strode onwards, the hobnails of his boots striking sparks from the cobbles. At last he found the ships for Rome.
‘Aye, I’m bound for Portus,’ said an emaciated man lounging by the steering oar. ‘We stop in Byzantium, Piraeus, Ravenna…’
His long list suggested a cruise round the chief ports of the empire, but Flaminius found the idea quite attractive. Running up the gangplank, he showed the skipper his brooch. ‘I’m requisitioning a berth aboard your vessel,’ he explained.
‘Are you indeed, young Rameses,’ said the skipper, spitting over the side and eyeing Flaminius’ dark stained skin dourly. ‘I could give you a berth down with the galley slaves, if you want to sail with me that much.’
Flaminius gritted his teeth. Was this how Egyptians were treated all the time? He wished Nitocris had given him something to remove the stain. ‘Do you not know what this means?’ he demanded, shoving the brooch under his warty nose.
The skipper shrugged. ‘So you’re an imperial courier. Can’t you find a faster ship than this one?’
Flaminius sighed, exasperated. ‘Do you know of any ships that’ll get me straight to Rome?’
‘There’s Triton, sails back and forth,’ said the skipper after some thought. ‘Regular service.’
‘Triton?’ Flaminius said excitedly. ‘That’s the ship I came here in. Where is it?’
‘She sailed on the morning tide,’ said the skipper. ‘Try a grain ship if you want to go direct to Rome, but they’re mainly in the Haven of Happy Return, other side of the Heptastadion.’
Angry, Flaminius strode back down the gangplank. He was getting nowhere here. As he trotted down to the next ship, the harbour buildings echoed the tramp of Roman military sandals and a patrol marched into sight.
Flaminius tensed. He darted towards the nearest gangplank. Before he could get there, the leader of the patrol shouted out, ‘Tribune Flaminius?’
He halted, panting. He’d been seen. Turning, he saw Marcus Pertinax leading his men towards him at the double.
‘Looked like you were hoping to find a ship to Rome.’
Flaminius gave Marcus Pertinax a bleak smile. ‘I’ve finished my assignment here,’ he protested. ‘I reached Avidius Pollio’s deadline. Now I can go back to report to Probus, the chief in Rome.’
Marcus Pertinax shook his head. ‘The legate sent me to find you. He was in conference with Haterius Nepos all afternoon. You’ll be needed to testify against the Christians, and Paulus Alexander.’
‘Of course,’ said Flaminius quickly, ‘Foolish of me. Very well, I’ll return to make my court appearance. Then I’ll head for Rome and file my report….’
Again Marcus Pertinax shook his head. ‘The legate’s pretty impressed by your aptitude,’ he went on; ‘even if he disapproves of some of your methods. Oh, and between me and you he thinks you ought to keep out of the sun. But he says you’re just the man he needs in the Thebaid.’
‘Let go aft!’
The cry rang out across the waters. Flaminius whirled round to see the ship setting sail. Other vessels were queuing to make their stately way towards the harbour entrance and catch the evening tide. Flaminius watched his best chance of escape receding across the broad blue waters. He sighed, crushed by a sense of inevitability, then turned around to face Marcus Pertinax.
‘The gods are against me, it seems. Right now it looks like I have no other choice.’
The story continues in THE GLADIATOR GAMBIT.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gavin Chappell has been involved in writing and editing for over a decade. He has written numerous short stories, translations, poetry, novels, and non-fiction.
Also a qualified teacher of further education, Gavin taught English and Creative Writing for many years. He has been published by various publishers including Penguin, and is a member of the Society of Authors.
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[1] Provinces in the east of theempire seldom hadamphitheatres, so hippdromes and theatres were used instead.
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