Achillas wanted me out of the way, but was I all that important? This was a man who lusted for the throne of Egypt. My investigation was causing him annoyance, threatening to upset his plans, but what was that in the context of his greater agenda? For more than a century it had been understood that the ruler of Egypt would be the one favored by Rome, and Rome had, for the sake of stability and consistency, opted to support the weak, foolish but traditional Ptolemies.
I was not Achillas’s problem. Rome was his problem.
And I had very thoughtfully given him a wonderful weapon to use against Rome. I, a Roman diplomat, had murdered a free woman of Alexandria. And I had done it, not merely in the city, but within the Palace itself. The city was already poised to erupt in anti-Roman riots, and I had poured oil on the coals.
And there was that old Gaulish saying about two birds with one arrow or something of the sort. The traitorous Hypatia had to be disposed of anyway, so why not let her be my poor, innocent victim? And that turned my mind down other channels. Had her treachery been detected, or had it been planned by Achillas from the start? She might have been given a role to play, not understanding, of course, that she was to be paid with a dagger through the heart. An Athenian hetaira receives training comparable to an actor’s, and she knew well how to keep me off guard, lusting for the mysterious book and her skilled body alternately. And she knew that a beautiful woman cannot fail to control a young man by letting him know that she finds him irresistible. Or an old one either, for that matter.
I was distracted by a noise from the top of the stairs. The door opened and shut and there was a glow from the top step.
“Whoever you are, I hope you’ve come to let me go. I am innocent!”
“It’s Julia.”
“How did you get here?” I asked.
“I walked, idiot.”
“Oh. Ah, Julia, it might not be a good idea to bring that lamp too close. They dragged me from bed and didn’t give me a chance to dress. I’m, well, the only way to describe my condition is naked.”
She came on relentlessly. “If we’re to be married, I’ll have to learn the awful truth sooner or later. Besides, I believe that was also the state of that poor woman they found in your bed. Oh, Decius, what have you done now? I knew that you were reckless, but you’ve never murdered anyone before.”
“Do you believe I did?” If my betrothed thought I was a murderer, I was really in trouble.
“I know it can’t be, but the circumstances are so damning! The story is all over the Palace.”
“And I’ll bet I know who’s spreading it. Julia, Asklepiodes has to examine that woman’s body while it’s still in my room, if it hasn’t been moved already. I think Rufus has gone to get him, but I can’t be sure.”
“I’ll see about it,” she said. “Now tell me everything that happened.” So I did. She frowned deeply when I got to the part about going to the Daphne.
“You are telling me that you took a prostitute to Alexandria’s most notorious scene of debauchery?”
“Julia,” I protested, “she was my informant! I had to keep her happy!”
“How convenient! Would you have felt so compelled if she had been old and ugly?”
“Julia, don’t speak foolishly. Would the Parthian ambassador have an old and ugly concubine?”
“Listen to me, Decius. I will do what I can to get you out of this alive, but I am beginning to doubt your sanity. A man who can get himself into a situation this grotesque makes a very doubtful prospect as a husband, even without consorting with prostitutes.”
“I have to get that book, Julia,” I insisted. “It must be the key! With that I can prove the conspiracy, I will earn the gratitude of Ptolemy, I’ll be the latest savior of Rome and all will be forgiven!”
“You are pinning a lot of hopes on very little. The woman may have been lying about the book.”
“I don’t think so. I think this was a case where telling the truth was the easiest lure.”
“You are in no position to get hold of it,” she pointed out.
“Alas, yes. Not only am I chained like a recalcitrant slave, but security is probably tighter at the Parthian embassy than it is at the Roman.” Then something occurred to me. “Julia, didn’t the Parthian ambassador depend on Hypatia to help him in translating correspondence?”
“According to her, yes.”
“Well, women are not allowed in the Parthian embassy! So where did they carry out all this work?”
“You tell me.”
“He kept her in a house somewhere near the Palace. That is most likely where they went over the book from the Library, and it may still be there!”
“Surely Achillas would have collected it by now if it is so incriminating.”
“Not necessarily. Achillas thinks he had solved all his problems. He has no need to move swiftly now. I have to get that book!”
“How?” she said, practically.
“If this were Rome, I could just ask Milo and he would put a dozen experienced burglars at my disposal.”
“You will have noticed that this is not Rome.”
“That means I’ll have to do it myself.”
Idly, she fingered the chains that hung from my limbs.
“Yes, I admit that there are complications. I have to get free. Let me concentrate on that. You just find out where the house of Hypatia is to be found. The court women gossip a lot; some of them must know. She said she had many friends in the Palace.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I have a feeling that the safest thing for you would be a swift ship for Rome and a nice, safe trial before the Senate. My uncle’s influence …”
“I don’t want to be beholden to Caius Julius,” I snapped. “Besides, what good is the influence of a Consul if my own family wants me exiled for disgracing them? Just find out where that house is. I’ll bribe a slave to file these chains off if I have to. Now go. And see about Asklepiodes!”
She leaned forward and kissed me, then she whirled and was gone. She was a sweet, brave girl, but I knew that business in the Daphne would plague me for the rest of my life.
She left the lamp, and after a while this feeble light was sufficient for me to see my abode. It was the wine cellar. An open channel of running water passed through the room, and the amphorae of wine were set in the water to keep cool. An ingenious system of underground channels connected Alexandria to the Nile, and the water ran through the basements of most of the buildings and houses of the city, supplying them with water and giving them drainage for the sewers.
Using this room for disciplinary purposes had a certain fiendish ingenuity, for the length of the neck-chain kept the wine forever out of reach, inflicting the punishment of Tantalus. Luckily, wine was the last thing on my mind. But the smell of the river water increased my already raging thirst.
After a while the door opened again and several men came down the steps. Some of them were armed. Creticus was with them. At his gesture the Whipper and the Binder unlocked my bonds and hauled me to my feet.
“Decius,” Creticus said, “I’ve arranged for a hearing before King Ptolemy, before this situation gets completely out of hand. He’s given us safe-conduct to the throne room and back.”
“Water,” I said. A slave dipped a bowl in the river water and brought it to me. Hoping it wouldn’t make me deathly ill, I drank until I thought I could speak without choking.
“Wouldn’t it be safer to have him come here?” I asked. “This is Roman territory.”
“A king does not go out of his way to do favors for a degenerate murderer, even one from Rome. Count yourself lucky.”
“Achillas is behind this,” I said.
Creticus turned to the others. “Wash him up and get him dressed. Be quick about it and don’t let him out of your sight.”
He went back up the stairs and I was dragged up behind him. In the bathhouse I washed and was barbered and I drank a great deal more water. Cleaned up and in fresh clothes, I felt infinitely better. Even a
guilty man looks good in a toga. The Roman party was assembled in the atrium. I didn’t see Rufus there.
“Let’s go,” Creticus snapped. “And act like Romans!” We descended the steps of the embassy. At the bottom of the steps, the extent of Roman territory, a double file of Macedonian soldiers extended from embassy to Palace. All the usual gawkers gawked as we made our stately way.
In the throne room, we found Ptolemy decked out in full monarchial fig. It was a typically Alexandrian mixture. He wore a Macedonian royal robe of Tyrian purple heavily embroidered with gold, much like a Roman triumphal robe. On his head was the double crown of Egypt, the white crown towering from within the red crown. On its forepeak were the heads of the cobra and the vulture. Everything in Egypt is doubled, for Upper and Lower Egypt. In his hands were the crook and the flail, and attached to his chin was the silly little false beard that signified the power of the Pharaohs. For a wonder, he appeared to be sober.
Achillas was there as well, along with a number of men in Parthian clothing. Berenice was there but had, thankfully, left her cheetahs behind, along with the baboons and dwarfs. There was a great gaggle of court hangers-on, and I saw Julia among them, chatting up the ladies. Fausta stood by Berenice, looking as sardonic as usual.
“Quintus Caecilius Metellus Creticus,” Ptolemy began, “grave charges have been brought against your kinsman Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger. A free woman, a resident foreigner residing in Alexandria, was found murdered in his bed this morning. All evidence points to his guilt. What have you to say?”
“Your Majesty, my kinsman Decius is a rash and foolish young man, but I hardly think him capable of coldblooded murder. Be that as it may, the embassy is by ancient custom Roman territory, and by rights it is a Roman court which should try him.”
“Your Majesty,” cried Achillas, “this cannot be set aside so easily. Another embassy is involved. The woman Hypatia, murdered by the younger Metellus, was the bound concubine of my good friend, his Excellency Orodes, Ambassador of King Phraates III of Parthia.”
Ptolemy looked at the head of the Parthian delegation. “Is this true?”
The man came forward. “It is, your Majesty.” He unrolled a scroll and held it before the king’s eyes. “This is her contract of concubinage. You will note that it had more than a year to run, and that man”—he pointed a long finger at me—“owes me for the balance of her contract!”
“I see,” Ptolemy said. “In this case, Ambassador Metellus, since it involves another foreign embassy, I must have a further inquiry. Does Decius insist upon protesting his innocence?”
“I do, sir,” I said, not waiting for Creticus to step in.
“Your Majesty,” Achillas said, “not only was the woman’s body in his bed, but nearby were a mask and garlands of the sort peddled at the Daphne. If you wish, I will produce witnesses to testify that the murderer and the woman were seen cavorting there last night.”
Creticus turned scarlet and began to swell like a bullfrog. Now his anger was directed at Achillas rather than at me.
“May I ask your business in all this, sir? And how is it that you know what was in Decius’s room? That is Roman territory!”
“As for my business, I am a loyal servant of King Ptolemy and I want no violent foreigners anywhere near him. As for my knowing what was found this morning, everybody in the Palace knows by now. Your staff is a talkative lot.”
“Paid spies is more like it!” Creticus said.
At that moment a door opened and Rufus came in, closely followed by Amphytrion and Asklepiodes, I could have fainted with relief. Asklepiodes gave me a smile as he passed. Save me, old friend, I thought. Rufus joined the Roman party and leaned toward me.
“I no longer owe you five hundred denarii,” he whispered.
“With all my heart,” I said fervently. I knew I would get it back. The man was a miserable judge of horses and charioteers.
“And what might you gentlemen be doing here?” Ptolemy asked.
“Your Majesty,” Amphytrion said with a bow, “this is the physician Asklepiodes, a visiting lecturer attached to the School of Medicine of the Museum.”
“I remember him,” Ptolemy said.
“Sir, Asklepiodes is acknowledged to be the world’s foremost expert on the subject of wounds violently inflicted by weapons. We have just come from examining the murdered woman, and he has information of interest of these proceedings.”
“Your Majesty!” Achillas yelled. “Must we endure the mumbling sophistry of these philosophers?”
“Majesty,” Creticus said, “noble Amphytrion speaks truly. Asklepiodes is a recognized authority in this field and has testified before Roman courts many times in the past.”
“Speak, then, learned Asklepiodes,” said Ptolemy.
Asklepiodes took the center of the room and did a bit of actor’s business with his robe, then began.
“Your Majesty, your Excellencies of the embassies, noble gentlemen and ladies of the court, what I am about to say I swear by Apollo Silverbow, by Hermes Thrice Great and by Hippocrates, founder of my art.”
“Got great style, doesn’t he?” Rufus whispered.
“Shhh!” I said.
“The woman identified as Hypatia, hetaira of Athens, died sometime in the very early hours of this morning. A knife was found thrust between her ribs just below the left mammary, but this blow was delivered postmortem. The death-wound was a small cut to the carotid just beneath the left ear.” Everyone leaned forward to hear his words, delivered with a sonorousness of voice and a subtlety of gesture that is difficult to describe.
“The body was nearly devoid of blood, as is frequently the case after such a wound. Yet there was no blood in the room or on the bed, save for some on the gown which lay on the floor, and some soaked into the woman’s hair, neither in sufficient quantity to account for the condition of the body.”
“This meaning?” Ptolemy said.
“The woman was killed elsewhere, and then brought to the embassy and deposited in the bed of the accused.” A prolonged sigh went through the room.
Achillas shrugged. “So he killed her somewhere else and then took her to bed. Romans are necrophiles. I’ve always said so.”
“And this,” Asklepiodes said, “is the knife thrust into the body of the unfortunate woman.” He held up a bone-handled weapon, its blade about eight inches long, somewhat curved and single-edged. Now there was a gasp from the Roman party.
“Is this significant?” Ptolemy asked.
“Your Majesty,” Creticus said, “this changes things! I am now far more inclined to support my troublesome young relative’s assertion of his innocence.”
Ptolemy examined the knife with bloodshot orbs. “It looks ordinary enough to me.”
“Perhaps in Alexandria,” Creticus said, his lawyer’s blood up, “but not in Rome! Sir, in Rome such a weapon is called a sica. You see that it is curved and has but a single edge. Under Roman law it is defined as an infamous weapon. It is the favored weapon of common cutthroats and of Thracian gladiators. The honorable weapons are the straight, double-edged pugio and gladius. These are the honest weapons of free men!”
“You mean,” Ptolemy said, “that mere shape of blade makes one weapon honest and the other infamous?”
“Exactly,” Creticus affirmed. “I am reluctant to believe that a kinsman of mine would commit cowardly murder. But if he did, he might use a pugio or a gladius, or even his bare hands, but he would never stoop to killing with a sica!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted the Roman contingent, myself included.
“Your Majesty,” Achillas said, “are we not only to lend credence to sophists but to consider the impenetrable nonsense of Roman law? This man has brought dishonor on the whole court of Egypt, and has shown likewise the contempt in which Rome holds our nation!”
“Lord Achillas.” Ptolemy said, “you are making a great deal of fuss about a dead whore. You are to cease this instant.” It was good to see the old sot show a litt
le iron. Churlishly, Achillas nodded. Ptolemy turned toward us.
“Your Excellency, I am now inclined to credit your kinsman’s claim of innocence, although this is mystifying. Your legal customs are strange to us, but I have no doubt that they are perfectly sensible to you. Lord Orodes”—he turned to the Parthian—“if it will help to settle things, I will buy up the remainder of the dead woman’s contract myself. Since her body is in my house, even though she may not have died there, I will even see to her funeral. Is that satisfactory?”
Orodes glowered. “Perfectly, your Majesty.”
Now Ptolemy turned back toward us. “Tell me, young Decius, how did you happen to be in this woman’s company, romping about in the Daphne?”
“Actually, sir,” I said, feeling that I was all but clear, “we met in the Necropolis.” At this the whole court roared with laughter.
“Your Majesty,” Creticus said, “what is the meaning of this unseemly mirth?”
Ptolemy wiped tears from his eyes. “Excellency, the Necropolis is the resting place for our honored dead, but it is also the most popular fornicating-place in Alexandria. Why, in my younger days … well, never mind. Go on, young Decius. This was worth getting up early for.”
“Sir, I was engaged in that investigation for which you yourself commissioned me.”
“I have not forgotten.”
“The woman set the assignation to tell me something of great importance. I thought the opportunity was worth the effort and I met her as directed. She wanted to make her home in Rome but needed a patron there to give her legal support. I agreed to this if her evidence proved to be of sufficient importance.”
“And the nature of this evidence?” the king asked.
“She was supposed to deliver it to me tonight, but she did not live to do so. I do not know what the evidence was supposed to be.” This was not quite a lie. The book itself was not the incriminating item. I hadn’t studied law for nothing.
“And how did you end up at the Daphne?” Ptolemy asked.
“She expressed a desire to go there,” I said.
“And?”
SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses Page 18