“The night was yet young. Why not?” At this everyone erupted in laughter again, except for Achillas and Orodes. And Julia.
“Quintus Caecilius Metellus Creticus.”
“Yes, your Majesty?”
“I find sufficient grounds to doubt your kinsman’s guilt. I release him to your custody. Keep him out of mischief. I bid this court disperse.” A chamberlain clanged his iron-shod staff on the polished marble and everyone bowed to the king, the Romans inclining slightly, the other foreigners deeply, the Egyptians all the way to the floor.
“Back to the embassy,” Creticus said. We turned and walked from the court with great dignity. Asklepiodes fell in beside me.
“That was an excellent performance, even for me,” he said complacently.
“I won’t forget it. Was there anything else you didn’t tell the king?”
“I told all that reinforced your innocence. Innocence of murder, that is. But there were other things. There were many bruises. The woman was killed with considerable violence.”
“Torture?”
“I saw no sign of it. I found this in her mouth.” He handed me something that looked like a piece of soggy leather, brownish on one side, pinkish on the other.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Human flesh. Assuming that the lady was not a cannibal, this is a piece of her murderer. One of her murderers, anyway. A man in his late forties or early fifties, of one of the fair-skinned races, but he has spent much of his life exposed to sunlight.”
“Asklepiodes, you surpass yourself. Any idea which part it came from?”
“A part habitually exposed to the sun. There isn’t enough of it to tell much more than that. It did not come from the face, hands, feet or penis. My guess would be the shoulder or upper arm, but even my art cannot guarantee that.”
“It’s sufficient,” I assured him. “I’ll get them all and this will help.”
“No, you won’t,” Creticus said. “You are going nowhere except to your quarters. From there you are going onto the first ship to sail from here for Rome. You may not be a murderer, but you are more trouble than a cohort of Sicilian auxiliaries! I want to hear nothing further of you save the welcome news that you have sailed out past the Pharos. Good day to you!” With that he stormed up the steps of the embassy. I followed, the others patting me on the shoulder.
“I never thought you did it, Decius,” was the usual comment.
Asklepiodes went with me to my quarters. Hypatia’s body had been taken away, along with the bloody gown. I knew I would never be able to get into that bed again. I called for some slaves.
“Take that bed out and burn it,” I ordered. “Fetch me another.” You could do things like that in Egypt. Then, remembering that I hadn’t eaten, I called for some food.
“Any progress on the death of Iphicrates?” Asklepiodes asked. While our table was set and while we ate, I told him what had happened, always pausing when a slave was within hearing. Some of them, at least, had reported to Achillas. Asklepiodes heard me out, nodding and making wise sounds.
“Clever about the reflector,” he said. “Iphicrates was into more realms of knowledge than he let on. I wonder what Achillas promised him.”
“What? I suppose he paid him with money.”
“Possibly, but Iphicrates never struck me as a man with a great love of wealth. But many scholars want high prestige and honors among their fellows. If Achillas made himself king of Egypt, he would be in a position to make Iphicrates the head of the Museum. He could use all its facilities and endowments to further his grandiose projects. For the sort of scholar who actually likes to do things, to see his plans transferred from papyrus into reality, that is a heady prospect.”
“Asklepiodes,” I said, “I’ve known men to fight and scheme and commit all sorts of treachery for the sake of wealth, or for revenge. I’ve seen them devote their lives to war and politics and even to commit treason in order to gain power over their fellow men. I confess it never occurred to me that they might do all these things for … for a sort of intellectual preferment.”
He smiled benignly. “It has been your good fortune that you have never had to deal with professional philosophers.”
12
I WAITED UNTIL NIGHT, WHICH I CONSIDERED to be a display of commendable restraint. After Asklepiodes left, I was not without visitors. To my surprise, one of them was Fausta. She came shortly before dusk, cool and imperious as ever. She was a woman I always found intimidating. The Cornelians always considered themselves favored even among patricians, and on top of that, she was the daughter of Sulla, the most feared Dictator in the history of Rome. But these things were not enough. She was a twin, and one of an identical brother-sister pair. This was a combination so portentous that she was not merely respected but genuinely feared. Despite her great wealth, she had remainec unmarried until the unexpected suit of Titus Annius Milo, perhaps the only man of my acquaintance who was utterly without fear.
I knew that he would come to regret this match. For all his great charm and penetrating intellect, poor Milo lacked experience with women. His fixation, like that of so many, was power. In its pursuit he had neglected what were, to him, lesser matters, such as the necessary but sometimes bewildering relations between men and women. Milo had no use for bewilderment.
The fact was that Fausta was an acquisition for Milo. He was a nobody from Ostia who had come to Rome to win the city. He had started from nothing to become a prominent gang leader and had now started up the ladder of office. He wanted a wife, and the wife had to be noble, preferably patrician. It would not come amiss if she were presentable as well. Fausta was perfect, as far as he was concerned. He neglected the fact that Fausta was Fausta. It was like buying a horse for nothing but its looks and its bloodlines, forgetting that it might throw you and cheerfully trample and kick you to death for the fun of it. But all that was in the future.
“I begin to see what Julia finds attractive in you, Decius Caecilius,” she said by way of preamble.
“That I get locked up in dungeons and put on trial for my life?” I said.
She sat in a spindly Egyptian chair. “What is it like to be chained naked to a wall? Is it exciting?”
“If you wish,” I said, “I can call in the Binder and the Whipper. They can take you to the cellar and chain you up nicely. Any special services you’d like to request first?”
“Oh, it’s such a bore when it’s voluntary.”
“Fausta, surely you didn’t come here to discuss your singular tastes in entertainment?”
“No, I came to bring you this.” She held out a folded papyrus. “It’s from Julia. Are you going to do something foolish?”
“At the first opportunity.” I took the papyrus from her and opened it. “Why didn’t Julia bring it herself?”
“Berenice insisted that Julia help her choose a gown for the banquet tonight. She owns several hundred, so don’t expect to see Julia any time soon. Julia said she was very pleased with the way you looked without your clothes.”
“She has excellent taste.” I read the note. The house where Hypatia Lived is on the Street of the Carpenters, opposite the eastern end of the theater. It has a red front and the doorposts are carved with acanthus leaves. Don’t do anything foolish.
“You read this?” I said.
“Of course I read it. I’m no slave messenger. Why do you need to know where that poor woman’s house is?”
“My reasons are sufficient to me. Why are you so curious?”
“If you are so hated by so many powerful men, there must be more to you than I thought.”
“How good it is to enter your charmed circle. Yes, I, too, am the coveted target of assassins.”
“I think that always makes a man more interesting and exciting. But not poor Julia. She actually worries about you.” To my relief, Fausta rose. “I must go now, Decius. I think, should you live, you might turn out to be an interesting man.” And so she left.
Rufus came by to t
ell me that Creticus was making inquiries about ships leaving for Rome. Failing Rome, for anywhere at all. I clearly had little time to settle matters in Alexandria. Fortunately, Creticus hadn’t set armed guards over me. This might have been because the embassy had no armed guards. There were always the Whipper and the Binder, but now that I was no longer charged with murder, it would have been unfitting to set slaves over me.
So when it was fully dark and everyone had retired, I just put on my cloak and walked out.
Once again, I was on the streets of Alexandria at night. The theater was one of the landmarks of the city, and I made for it. The theaters of Greece were cut into hillsides, taking advantage of natural terrain features. Since Alexandria was flat, the theater of Alexandria was a free-standing building, much like the one Pompey was even then building on the Campus Martius in Rome. It was visible from a long distance, and I could see it almost as soon as I left the Palace enclosure.
The theater in Alexandria was the great resort of prostitutes, as was and is the Circus Maximus in Rome. There is something about dark archways that is conducive to their trade. There were practitioners of both of the usual sexes, and some who seemed to be a combination of both.
I made a show of strolling about, examining the wares to be had, making comparisons of appearance, price and specialty (I truly was not interested), all the while keeping an eye on the red-fronted house with the carved doorposts. In the torchlight it was actually possible to distinguish color. I had to assume that the leaves adorning the doorposts were of the acanthus. I wouldn’t know acanthus from poplar. A person of enormous, liquid-brown eyes and indeterminate gender noticed my preoccupation and sidled over to me.
“You can’t afford that one,” she said (I use “she” for lack of an adequate pronoun).
“How do you know?” I asked.
“She is kept by some very rich men. They keep her well, and I doubt that they would like it if she were to spread herself too thin.”
“Men?” I said. “She is kept by more than one?”
“Oh, yes. At least three who go there in turn; sometimes all three are in there at once. She must have some sophisticated tricks to keep all three amused at once.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Why are you so curious about her?” she said suspiciously.
I almost told her about the murder, but she would clam up if she thought she might be hauled in for an investigation.
“I have reason to believe she’s a slave who ran away from her master in Syracuse.”
“Then there is reward money involved.”
“I am willing to pay for information.”
“I’ve already given you some,” she said petulantly.
“That was your miscalculation.” I held out two silver denarii and dropped them into the soft palm. “Describe the three regulars.”
“One is an Eastern foreigner, a Syrian or Parthian, I think. He’s the one who’s there almost every night. There’s a big, good-looking man who favors clothes with a military cut. The third is a little Greek. Not from Greece, I don’t think, but from one of the Eastern colony cities.”
“How can you tell that?”
“He’s bought the services of a few of the boys. I’ve heard him talk. He tries to speak like an Athenian, but he can’t quite pull it off. Fine voice, though, like a trained orator.”
“Are any of those boys here tonight?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. They’re a pretty transient lot, runaways mostly, both slave and free. They don’t last long.”
I tossed her another denarius and went toward the house. I had expected Orodes and Achillas, but who was the Greek? A woman like Hypatia might keep any number of lovers on the side, but the catamite had said that all three of these had been in the house at the same time, upon occasion. No matter. My business was with a certain book in that house.
There were no lamps showing, but that meant nothing. The only windows on the street side were two small ones on the second story. The flanking buildings appeared to be private houses as well. I walked around the block. On the opposite side was a row of small shops. Most were shuttered for the night, but there was a small wineshop right in the middle of the block. As near as I could make out, it was directly opposite Hypatia’s house. I went in and found a place much like its Roman equivalent, only better lit and ventilated. A half-wall separated it from the street, its upper half bearing top-hinged shutters that were propped open to catch the evening air.
Inside, a long counter ran the length of one wall. The other side was devoted to a number of small tables at which a dozen or so patrons sat, drinking and talking in low tones. None of them paid me any heed when I entered. I went to the bar and ordered a cup of Chian. There were platters of bar food, and I remembered that it had been a while since I had eaten, and it is always a mistake to commit burglary on an empty stomach. So I loaded a plate with bread, cheese, figs and sausage.
As I annihilated everything on the plate, I pondered my next move. I had to get into that house, and the easiest way seemed to be through the back of this one. I took my empty cup and plate to the bar.
“More, sir?” asked the barkeep, a one-eyed man in a dirty tunic.
“Not just now. Is there a public latrine out back?”
“No, there’s one just down the street.”
“That won’t do,” I said. “I need to get out back. The truth is, I’m visiting a lady’s house and I’d rather not be seen going in.” I’d actually told the truth.
He grinned lopsidedly and took the silver denarius I held out. “Come this way, sir.”
He led me through a curtained doorway into the rear of the shop. There was a storeroom with amphorae, full on the right, empties on the left, and miscellaneous goods and supplies. A stairway led to the upper floor, undoubtedly the shopkeeper’s home. He unbolted a rear door and let me through.
“Will you be coming back this way?” he asked.
“Probably not, but it’s possible.”
“I can’t leave it unbolted, but if you pound loud enough. I’ll come and open it up for you.”
“There will be another denarius for your trouble should it be necessary,” I assured him.
“Good evening to you, then, sir.” I got the impression that he had performed this service before.
Behind the shop was a large courtyard shared by most of the houses on the block. As in Rome, few buildings actually fronted on the streets in Alexandria. The yards were separated by head-high, gated walls. I scrambled atop a wall and surveyed the scene. No one appeared to be in the yards or on the second-story balconies. All was quiet. Cats walked silently along the tops of the low walls like spirits.
The house that I judged to be Hypatia’s showed no lights. I walked along the wall and jumped down into its courtyard. The space was filled with planters in which flowers bloomed. A marble table stood in its center, circled by bronze chairs. It was undoubtedly a pleasant spot in the daytime. Poor Hypatia must have taken great pleasure in it.
I made my way past the flowers and tried the ground-floor door. It opened quietly. I went in cautiously, afraid there might be slaves somewhere about, sleeping lightly. I didn’t dare try to fetch a light from one of the street torches until I was sure I was alone, so I spent the next hour or more tiptoeing through the house, guiding myself by touch. I found no one on either floor. I took a lamp and began to descend the stairs, congratulating myself on my ingenuity and good fortune. Then I heard a sound at the door. Somebody was fumbling at it with a key. I tiptoed back up the stair and to the largest room on the second floor. It was a bedroom, and I scrambled beneath the bed like the wife’s young lover in a farce.
I heard men’s voices downstairs, and saw faint lights flickering on the walls of the stairwell. Then the voices were in the room. From my point of limited vantage I counted three pairs of feet, one in slippers, one in Greek sandals, one in military boots.
“It is in that cabinet,” said a heavily accented voice. “I could h
ave fetched it myself.”
“There are many things we could all do individually, if we trusted one another, which we do not.” This was a cultivated Greek voice with a faint accent. The mystery man.
“We don’t have all night,” said a third voice, brusque and military. “Let’s go over it.”
This had to be Achillas, I thought, although his words were somewhat tightly spoken, as if suppressing some resentment. Well, conspirators hardly ever get along very well. There came a shuffling of feet and a scraping of furniture. A loud rustling announced the unrolling of a heavy scroll.
“Most interesting work,” said the Greek voice. “Only the first part is Biton’s treatise on war engines, you know, written in his own hand. It also contains the work of Aeneas Tacticus and a unique work by one Athenaeus concerning the mechanical school established by the tyrant Dionysus I of Syracuse to improve military engineering, all of it profusely illustrated.”
“I read it all years ago,” said Military Boots. “Valuable stuff, but that’s not what’s important.”
“So it isn’t,” said Greek Sandals. “But …” There was a sound of more rustling. “ … here are the original plans by Iphicrates for his new machines, including the propulsion system for the great tower, the reflectors for firing enemy ships … note that it only works on a sunny day … and so forth. Why is King Phraates so anxious to have these?”
“The Parthians are horse-archers,” Military Boots said. “That gives them the edge against the Romans on an open battlefield. Romans are heavy infantry and little else, on the field. But they are masters at both besieging and defending fortified positions, and you can’t take those with horses and arrows. A war between Rome and Parthia would be fought to a bloody draw, with Parthia victorious in the field and Rome taking and holding the forts, the cities and the harbors. With these machines, and the trained engineers we’ll send them, Parthia has nothing to fear from Rome.”
“I see. Ah, here are the earlier drafts of the treaty, since we no longer have the services of the late Hypatia …”
“Was it really necessary to kill her?” hissed Asiatic Slippers.
SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses Page 19