I wondered what would happen in this city if anyone ever killed two cats.
It was well past noon when the city seemed to be at peace again. This did not mean that I was out of danger. Even without rioting mobs, Achillas was out there somewhere. I heard sounds from below.
“Roman? Senator Decius? Are you up there?”
“Simeon?” I said. “Is all clear in the streets?”
He came out onto the roof. “The mob was driven back. Heavy squads of soldiers patrol the streets, but it was bloody. Once a mob turns on one sort of foreigner, it soon turns on all foreigners. We’ve been here as long as Alexandria has existed, but the Egyptians still regard us as foreigners.”
“They lack the enlightened Roman attitude toward citizenship,” I told him. “And now, I must get to the Palace. Can you lend me some clothes?”
“Easily enough, but no adult male Jew goes clean-shaven, nor do we cut our hair as short as yours. Let me see what I can find.”
We went down into his house, and he rummaged through his chests until he came up with a very coarse cloak and one of those Egyptian head-scarves that follow the shape of the wig.
“These belonged to a slave I freed after his seven years,” Simeon remarked. “Let’s see what you look like in them.”
“Seven years?” I asked as I donned the itchy cloak and the ridiculous scarf.
“My religion forbids chattel slavery,” he said. “We allow bond servitude for seven years only; then the servant must be given his freedom.”
“We could use a custom like that,” I said. “It would probably spare us no end of trouble. Never get the Senate to accept it, though.”
He lent me a bag of coarse sacking to conceal the scroll, and I felt as disguised as I could, under the circumstances. It occurred to me that the streets would be full of Achillas’s men, who would undoubtedly have orders to deliver me to the Palace in small pieces.
“What is the most direct way to get to the sea from here?” I asked.
“If you walk from here to the city wall and turn north along it, you will reach the Fishermen’s Gate.”
“I think that is my best course, rather than back through the city Farewell, Simeon. You may look for tangible evidence of my gratitude soon.”
“Just do what you can to put a stop to the anti-foreign hysteria, Senator. This used to be such a wonderful city.”
I stepped from the front door and found the alley empty. A very few steps brought me to an east-west street and I turned east. The district was all but deserted, the inhabitants huddling behind bolted doors. That suited me admirably. I reached the city wall without incident and found an especially heavy guard patrolling along its crest, their eyes scanning the city for signs of disturbance. Following the wall north brought me to a small gate. It stood open for the day, and nobody along my route had so much as a glance to spare for another slave carrying another load on his shoulder.
On the other side of the gate I found a paved embankment from which several small stone jetties protruded into the shallow, greenish water. Most of the fishing boats were out for the day, but a few night-fishermen sat on the jetties repairing their nets. They were native Egyptians and I approached them warily.
“I need boat transport into the Great Harbor,” I told an industrious-looking pair who sat near a well-maintained boat. “I will pay you well.”
They eyed me curiously. “How could you pay anything?” asked one without hostility. He spoke passable Greek. I took out a purse and let them hear the clink. That decided them. They folded their net and placed it in the boat, and in minutes we were rowing up along the peninsula of Cape Lochias.
With a little talk, I learned that they were not true Alexandrians; rather, they lived in the little fishing village that stood on the water just to the east of the city wall. They had no interest in the disturbances of Alexandria save as those affected the fish-market. That being the case, I removed my scarf and cloak. It was all one to them. They probably wouldn’t have known a Roman from an Arab.
We passed beneath the fort of the Acrolochias, then rounded the point, passing between it and the nearest of the little islands that stood off the cape, each bearing its tiny shrine to Poseidon. The Pharos was a great smoking pillar to our right as we came back down the cape. The fishermen began to pull for the docks, but I stopped them.
“Put me in there,” I said, pointing to the strait between the base of Cape Lochias and the Antirrhodos Island.
“But that is the royal harbor,” said one. “We will be executed if we go in there.”
“I am a Roman Senator and a part of the Roman diplomatic mission,” I said grandly. “You will not be punished.”
“I don’t believe you,” said the other.
I drew my sword, crusted with black blood. “Then I will kill you!” They pulled for the royal harbor.
Only a couple of guards in gilded armor decorated the royal pier. They shuffled down to where the boat pulled up and made indignant noises as I was paying my boatmen.
“I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus of the Roman embassy!” I shouted to them. “Lay hands on me at your mortal peril. I must see King Ptolemy at once!”
“We can’t let you in and we can’t leave our post, Senator,” said one. “We’ll have to pass word for the Captain of the Watch.”
One of Achillas’s men, no doubt. “Why?” I said, scanning the harbor like a slave in a comedy. “I see no enemy fleet rounding the Pharos. Let me by.”
“Sorry, sir. It’s our standing orders.”
“You are behaving like fools,” I insisted.
“Would you let Roman soldiers get away with neglect of duty, Senator?” said the younger of the two. He had a point.
“Can’t leave your post, eh?” I said.
“Sorry, sir no,” said the elder.
“Then you can’t chase me.” I dashed between them and sprinted for the Palace. As they hollered for more guards behind me, I thought that I must take up this running business seriously. This was my third hard run of the day. My prolonged relaxation in Simeon’s house had taken its toll, though. My legs had grown stiff and sore. My motions were wobbly, like one just ashore after a long, rough sea voyage.
I ran past the royal menagerie, where the lions and other predators set up a roaring and yowling. Anything running meant food to them. Slaves jumped from my path, alarmed at this wild-eyed apparition with his mysterious burden. Then I saw the stair leading to the throne room before me. Ptolemy would be somewhere near, and I vowed a goat to Bacchus if he would just be sober.
I charged up the stairs and came to a halt as the guards closed rank before me, their spears leveled, but with the inevitable look of uncertainty worn by soldiers everywhere when confronted by an unexpected situation.
“Senator Metellus of the Roman embassy demands audience with King Ptolemy!” I shouted. They muttered and shuffled; then someone came through the shadowed portico behind them. But it was not Ptolemy. It was Achillas.
“Seize that madman,” he said coolly. “And bring him inside.”
Ah, well. It had been worth a try. Luckily for me, even parade armor is heavy. I kept a few steps ahead of the clattering guardsmen all the way to the Roman embassy. If the servants and hangers-on had scattered before me on my way to the throne room, they were doubly swift to do so with all that pointed and sharp-edged steel bearing down upon me.
Then I was in sight of the Roman embassy. But it was not the placid scene I had grown used to. The steps were crowded with men dressed in togas and women in Roman dress and even children, the boys in purple-bordered togas. More to the point, in front of them stood a line of grim soldiers, their spears leveled outward. I was certain I was doomed until I recognized the shape of the big old-fashioned, oval Samnite shields. These were Roman soldiers, not legionaries but marines.
“Save me!” I shouted. “I am a Senator!” Their spear points wavered not a single inch.
“Arrest him!” yelled Creticus from the top of the steps. “Tie him up and bring h
im in here!” The line of soldiers parted just enough to let me through and then closed smoothly. Behind me, the royal guards came to a halt in a screech of hobnails on pavement. Hands grasped me and dragged me up the steps. I had just run from this very situation, only to have it inflicted upon me by my own countrymen. I was thrown to the steps at Creticus’s feet, still hugging my scroll.
“Chain him up!” Creticus screamed. “Flog him! We may have to find a priest to purify the evil little monster!” He was quite beside himself.
“If you’ll just get a grip on yourself …”
“Get a grip?” he shrieked, his face going scarlet. “Get a grip! Decius, have you any idea what you’ve done? Roman citizens have been attacked! Their houses have been destroyed, their property plundered! And why? Because you skulked away from the embassy, against my orders, and killed a cat! A cat!” I thought he was sure to have a seizure.
“I have saved Rome!” I insisted. “A big, wealthy part of the Empire, anyway.”
“Enough of these vaporings! Bring the chains.”
“Just a moment.” Julia pushed her way past him, her face white and drawn. She knelt beside me and wiped my sweaty face with a corner of her scarf.
“Decius, did you really kill that cat?”
“Absolutely not!” I told her. “I love the sneaky little beasts. It was Ataxas. He killed it and blamed it on me. He started it all, and I have the evidence here to convict the lot of them.”
She stood and faced Creticus. “Listen to what he has to say.”
“Listen to him! That’s what caused all this trouble! I listened to him! No more! I will have him tried for treason and flung from the Tarpeian Rock! I’ll have his traitorous corpse dragged on a hook down the Tiber steps and thrown into the river!”
She didn’t flinch. She stood with her face three inches from his, and her voice didn’t waver in the least.
“Quintus Caecilius Metellus Creticus, if you do not hear him out, my uncle, the Consul-elect Caius Julius Caesar, will have some words for you when we return to Rome.”
Creticus stood for about five minutes while his normal color returned. Then he snapped: “Bring him inside.” We went into the atrium. “Make it fast and convincing.”
“War,” I gasped, at the end of my resources. Suddenly Hermes was at my elbow with a brimming cup, the blessed boy. I emptied it in one gulp. “War with Parthia. Revolt in Egypt. This is the stolen book.”
“Book!” Creticus shouted. “You started a riot over a cat, now you want a war over a book?”
I’d had enough of this. I held one end of the scroll and tossed the bulk of it to the floor. It unrolled for the whole length of the atrium and continued into a hallway, displaying fine Greek writing, exquisite drawings, and spilling documents. I held out the cup and Hermes took it, returning in seconds with a refill. I went to the spilled documents and scooped them up, then handed them to Creticus.
“The secret treaty between Achillas and Phraates of Parthia, plotting to overthrow King Ptolemy and divide up Rome’s Eastern possessions between them. Not just the final treaty, but the earlier drafts as well.” While Creticus studied it, I glared at the other embassy officials who stood tensely by. “You weasels don’t get out of paying me five hundred denarii that easily.”
Creticus grew very, very white as he read. “Explain,” he said at last. I gave it to them, quickly, from the murder of Iphicrates to my appearance at the bottom of the embassy steps.
By the end of it, somebody had shoved a chair beneath me and I was making quick work of my third cup.
“All right,” Creticus said grimly. “I grant you a temporary reprieve. In your insane fashion, you may have done the state some service. Let’s go outside.”
There was now a great crowd of the Palace guard filling the courtyard, but we felt safe enough behind our line of Roman marines. I staggered out to stand wearily beside Creticus. Julia stood by me. I saw Fausta in the crowd of Romans, looking on happily, as if this spectacle were being staged just for her amusement. Achillas stood at the head of his soldiers. I expected him to bluster, but I had underestimated him. He was biding his time in silence, waiting to see which way he should jump.
“You think he’ll storm the embassy, Decius?” Creticus said, maintaining that haughty demeanor for which Roman officials are famed all over the world.
“Wouldn’t dare,” I whispered, looking equally lofty. “It would precipitate war too soon. He needs that alliance with Parthia, and the treaty hasn’t been delivered.”
Then there was a disturbance at the rear of the crowd. It looked as if a ship were sailing toward the embassy.
“Here comes Ptolemy,” Creticus said. “Let’s hope he’s sober.”
Achillas and his soldiers bowed as the tremendous litter was set down in the courtyard. Its ramp was lowered and slaves unrolled his long carpet, dyed at fabulous cost with Tyrian purple. When Ptolemy descended he was sober, and he was not alone. Behind him came his newly pregnant queen, who was followed by a nurse carrying the infant Ptolemy. Behind them came the princesses: Berenice, then solemn Cleopatra, last of all little Arsinoe, holding the hand of a court lady. The marines parted to let them pass, then reformed, their spears steady.
The message was plain: Ptolemy was putting himself and his family under the protection of Rome. As he reached the top of the steps, Creticus handed him the treaty wordlessly. The king perused it as his family filed within the embassy. Then he turned to face the crowd.
“General Achillas, come here,” Ptolemy said.
I must hand it to the man: I never saw anyone so coolly brazen. He walked up the stairs with perfect confidence and bowed deeply.
“What would my king have of me?” he asked.
“An explanation,” Ptolemy said. He held the condemning document before Achillas’s face. “You sought to arrest young Senator Metellus when he tried to bring this to me. Can you tell me why?”
“Of course, your Majesty. He was obviously deranged, a danger to both himself and the community. Alexandria is not safe for Romans at this time, and I wanted to subdue him for his own protection.”
“And this little document?” Ptolemy asked.
“I have never seen it before,” he said quite truthfully. Ptolemy raised an eyebrow in my direction.
“It was his henchman Memnon who arranged the final draft, along with the Parthian ambassador, Orodes, and the fraudulent holy man, Ataxas, acting as scribe.”
“Memnon was found murdered this morning,” Achillas said. “What does the Senator know about that?”
“It was a fair fight. He was conspiring against King Ptolemy and against Rome. He deserved to die. But he was acting in your name, Achillas.”
He studied the document with mock seriousness. “Then he did so without my knowledge. I see neither signature nor seal to indicate my participation. I protest that anyone should regard my name written by another’s hand to be incriminating evidence.”
“Fetch the Parthian ambassador!” Ptolemy called.
“Unfortunately,” Achillas said, “Lord Orodes was found dead near the Palace gate this morning. It seems he bled to death from a cut on the forearm.”
“Ridiculous!” I said. “I didn’t cut him that badly. There would have been more blood on the floor when he ran away.”
“You’ve been busier than a gladiator at a munera sine missione ,” Creticus commented.
“And what would be the response,” Ptolemy said, “should your king summon the priest Ataxas?”
“My officers report that he was killed in the rioting this morning. You know how these things are, sir. First the mob wants to kill Romans, then any foreigner will do. It seems that he was dressed and barbered like an Asiatic Greek and nobody recognized him as the Holy Ataxas. Tragic.”
Ptolemy sighed. “General Achillas, the nomes near the first cataract are in revolt. My markets on the Elephantine Island are in great danger. You shall gather your troops and set out southward before nightfall. You are not to come back unt
il I send for you.”
Achillas bowed. “your Majesty!” I protested as Achillas descended the steps and began barking orders to his troops. “That man is a deadly danger to you! He plotted against you and against Rome. He had Iphicrates murdered when he learned that the man was making the same promises to other kings. He had Orodes and Ataxas silenced before they could be arrested and made to talk. He should be crucified forthwith.”
“His family is a very important one. young Decius,” Ptolemy said. “I cannot move against him just now.”
“I beg you to reconsider,” I said. “Remember how your ancestors would have handled this. They were perfect savages and they would have killed him, then annihilated his family, then gone all the way back to Macedonia, found his ancestral village and leveled it with the ground!”
“Yes, well, the world was younger and simpler then. My problems are very complicated. I thank you for your services, but leave the statecraft to me.” Then he turned to Creticus. “Excellency, we must go inside and discuss important matters. I must have Roman protection from my domestic enemies. I will pay full reparations for damage suffered by Romans in Alexandria.”
The two went inside and the rest of the embassy staff went with them. I was left alone at the top of the steps, above the crowd of Roman refugees. Achillas finished giving his orders and he came up the steps. grinning at me. I itched to draw my sword and kill him, but I was so tired, he would have taken it away from me and skewered me with it. Then he stood a foot from me, wearing a strange expression of hatred, puzzlement and grim respect.
“Why did you do it, Roman?” he asked.
That was simple. “You should not have committed murder within the sacred precincts of the Temple of the Muses,” I told him. “That sort of behavior angers the gods.” He regarded me for a moment as if I were truly insane; then he whirled and went back down the steps. Weary to my bones, I turned and staggered back within the embassy. They attacked me as soon as I was inside.
Laughing and whooping, the embassy staff bore me to the floor and tied my hands behind me; then they bound my feet at the ankles.
“You still think you can get out of paying me!” I gasped, too weak to do anything else.
SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses Page 21