I managed to identify the Prefect's admin staff. Most were clustered around Albia. They probably all kept mistresses locally, but a polite girl from home with flowers in her hair was a treat. She was telling them about the zoo. None had been there; they just assumed they would get around to it later. Who goes out to work in a foreign province and ever sees the sights? Each of the plump women for whom they bought flowers and fancy necklaces was after sex with some clean, virile youth, exciting because he was foreign and because he would be off home by the time they were bored with him. Going out to the zoo when they could be eating pastries in their apartment love-nests and complaining about the weather was beneath such cultured Alexandrians.
As for these young men on the brink of their public careers, they were at least more impressed by an imperial agent than their master had been. One even winked, as if my presence in Alexandria was some insider secret. 'Only a fact-finding mission,' I bluffed – and even that was pushing it.
'Are you making progress? Can we smooth your path? Remember, we are here to help. 'The old lies were flowing. Every time a new boy came out on detachment, the well-thumbed bureaucrats' lexicon must be passed on, along with the inkwells and the petty cash for bribes.
'I am bogged down working on your suspicious death.'
'Oh you landed that!' Gaily he pretended not to know.
'I landed that.' I was grim. 'Actually you could speed my task; something would help me incredibly -' I saw Helena flash approval of my diplomatic phrasing, though she looked suspicious. 'I need to see the financial budget of the Museion, please.' I nearly choked on 'please'. Helena smiled wickedly.
The golden bureaucrat pursed his lips. I knew what was coming. It was too difficult. To know where to lay hands on a document was far beyond the vague, floppy-haired senatorial brats who came out to the provinces. For them, this was a twelve-month posting that would clinch their next move up the ladder. The one I was talking to only wanted to survive it without getting Nile mud on his white tunic. He was here for a year of sun, wine, women and collecting exotic stories, then he would go home to the next elections, taking the lifetime patronage of the particular Prefect he had served and sure of a bench in the Curia. Daddy would have a rich bride waiting; Mummy would have ensured the selected heiress was, or could pass herself of as, a virgin. The new wife would face a marriage, whether short or long, full of dreary stories about Sonny's triumphal experiences in Egypt, where according to him he ran the place single-handed, fighting off local ineptitude and graft, plus the obstructions of all his Roman colleagues. Probably with Barbary lion hunts and a narrow escape from a rhinoceros thrown in.
Think again, highborn aide-de-camp. Who really ran Egypt for Rome were the centurions. Men like Tenax. Men who acquired geographical knowledge, legal and administrative skills, then used them. They would resolve disputes and root out corruption in the thirty or so old Ptolemaic local districts, the nomes, where appointed locals supervised local government and taxation but Rome was in overall charge. No twenty-four-year-old son of a senator could safely be let loose on embezzled land, sheep-stealing, house burglary or threats against a tax collector (especially if the taxman's ass was stolen or he himself had gone missing). How could this thumb-sucking juvenile decide whether to believe the word of the witness with the scar on his thigh who smelt of sweat and garlic or the word of the man with one leg and a scar on his cheek who smelt of sweat and horses – both speaking only Egyptian, looking shifty and signing their names with just a mark?
'I'll check, Falco. That request might be a smidgeon tricky.'
See what I mean? Useless.
I gave the sign that he need not bother. Quickly, he sidled out of reach.
Somewhere must be a tribune, who was nominally in charge of finance. Better still, I knew from experience, in a small accounts office off a poorly decorated corridor, plying his abacus furiously, would lurk an imperial freedman who could find me what I needed.
'You're tired.' Helena had read my expression. Before we came, I had been allowed to go out to the baths, which enlivened me, but the effect was temporary. On the way here I had given her the gist of my afternoon's investigations so she knew my head was whirling with facts to digest – not to mention our joint experiences at the Board meeting and the zoo. Plucking a triangular cheese tart from a passing tray, she fed it to me. Tiny shreds of onion invaded the gaps in my teeth. That would give me something to play with if I was bored.
'Come along; I've found out where the entertainment room is. You can loll on cushions like Mark Antony and doze off while someone plays a lyre at us.'
Helena jerked her head; Albia shed her covey of admirers and scampered after us. I was sure I heard my foster-daughter mutter 'Prunes!'
'You are talking about the cream of Roman diplomacy, Albia,' I said.
'Not all young men are idiots,' Helena soothed her.
'No; I remain an optimist.' Helena had taught Albia the knack of sounding strait-laced while being satirical. 'Thanks to you, I am travelling large distances and seeing very many foreign lands. I am sure one day I shall meet the only fellow in the world who has a drip of intelligence. I learned today,' breezed Albia, grazing a salver of almond fancies as we passed, 'the earth is a sphere. I only hope the one man with a brain has not fallen off the other side while I am looking.'
'You made her like this,' I grumbled at Helena.
'No, the men she knows did that.'
'Your views are just as scathing.'
'Perhaps – but I believe my role as a mother is to instil fair-mindedness and hope. Anyway -' Helena's fine dark eyes gleamed with reflections from many lights on a mighty candelabrum – 'I know men can be good, bright and honest. I know you, dearest.'
You could rely on a Ptolemaic palace to have long, wide, apparently deserted corridors, with handsome statues on enormous plinths and with shiny floors up which you could chase women, sliding along and larking about with squeals of glee.
'There is probably a wily eunuch spying on us!' Helena whispered, pulling up.
'A priestly conspirator, who will send us to a lingering death to satisfy his raven-headed god's demands!'Albia must have been reading the same myths. She was enjoying herself this evening and darted around us like a scatterbrained butterfly. More attendants appeared, so we all slowed to walk more sedately; I placed Helena's right hand formally upon my own as if we were a pair of bandaged corpses going to the Egyptian underworld.
'Nuts, Albia. Your conspirator is going to be that man who lurks outside Uncle Fulvius' house, forever trying to guide us to the Pyramids.'
The women collapsed, giggling, until Albia became serious. 'He followed you and Helena Justina when you went out to the Museion this morning,' she told me, a little anxiously. I had taught her that my work could involve danger, and she must report anything suspicious.
'Uncle Fulvius calls him Katutis.' I never saw him tailing us. We must have lost him along the route. I gave both my girls a reassuring squeeze.
We let ourselves be steered by the hired-in party managers, who shooed us into the great hall where music, dancing and acrobatics were to take place for our entertainment. Half-naked Nubians waving ostrich feather fans confirmed the cliched taste of the current Prefect. Fortunately there was more wine; by now I was ready to drink anything that came along in a goblet.
A large group of Alexandrian glass exporters had arrived ahead of us and ensconced themselves in the best seats. They were perfectly friendly, however, and happy to move up for a pregnant woman and an excitable young girl; even I got a look-in, because they thought I was Helena and Albia's escort-slave. They were talking in their own language but we exchanged greetings in Greek, then nods and smiles, and passed each other titbit bowls from time to time. Less approachable were a pair of well-dressed women, in attire so expensive they had to keep rearranging skirts and bangles in case anyone had missed their price-tags. They continued gossiping together the whole time and never spoke to anyone else. It could be that one was the wife
of the Prefect, or they were just from that tiny top layer of society in Alexandria who were settled Romans. They could not be senatorial, but they were solidly wealthy and incurably snobbish. Apart from commercial visitors, everyone else here was from the next layer down, either Greek or Jewish – people with enough money and status to become Roman citizens (they had to call themselves Alexandrians). Needless to say, I saw none of the native Egyptians who toiled at useful trades and were stuck fast at the bottom of the social pile.
The two women eyed up Helena Justina coolly. They were absolutely blatant, taking in each detail of her silk gown with its deep embroidered hem, the way she draped her lustrous stole, her gold filigree necklace with pendant oriental pearls, the gold net with which she attempted to control her fine, flyaway dark hair. She let them stare, murmuring under her breath, 'Right clothes, right jewels – I am doing well – but no; a desperate error! See their fascination dwindling now… Marcus Didius, this is just no good. Your generosity must become much more elastic – I must travel with a hairdresser.'
'You look adorable.'
'No, love – I am damned. Wrong hair!'
Albia joined in, exclaiming that nobody in polite Alexandrian society would now invite them to a poetry soiree or a mint tea morning. We were shamed; we must go home immediately… It suited me. Sadly, she was only winding the joke further. Besides, the music was starting. Until we were saved by an interval, we were unable to leave.
More people arrived to swell the audience. Among them were Fulvius and Cassius, who waved to us across the room grandly. They must have made friends with a flunkey, because extra-plump cushions in expensive-looking fabrics were obsequiously laid for them to recline upon, while a small wooden table with satyr's legs was positioned before them. Upon this, drinks in elegant cups and saucers of nuts appeared, placed with graceful gestures. My uncle and his partner picked at the saucers politely. They looked as if they enjoyed this kind of attention all the time. Every few moments the saucers were removed and replaced with full ones. Once Cassius smilingly refused the replenishment and signalled for the little dish to be brought across to my party. We were given more wine, and it seemed better quality. Everyone else leered jealously at this special treatment.
The music was bearable. Jugglers juggled with not too many foul-ups. The room grew warm. My eyes were heavy. Albia wriggled. Even Helena had the set expression of intense interest that meant she was growing restless.
One of the glass exporters leaned across and imparted eagerly, 'Special dancing!' Bright-eyed, he nodded at the curtained arch through which the various acts were being released to amuse us. Could it be that even at this farthermost point of the Mediterranean, we would find the ubiquitous Spanish girls? Would the sophisticated Alexandrians like their back-breaking romps with tambourines, even though they had the option of scintillating Syrian flute-players, who could whiffle and undulate at the same time?
My father shouldered his way through the main doorway, looked around as if he owned the place, then joined Fulvius. Clued in to our presence he gestured towards the arch and jerked a thumb at his tunic proudly, as if whatever was about to follow was his responsibility.
'Are we going to like this?' enquired Helena apprehensively. 'Does Geminus dabble in entertainment, Marcus?'
'Seems so. Is it an advert for his business?' I could picture my father putting on a show that had touts handing the audience flyers for statues that idiots could add to their art galleries. 'Can he be selling cut-price moving statues?' I groaned. We were in the city where automata had been invented. 'The combination of Pa and the dread words ''special dancing'' suggests we should start gathering ourselves for a discreet departure…'
No such luck.
The audience livened up, full of expectation. Possibly prompted, the Prefect chose that moment to drop in. He and his private entourage now blocked the exit; there they smiled and waited for what was clearly to be the high spot of this otherwise rather staid reception. I hoped whoever made the booking had thought it wise to ask to see a demonstration. If they had, they must have been stuck without a cancellation clause in the contract. Knowing Pa, though, there was not even a written contract. Just some blithe words on his side and a vague understanding of the kind that with my father could so easily go wrong…
Exotic instruments stepped up their fevered beat. Tambourines of a sturdily non-Spanish kind. Desert drums. The hissing rattle of sistrums. Soft-booted tumblers leapt unexpectedly into the room, leading other performers in odd shapes and sizes. Insofar as they were wearing costumes, these were brightly hued and spangled. Spangles inevitably fell oft. Anyone who knew how to wear a feather in their hair was doing so with panache, even if the routine involved somersaulting in a large circle all around the room. There were child dancers. There was a small troupe of monkeys, some of whom sat in miniature chariots pulled by well-trained performing dogs. The standard was high and, to me, somehow reminiscent of other occasions. Only one of the chariots had its little wheels stick and only one dog ran after a treat someone threw to distract them.
His monkey got him back in line. We were still cheering that when the main spectacle started. A cod Roman general in painted Medusa armour, rather dark-skinned, strutted across the performance area. His scarlet tunic was rucked up. by a rather large backside. He struck a pose, efficiently covering up his arse with a luxuriant circular cloak. Next, a man-mountain with a whole amphora of oil splurged on his bulging muscles broke through the curtain. Intimidated, we cheered. Over his shoulder he carried a vast rolled carpet. The carpet looked bedraggled, as if it belonged to a travelling theatre group at the end of a long season touring very hot countries. Fringe hung off one end raggedly. In fairness, it was rolled inside out, as a carpet must be when it is meant to be unrolled as a moment of drama.
The hulk circled the room, giving us a good look at his superb physique and his heavy burden. He ended before the general, and hailed him as Caesar. Caesar responded with a haughty gesture. The giant dumped the carpet on the floor, then sprang back; he made a conjuring gesture. Of course we knew what was happening. We had all heard the story of the very young Cleopatra having herself delivered so provocatively to the susceptible old Roman general.
Well, we knew more or less. The cod Caesar pointed with his swagger-stick. In response, the carpet was unrolled by the big man, a yard at a time, to jerking drumrolls that were timed to derisive kicks of his enormous foot. Almost at the end, the audience gasped. Something appeared within the roll – and not what most people expected.
A large snake poked its head out, reared up suddenly and eyed us with a nasty expression. It had madder eyes than most and it definitely enjoyed scaring us.
It was not an asp. It had the distinctive diamond markings of a python.
Albia jumped back against me and I put an arm around her. Helena's expression became quizzical; she was almost laughing.
The giant bearer flung the rest of the carpet open. A figure unravelled slowly, with balletic grace. Once revealed as a spectacular piece of womanhood, she burst into life.
Up leapt this Amazon of stupendous presence, wearing more eye paint than the best-equipped pharaoh. She boasted faux-gilt sandals and a red and blue Cleopatra necklace that could be real enamel. It adorned a bosom on which weary kings might rest their head in gratitude. Snake-headed bracelets were tight around better biceps than those of the monster who had carried her in the carpet. There was an explosion of draped white costume, very short and so transparent my eyes watered.
'Aaah! What is she doing?'
'She will dance with the snake, Albia.' Helena murmured faintly. 'All the men will think it very rude, while the women just hope they are not asked to volunteer to go and touch her snake. He is called Jason, by the way. Her name is Thalia.'
'You know them?'
To prove it, the snake-dancer recognised us. She favoured Helena with a huge, lascivious wink. This was not bad, given that when she did it, our friend Thalia was lying on her back with her legs
around her neck, while the snake – who was, in my opinion, not entirely to be trusted – coiled himself three times around the tender parts of her person and stared up her loincloth. Assuming she was wearing one.
I never gamble, since it is of course illegal for a good Roman – but if I had, then from what I knew of Thalia's racing form, I would have placed a large bet that underwear was absent.
XXII
Due to the late hour, much remained unsaid. After the performance ended, to wild applause, we signed to Thalia that we had to take young Albia home. Thalia waved gaily, mouthing back that she and I would talk soon – a mixed thrill, given my unease at the possibility that this wild woman had shared a ship to Egypt with my father. I could see that they knew each other; the timing of their arrivals might not be coincidence.
Nothing daunted Thalia. She turned up at our house for breakfast, her daywear only slightly less amazing and her manner only marginally less loud. Thank the gods she did not bring the snake.
'He is tired. But he would love to see you, Falco. You must drop by – we have our tents by the Museion. Thalia was one of the Muses,' she said educationally to Albia. I filled in for her that Thalia was an extremely successful businesswoman, who traded in animals, snakes and stage people.
'Isn't that dangerous?'' wondered Albia, owl-eyed.
'Well, the people can bite.'
'I am surprised they dare.'
'Only when invited to, Falco!'
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