Alexandria mdf-19

by Lindsey Davis

  Diogenes pulled up the horse.

  We were in yet another side street with washing lines threading over it. Two men were playing dice with murderous intensity – though they looked up whenever a woman hove into view. Any women excited them, even grandmothers. A noisy trio of youths were dashing about with a melon for a football. A dilapidated bath house stood on one corner, with a small temple diagonally opposite. Each had a very old man sitting on a stool outside, either attendants or just lonely octogenarians who had staked out good places to stop people for enforced conversation. They looked as if they had fought at the Battle of Actium and would tell you all about it if they could grab a chance, drawing diagrams in the dust with their wobbly walking sticks.

  The box-maker came out. He worked from a traditional one-room lock-up with a large shutter. It was only half open when we arrived, giving the place a secretive air such workshops normally do not have. I could see lights inside, but no clustered family. The man himself had a pale, gaunt face with an unpleasant twist to his mouth. He kept his lips together all the time as if he had bad teeth. He was not introduced to me, nor I to him.

  Diogenes started to act as if there was urgency. He himself marched to and fro, unloading the scrolls from the cart, while he ordered me to start putting them into the boxes. These had been made in advance, simple round capsae with flat bases and lids, in the same form as the elaborate ones made from silver, ivory or rare, scented woods in which rich men guard their valuable scroll sets. Diogenes had bought very basic containers, just enough to protect the scrolls on shipboard and make them look respectable for selling on. Bothering to buy boxes meant he expected to make a lot of money.

  Indoors with the box-maker, I tried chatting: 'Where are all these going, then?'

  'Rome.'

  I unrolled one, holding it upside down as if I was illiterate. The end-tag proved it came from the Library. It seemed to be a play, Menander by the look of it. He might be a raging bestseller in all the Roman theatres, but I was never keen on Menander. 'Who for?'

  'The people of Rome,' grunted box-maker. 'Get on, and don't waste time.'

  I packed scrolls into boxes. Nowadays only one public benefactor was allowed to splurge gifts on 'the people of Rome'. Their Father, their Chief Priest, their Emperor. I was beginning to see what the plan might be.

  The box-maker looked up. Diogenes had come back into the workshop with the next armful of scrolls. 'He asks a lot of questions. Where did you find him?'

  'He says he's Marcus.' Diogenes finally introduced me. I did not like his tone of voice. 'He says he works with Fulvius – but Fulvius told me different.'

  He knew. He had known all along. Both men were now glaring at me, the impostor.

  So Fulvius had told Diogenes his nephew worked as an informer. It could even be my fault that getting these scrolls removed from the Library then packed up and shipped tonight had become so urgent: my father could well have reported that Helena had assured him I was close to uncovering the scams at the Museion.

  Now I was in trouble. The box-maker had grasped the situation. He stood up. In his right hand appeared a small knife that he must use for box-making; its narrow, shiny blade looked hideously sharp. 'What did you bring him here for?' he demanded accusingly

  'To get him away and deal with him,' Diogenes replied.

  The workshop and its rectangular doorway were about six feet wide; with the shutter half pulled, Diogenes filled most of the doorway, blocking escape that way. He had no weapons on show, but looked tough enough not to need one. He yanked the shutter further towards him. I was now trapped indoors with them, and any cries for help would be well muffled.

  This was no time to hesitate. I half turned, hoping for the possible one chance – yes, at the back of the workshop, uneven wooden stairs ran up. I bounded up them fast, fully aware this could put me in a worse trap. I came through a hatch into the dark living-room-cum-bedroom such places often have, where the workman can live cheaply with his family. I grabbed the bed. One built into the wall would have failed me, but this one was free-standing. I shoved it hard clown the hatchway, jamming the legs as best I could so it blocked the stairs. There was another way up, little more than a vertical ladder. It brought me one floor higher, in among old boxes and box-making materials. At first I thought I was stuck. But we were in Alexandria; the place had access to the roof. The door was barred, but I managed to free it. I pushed my way out into fresh air, under the night sky.

  I could hear Diogenes and the box-maker coming up hard behind me. Nothing for it but to shin over a parapet wall on to the next roof. I ran straight across and clambered through some kind of reed screen. I kept going. From then on, the buildings were separate, but along the street they were so close together I could take a breath and leap. So I continued from one house to another – not always easy. People had gardens up there; I fell into giant flowerpots. They stored furniture; I hurt my legs on chairs and beds. I startled moths. A stork flew up and frightened me. At the far end were select apartments where family occupiers led leisured evening lives. At one, enormous women sat out on long, battered cushions, drinking from small copper cups and chattering. When I flew down among them like an ungainly owlet trying out his wings, the shocked ladies squealed, exuding sour breath and raucous laughter. But they heard my pursuers coming and at once blew out several oil lamps so they could hide me quickly among their husky-scented soft furnishings. I lay there trying not to choke. Diogenes and his companion thumped on to the roof and were sent on their way with extravagant curses.

  Emerging, I faced a tricky moment with a crowd of excited women who appeared to think the gods had sent me as a mercurial gigolo. But amidst many giggles and painful pinches, they sent me down a narrow stair, which let me out at street level. It must be the way they admitted their lovers, I thought (admiring the stamina of men who could deal with such heavies). But they were women with good hearts, quick to grasp an emergency. I had thanked them genuinely.

  I emerged in a dark alley. It smelt the way they all do, with some extra strong Egyptian whiffs. I had no idea where I was. I recognised nothing. I saw nobody from whom I could ask directions, even if I dared trust them. My pursuers could at any moment burst from some other doorway.

  Suddenly, a cat meowed. I started. 'Get lost, filthy moggie. I'm a Roman; you're not sacred to me.' I flattened back against a wall, breathing hard.

  While I listened for trouble, I thought grimly about Vespasian and my supposed 'mission' as his agent. In fact I had no mission, not in the paid sense. My reasons for visiting Egypt were exactly as I had told everyone: Helena wanted to see the Colossus of Rhodes, and the Pyramids and Sphinx; because of her pregnancy we had had to travel as soon as possible. Uncle Fulvius had made us a convenient offer to stay with him. The Emperor meanwhile was completing his new overspill Forum, called the Forum of Peace; in it would stand a new Temple of Peace, while dominating the temple forecourt would be two beautiful public libraries, one Greek, one Latin. All Vespasian had said to me was: 'If you are in Alexandria, Falco, take a look at how the Great Library works.' There was no mention of scrolls. I reckoned he had not thought ahead as far as making acquisitions for his new buildings; it was, of course, a good moment for an entrepreneur to turn up in Rome offering cheap books.

  No way would the Emperor pay me to come and look at the Great Library. The mean old beggar was making no contribution to my travel expenses and the only reason I would actually complete a report for him would be a vague hope of future gratitude. Helena believed that in return for a good brief (which she had promised to write), the Emperor would give me a big thank-you. I thought he would just laugh. He had a reputation as a joker. Trying to screw payments out of Vespasian was the biggest joke on the Palatine.

  So for this nebulous concept – a job that had never existed – I was now being hunted down by the hostile confederate of my scheming relatives. They knew nothing about the trouble they had landed me in; they were ensconced at home with their feet up, while doti
ng women tended them with dollops of hot broth.

  I now saw what their scheme was: acquiring scrolls cut-price from the twisting Museion Director, shipping them across the sea then presenting them in Rome as an easy-buy, save your on-costs, complete package for the so-far empty libraries of the Temple of Peace. If I knew Pa and Fulvius, they would recoup seven times their investment. The grim-faced Diogenes would want a large cut – but that shifty pair would still make an enormous profit. Was any of it illegal? It was certainly illegal in intention, for everyone from Philetus and Diogenes to Fulvius and Pa.

  I was implicated as a relative. Since I was staying in the same house, it looked doubly bad. I doubted that even the eminent Minas of Karystos could get me off charges of guilt by association.

  Furious, I walked to the end of the alley and I surveyed the street in both directions. I was hoping for a donkey that I could 'borrow' – better still, if I saw a man with a horse and cart, I would offer him a large sum to take me back to the centre; I could name somewhere he would be bound to know, the Caesarium, for instance, or the Soma, Alexander's Tomb…

  But my surveillance remained unfinished. I wanted to discover what ship Diogenes was using. It could already be half laden. I also needed to stop him conniving further with Fulvius and Pa – and stop him telling them that I was on to their project. I would like to arrest Philetus and Diogenes, but saw no way to do that without involving my relations.

  Walking about, at last I recognised the street where the box-maker lived. All members of the public had now dispersed; both the baths and the temple looked closed for the night. As I turned up, a second horse and cart was arriving with the two clowns I saw at the Library, bringing a whole load more of scrolls. Despondently I parked myself in the shadows. A donkey came trotting by, carrying two men who from their build and manners looked like brothers, similarly dressed in black desert robes, with head-dresses they had wound up to cover their faces as if a sandstorm threatened. They stopped and looked at the box-maker's, but rode on. Nobody else was about now, not at street level. I could hear woozy music from behind closed shutters, and voices from inside houses or shops. People had hung up lights, though at infrequent intervals.

  As I continued to watch, the two clowns loaded up the first cart with filled boxes. Once all the boxes were in place, Diogenes came out and assumed the driving seat. As the clowns began unloading loose scrolls from the second cart and carrying them indoors to be packed by the box-maker, Diogenes set off.

  The horse was tired and went quite slowly. I followed on foot. At one point, cursing, I had to stop to pick a sharp stone out of my boot. As I leaned one-handed against an awning support, fiddling madly, a donkey passed me, with two riders. It was the one I saw earlier. A while later, when the same donkey was drinking from a horse-trough, I overtook them again. The two men did not look at me; I wondered if they knew I was there. Somehow, I hoped not. I was starting to ask myself whether, just as I was tailing Diogenes, the two donkey-riders might be following both of us.

  Diogenes went on in one direction, apparently aiming for the Western Harbour. He had turned north towards the ocean. Somewhere ahead must be the canal which I knew came through to this harbour from Lake Mareotis. To our right at the far end of its causeway stood the dark shape of the Lighthouse, topped at this time of night by the mighty glow of its signal fire, reflected out to sea but eerily lighting up the topmost turret. Diogenes turned on to Canopus Street, unmistakable in its porticoed grandeur. We were very near the Moon Gate; due to the city's orientation, this end of Canopus Street lay quite close to the sea. The horse picked up speed. I saw Diogenes glance back over his shoulder. I ducked into the portico. When I dodged back out through the columns, I had lost him.

  He could not have got far. I nipped along, trying to catch him up. Very soon, I saw the cart, recognisable by its load of scroll boxes. The horse was standing still, the driver's seat was empty. Six feet away from the cart, someone else had abandoned a donkey.

  My heart thumped unevenly.

  XLIX

  When completely stuck, ask passers-by. 'Did you see where this driver went?'

  'That way! To the market.'

  Simple.

  'And the men off the donkey?'

  'That way too.'

  'Walking?'

  'Walking. All walking.'

  'Very fast?'

  'Not fast.'

  Never impose unnecessary complications. People often try to impede investigations. But if they don't know who you are, they will often help.

  I asked the man to keep the cart and its load safe in his yard at the back of his shop. I gave him money and promised more. If he was kind-hearted he might even feed the horse. 'Someone will come tomorrow.'

  'What are these?' he gestured to the scroll boxes.

  'Just some old fish-wrappers.'

  'Oh – dirty stories!'

  He thought it was my private hoard of pornography. Apparently my grinning helper had met Roman travellers with scroll collections before.

  I rushed after Diogenes and his two mysterious trackers. When I caught up, he was moving along briskly, but as if he was disguising the fact he was trying to get away. The men in desert clothes were following about five strides behind, one on each side of the road. I kept them all under observation until Diogenes hit the agora.

  The market lay close to the heptastadion, the Pharos causeway. It was a huge square enclosure, open to the skies, as large as you would expect in a city devoted to international commerce, which had been established by a Greek. They love their markets. Since Alexandria was a city that hardly slept, most of the stallholders were still working. A rich odour of street food hung like a smoky cloud above the area. Shouts resounded. Wheels rattled. Footloose musicians, barefoot and threadbare, pattered on hand drums and tooted peculiar pipes. It was well-lit and vibrant, somewhere that a trader who knew his way around the city, might well feel he could lose a couple of wild men in dark cloaks who were harassing him.

  At first it only looked like a man moving fast between the stalls, with others perhaps trying to catch his attention so they could all go for a drink. I was bemused but game. Where they went, I followed.

  Soon it became more sinister. Diogenes began to show panic. Dropping all pretence that he was just walking somewhere and had not noticed any pursuit, he knocked into the corners of a couple of the stalls; he clattered through a pile of metal cauldrons; he kicked aside giant sponges; he annoyed people; he was chased by dogs. I fixed on him. One or other of the two men in cloaks was visible from time to time. It became apparent they were stalking Diogenes as if it was a game. They could have caught him at any time, but they were teasing – they let him think he had lost them, then swooped bat-like out of nowhere, so just as his heart started to settle, he had to be off again.

  I suspected Diogenes knew them. He certainly knew what they wanted. The way he had taken off, abandoning the precious scrolls, said it all. A man who had struck me as afraid of nothing was now extremely worried.

  The pursuers worked well in tandem. They seemed close-bonded. Perhaps they were Rhakotis residents, or perhaps they had fished and hunted wildfowl together in the great reed-beds of Lake Mareotis. Perhaps they came from those houseboats, where the driver had told Helena and me murderous gangs lived, unchecked by the authorities.

  People began to notice the chase. The few women present gathered their children and hurried away, as if they feared trouble. Men stood and watched, though guardedly. Roaming dogs were harshly ordered back. One or two then stood by their owners' stalls, barking defiantly. A man caught my arm and pulled me to a halt; he shook his head, wagging a finger to warn me not to involve myself. I broke free and heard him mutter a baleful comment as I went on.

  I saw a flash of red: soldiers. They were making their way towards Diogenes, though more curious than purposeful. A man with a great basket of apples barged into their way, perhaps deliberately, and sent fruit bowling crazily in all directions; the soldiers just stood there whil
e he let out a cascade of complaint. If Diogenes spotted the military, he made no attempt to appeal for help. He was near enough, but instead moved on. One of his pursuers appeared, but Diogenes grabbed the awning ropes of a tunic stall, heaving over the whole edifice to block the man; entangled in garments, he let Diogenes flee. I jumped over a display of ceramic bowls, tripped on wet vegetable leaves, dodged around the end of a long row of ornament stalls, forcing a path through the crowds as best I could. When I lost sight of Diogenes, I kept going forwards and I had him in clear sight when he made what seemed to me a big mistake: ducking his head and running at a lope, he left the market on the seaward side. He set off down the enormous causeway, the heptastadion. I was so close at that point, I even yelled his name. He looked back, his face anxious, then turned away and speeded up.

  The heptastadion looked long enough in daylight; it must be almost half the distance of the city north to south. I was tired, and this chase was not of my making. I decided to return to the agora and alert the soldiers. Let them catch Diogenes. Legionaries could put a roadblock on the causeway and flush out the fugitive at their leisure.

  What stopped me was a dark huddle of men outside the agora gate. The rough inhabitants of Rhakotis had answered some call; they were drifting in and suddenly I saw that the gathering was being orchestrated by the two cloaked figures who had chased Diogenes. They were gesturing in his direction as he headed out across the long mole. Poor as they were, I knew the descendants of the scroll pirates would be armed – and vicious. Uncle Fulvius said they were considered very dangerous. When the first few began to make a move, I turned back and on to the causeway.

  With no real plan – was I warning him, helping him or hunting him down myself? – I too began running down the heptastadion after Diogenes.

  It was a serious hike. The mole was a man-made granite structure, easily as long as its name said: seven stades. At least it was good underfoot. On it ran a decent road, well built to take the fuel convoys for the Pharos and the many daily tourists. Now, in the dark, it seemed almost deserted. Diogenes took it steadily. So did I. So too did the desperadoes behind us. To anybody watching from the shore, or from the packed vessels in the huge Western and Eastern Harbours, we must have looked strung out like a group of athletes in a Pan-Athenian race stadium. We adopted that steady, long-distance pace marathon runners have, saving ourselves at this stage, nobody yet making his move to overtake.