"I suppose you'll go," Hermes said. He'd been hanging on every word, naturally. "It's the most foolish thing you can do, so you'll just have to do it."
"You think it's a trap?" I said.
He gaped. "You think there's a possibility it isn't?"
"It's conceivable. The woman has already told Julia that she was privy to correspondence between Iphicrates and the Parthian court. She may well have something she believes is valuable."
"Why should she betray Parthia?"
"She isn't Parthian, she's Greek, and Greeks will betray anybody. Besides, she's a hetaira, a companion hired for the ambassador's stay here. He'll go home to his wife and she'll be looking for another patron, only this time she'll be a few years older than last. It's not the sort of relationship that builds strong loyalty."
"You just want an excuse to go out and seek trouble again," Hermes said.
"Admittedly, that's a part of it. Creticus has forbidden me to pursue this matter any further, and that, to me, is like a bestiarius in the Circus, waving his red kerchief at the bull."
"The purpose of the kerchief," Hermes pointed out, "is to lure the stupid bull onto the spear."
"Don't trifle with my metaphors. Or was that a simile? I am going."
And so, forbidden by a Roman official and warned by a slave, I went forth at dusk to meet with a high-class Greek prostitute.
Chapter X
No desert robe this time. After dark, a simple traveler's cloak was sufficient. A cool wind blew from the sea across the city, making the street-torches flutter. These illuminations are something that would benefit Rome, where the streets are so dark that a man out in them and struck suddenly blind wouldn't know it until morning. At intervals of about fifty paces along the broad streets, these torches burned atop ten-foot poles. They were made of tow or hemp soaked in oil and were tended all night long by public slaves. Between the torches and a fine, full moon, one could walk the streets of nighttime Alexandria as swiftly and assuredly as during the day. More swiftly, in fact, for at night the usual crowds were absent.
Individuals and small parties walked about, going to and from dinner parties and symposia, visiting, carrying out assignations and so forth. Alexandrians don't always go to bed at sunset the way Romans are supposed to.
For much of the route I took the street that paralleled the harbor. On my right hand the Pharos sent its plumes of flame into the night sky, a most impressive sight. I passed the Temple of Poseidon and the northern periphery of the Macedonian barracks, the two huge obelisks, the rows upon rows of warehouses that smelled strongly of papyrus, Alexandria's chief export. At the Moon Gate I turned south along the Street of the Soma, then turned west at the Canopic Way.
Canopic ended at the Necropolis Gate. There I paid the guard to open the gate for me. His was a lucrative duty, because in Alexandria the Necropolis was the popular meeting-place for clandestine lovers.
"How do I find the Obelisk of the Sphinx?" I asked him.
"Just through the gate you'll be on Set Street. Go west for three blocks and turn left on Anubis Street. You'll find the Obelisk of the Sphinx two blocks down. You can't miss it." I thanked him and passed on through.
A necropolis may seem an unlikely place for lovers to meet, but the Necropolis of Alexandria is not like others. It is laid out just like the city, with broad, straight streets. The difference is that the streets are lined with tombs instead of houses. The other factor in its favor is the nature of Egyptian tombs. They are like miniature houses. Whether the chosen architecture and decoration be traditional Egyptian, Greek, Persian or other, the layout was always in the old Egyptian style. You entered a small room like the atrium of a house, where offerings were left for the dead. On the back wall of this room was a tiny window allowing visiters to look into another room which contained a portrait statue of the dead, which the Egyptians believed to contain one of the souls of the dead, or at least a place for the soul to visit when offerings were made. It also provided a refuge for the soul should the mummy be destroyed.
It was the entrance rooms of these cozy buildings that made the Necropolis a resort for lovers, and as I walked through the streets I heard all the usual, passionate sounds of a trysting-place.
There were no torches in the Necropolis, but the full moon provided more than adequate light. The Necropolis swarmed with the inevitable Egyptian cats. I was told that the place was full of mice that came in to eat the food-offerings left in the tombs, and the cats in turn hunted the mice. This seemed to be an equitable arrangement.
As the guard had said, I had no difficulty in finding the Obelisk of the Sphinx. The granite shaft rose from a base that also supported a human-faced lion carved from white marble. The curling ram's horns flanking the human face told me that this was yet another portrait of Alexander, done up for Egyptian tastes.
I scanned the southern edge of the little plaza and saw an imposing tomb of the antique mastaba style said to be even older than the pyramids. The oldest pyramid still standing is just a series of mastabas stacked atop one another in diminishing sizes. Old fashions were always being revived in Alexandria, just as lately, in Rome, there has been a revival of Etruscan art and decor. I went to the tomb and stood before the door.
"Hypatia?" I said in a low voice.
"Come inside," came a feminine voice in an urgent whisper. I was determined to be foolhardy, but on the worst day of my life I was never that stupid.
"You come out here," I said. "If there's anyone else out here, you brought them." I gripped my sword hilt, ready to draw at the first sign of danger. The uncertain light did not bother me. To one accustomed to running fights in Roman alleys at midnight, this was like the Forum at high noon.
There was a stirring from within; then a slight figure came outside. She wore a long gown of some pale color, with a dark palla drawn over her head. As she emerged she lowered the palla to reveal a face of classic beauty. She had the straight, level brows and high-bridged nose so admired by the old Greek sculptors. Her lips were generous, albeit set in a rather hard line. Her eyes were large and they darted around the little plaza.
"I wasn't followed," I told her. "I am knowledgeable at this sort of business."
"That is what Julia told me. She said that you hunt down any who conspire against Rome as relentlessly as the Friendly Ones." She used the euphemism for the dreaded demons because to pronounce their real name can call them down upon the speaker.
"She speaks flatteringly, but I have been of some service to the state in the past. What have you for me?"
"A certain book, a large book of Pergamese skin-paper with vermilion handles."
"I've read it in copy, but I'm sure the Librarian of the Pergamese Collection will be grateful for its return."
"But you will find the original far more interesting. It contains more than the text in the copy."
"And what might that be?"
"First, my price."
I was expecting that. "How much?"
She laughed. "I have all the money I need. But you belong to the great family of Caecilia Metella."
"They have no choice but to acknowledge me."
"Plebeian, but with a line of Consuls and generals and great magistrates almost to the founding of the Republic."
"You are well educated."
"So you have great influence. I want to go to Rome. A woman without a protector is less than a slave anywhere in the world except Rome. In Rome, a woman of property has the protection of the law, even if she is not a citizen. In Rome, as a resident foreigner with the patronage of a Caecilius Metellus, I will be secure even when my beauty fades."
"Commendable foresight," I said. "You would do even better to contract a marriage of convenience with some impecunious citizen. There are men who do so regularly for a fee. That way, even if he divorces, you will have full citizenship rights, except, of course, for such as are restricted to men-the vote and the right to hold office and so forth. Your children would be citizens."
"I may
do so. But first I must get to Rome. A simple sea passage would get me that, but I don't wish to be expelled from the city because your Censors decide that immoral foreigners are corrupting the good citizens."
"It could be done," I said. "If one of my family or an ally holds the office of Praetor Peregrinus, it would be made easier. Elections come along every year and someone suitable should be in office before long. I can't protect you from the courts should you operate a house of prostitution, but otherwise you should be safe. Assuming, that is, that the book contains important evidence."
"Oh, it does!"
"You have it with you?" I asked. "No. It is too bulky to carry through the city. But I can bring it to you. Will you be at the Roman embassy tomorrow night?"
"To the best of my knowledge."
"There is to be a reception at the Palace for the new Armenian ambassador. Orodes will be there, with most of the Parthian embassy staff. I can get the scroll at that time and bring it to you."
"Do so. You will not regret it."
She came close and for the first time I noticed her perfume. Jasmine, I think. "Just what sort of obligations does Roman patronage demand?" she asked.
"Nothing a man can't do in public," I said.
She chuckled. "Well"-she gestured toward the dark entrance-"we could seal our bargain in there, even if it isn't required by law. It seems to be an old Alexandrian custom."
I have never been overfastidious, but somehow a quick stand-up in a tomb didn't appeal to me. Especially with Julia in the same city. She had preternatural senses where other women were concerned. I didn't really think she could set her uncle Caius Julius on me, but there was no sense in taking chances.
"Our bargain depends upon your evidence being what you say it is," I said. "I wouldn't want to take advantage."
"When did a Roman ever fail to use every advantage he could get? Suit yourself, but it's your loss. I'll bet you've never been with a real Athenian hetaira."
That was true, but I had never been impressed to know that their accomplishments were in the areas of conversation, eloquence and quick wits. It suggested that they might neglect the important things.
"Another time, perhaps," I said. "Come, let's go back to the city." We walked back like another couple returning from a visit with the dead, my arm about her shoulders and hers around my waist. The guard at the gate opened the little sally port at our knock and collected another fee.
"If they just made this a toll-gate," I remarked, "Ptolemy wouldn't be such a beggar."
She laughed musically, but that might just have been another of her accomplishments. "Are you enjoying your stay in Alexandria?"
"Except for the odd murder and attempt on my life, yes. If one cannot be in Rome, this is the place to be. How did you come to be here?"
"Seeking opportunity. I was raised and trained in the house of Chrysothemis, the most famous hetaira in Athens. It was a good life, as women's lives go in Athens, but that isn't saying much. Athenian men can't perceive even noble ladies as any better than slaves, and there's little satisfaction in entertaining men who just like an occasional change from their usual boys. So I saved my money and came to Alexandria. Here, among the foreign ambassadors, a genuine Greek hetaira is a mark of status, especially if she's Athenian. I've been in turn concubine to the Libyan, Armenian, Bithynian and Pontic ambassadors, the last back when Mithridates was still king. Now I serve the ambassador from Parthia."
"I've never met a woman of such impressive diplomatic credentials," I said. "But I cannot blame you for finding Rome more congenial."
"Yes. Mine is an unforgiving profession. One's desirability lasts only as long as youthful beauty. Once that fades, the road downhill is steep. I've known women to go from highly paid hetaira to mere streetwalking porna in two years."
"It is a hard world," I agreed.
"But it is looking better now," she said. "Tell me, have you visited the Daphne of Alexandria?"
"I'll confess, the diversions of the court have been too exhausting to seek out the more strenuous amusements of the city."
"It isn't as famous as the one in Antioch, but it is more than lively. You've been living the high life thus far, Roman. Why not come with me and sample the low?"
"Now?" I said, looking up at the full moon. "It must be near midnight!"
"Then things should just be getting lively," she said.
I was never one to hold out against temptation for long. "Lead on!" I said.
In Rome, it was easy for people to forget that some other cities have what is known as a night life. When Romans feel in a mood for debauchery, they begin their parties early so everyone can get properly paralytic before it gets too dark for their slaves to carry them home. In other places, they just light the torches and carry on.
The Daphne of Alexandria, named for the famous pleasure-garden of Antioch, was located in a beautiful grove in the Greek quarter, near the Paneum. Lines of torches led to its entrance, and between the torches vendors wandered, selling the wherewithal necessary for an evening of revelry. To my surprise, we were expected to wear masks. These were cleverly made out of pressed papyrus, artfully molded and painted to resemble various characters from mythology and poetry. They were rather like theatrical masks save that they left the mouth uncovered to facilitate eating, drinking and whatever other uses to which one wished to devote that orifice. I took one with a satyr's face; Hypatia, one with the licentious features of a nymph.
Then we had to have wreaths. Around our necks went wreaths of laurel and vine leaves, and Hypatia wrapped a garland of myrtle around her beautiful black hair. I chose a generous chaplet of acorn-studded oak leaves to help disguise my Roman haircut. Not that I was greatly worried in this place, where the crowd consisted mainly of Greeks and other foreigners. There were few if any Egyptians.
At the entrance a fat fellow dressed as Silenus came to greet us. He wore the white chiton, carried the flowing bowl and wore the chaplet of vine leaves complete with dangling bunches of grapes. He recited verses of welcome in the rustic Greek of Boeotia.
"Friends, enter these sacred precincts
In peace of heart and expectation of joy.
Here dread Ares has no home,
Nor does hardworking Hephaestus toil.
But only Dionysus of the grape, Apollo of the lyre,
Eros and the gentle Muses reign.
Here each man is a swain,
Each woman a carefree nymph.
Leave care and sorrow behind you
For these have no place here.
Welcome, doubly welcome, and rejoice!"
I tipped the man handsomely and we entered. The grove consisted of a series of interlocking arbors in the form of a maze. Torches burned, perfumed to give a fragrant smoke. There was just enough light to make everything clear and to reveal rich colors, but no more than that. A step would carry you from plain view to dark intimacy as desired. Everywhere were small tables on which little lamps burned, the low-level light making the masked faces nearby look like something from another world. Among the tables wandered women in the abbreviated tunics of mythical nymphs, men costumed as satyrs, boys with the pointed ears and tails of fauns, wild-haired women in the leopard skins of Bacchantes. All of them poured wine from amphorae or served delicacies from trays or danced or played wild music upon the syrinx and double flute and tambour. It was all quite licentious and abandoned to Roman eyes, but its joyous exuberance utterly lacked the fanatic hysteria of, say, the rites in the Temple of Baal-Ahriman.
"Come on, let's find a table," Hypatia urged. We wandered into the maze, taking so many turns that I despaired of ever finding a way out again. It is the virtue of such a place that you don't really care if you ever get out. Eventually we found a table with a top no larger than the thumping tambours of the musicians. A bright-eyed girl placed cups on our table and filled them. As she bent over, her breasts nearly fell out of her brief tunic. Hypatia eyed her as she danced away.
"A pity it's so cool," she said. "Mos
t of the year they wear less."
We raised our cups and saluted each other. The cups were of finely polished olive wood, in keeping with the air of poetic rusticity. The wine was Greek, sharply resinous. A boy dressed as a faun brought a platter of fruits and cheeses. After the fanciful fare of the Palace, which was a delight to the eye and palate and a disaster to the digestion, this simple food was a distinct relief.
A troupe of Argive youths and maidens came through, performing the very ancient crane dance. Then came a huge, brawny man dressed as Hercules with a lion skin, who entertained the crowd with feats of strength. Then came singers who sang erotic verse or praises of the nature gods. There was no epic verse or songs of the deeds of warriors. It was as if all such unpleasantness had been banished for the night.
I found that one becomes a different person when wearing a mask. One is no longer constrained by the rigid views of one's upbringing and may instead adopt the persona of the mask, or else dispense with all such coercion and see the world as a god looking down from a passing cloud. Just so a gladiator, in donning the anonymity of the helmet, ceases to be the condemned criminal or the ruined wretch who sold himself to the ludus, and becomes instead the splendid and fearless warrior he must be out on the sand. Without my accustomed cosmopolitan, not to say cynical, poses, I could see these revelers and these performers as the very characters from pastoral poetry they pretended to be.
Hypatia, the hard-mouthed professional woman, became an exotic, flower-haired creature, her hands on the olive-wood cup like lilies made animate. I had always thought pastoral verse one of the silliest forms, but I was beginning to understand its attractions.
And I? I was growing rapidly drunk. The setting and the company provided an unwonted abandon, one to which I was not accustomed. At home, I always had to consider the possible political consequences of even my most private indiscretions. In a place like the Palace, I had to be ever mindful of who was behind me, as a matter of self-preservation. But here there was no one behind me. And, in any case, I was no longer Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, slightly disreputable scion of a prominent Roman family. I was a character in one of those poems where all the women are named Phyllis and Phoebe and the men are not men but "swains" and they're all named Daphnis or something of the sort.
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