Alexandria

by Lindsey Davis

  'Their loss!'

  'Oh of course, dearest.'

  To retaliate for her sarcasm, I made a lunge; despite her pregnancy, Helena managed to shuffle quickly out of reach. Too drowsy for another attempt, I contributed: 'We know how the Library collection was gathered. The Ptolemies invited the leaders of all the countries in the world to send the literature of their country. They backed that up like pirates. If anybody was sailing near Alexandria, teams of searchers would raid their ships. Any scrolls they found in luggage were confiscated and copied; if the owners were lucky they got back a copy, though rarely their own original. Aulus and I saw some of that today - such works are listed as ''from the ships'' beside their titles in the Pinakes.'

  'The story is true then?' Helena demanded. 'I suppose you wouldn't argue with a Ptolemy.'

  'Not unless you wanted to be tipped into the harbour. So what's the controversy nowadays?'

  'Well, you know what happens with copying, Marcus. Some scribes make a bad job of it. At the Library, the staff examined duplicates to decide which copy was the best. In the main, they assumed the oldest scroll was likely to be most accurate. Clarifying authenticity became their specialism. But what started as genuine critique has become debased. Texts are altered arbitrarily. People who feel strongly say that a bunch of ignorant clerks are making ridiculous alterations to works they just don't have the intellect to understand.'

  'Scandalous!'

  'Be serious, Marcus. Once, literary study in Alexandria was of a very high standard. This persisted until recently. About fifty years ago, Didymus, the son of a fishmonger, was one of the first native Egyptians to become an accomplished scholar. He wrote three and a half thousand commentaries on most of the Greek classics, including the works of Callimachos, the Library's own cataloguer. Didymus published an authoritative text of Homer, based on Aristarchus' well-regarded version and his own textual analysis; he wrote a critical commentary on Demosthenes' Philippics; he created lexicons -'

  'Did Cassius tell you all this?'

  Helena blushed. 'No, I have been reading up myself ... It was a time of excellence. Didymus had contemporaries who were superb literary commentators and grammarians.'

  'All this is not so very long ago.'

  'Exactly, Marcus.In our parents' lifetime. Scholars here even made the first contact with Pergamum, which in Ptolemaic times had always been shunned by Alexandria because its library was a rival.'

  I changed position. 'You're saying that only a generation ago, Alexandria was leading the world. So what went wrong? Piss-poor commentaries are being produced by hack reviewers, with ludicrous emendations?'

  'That seems to have happened.'

  'Is it our fault, Helena? We Romans? Did Augustus cause it after Actium? Did that start the rot? Don't we take enough interest, because Rome is too far distant?'

  'Well, Didymus was later than Augustus, under Tiberius. But maybe with the Emperor as patron and so far away, Museion supervision has failed somewhat.' Helena had a careful way of trying to keep things right. She spoke slowly now, concentrating. 'Cassius blames other factors too. Ptolemy Soter had had a glorious ideal. He set out to own every book in the world, so that all the worlds knowledge would be gathered in his Library, available for consultation. We would call that a good motive. But collecting can be obsessive. Totality becomes an end in itself. Possession of all an author's works, all the works in a set, becomes more important than what the texts actually say. Ideas become irrelevant.'

  I puffed out my cheeks. 'The books are simply objects. It's all sterile ... I haven't seen any direct controversy about that. But the librarians here do have a fixation with scroll numbers. Theon had a choking fit when I asked how many scrolls he had, and Timosthenes has been stock-taking.'

  Helena pouted. I asked Theon how many scrolls he had.'

  'Right! It doesn't matter which of us asked -'

  Oh yes it did matter. 'Now you are being dismissive. I hit upon a lucky question - I admit it was lucky'

  'Purely characteristic. You always count the beans.'

  'So you say I am unpleasantly pedantic, while you have intuition and flair...' Helena was not really in the mood for a quarrel; she had something too vital to say. She brushed this niggle aside briskly: 'Well, Cassius told me that from what he and Fulvius already knew about Theon, before he came to dinner with us, there is an ethical controversy and Theon was part of it. He was fighting the Director, Philetus.'

  'They quarrelled?'

  'Philetus sees scrolls as a commodity. They take up space and gather dust; they need expensive staff to look after them. He asks, what intellectual value do ancient scrolls have, if nobody has consulted them for decades or even centuries?'

  'Can this be relevant to the budget Zenon so carefully kept from me? Is there a financial crisis? And is it the difference of approach that Timosthenes was talking about? I can't imagine him ever seeing scrolls as dusty wastes of space... How does our Cassius know about this?'

  'That was unclear. But he said Philetus was always haranguing Theon about whether they need to keep scrolls nobody sees, or more than one copy. Theon - who already feared his role was being undermined by the Director, remember - fought for the Library to be fully comprehensive. He wanted all known versions; he wanted comparative study of duplicates to be carried out as valid literary criticism.'

  I was not entirely sympathetic to that. I dismissed scholars who spent years narrowly comparing works on a line by line basis. Minutely searching for the perfect version seemed to me to add nothing to human knowledge or to the betterment of the human condition. Perhaps it kept the scholars out of the taverns and off the streets -though if it had led directly to Theon being given an oleander nightcap, he might have done better to be away from the Library, just having a dispute about the government with five fishmongers in a downtown bar. Or even staying longer at our house, eating pastries with Uncle Fulvius, come to that.

  'There are others feuding,' Helena said. 'The Zoo Keeper, Philadelphion, resents the international kudos that is given to the Great Library at the expense of his scientific institute; he wrangles, or wrangled, with both Philetus and Theon about uplifting the importance of pure science within the Museion. Zenon, the astronomer, thinks studying earth and the heavens is more use than studying animals, so he tussles with Philadelphion. For him, understanding the Nile flood is infinitely more useful than averaging how many eggs are laid by the crocodiles which inhabit the Nile's banks.'

  I nodded. 'Zenon also knows where the purse pinches - and he must resent having to examine the stars from a chair he made himself while, if what Thalia says is right, Philadelphion can lavish gold on every last breed of fancy ibis. From what you say, love, the Museion is seething with animosity. Our Cassius seems to keep up with gossip. Any other nuggets?'

  'One. The lawyer, Nicanor, lusts after the Zoo Keeper's mistress.'

  'The fabulous Roxana?'

  'You are salivating, Falco!'

  'I have not even met the woman.'

  'I see you would like to!'

  'Only to evaluate whether her charms might be a motive.'

  At this point, perhaps luckily, the hot, restless breeze that had got up while we were conversing began to agitate the undergrowth more wildly, to the extent that it woke our driver. He told us this was the Khamseen, the fifty-day wind that Zenon had speculated might have upset Theon's mental stability. It certainly was becoming gritty and unpleasant. Helena wrapped her stole around her face. I tried to look brave. The driver hurried us back to the cart and set off for the city, regaling us on the way with tales of how this wicked wind killed babies. There was no need to lure us back with sensational stories. We were ready to go home and check on our daughters.

  XXVI

  We arrived back in the city in early evening. The wind had blown across us all the way and was now terrorising the streets, grabbing at awnings and bowling rubbish ahead of its strong gusts. People were holding scarves and stoles across their faces, while women's long clothes tw
isted against their bodies, men cursed and children wailed. My throat grew scratchy. My hands, fingers and lips felt dry; the dust had worked into my ears and scalp. I could taste the stuff. As we drove along the harbour road, as long as the light lasted we could see choppy waves tearing over the water.

  At my uncle's house, I paid off the driver outside the courtyard gate. Immediately we got down and the porter opened up for us, our driver was nobbled by that fellow Katutis who sat outside on the kerb trying to badger us every day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw them with their heads together, engaged in a deep conversation. I could not deduce whether Katutis was complaining or just curious. I had only a glimpse, but I reckoned he would soon know from today's driver everything about where we had been. Was he spying on us? Or just jealous that some other fellow had been successful in winning our custom? Today's driver had been a completely chance pick-up for Helena and me. There was no reason for these two similarly clad, similarly whiskery men to know one another. I could see no reason for them to discuss us so intently. In some places I might shrug and say it was a small town - but Alexandria had half a million inhabitants.

  On the threshold, Helena and I shook the dust off ourselves and stamped our feet. We went up slowly. We were glowing from the sun and wind-blast, our brains relaxed and our relationship reasserted. We could hear no particular screaming from children. Everywhere seemed peaceful. Faint welcoming scents came from the kitchen area as we passed. The thought of a wash, followed by stories with my daughters, a quiet dinner, some gentle talk with my older relatives, even a drink with Pa - no, forget that - and an early night was extremely attractive.

  But work never stops. First, I had a visitor.

  Cassius and Pa had been entertaining him for me. Both seemed mildly surprised by their own co-operation. This was not a commercial contact: I had been tracked down by Nicanor, the Museion lawyer. Etiquette required that such a visitor should not be dumped alone in an empty room, but neither of my relatives was at ease with his calling and in return I could see him looking down on them. Cassius and Pa handed him over to my custody then left us alone together with unlikely speed.

  Titbits and wine had been served previously; a slave brought a goblet for me. While Nicanor and I settled, Helena came in briefly and gave him her greeting as if she was the matron of the house, but even she excused herself, saying she had to see our little daughters to bed. She palmed some of the titbits as she left us to it.

  The lawyer had only nodded pompously to Helena's good-mannered greeting. That was when I started to dislike him. No; thinking he had tried to do down Aulus, I already did. The feeling would grow, and not just because he was a lawyer. He trailed a cloud of self-esteem, just as some men waft overpowering hair unguent. Mind you, he had the unguent too. Though not effeminate, he was painstakingly manicured and groomed. I'd snort that lawyers can well afford it, but that really would sound like prejudice.

  Nicanor had a long face with extremely dark brown soulful eyes. He looked like a Romanised Jew. His deep voice was certainly Eastern. He was cradling his winecup, now half full, not quaffing with the gusto I associated with lawyers. I slowed my own drinking pace to match his. Automatically I found myself adjusting my attitude too. I became more guarded than I had been with the other academics.

  'I hear,' began Nicanor, who reckoned himself lead prosecutor, 'you have been asking after me.'

  If he was just responding to my enquiries, it was disappointing. At the necropsy, I had invited people to give me clues and dish the dirt. I had hoped that high-flown members of the Academic Board would race to land their colleagues in midden-shit. Snitches are not always accurate, but it gives an investigator somewhere to start.

  Patience, Falco. There was a reason for him coming. We just had not reached it yet.

  I assumed the necessary posture of gratitude. 'Well, thanks for turning up. Just a couple of questions, really. I have asked most of your fellow Board members: first, the obvious.' I was pretending to assume he was a fellow-expert in crime enquiries. 'Where were you the evening Theon died?'

  'That old cliché.Minding my business. What else?'

  I noted he failed to provide an alibi - and he was rude about it. Somewhat sourly, I added my second question, 'I would like to know your interest in the Library post.'

  'Of course you would! The shortlist is announced, I presume you know!' He was enjoying his power in telling me.

  'I was out of town today' I refused to lose my temper. I really would have liked to have heard this in private circumstances. I bet Nicanor saw I was annoyed. 'So who made the list?'

  'Myself-' No false modesty there. He put himself in first. 'Zenon; Philadelphion; Apollophanes.'

  Hmm. No Aeacidas, no Timosthenes. I would have included them both and dropped the toady.

  'When was this list unveiled?'

  'Special Board meeting this afternoon.'

  Damn. While I was half asleep at the lakeside. 'Any reactions?'

  'Timosthenes walked out.' Nicanor said it in a tone of disgust.

  'He has a point.'

  Nicanor humphed, though quietly. 'He never stood a chance; it would be cruelty to put his name forward. The way he stormed off surprised me, though... Normally he accepts being sidelined. Still, he's a realist. He must know he cannot even console himself with ''it is not his turn''; he is never going to have a turn.'

  'Is that because he came up through the staff route - or is it literary snobbery, because he studies epic?'

  'Dear gods, does he? Oh he would, of course... His type always think nobody but Homer can write.'

  Call me old-fashioned, but I could see a case to have a library headed up by a man who believed that. 'Can Timosthenes appeal?' Or could I appeal on his behalf, I wondered.

  'If he wants another rejection... So, Falco, who do you think will get it?' Nicanor came straight out with the question. Some people would have dropped their voice or looked at the ground modestly. This man stared straight at me.

  Some men, answering, would diplomatically name him as top choice. I don't use such flattery. 'Wrong for me to comment.' I let a pause niggle. 'What are the odds at the Museion? I assume it's buzzing.'

  'When the list goes to the Roman Prefect, Philetus will tick his own recommendation, but will he be so obvious as to favour his sidekick? If he names Apollophanes, I imagine - I hope - he'll be wasting his time. Philosophers are out of favour in Rome. Theon was a historian. The Prefect may decide the arts have had enough influence; he may opt for a scientific discipline. If so, Zenon does not come over well in public. The money is on Philadelphion.'

  'Seems about right.' I shrugged, still meaning that to be noncommittal. 'Still, elections rarely turn out as expected.'

  I had not meant it as an invitation. Nicanor jumped in immediately: 'Well, now you know my interest - and you know why I am here, Falco.'

  It took me a moment. When I worked out his meaning, it was so blatant - and for me so unexpected - I almost choked.

  Fortunately I was trained by years of working with unrepentant villains, sharp Forum scammers and side-steppers who would try anything to load the scales of justice. Usually, what they tried was beating me up - but the other method had been known. Some villains have no shame.

  'Nicanor! You think I have influence with the Prefect over this appointment?'

  'Oh come on, Falco! The others may be calling you an ''agent'' as if you are an oily palace bureaucrat, but any imperial freedman would be twice as deadly and about five times as smooth. You are a common informer. Of course I know how that works. You appear in the courts. You bring prosecutions. I am your natural candidate.' Now Nicanor was implying we shared the same creepy networks, the same soiled obligations - the same two-faced standards: 'So how much?'

  I tried not to gape. 'You are canvassing? You want to buy my vote?'

  'Even you can't be so slow! Normal aspect of patronage.'

  'Not exactly my experience.'

  'Don't play the innocent.'

  'I h
ad somehow assumed that the award of a world-renowned academic post was different from vote-rigging the Senate.'

  'Why?' Nicanor asked baldly.

  I backed down. Why indeed? To pretend that the apparently high-minded intellectuals here were above begging for votes, if they could see how to do it, was hypocritical; he was right. At least he was open.

  'What could you have against me?' he persisted. He must be a nightmare in court. He probably thought I was holding out - hoping one of the others would offer more than he did.

  I sat up straighter. 'I certainly would like to know why you tried to blackball the accreditation of Camillus Aelianus to the Museion. What was wrong with him?'

  'Minas of Karystos. That poser and I have been at odds for two decades... What's this to you, Falco?'