“In what way, Carian?” Suetonius asked, showing increasing interest.
“The Christians offer a teaching that’s all sweetness and light. They paint quite an appealing picture of their odd beliefs,” Phlegon expounded. “They claim to show a path from the miseries of life and from sin, which is a type of intense self-punishing guilt about infractions of their ascetical code. But you have to die first to benefit, it seems. However the End of Time is approaching soon anyway. So unlike we Romans, it’s not about how to adjust to living life in this world, it’s about the promise of an After-Life-To-Come. It’s very focused on death and being resurrected someday by their god.
Antinous was given a copy of their most important scripture The Teachings of the Twelve Apostles, known to Greeks as The Didache. It offers a hundred maxims on how you should live your life, which to them means how to prepare for death. It aims to avoid sin, yet they detect sin and fornication absolutely everywhere. They’re obsessed!
Their special Savior was a man called Iesous, some sort of Judaean rabbi and wonder-worker crucified as a rebel at Jerusalem a century ago before we destroyed their capital. They claim this sorcerer was their God enveloped in the rabbi’s flesh, somehow.
But the important bit for Antinous was the superstition’s emphasis on an afterlife. Like the followers of Zoroaster and Egypt’s Osiris, they promise their worshippers a resurrection after death followed by some sort of eternal existence. The rest of us are doomed to eternal suffering. It’s a compelling philosophy which Antinous took to heart.”
“Do you think he believed this pernicious superstition?”
“Well, there’s a downside to their teachings which I doubt Antinous could uphold. Their moral code is extreme. They have a low opinion of wealth, of trading, they abjure lending at interest, or being rich, as his family are.
Their executed Savior proclaimed an eccentric sort of freedom similar to the austerities of the followers of Diogenes who reject family, career, fame, the Imperium, and so on.
All their sects forbid ‘fornication’, which they say is an offence against their Father’s laws. Their teachers say we Romans are all harlots and live whore’s lives. They particularly condemn relations between unmarried people, adultery, divorce, and same-sex relationships. It’s very other-worldly and austere. I’d say a young hot-blood like Antinous with fire in his loins would find such demands difficult in the extreme. Rome will never endorse such asceticism.”
“But do you have more to offer about the Favorite’s death? Do you know what happened on the night before last?” Suetonius probed. “When did you last see or speak with the youth?”
“No one seems to know how he died, gentlemen, but there’s already much talk around the encampment of its aftermath,” Aristobulus offered.
“Aftermath? Saying what?” Clarus demanded. Aristobulus was hesitant.
“Well, it’s said there have been shadowy men with knives searching the tents for people close to Antinous. The lad’s school chum Lysias and the freedwoman Thais have disappeared, they say,” the astrologer murmured. “No one knows where. A steward of their household was murdered overnight, but it’s not been made public yet. It’s hard to keep secrets here, though many try. Shrouded men have also been seen in the nearby village searching for someone else, but I have no idea who.
Other gossip says Caesar has gone into secret conference with the governor of Egypt, Flavius Titianus, and his most senior officers, on high matters of state. This is unusual considering Hadrian’s delicate frame of mind only an evening ago, wouldn’t you say? Something important is going on, and perhaps we shouldn’t enquire too closely.”
“Yet I have been precisely instructed by Caesar to explore closely,” Suetonius stated.
The two courtiers fumbled for fresh tittle-tattle.
“There was another occasion which I think possesses interest. It occurred in Memphis only recently on our journey here,” Phlegon offered wistfully. “We’re supposed to keep it secret or confidential, but it’s something you should add to your understanding, I think.”
“Yes, what?”
“It’s not very pretty, but it was certainly a wonder to behold. Hadrian and the Favorite have been impressed by the arts of the wizard Pachrates of Memphis, who holds to the Old Religion of this strange land.
After witnessing several sessions of his magic, healing, and trickery, we had been told he can bring a man back to life in certain circumstances, just as the ancient wonder-workers were reputed to do,” the Carian recorder of marvels murmured in hushed tones. “So while the rest of the entourage were climbing the Pyramids or carving their names on the Sphinx and enjoying themselves, we were invited to attend a private ceremony at the huge Temple of Amun complex in the heart of the city of Memphis.
Unlike their small Temple here at Besa, the Memphis temple is a gigantic edifice. Caesar, Antinous, and a small party including the women Julia Balbilla with the priestess Anna Perenna, who both possess interest in things of mystery, with a detachment of Guards, attended a special demonstration of the priest’s skills. It was a wonder to behold!
On a high scaffold platform dressed with layers of curtains in the courtyard, the priest Pachrates and his acolytes performed elegant liturgies and rites with much incense, burnt offerings, prayers, drumming, and chanting. It was all very impressive, if somewhat percussive, with flashes of igneous powders and clouds of colored smoke.
The attendants brought a nondescript fellow in ragged attire onto the stage who appeared to be entranced or drugged into abstraction. One of the temple guards read a pronouncement in Greek to we observers which said the fellow was a condemned criminal who had been made available by the authorities for this occasion.
The fellow seemed utterly untroubled by his involvement in the event, even when priestly attendants held him to his knees and forced his head to the sands on the scaffold floor. Another priest of beefy proportions wielding a razor-edged scimitar entered the stage while Pachrates made strange mystical gestures and chants of great profundity above the fellow. Pachrates waved to the sword-bearer and the priest flashed the scimitar to cleave the head from the victim in a single slice.
There was much blood flow and writhing amid shouts and cries of magical formulae. Cymbals crashed, drums beat, sistra rattled, and voices chorused noisily as the curtains of the stage were thrust together by the attendants. Pachrates stepped forward between the clouds of smoke to continue proclaiming his Egyptian incantations. Then after a few seconds when the drums and cymbals ceased their racket and Pachrates waved his priest’s staff, the curtains were again dramatically drawn apart to reveal the beheaded fellow standing healthily upright and serenely intact. He was facing us with his eyes wide in surprise, almost as surprised as we the viewers.
Though his own gore was copiously evident on the sands beneath him, his body had been restored into a single piece and his tunic was miraculously clean of stains. He had tears in eyes, tears of joy I’m sure. Pachrates waved his priest’s staff over the fellow and splashed holy waters to sanctify him in the elaborate Egyptian style.
Caesar, Antinous, Julia Balbilla, members of the Guard, but not the lady Anna Perenna I noticed, broke out into cheers of applause. Anna Perenna simply settled her eyes upon the Favorite to observe his reactions to the magic.
Pachrates was modest in accepting praise for this marvel. But he was visibly exhausted by his endeavors, as we could readily appreciate.”
Suetonius turned to Clarus and Surisca in silent communication and raised one hairy eyebrow. All three plus Strabon remained meaningfully mute, while Surisca lowered her eyes demurely.
Phlegon and Aristobulus were mystified by this silent response.
“Assuredly, what I say is true,” the astrologer declared.
CHAPTER 19
Senator Septicius Clarus, being self-evidently a member of the elite of Rome as proclaimed by his purple striped toga and elegantly dismissive manner, brushed aside the hesitant watch-guard and a vacillating stewar
d with an imperious flick of the wrist. He led Suetonius, Strabon, and Surisca through the silken drapes of Arrian’s capacious apartments situated away from the river’s mosquitoes.
No amount of pleading, groveling, or bowing performed by Arrian’s steward would dissuade Clarus from his unannounced sortie into the Bithynian noble’s tented precincts.
After passing noisily through several well-appointed chambers loudly calling Senator Flavius Arrianus!, the group burst into an inner apartment to witness the man himself, freshly leapt from his bed and garbed in a minimal sleeping tunic. He was hurriedly unsheathing a gladius short-sword from its scabbard in prompt response to the onslaught of the invaders.
As Clarus and Suetonius lunged through its entrance drapes the two inadvertently perceived a fully shrouded figure disappearing equally as speedily beyond drapes at the far side of the chamber. The heady bouquet of a rich perfume charged the air.
“What is this, fools?! You enter unannounced! Explain yourselves!” Arrian called sharply, his sword at the ready but with his hair akimbo and his grooming astray. His steward stumbled forward between the intruders in fearful apprehension.
“Forgive me, master, they forced their way in!” he proclaimed, afraid of retribution for his failed resistance. “They would not await your consent.”
Arrian, recognizing his intruders were not bent on injury, tossed the blade onto the rumpled bed and gathered himself to be presentable in their presence.
“You catch me unawares, gentlemen. I have no recall of any appointment expecting your company? You almost even caught me in flagrante delicto, as you saw,” Arrian joked politely, quietly seething with suppressed rage.
“If I had known you were to visit, I would have prepared myself suitably,” Arrian offered with the barest degree of politesse. “But you must be wary of barging into private quarters unannounced, my friends. I’m told there are shady figures moving around the camp, and some people might react aggressively or even fatally to an uninvited incursion. Is it true there was a murder here last night by men unknown? Were you the culprits, perhaps?”
Clarus responded to the comments, now aware of the embarrassment his zeal had incurred.
“You must forgive us, colleague, we had not expected to intrude into your private affairs. We are simply eager to solicit your considered opinions and advice,” the ageing senator tried to soothe a ruffled ego. “Suetonius Tranquillus and I seek your wise counsel on the Antinous incident. Of a murder last night, though, we know nothing of substance.”
“Let’s not be detained here, friends, let’s retire into the cool air of my garden court,” Arrian offered, perhaps to remove his intruders from his boudoir, “where my staff can provide refreshments as we talk.”
Signaling to his steward for the appropriate services, Arrian led the group into an outdoor terrace. It was a charming area graced with planters and pots of well-watered greenery. Valuable ivory-inlaid ebony chairs edged with gilt trim and supporting comfortable cushions in Asian ethnic weaves were interspersed by individual trestle campaign tables. With the sun’s direct rays screened by a thin overhead canopy, the diffused light bounced softly off white marble tiles and scattered Ionian rugs. Busts of notable philosophers and the likes of Alexander the Great fringed the gardened area.
Mugs with jugs of wine and water appeared promptly, accompanied by nutty nibbles, honey cakes, and dried fruits.
“I’d heard from Caesar’s own lips how you are instructed to enquire into the death of his Antinous, his Favorite. Well, what have you come up with?” Arrian asked with interest, either genuine or feigned. “What have you discovered thus far about the poor lad? You’ve almost consumed a day of your two day’s allowance, haven’t you?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Suetonius replied. “We have no time to lose.”
“Senator,” Clarus appealed to his fellow member of The Senate, “we’re in something of a bind. So far we’ve learned very little we didn’t know already.”
“Anything I can throw light upon?” the Bithynian noble responded.
“Well, hopefully,” Clarus responded. “Are there matters you feel we, as investigators, should know about Antinous which might relate to his cause of death?”
Clarus nodded towards Suetonius and Strabon, who promptly started recording the proceedings on his wax pads. “Or are there matters you advise we explore?”
“Before we begin,” Suetonius interrupted, “we should identity your person in our record. Perhaps, Senator, you will describe to us in your own words your personal details for our scribe to notate?”
Arrian looked askance at the portly senator and former Prefect of Praetorians who would know all that needed to be known about a fellow courtier, but took the hint and responded with legalistic deliberation.
“These are the duties of my secretary, gentlemen. But I will speak in his stead. As you well know, in the West my Latin designation is Lucius Flavius Arrianus Xenophon. I was born in the fifth year of Caesar Domitian’s rule at Nicomedia to a noble Bithynian family. I was awarded Roman citizenship in the seventh year of Caesar Hadrian’s rule at the age of thirty-eight, and appointed senator. I am the first Greek of Bithynian origin to be Consul at Rome.
I am currently researching the administrative procedures involved in governance of the province of Cappadocia at Roman Asia, where I am soon to be nominated its Prefect Governor. I need not add I am also a biographer of the military strategies of Basileous Alexandros; an adherent and compiler of the aphorisms of the philosophy of Epictetus of Nicopolis; and so on. But you already know these things.”
The quality of his career and works silenced his auditors.
“You knew Antinous of Bithynia well, Senator?” Suetonius eventually asked.
“Of course. I know his family at Claudiopolis intimately, and was very fond of the lad. He showed great promise, I assure you. I would have offered the boy a role in my administration at Cappadocia had he lived. His father and elder brother are trading partners with my stewards,” the senator outlined. “I’ve been an informal patron to the lad for the past five years. In fact, I am directly responsible for his entering into the company of Caesar. It was I who arranged the original introductions five years ago.”
“What is your opinion of the manner of the young man’s death, senator? Do you have information of its nature and likely causes?” Clarus queried. “Is there something you feel we should know?”
“No, Septicius Clarus and Special Inspector Suetonius. I am entirely without understanding of the manner or reason for his death. It’s said he drowned in this mighty river we can hear behind us. Many do, you know,” Arrian offered. “I am not aware of any malice of substance against the lad, and nor am I aware of any motive on his behalf to commit such an act.”
Both Suetonius and Clarus could see they weren’t getting very far with Arrian. Suetonius had an idea.
“My lord, yesterday when inspecting Antinous’s apartments we came across a notepad with a message of some interest. It is written in archaic Greek, ancient Attic, and we’d appreciate if you, as a great scholar of Hellene antiquity, would check our translation into today’s Greek. Our antique Greek is rusty,” Suetonius uttered. He snapped his fingers impatiently while Strabon searched his basket for the tablets. The wooden blocks tied in cloth were lying at the bottom of his jumbled pile in the basket. He opened the wood-covered wax pages and offered the block to the senator.
Arrian peered at the inscription engraved in the wax.
“Yes, it’s Attic, or an attempt at Attic. It’s poetic after a fashion. Though why anyone other than someone like myself would wish to write in a five-hundred year old language is beyond comprehension. I do so under a scholar’s duress; it’s expected of me. This inscription is ---”
He ceased explaining as his eyes widened in astonishment.
“Where did you acquire this?” he asked sharply.
“It was lying on the floor of Antinous’s apartment complex in this very city of tents yesterday
evening,” Suetonius stated plainly. “We retrieved it before someone else whisked it away. Do you agree it appears to be a boyish ditty written by Antinous or his chum Lysias? Do you recognize the hand-writing? And how do you translate its rhyme?”
“Yes, I recognize the hand-writing. Yes, indeed,” the nobleman muttered as he regained his comportment. “A rough translation of the Attic might go something like this :
WHEN THE KING OF THE
LIONHEARTED
TOYS WITH HIS MAN CUB NO MORE,
IT’S TIME FOR THE LACKEY
TO RESTORE HIS OWN PRIDE.
It is written by someone with only rudimentary antique Greek, an amateur.”
“You mean like Antinous or Lysias?” Clarus asked.
“No,” Arrian replied, “they would do better than this. Probably someone for whom Greek is not their first language.”
“Then you mean, perhaps, Thais the language tutor?” Suetonius explored.
“No,” responded Arrian softly. “She is no man cub lackey.”
“Then you mean ---?” Suetonius trailed away, his wispy eyebrows rising in recognition of one particular possibility.
A heavy silence descended. It made Clarus distinctly uncomfortable.
Arrian suddenly whisked a napkin from his tunic belt. With a single swift movement he wiped across the surface of the wax. Suetonius and Strabon protested loudly. The stylus impression of the quatrain on the wax was smeared beyond recovery.
“I don’t think you need retain this tablet, gentlemen. It’s not within your commission,” the senator blithely concluded.
“King of the Lionhearted? Man cub? Lackey?” Suetonius vented in provocative recollection. “What did the writer mean?”
“I think you should desist from speculation on that matter, Special Inspector,” Arrian advised. “Devote yourself to more concrete issues. Such as ‘where was Antinous on the night of his death’, or ‘what company did he keep on that day? You might be on safer ground on that path, gentlemen.”
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