My neck prickled. Shit! ‘Uh...what kind of hold would that be?’ I said casually.
Stratocles laughed again. ‘My dear Corvinus, if the gossip-mongers knew that, or even had a reasonable suggestion to offer, then no doubt they’d’ve added it in. Which to my knowledge they haven’t. It’s yet another indication that the whole thing’s no more than the usual baseless wineshop calumny. Now’ - he got slowly to his feet - ‘you must forgive me. I don’t consider myself particularly old, but my body disagrees, and sometimes, as now, I have to listen to it. If you don’t mind, I’ll follow your wife’s lead and rest for a while. Dinner, as I said, is an hour before sunset or thereabouts, and I’ll see you then. Meanwhile this house is your own. Treat it as such, please.’
I watched him go and sat for ten minutes or so, finishing off the wine in the jug and thinking. Then I whistled up a slave and got him to take me to Perilla.
***
She wasn’t asleep in our room; which came as no surprise given that I knew the wilting-violet act had been a ploy from the start. The east wing of the house which Stratocles had turned over to us was practically a self-contained property in its own right, and the lady was sitting in a small shaded courtyard with flower beds and a fountain, with one of her book-rolls in her lap.
‘Isn’t this marvellous, dear?’ she said. ‘Much cooler than Rome, and the flowers are beautiful. Did you have a look round?’
‘Mmm.’ I leaned down, planted the hello kiss, and stretched out in the chair opposite. ‘Very nice.’
‘How was your talk with Stratocles?’
‘Isidorus has his hooks into Governor Flaccus. Whatever he’s got on him is major, and six gets you ten it’s something involving Macro.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘About the hooks, yes. It had to be something along those lines, sure, because no governor worth his salt would give a troublemaker like that house room, and otherwise the turnaround makes no sense. About Macro...well, Etruscus bracketed the pair of them, and Etruscus’s one and only interest is Macro, so it’s a logical assumption. As to what the details are your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Could he have been involved in the false Gemellus plot? Flaccus, I mean.’
‘It’s a possibility, lady. But the fact that he’s still breathing, and still the Egyptian governor, argues against it. If Lepidus and Agrippina had included him in their plans for some reason - although why they should bother I don’t know - then they’d’ve been careful to arrange for him to be chopped with the rest. And Gaius had already appointed Macro to replace him.’ Something tickled at my brain. Shit!
‘Unless the proof was missing somehow,’ Perilla said.
‘Hmm? How do you mean?’
‘They’d have to have something concrete to give to the emperor, wouldn’t they? And if that was no longer to hand the suspicion might be there - enough, say, for Gaius to have Flaccus recalled - but now with nothing to back it. You see?’
‘Yeah.’ I frowned. ‘What you’re saying is that Flaccus had been living on borrowed time. Oh, sure, he wouldn’t know it himself because the conspiracy was a complete fake, but that’d make no difference to the result. Somehow Isidorus gets his greasy hands on this “proof” of yours and presents Flaccus with it, scaring the guy’s wollocks off enough to get him back into Alexandria with a seat at the top table thrown in. I’d go for that, lady. There’s only one problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Like I said, why would Lepidus and Agrippina bother to set him up in the first place? Oh, sure, as Egyptian governor he’s one of the top men in the empire, but in their terms, as far as their succession plans go, he’s a nonentity. Put him alongside Silanus, Gemellus and Macro and he just doesn’t fit. He might, because of the grain supply, if they were planning a military coup but they aren’t: if they manage to stiff Gaius then they can do things legitimately. Targeting Flaccus makes no sense, and if they didn’t target him then there can be no concocted proof. If Isidorus is blackmailing the guy - and he is - it must be for something else.’
Perilla sighed. ‘Yes, dear. I agree completely. Damn.’
‘Never mind, lady. Early days yet. We’ll get there eventually. Oh, by the way, Stratocles told me something else. Herod Agrippa’s in the city.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. He arrived yesterday. Not an official visit, or so he claims, but the guy’s here all the same. The Jews’re over the moon about it and the Greeks are spitting blood.’
‘But that’s dreadful!’
‘It’s not good, no. It may cramp your shopping plans for a start if you have to climb over the barricades.’
‘Be serious, Marcus. I mean it. Oh, I know we wouldn’t be directly threatened, not as Romans, but if there is a danger of rioting then here is not the place to be. Particularly for Clarus and Marilla.’
‘Lady, there’s the best part of a legion camped outside the city, plus the local force. And under Isidorus’s thumb or not it’s more than Flaccus’s neck is worth to let a riot start. They know that on both sides. The first to cause any real trouble - Jews or Greeks - will find themselves smacked silly and taxed to the eyeballs for the next ten years.’
‘Well, if you say so. All the same, if Herod Agrippa’s -’
‘What I was wondering was whether he’d been sent deliberately. To investigate Flaccus and report back.’
That stopped her. ‘By the emperor? You think that’s possible?’
‘Sure. It’s even likely. Remember, technically the guy’d already been recalled. The only reason he’s still around is that his replacement was chopped before he could take up the post.’ Bugger! There was that itch again! ‘And if he is playing favourites against standard policy - which he is - then Gaius will want to know why. Agrippa could just be carrying a private rap over the knuckles, or he could be up to something more serious, but I’d guess it’s one of the two. And I’ll bet that either way Flaccus is currently sweating. Even if he wasn’t implicated in the fake Gemellus plot -’ I stopped. ‘Shit!’
‘Marcus? Marcus!’
I waved her down. Sweet and holy Jupiter!
‘Marcus! What is it?’
‘Flaccus was involved. Only he was on the other side, with Lepidus and Agrippina. Why he should be, and how the hell the mechanics of it work out I don’t know, but it’d make sense. It’d certainly explain Isidorus’s hold over him. Just exchange involvement in one plot for another, the only difference being that this one’s genuine and Flaccus is genuinely in it past his eyebrows. Added to which, it’s still running. If Isidorus peaches then the whole thing’s blown sky-high.’
‘That’s sheer speculation, dear. All of it.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. But it’s a working theory. And it explains the Macro connection.’
‘How so?’
‘Flaccus had been recalled, with Macro as his replacement. Say that for some reason it’s important, vitally important, that Flaccus stays governor. Lepidus and Agrippina can’t put their oar in with Gaius on his behalf; what excuse could they give, and it might only make Gaius suspicious. What they can do, though, is take out Macro - with Flaccus’s knowledge and possible help - and the problem’ll solve itself. As it has done.’
‘But, Marcus, we already have a reason for Lepidus and Agrippina getting rid of Macro. He was too close to the emperor and too influential. You can’t use the man twice.’
‘I don’t see why not, lady. Both reasons could be valid and reinforce one another. Killing two birds with one stone’s a pretty effective way of doing business.’
‘Also, if Isidorus presents such a danger, why hasn’t Flaccus just had him killed? Surreptitiously or otherwise? I mean, he’s governor here, he’s in complete charge, answering to no one except the emperor himself, and Isidorus is a comparative nobody; certainly where Rome is concerned. He could manage it easily.’
‘Perilla, I told you: I haven’t worked out the mechanics and I’ve got nothing in the way of fact to
go on. But the guy’s not stupid. He’ll’ve thought of that and have safeguards in place. Besides, like you say he’s a comparative nobody, which means the likelihood is that he’s just a middleman acting for someone else. Someone in Rome, high enough up to have access to whatever information he’s using to burn Flaccus. Getting rid of him’d probably do more harm than good.’
‘Someone in Rome? Such as who? And what’s their interest?’
‘Search me.’
‘All right. Change the subject. If Flaccus is involved with Lepidus and Agrippina then what’s his role?’
I sighed. ‘Pass. Pass completely. Look, lady, give it a break, now, will you? It’s an idea, sure, but right or wrong we can’t take it any further. File for reference, agreed?’
‘Agreed.’ She got up and laid the book-roll down on the chair. I glanced at the title: Philo’s ‘Guide to Alexandria’; what else? ‘Now. After travelling for the best part of a month I itch like mad and probably smell. I would kill for a bath, and the furnace should be hot enough by this time.’
I grinned, and got up too. ‘Fair enough.’ I’d’ve imitated Marilla and Clarus and gone out to stretch my legs for an hour or so - it was still only late morning - but a long steam and a bit of pampering from Stratocles’s bath slaves, followed by a quiet afternoon in the garden with some more of the Mareotis to keep me company, seemed a much better deal.
Alexandria could wait. After all, we were on holiday.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Next morning Perilla went out on the first leg of her shopping binge, taking the kids with her. I felt a bit sorry for Clarus; the guy has as much clothes sense as I have, and no man should be subjected for hours on end to the company of women in pursuit of the perfect dress material, not sober, anyway. Still, he’s an easy-going lad, Clarus, and he didn’t seem too put out. Besides, if he was getting married then the sooner he learned to take the rough with the smooth the better.
Me, I’d no definite plans, barring to get out and around. Something would suggest itself eventually, sure, and in the meantime, like I preferred to do first off when I was in a new town, I could get the general feel of the place and an idea of where things were. Not that that would be difficult, given the layout: Stratocles’s house lay more or less in the geographical middle, south-east of the actual centre, and if I went due north I’d hit the Canopic Way which ran roughly east and west from one side of the city to the other. Then if I took a left towards the Mouseion crossroads I’d pick up the other main drag, the Street of the Soma, which would take me north again towards the sea, through the market square and on to the harbour where we’d arrived. After that I thought I might follow the coast round to the Lochias peninsula, the old Palace area where Flaccus had his offices, then head back south through the Bruchium quarter and so home, completing the circle. Not that I was in any hurry, mind. There was bound to be a convenient wineshop or two on the way, and whereas Perilla’s bag is monuments mine is wineshops. They should be pretty good in Alexandria, if the quality of the local wine was anything to go by.
It was a perfect day for walking - warm, rather than hot, with that sea breeze that must’ve attracted the original city-builders to the site keeping the air moving - and after ten days at sea and a dozen before that in a closed carriage it was nice just to be on foot on dry land again. I covered the quarter mile or so to the Canopic Way past the upmarket properties in their own grounds almost without noticing it.
I’d got about half way when I heard the noise. I thought at first it was one of those processions you get in Rome sometimes but are a lot more common in places where they go more for the mystery cults: the ones in honour of Cybele, or Isis, or maybe the Great Goddess, not that it matters, because these foreign ladies’re all of a piece anyway, and they all seem to be into loud chanting and percussion that’ll have your eardrums out. Only that wasn’t quite right. There was percussion and chanting, sure, but it was rough stuff, like the celebrants were banging together any odd bits of metal that came to hand without trying to keep to a rhythm and shouting their lungs out. Shouting just two words, repeated over and over.
Then I got closer and was able to make the words out:
‘Basileus...karabas...basileus...karabas...basileus...karabas...’
King cabbage? What the hell kind of religious chant was king cabbage?
When I got to it, the end of the street was blocked four or five deep across its width with people, all with their backs to me and rubber-necking at whatever was happening on the main drag beyond. I pushed through as far as I was able and did a bit of rubber-necking myself...
There’s nothing like the Canopic Way in Rome, or anywhere else, for that matter. It’s dead straight, almost three miles long, paved in stone and a hundred feet wide. And the procession filled it to bursting, side to side and for as much of its length as I could see in both directions. Forget your orgiastic rites of Cybele or our tame Roman version with the fluteplayers, the poker-faced senators and the bulls: this was a parody, the people making it up were a rabble, and I’d been right about the bits of metal. The guys doing the processing - and there must’ve been hundreds, if not thousands of them - were banging together anything from proper cymbals through tin trays to kebab-spits, or just clapping their hands together if they didn’t have anything else. Close up, the noise was incredible.
I pulled at my nearest fellow rubber-necker’s sleeve and he turned round. ‘Hey, pal!’ I shouted. ‘What’s this all about?’
He held his hand to his ear and I tried again, louder, slower and closer. Still no luck. He shrugged, scowled, and turned away again. Shit, maybe he was naturally deaf. Practically the whole Alexandrian population to choose from and I had to pick this one. Then the guy on my other side tugged at my tunic. I turned round myself and he put his mouth to my ear and yelled:
‘Herod!!!...Agrippa!!!’
King Herod. King cabbage. Oh, fuck; they’d lynched one of the emperor’s closest buddies and the ruler of Rome’s biggest client kingdom, or they were on their way to do it. I put my hands on the shoulders of my pals either side, heaved myself up higher and goggled around at as much of the procession as I could. Yeah; there was a litter there to my left, further back in the line, an open litter, more of a chair on sticks, being carried shoulder-high, with a man in it. On it. Whatever. He was wearing the robes and headband of an eastern king, and swaying about as if he were drunk or had been knocked silly. Gods, trouble was right. When this got back to Gaius he’d send in enough legions to stamp the city flat and nail the entire Greek population to crosses. The fools. The bloody, bloody fools.
Then I looked again. The litter - chair - was getting closer and I could see the man more clearly. I’d never met Agrippa, sure, but whoever he was this guy wasn’t him. He was a dwarf, for a start, and he had a face that looked like one of these lanterns the kids make from turnips for the Lemuria to scare away the ghosts. He was grinning like one of them, too, and the grin was slack and empty. I could see the spittle glistening on his jaw. I breathed again: not Agrippa, just some poor idiot dressed up to look like him.
Bad enough, mind. Not quite lèse-majesté as far as the Roman side of things went, but easily within the definition of the term. And Gaius, when he got to hear of it, wouldn’t be amused. Not one bit. Whatever excuse Flaccus could make, the guy had -
I stopped.
Where were the troops? Where the hell were the troops?
The simple fact was that anywhere under Rome’s jurisdiction nothing like this should be happening; and if it did look like happening then the authorities - Flaccus, in this case - would’ve seen that it was stopped pretty damn quickly before things got out of hand, as they’d evidently done here. Rome’s pretty strong on nipping civil demonstrations in the bud - she can’t afford not to be - and any official who doesn’t have a shit-hot system in place to provide early warning of a disturbance is just asking to be booted off the career ladder. This procession wasn’t a riot, sure, but it was the next thing to it, and it certai
nly constituted an incitement: most of the crowd, from what I could see, were Greeks, and cheering like my erstwhile informant, but some of the heads wore skull-caps, and the Jewish faces underneath them were looking seriously unchuffed. In fact, as the last of the procession passed and the crowd began breaking up there were scuffles and one or two outright fist-fights. As under the circumstances there would be. So where the fuck were the guys in armour whose job was keeping the pax romana?
The Way was clearing fast now; a lot of the gawpers had headed east in the procession’s wake, leaving the pillar-fringed pavement a lot emptier than it probably was usually. I carried on in the direction I’d originally intended, towards the main crossroads. Gods! That had been something, and I just hoped that Perilla and the kids hadn’t got mixed up in it. Not that, probably, they had: they’d be a good half mile off, in the centre proper where the upmarket shops were.
I’d got to within about a hundred yards of the Mouseion when I saw the loungers on the pavement ahead. They were drunk: obviously drunk, two slumped against the inside wall of the portico and a third with his back to the nearest pillar, passing a wine jar between them. Bugger; this I didn’t need, not on top of everything else. I stepped off the pavement onto the street and began to cross over, keeping an eye out for chariots. That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about in Rome: wheeled traffic isn’t allowed within the city boundaries during daylight hours, sure, but even if it was the streets are far too narrow and crowded for anyone in a chariot to get up a decent speed. Like I said, the Canopic Way’s a hundred feet wide, dead straight and well-surfaced, the local wide-boys treat it like a racetrack, and crossing it means you take your life in your hands. Today it was deserted, obviously because everyone in the city with the notable exception of the governor had known about the procession in advance and had either joined in or were keeping clear of the whole boiling.
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