Temple Of Muses

Chapter XII

I waited until night, which I considered to be a display of commendable restraint. After Asklepiodes left, I was not without visitors. To my surprise, one of them was Fausta. She came shortly before dusk, cool and imperious as ever. She was a woman I always found intimidating. The Cornelians always considered themselves favored even among patricians, and on top of that, she was the daughter of Sulla, the most feared Dictator in the history of Rome. But these things were not enough. She was a twin, and one of an identical brother-sister pair. This was a combination so portentous that she was not merely respected but genuinely feared. Despite her great wealth, she had remained unmarried until the unexpected suit of Titus Annius Milo, perhaps the only man of my acquaintance who was utterly without fear.

I knew that he would come to regret this match. For all his great charm and penetrating intellect, poor Milo lacked experience with women. His fixation, like that of so many, was power. In its pursuit he had neglected what were, to him, lesser matters, 'such as the necessary but sometimes bewildering relations between men and women. Milo had no use for bewilderment.

The fact was that Fausta was an acquisition for Milo. He was a nobody from Ostia who had come to Rome to win the city. He had started from nothing to become a prominent gang leader and had now started up the ladder of office. He wanted a wife, and the wife had to be noble, preferably patrician. It would not come amiss if she were presentable as well. Fausta was perfect, as far as he was concerned. He neglected the fact that Fausta was Fausta. It was like buying a horse for nothing but its looks and its bloodlines, forgetting that it might throw you and cheerfully trample and kick you to death for the fun of it. But all that was in the future.

"I begin to see what Julia finds attractive in you, Decius Caecilius," she said by way of preamble.

"That I get locked up in dungeons and put on trial for my life?" I said.

She sat in a spindly Egyptian chair. "What is it like to be chained naked to a wall? Is it exciting?"

"If you wish," I said, "I can call in the Binder and the Whipper. They can take you to the cellar and chain you up nicely. Any special services you'd like to request first?"

"Oh, it's such a bore when it's voluntary."

"Fausta, surely you didn't come here to discuss your singular tastes in entertainment?"

"No, I came to bring you this." She held out a folded papyrus. "It's from Julia. Are you going to do something foolish?"

"At the first opportunity." I took the papyrus from her and opened it. "Why didn't Julia bring it herself?"

"Berenice insisted that Julia help her choose a gown for the banquet tonight. She owns several hundred, so don't expect to see Julia any time soon. Julia said she was very pleased with the way you looked without your clothes."

"She has excellent taste." I read the note. The house where Hypatia lived is on the Street of the Carpenters, opposite the eastern end of the theater. It has a red front and the doorposts are carved with acanthus leaves. Don't do anything foolish.

"You read this?" I said.

"Of course I read it. I'm no slave messenger. Why do you need to know where that poor woman's house is?"

"My reasons are sufficient to me. Why are you so curious?"

"If you are so hated by so many powerful men, there must be more to you than I thought."

"How good it is to enter your charmed circle. Yes, I, too, am the coveted target of assassins."

"I think that always makes a man more interesting and exciting. But not poor Julia. She actually worries about you." To my relief, Fausta rose. "I must go now, Decius. I think, should you live, you might turn out to be an interesting man." And so she left.

Rufus came by to tell me that Creticus was making inquiries about ships leaving for Rome. Failing Rome, for anywhere at all. I clearly had little time to settle matters in Alexandria. Fortunately, Creticus hadn't set armed guards over me. This might have been because the embassy had no armed guards. There were always the Whipper and the Binder, but now that I was no longer charged with murder, it would have been unfitting to set slaves over me.

So when it was fully dark and everyone had retired, I just put on my cloak and walked out.

Once again, I was on the streets of Alexandria at night. The theater was one of the landmarks of the city, and I made for it. The theaters of Greece were cut into hillsides, taking advantage of natural terrain features. Since Alexandria was flat, the theater of Alexandria was a freestanding building, much like the one Pompey was even then building on the Campus Martius in Rome. It was visible from a long distance, and I could see it almost as soon as I left the Palace enclosure.

The theater in Alexandria was the great resort of prostitutes, as was and is the Circus Maximus in Rome. There is something about dark archways that is conducive to their trade. There were practitioners of both of the usual sexes, and some who seemed to be a combination of both.

I made a show of strolling about, examining the wares to be had, making comparisons of appearance, price and specialty (I truly was not interested), all the while keeping an eye on the red-fronted house with the carved doorposts. In the torchlight it was actually possible to distinguish color. I had to assume that the leaves adorning the doorposts were of the acanthus. I wouldn't know acanthus from poplar. A person of enormous, liquid-brown eyes and indeterminate gender noticed my preoccupation and sidled over to me.

"You can't afford that one," she said (I use "she" for lack of an adequate pronoun).

"How do you know?" I asked.

"She is kept by some very rich men. They keep her well, and I doubt that they would like it if she were to spread herself too thin."

"Men?" I said. "She is kept by more than one?"

"Oh, yes. At least three who go there in turn; sometimes all three are in there at once. She must have some sophisticated tricks to keep all three amused at once."

"Who are they?" I asked.

"Why are you so curious about her?" she said suspiciously.

I almost told her about the murder, but she would clam up if she thought she might be hauled in for an investigation.

"I have reason to believe she's a slave who ran away from her master in Syracuse."

"Then there is reward money involved."

"I am willing to pay for information."

"I've already given you some," she said petulantly.

"That was your miscalculation." I held out two silver denarii and dropped them into the soft palm. "Describe the three regulars."

"One is an Eastern foreigner, a Syrian or Parthian, I think. He's the one who's there almost every night. There's a big, good-looking man who favors clothes with a military cut. The third is a little Greek. Not from Greece, I don't think, but from one of the Eastern colony cities."

"How can you tell that?"

"He's bought the services of a few of the boys. I've heard him talk. He tries to speak like an Athenian, but he can't quite pull it off. Fine voice, though, like a trained orator."

"Are any of those boys here tonight?" I asked.

"I don't think so. They're a pretty transient lot, runaways mostly, both slave and free. They don't last long."

I tossed her another denarius and went toward the house. I had expected Orodes and Achillas, but who was the Greek? A woman like Hypatia might keep any number of lovers on the side, but the catamite had said that all three of these had been in the house at the same time, upon occasion. No matter. My business was with a certain book in that house.

There were no lamps showing, but that meant nothing. The only windows on the street side were two small ones on the second story. The flanking buildings ap-peared to be private houses as well. I walked around the block. On the opposite side was a row of small shops. Most were shuttered for the night, but there was a small wineshop right in the middle of the block. As near as I could make out, it was directly opposite Hypatia's house. I went in and found a place much like its Roman equivalent, only better lit and ventilated. A half-wall separated it from the street, its upper half bearing top-hinged shutters that were propped open to catch the evening air.

Inside, a long counter ran the length of one wall. The other side was devoted to a number of small tables at which a dozen or so patrons sat, drinking and talking in low tones. None of them paid me any heed when I entered. I went to the bar and ordered a cup of Chian. There were platters of bar food, and I remembered that it had been a while since I had eaten, and it is always a mistake to commit burglary on an empty stomach. So I loaded a plate with bread, cheese, figs and sausage.

As I annihilated everything on the plate, I pondered my next move. I had to get into that house, and the easiest way seemed to be through the back of this one. I took my empty cup and plate to the bar.

"More, sir?" asked the barkeep, a one-eyed man in a dirty tunic.

"Not just now. Is there a public latrine out back?"

"No, there's one just down the street."

"That won't do," I said. "I need to get out back. The truth is, I'm visiting a lady's house and I'd rather not be seen going in." I'd actually told the truth.

He grinned lopsidedly and took the silver denarius I held out. "Come this way, sir."

He led me through a curtained doorway into the rear of the shop. There was a storeroom with amphorae, full on the right, empties on the left, and miscellaneous goods and supplies. A stairway led to the upper floor, undoubtedly the shopkeeper's home. He unbolted a rear door and let me through.

"Will you be coming back this way?" he asked.

"Probably not, but it's possible."

"I can't leave it unbolted, but if you pound loud enough, I'll come and open it up for you."

"There will be another denarius for your trouble should it be necessary," I assured him.

"Good evening to you, then, sir." I got the impression that he had performed this service before.

Behind the shop was a large courtyard shared by most of the houses on the block. As in Rome, few buildings actually fronted on the streets in Alexandria. The yards were separated by head-high, gated walls. I scrambled atop a wall and surveyed the scene. No one appeared to be in the yards or on the second-story balconies. All was quiet. Cats walked silently along the tops of the low walls like spirits.

The house that I judged to be Hypatia's showed no lights. I walked along the wall and jumped down into its courtyard. The space was filled with planters in which flowers bloomed. A marble table stood in its center, circled by bronze chairs. It was undoubtedly a pleasant spot in the daytime. Poor Hypatia must have taken great pleasure in it.

I made my way past the flowers and tried the ground-floor door. It opened quietly. I went in cautiously, afraid there might be slaves somewhere about, sleeping lightly. I didn't dare try to fetch a light from one of the street torches until I was sure I was alone, so I spent the next hour or more tiptoeing through the house, guiding myself by touch. I found no one on either floor. I took a lamp and began to descend the stairs, congratulating myself on my ingenuity and good fortune. Then I heard a sound at the door. Somebody was fumbling at it with a key. I tiptoed back up the stair and to the largest room on the second floor. It was a bedroom, and I scrambled beneath the bed like the wife's young lover in a farce.

I heard men's voices downstairs, and saw faint lights flickering on the walls of the stairwell. Then the voices were in the room. From my point of limited vantage I counted three pairs of feet, one in slippers, one in Greek sandals, one in military boots.

"It is in that cabinet," said a heavily accented voice. "I could have fetched it myself."

"There are many things we could all do individually, if we trusted one another, which we do not." This was a cultivated Greek voice with a faint accent. The mystery man.

"We don't have all night," said a third voice, brusque and military. "Let's go over it."

This had to be Achillas, I thought, although his words were somewhat tightly spoken, as if suppressing some resentment. Well, conspirators hardly ever get along very well. There came a shuffling of feet and a scraping of furniture. A loud rustling announced the unrolling of a heavy scroll.

"Most interesting work," said the Greek voice. "Only the first part is Biton's treatise on war engines, you know, written in his own hand. It also contains the work of Aeneas Tacticus and a unique work by one Athenaeus concerning the mechanical school established by the tyrant Dionysus I of Syracuse to improve military engineering, all of it profusely illustrated."

"I read it all years ago," said Military Boots. "Valuable stuff, but that's not what's important."

"So it isn't," said Greek Sandals. "But: " There was a sound of more rustling.": here are the original plans by Iphicrates for his new machines, including the propulsion system for the great tower, the reflectors for firing enemy ships: note that it only works on a sunny day: and so forth. Why is King Phraates so anxious to have these?"

"The Parthians are horse-archers," Military Boots said. "That gives them the edge against the Romans on an open battlefield. Romans are heavy infantry and little else, on the field. But they are masters at both besieging and defending fortified positions, and you can't take those with horses and arrows. A war between Rome and Parthia would be fought to a bloody draw, with Parthia victorious in the field and Rome taking and holding the forts, the cities and the harbors. With these machines, and the trained engineers we'll send them, Parthia has nothing to fear from Rome."

"I see. Ah, here are the earlier drafts of the treaty, since we no longer have the services of the late Hypatia:"

"Was it really necessary to kill her?" hissed Asiatic Slippers.

"Oh, absolutely," said Greek Sandals. "She was about to sell us all out to the Roman."

"We don't allow treachery," said Military Boots. "Not from an Athenian whore, and not from a Chian philosopher."

"Yes, I suppose the man had to die," said Asiatic Slippers. "Dealing with the kings of Numidia and Armenia might have been overlooked, but not blackmail. Still"-he sighed-"he was a unique resource and we shall miss him."

"I shall read through the treaty clause by clause," Greek Sandals said. "You may then translate into the Parthian tongue. In the absence of your lamented concubine, I fear that you must trust the accuracy of my reading."

"At this stage," Asiatic Slippers said, "I have no fear of double-dealing. However, you must understand that all of this hinges upon Lord Achillas making himself king of Egypt."

"You need have no doubt of that," said Greek Sandals. "We Greeks invented the concept of the self-fulfilling prophecy. Very shortly the god Baal-Ahriman shall prophesy that the Lord Achillas is actually the son of the late King Ptolemy, and is the true heir to the double crown. He shall put aside the usurper, the false Ptolemy. He shall marry the Princess Berenice, and possibly Cleopatra and Arsinoe as well. He will then lead Egypt back to its ancient position of glory."

"As long as he does not move into Parthian territory," Asiatic Slippers said.

"That is what this treaty concerns," said Military Boots. "Let's be about it. I would like to be out of this house by dawn."

And they went over it, clause by clause. It was an alliance of Egypt and Parthia against Rome. Iphicrates and Achillas had convinced Phraates that, with these silly engines, he could defy the Roman legions at will. Far more ominously, it established an Egypt-Parthia axis complete with a war plan. At a time to be agreed upon, Egypt would invade up the Sinai and into Judaea and Syria as far as the Euphrates. Phraates would send his horse-archers (with all those splendid new machines) westward into Pontus, Bithynia and Asia Minor as far as the Hellespont, between them pushing Rome entirely out of all those territories. The plan was incredibly ambitious and would have been unrealistic except for one thing. We were readying for war with Gaul. Since Mithridates had died, we had been lulled into the idea that the East was utterly pacified. They might, I realized, just get away with it.

But I could not allow this. I had heard everything. I was on the spot and had the documents and the conspirators within my grasp. Most of all, I had the most agonizing need to urinate.

Just keeping quiet under a bed for hours is difficult enough, trying not to shift, scratch or sneeze. It is far worse when you've indulged in a bit of Chian beforehand.

"I think that concludes our business," said Military Boots, his voice still oddly strained. "It's getting light outside."

"I shall send the book with the documents enclosed to King Phraates," said Asiatic Slippers.

"And I am for the temple," said Greek Sandals. "A good day and a fine new era to you gentlemen."

"Not so fast!" I said, bursting up from beneath the bed, letting the delicate Egyptian fabrication smash back against the wall as I drew my sword. "I have you all: " The three had backed away, eyes going wide, startled. The first thing I noted was that Military Boots was not Achillas. It was Memnon, and he wore a bandage about his jaw where I had marked him with my caestus. No wonder his voice sounded strained. He had his sword out, too.

Orodes was just who I thought he was, but the other man I did not know, although he seemed decidedly familiar. He was a Greek with a close-trimmed beard and hair that just covered his ears. His hand went into his tunic and came out with an odd axe, its blade deeply curved with a short spike on the opposite side. The handle had been crudely cut to about a foot in length. I grinned at him.

"You look better without the wig and false beard, Ataxas," I said. "But why the axe? Is it what you kill bulls with? I suppose a slave like you never learned to use a freeman's weapons."

"The Roman!" Memnon said, giving me a smile that must have hurt. "I swore I'd avenge the blows you struck me!"

Orodes darted toward the book. It had been rerolled and a small stack of papers stood beside it-undoubtedly the earlier drafts of the treaty. He reached for the book and I flicked out with the point of my gladius, opening his forearm from wrist to elbow. He squawked and jumped back.

"No, no," I said. "That's mine. We're going to see some treason trials and some crucifixions when I present those, first to King Ptolemy and then to the Senate."

Memnon chuckled. "Roman, you're assuming that you're going to get out of here alive. You're wrong." He came toward me in that flat-footed, shuffling crouch that denotes the practiced swordsman. I moved toward him as I had been taught, gladiator-style, balanced on the balls of my feet. I picked up a spindly chair to use as a shield. Memnon whipped his cloak around his left forearm for the same purpose.

Memnon aimed a stab at my face, but his sword was a Greek type, longer than mine, with a swelling point. It was just a bit slow and I sidestepped it, sending a thrust in return. When you thrust with a gladius, your arm becomes a target. That is why gladiators wear armor on the weapon arm. So my arm snapped out and back, quick as a snake's tongue. I meant to put the blade right through Memnon's throat, but he pulled back and ducked his head and I only nicked his chin. I had my arm back so fast that he didn't have an opportunity to cut at it, but he thrust low at my belly. I jerked backward, a little clumsily because of my long stay beneath the bed. I rotated the chair down, caught the sword and swept it aside as I stepped in and thrust at his chest. No Thracian in the amphitheater ever executed the move as neatly.

But Memnon was no mean swordsman. He brought his cloak-wrapped forearm up and across and batted my blade past his left shoulder as he slid in and sent his own blade at my belly. I brought the chair down and made an unexpected catch. His point jammed into one of the legs, split it and lodged there. I yanked the chair aside, sweeping his sword wide and stepping in to thrust my point into his belly, just below the breastbone, and lancing upward into the heart. To make a thorough job of it, I twisted the point before I withdrew it, causing a great effusion of blood to follow my blade.

Memnon crashed across the table, taking the lamps with it. This did not plunge the room into darkness, for the sun was up and light came in through the single window. For the first time since Memnon had come for me, I had a chance to see what the other two were doing.

Orodes had disappeared. I hadn't heard him going down the stairs, but then I had been preoccupied. A fight to the death narrows one's focus considerably. I stuck my head out the window and saw Orodes headed toward the Palace, hugging his wounded arm to his body. Just below me, Ataxas burst out the front door and began sprinting toward the Rakhotis. He carried something bulky. I pulled back in and looked at the smashed table. The book was gone.

I had to give chase, but I had some urgent business to transact. I was tempted to piss on Memnon, but it is inadvisable to abuse the bodies of the dead. I have never been superstitious, but it always pays to be cautious. Look at what happened to Achillas after he dragged Hector behind his chariot. A vase served adequately, and I re-sheathed my sword without bothering to wipe it off. Another job for Hermes.

I was out the door in time to see Ataxas's dwindling form disappear around a corner of the theater. I ran after him, to the great curiosity of the citizens who were beginning to populate the streets.

It was an interesting race. Each of us had certain advantages and disadvantages. And the stakes were very high. Ataxas was encumbered by the heavy book, but he had a head start. He was an ex-slave who had probably never spent an hour in the palaestra, much less in the stadium, whereas I had had all the usual military training, although I was out of condition. If he could get to his temple, he would be safe. I was a Roman in a city where Romans were rapidly growing unwelcome and were soon to be targets of hostility.

Here the streets of Alexandria worked to my advantage. The wide boulevards, the long, straight blocks, made it virtually impossible for him to get out of my sight for more than a few seconds. I was gaining on him, impatient to catch him but knowing better than to put on a sudden burst of speed that would leave me gagging on the pavement before we even reached the Rakhotis.

We passed market stalls and rumbling farm carts, braying asses and groaning, ill-smelling camels and even a couple of elephants bound for some ceremonial in the Hippodrome. Chickens scattered before us and cats watched us warily. People looked at us with interest and then went back to what they were doing. Alexandria is a city of many spectacles, and we made a sorry spectacle, indeed.

I noted that the complexion of the crowd had grown darker. White kilts and black wigs came to predominate. We were in the Rakhotis. Now I became acutely conscious of my Roman haircut and generally Latin features. If I had been chasing an Egyptian, I would probably have been mobbed immediately. I had to catch Ataxas and get out of there before they decided to do it anyway.

I reached him just before the street we were on opened onto the huge plaza surrounding the Great Serapeum. I was tempted to spit him with my sword, but something that public and that outrageous would undoubtedly result in my death, probably on the altar of some disgusting god with the head of a warthog. So instead I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

He was red-faced and gasping, trembling with exhaustion as I shoved him back into a space between two buildings. A couple of cats paused in their contest over the remains of a fish long enough to hiss at us. Triumphantly, I snatched the scroll from his arms. He made a halfhearted grab for his shortened axe, but I kicked him in the crotch and that made him change his mind.

"Don't mistake me for some helpless mathematician, Ataxas," I said to him as he writhed on the cobbles. "It takes more than some jumped-up runaway slave to kill a Caecilius Metellus."

"How much do you want, Roman?" he gasped. "I will make you rich beyond your wildest ambitions. There is a whole country here to loot."

"I just want to see what Ptolemy does to you. Or possibly your own followers when they see Ataxas is a runaway Greek slave in a wig and a false beard. The king's soldiers will go into your temple with sledgehammers and smash your trick statue and tear up the floors and walls to find the pipes you used to fake the sound of Baal-Ahriman's voice. You'll probably be pulled apart and devoured by priestesses with lacerated backs to avenge."

"You place great faith in Ptolemy, Roman," Ataxas said. "His time is over, as is the ascendancy of Rome in Egypt." He had worked his way back up to his knees.

"Not after I get back to the Palace with this," I said, shaking the document in his face.

"That may not be as easy as you think, Roman," he said, with no small measure of truth. I was in the Rakhotis, and these were bad times to be a Roman in that part of the city.

"Farewell, Ataxas," I said. "I'll come to your execution, should you live long enough to be sentenced." I turned and walked to the mouth of the alley. Before going out, I stopped and looked out into the street. It was getting crowded, but nobody was paying me any attention. Just as I stepped out into the street, I heard a horrible squalling sound that cut off suddenly. I could only think that it was Ataxas making some inarticulate sound of rage. Then something hit me squarely between the shoulder blades and flopped to the pavement. I turned, bewildered. Something gray and furry lay at my feet, inert. It was all so unexpected that at first I didn't recognize the thing. Then Ataxas ran past me into the street, pointing at me, his eyes wide with horror.

"The Roman has killed a cat!" he shouted, then, in a hysterical shriek: "THE ROMAN HAS MURDERED A CAT!"

The people in the street stared, mouths agape. They stared at me, then looked down at the wretched beast, as if they could not comprehend the sheer sacrilegious horror of what they saw.

"He killed a cat!" they began to murmur, in both Greek and Egyptian. "The Roman killed a cat!" It did not take them long to get over their shock as I sidled away from the little corpse.

Then: "KILL THE ROMAN! KILL THE CAT-MURDERER!"

I began to retrace my steps at great speed. This time I was encumbered with the heavy book, and it was my second life-and-death race of the morning. I thought of that Greek with the interminable name who had run from Marathon to Sparta and back to Marathon and then all the way to Athens, where he dropped dead, which served him right. After all, he didn't have a rampaging Alexandrian mob on his heels.

Every time I looked back over my shoulder, the mob was getting bigger. News of the enormity I had committed flew faster than I would have credited possible. They were calling not just for my death but for the death of all Romans. But they wanted to start with me.

It seemed ridiculous to me to be rent asunder by a rampaging mob for killing a cat. But to have this happen over a cat-slaying of which I was entirely innocent was beyond endurance. I had little love for the slinky beasts, but it never would have occurred to me to slaughter one.

I was out of the Rakhotis as if I wore the winged sandals of Mercury, but I was far from safe. The mob rampaged into the Greek quarter and picked up strength even there. There are Egyptians in all the quarters of

Alexandria, and there are always people in any city who will jump at any chance to join a riot. I had done it myself, when the riot was in a good cause.

I ran by the Macedonian barracks, screaming, "Riot! Riot! Turn out the troops! The city is aflame!" The soldiers on parade looked bewildered, but officers barked orders and the drums began to beat and the trumpets to bray.

I looked behind me to see the soldiers boil out of the gates and collide with the following mob. Many got through, and they continued to pursue me. I tried to turn up a street that led northward, toward the Palace, but members of the mob had got there ahead of me and cut me off. That was more of Ataxas's doing. Why hadn't I killed the fiend when I had him at my mercy?

There was nothing for it but to continue fleeing east, all the way to the delta if need be. I was gasping heavily by this time, bringing up phlegm with every wheeze. I began to see men in long robes wearing pointed caps and their hair loose about their shoulders. That meant I was in the Jewish quarter. These were the traditional Jews, for most of the Jews of Alexandria were dressed and barbered like Greeks, and many of them spoke no language except Greek.

With a final burst of speed I got far ahead of the cat-avengers and darted down an alley. It was intersected by another alley and I took that one. This was refreshing, almost like Rome. I pounded on a door.

"Let me in!" I begged.

"What is it?" The voice came from overhead. It belonged to a man with thin features, dressed in a red-and-white robe. His eyes had a slightly fanatic gleam.

"The Egyptians are after me!" I said.

"I don't like Egyptians," the man remarked. "They kept my people in bondage for many generations."

"Then you'll save me from them! They think I killed a cat!"

"The Egyptians are uncircumcised idolaters," he said. "They worship animals and animal-headed gods." That was certainly true, although I had no idea what the state of their penises had to do with anything.

"The Macedonians went out to suppress the riot," I said, "but some got through and they're after me. Let me in!"

"I don't like the Macedonians either," he said. "King Antiochus Epiphanes killed our priests and befouled the Holy of Holies!"

I was growing impatient.

"Listen: I am a Senator of Rome, attached to the diplomatic mission. Rome will reward you richly if you will just let me in!"

"And I don't like Romans!" he screamed. "Your General Pompey stormed the Temple Mount and violated our Holy of Holies and seized the Temple treasury!" I had to run into one who held a grudge. Somebody tugged at my shoulder and I turned to see a man in Greek dress.

"Come with me," he said urgently. "They are no more than a street away." I followed him down the alley and through a low doorway. The room we entered was modest, with spare furnishings. "Amos is the wrong man to ask for aid," he said. "He's half cracked. My name is Simeon son of Simeon."

"Decius son of Decius," I said. "Pleased to meet you." My breathing grew a bit less ragged. "This is all too complicated to explain, but it's all part of a plot to turn the Egyptians against Rome. I have to get to the Palace, but I can't until the streets are safe."

"I will go out now," Simeon said. "I'll spread the word that you were seen heading out the Canopic Gate and past the Hippodrome. We don't want that mob in our quarter."

"A very sensible attitude," I told him. "Let me rest here and regain my wind. Then perhaps I can borrow some clothes from you. You will be well rewarded."

He shrugged. "There is no sense thinking of rewards while your life is still in danger. Worry about that later." With that he left.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, I had nothing to do. So I went up the stairs and found an upper room much like the lower one. No sign of a wife or children. Another stair led to the roof, so I went up to it. I kept well back from the parapet as I listened. The sounds of the mob and the clank of arms seemed to come from all directions. In any other city, a riot of this magnitude would have featured plumes of smoke as building after building caught fire until a full-scale conflagration was in progress. Usually, the fires kill far more than the rioters.

Not in Alexandria, the fireproof city. I could follow the progress of major segments of the mob up and down the streets, just by the sounds they made. They did seem to be dwindling toward the Canopic Gate. Then I heard soldiers heading that way. After a couple of hours, the whole cacophony came back toward me, then dwindled to the west. Apparently the soldiers had lined up across all the streets shield-to-shield and were driving the rioters all the way back to the Rakhotis.

I wondered what would happen in this city if anyone ever killed two cats.

It was well past noon when the city seemed to be at peace again. This did not mean that I was out of danger. Even without rioting mobs, Achillas was out there somewhere. I heard sounds from below.

"Roman? Senator Decius? Are you up there?"

"Simeon?" I said. "Is all clear in the streets?"

He came out onto the roof. "The mob was driven back. Heavy squads of soldiers patrol the streets, but it was bloody. Once a mob turns on one sort of foreigner, it soon turns on all foreigners. We've been here as long as Alexandria has existed, but the Egyptians still regard us as foreigners."

"They lack the enlightened Roman attitude toward citizenship," I told him. "And now, I must get to the Palace. Can you lend me some clothes?"

"Easily enough, but no adult male Jew goes cleanshaven, nor do we cut our hair as short as yours. Let me see what I can find."

We went down into his house, and he rummaged through his chests until he came up with a very coarse cloak and one of those Egyptian head-scarves that follow the shape of the wig.

"These belonged to a slave I freed after his seven years," Simeon remarked. "Let's see what you look like in them."

"Seven years?" I asked as I donned the itchy cloak and the ridiculous scarf.

"My religion forbids chattel slavery," he said. "We allow bond servitude for seven years only; then the servant must be given his freedom."

"We could use a custom like that," I said. "It would probably spare us no end of trouble. Never get the Senate to accept it, though."

He lent me a bag of coarse sacking to conceal the scroll, and I felt as disguised as I could, under the circumstances. It occurred to me that the streets would be full of Achillas's men, who would undoubtedly have orders to deliver me to the Palace in small pieces.

"What is the most direct way to get to the sea from here?" I asked.

"If you walk from here to the city wall and turn north along it, you will reach the Fishermen's Gate."

"I think that is my best course, rather than back through the city. Farewell, Simeon. You may look for tangible evidence of my gratitude soon."

"Just do what you can to put a stop to the anti-foreign hysteria, Senator. This used to be such a wonderful city."

I stepped from the front door and found the alley empty. A very few steps brought me to an east-west street and I turned east. The district was all but deserted, the inhabitants huddling behind bolted doors. That suited me admirably. I reached the city wall without incident and found an especially heavy guard patrolling along its crest, their eyes scanning the city for signs of disturbance. Following the wall north brought me to a small gate. It stood open for the day, and nobody along my route had so much as a glance to spare for another slave carrying another load on his shoulder.

On the other side of the gate I found a paved embankment from which several small stone jetties protruded into the shallow, greenish water. Most of the fishing boats were out for the day, but a few night-fishermen sat on the jetties repairing their nets. They were native Egyptians and I approached them warily.

"I need boat transport into the Great Harbor," I told an industrious-looking pair who sat near a well-maintained boat. "I will pay you well."

They eyed me curiously. "How could you pay anything?" asked one without hostility. He spoke passable Greek. I took out a purse and let them hear the clink. That decided them. They folded their net and placed it in the boat, and in minutes we were rowing up along the peninsula of Cape Lochias.

With a little talk, I learned that they were not true Alexandrians; rather, they lived in the little fishing village that stood on the water just to the east of the city wall. They had no interest in the disturbances of Alexandria save as those affected the fish-market. That being the case, I removed my scarf and cloak. It was all one to them. They probably wouldn't have known a Roman from an Arab.

We passed beneath the fort of the Acrolochias, then rounded the point, passing between it and the nearest of the little islands that stood off the cape, each bearing its tiny shrine to Poseidon. The Pharos was a great smoking pillar to our right as we came back down the cape. The fishermen began to pull for the docks, but I stopped them.

"Put me in there," I said, pointing to the strait between the base of Cape Lochias and the Antirrhodos Island.

"But that is the royal harbor," said one. "We will be executed if we go in there."

"I am a Roman Senator and a part of the Roman diplomatic mission," I said grandly. "You will not be punished."

"I don't believe you," said the other.

I drew my sword, crusted with black blood. "Then I will kill you!" They pulled for the royal harbor.

Only a couple of guards in gilded armor decorated the royal pier. They shuffled down to where the boat pulled up and made indignant noises as I was paying my boatmen.

"I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus of the Roman embassy!" I shouted to them. "Lay hands on me at your mortal peril! I must see King Ptolemy at once!"

"We can't let you in and we can't leave our post, Senator," said one. "We'll have to pass word for the Captain of the Watch."

One of Achillas's men, no doubt. "Why?" I said, scanning the harbor like a slave in a comedy. "I see no enemy fleet rounding the Pharos. Let me by."

"Sorry, sir. It's our standing orders."

"You are behaving like fools," I insisted.

"Would you let Roman soldiers get away with neglect of duty, Senator?" said the younger of the two. He had a point.

"Can't leave your post, eh?" I said.

"Sorry, sir, no," said the elder.

"Then you can't chase me." I dashed between them and sprinted for the Palace. As they hollered for more guards behind me, I thought that I must take up this running business seriously. This was my third hard run of the day. My prolonged relaxation in Simeon's house had taken its toll, though. My legs had grown stiff and sore. My motions were wobbly, like one just ashore after a long, rough sea voyage.

I ran past the royal menagerie, where the lions and other predators set up a roaring and yowling. Anything running meant food to them. Slaves jumped from my path, alarmed at this wild-eyed apparition with his mysterious burden. Then I saw the stair leading to the throne room before me. Ptolemy would be somewhere near, and I vowed a goat to Bacchus if he would just be sober.

I charged up the stairs and came to a halt as the guards closed rank before me, their spears leveled, but with the inevitable look of uncertainty worn by soldiers everywhere when confronted by an unexpected situation.

"Senator Metellus of the Roman embassy demands audience with King Ptolemy!" I shouted. They muttered and shuffled; then someone came through the shadowed portico behind them. But it was not Ptolemy. It was Achillas.

"Seize that madman," he said coolly. "And bring him inside."

Ah, well. It had been worth a try. Luckily for me, even parade armor is heavy. I kept a few steps ahead of the clattering guardsmen all the way to the Roman embassy. If the servants and hangers-on had scattered before me on my way to the throne room, they were doubly swift to do so with all that pointed and sharp-edged steel bearing down upon me.

Then I was in sight of the Roman embassy. But it was not the placid scene I had grown used to. The steps were crowded with men dressed in togas and women in Roman dress and even children, the boys in purple-bordered togas. More to the point, in front of them stood a line of grim soldiers, their spears leveled outward. I was certain I was doomed until I recognized the shape of the big old-fashioned, oval Samnite shields. These were Roman soldiers, not legionaries but marines.

"Save me!" I shouted. "I am a Senator!" Their spear points wavered not a single inch.

"Arrest him!" yelled Creticus from the top of the steps. "Tie him up and bring him in here!" The line of soldiers parted just enough to let me through and then closed smoothly. Behind me, the royal guards came to a halt in a screech of hobnails on pavement. Hands grasped me and dragged me up the steps. I had just run from this very situation, only to have it inflicted upon me by my own countrymen. I was thrown to the steps at Creticus's feet, still hugging my scroll.

"Chain him up!" Creticus screamed. "Flog him! We may have to find a priest to purify the evil little monster!" He was quite beside himself.

"If you'll just get a grip on yourself:"

"Get a grip?" he shrieked, his face going scarlet. "Get a grip! Decius, have you any idea what you've done? Roman citizens have been attacked! Their houses have been destroyed, their property plundered! And why? Because you skulked away from the embassy, against my orders, and killed a cat! A cat!" I thought he was sure to have a seizure.

"I have saved Rome!" I insisted. "A big, wealthy part of the Empire, anyway."

"Enough of these vaporings! Bring the chains."

"Just a moment." Julia pushed her way past him, her face white and drawn. She knelt beside me and wiped my sweaty face with a corner of her scarf.

"Decius, did you really kill that cat?"

"Absolutely not!" I told her. "I love the sneaky little beasts. It was Ataxas. He killed it and blamed it on me. He started it all, and I have the evidence here to convict the lot of them."

She stood and faced Creticus. "Listen to what he has to say."

"Listen to him! That's what caused all this trouble! I listened to him! No more! I will have him tried for treason and flung from the Tarpeian Rock! I'll have his traitorous corpse dragged on a hook down the Tiber steps and thrown into the river!"

She didn't flinch. She stood with her face three inches from his, and her voice didn't waver in the least.

"Quintus Caecilius Metellus Creticus, if you do not hear him out, my uncle, the Consul-elect Caius Julius Caesar, will have some words for you when we return to Rome."

Creticus stood for about five minutes while his normal color returned. Then he snapped: "Bring him inside." We went into the atrium. "Make it fast and convincing."

"War," I gasped, at the end of my resources. Suddenly Hermes was at my elbow with a brimming cup, the blessed boy. I emptied it in one gulp. "War with Parthia. Revolt in Egypt. This is the stolen book."

"Book!" Creticus shouted. "You started a riot over a cat, now you want a war over a book?"

I'd had enough of this. I held one end of the scroll and tossed the bulk of it to the floor. It unrolled for the whole length of the atrium and continued into a hallway, displaying fine Greek writing, exquisite drawings, and spilling documents. I held out the cup and Hermes took it, returning in seconds with a refill. I went to the spilled documents and scooped them up, then handed them to Creticus.

"The secret treaty between Achillas and Phraates of Parthia, plotting to overthrow King Ptolemy and divide up Rome's Eastern possessions between them. Not just the final treaty, but the earlier drafts as well." While Creticus studied it, I glared at the other embassy officials who stood tensely by. "You weasels don't get out of paying me five hundred denarii that easily."

Creticus grew very, very white as he read. "Explain," he said at last. I gave it to them, quickly, from the murder of Iphicrates to my appearance at the bottom of the embassy steps.

By the end of it, somebody had shoved a chair beneath me and I was making quick work of my third cup.

"All right," Creticus said grimly. "I grant you a temporary reprieve. In your insane fashion, you may have done the state some service. Let's go outside."

There was now a great crowd of the Palace guard filling the courtyard, but we felt safe enough behind our line of Roman marines. I staggered out to stand wearily beside Creticus. Julia stood by me. I saw Fausta in the crowd of Romans, looking on happily, as if this spectacle were being staged just for her amusement. Achillas stood at the head of his soldiers. I expected him to bluster, but I had underestimated him. He was biding his time in silence, waiting to see which way he should jump.

"You think he'll storm the embassy, Decius?" Creticus said, maintaining that haughty demeanor for which Roman officials are famed all over the world.

"Wouldn't dare," I whispered, looking equally lofty. "It would precipitate war too soon. He needs that alliance with Parthia, and the treaty hasn't been delivered."

Then there was a disturbance at the rear of the crowd. It looked as if a ship were sailing toward the embassy.

"Here comes Ptolemy," Creticus said. "Let's hope he's sober."

Achillas and his soldiers bowed as the tremendous litter was set down in the courtyard. Its ramp was lowered and slaves unrolled his long carpet, dyed at fabulous cost with Tyrian purple. When Ptolemy descended he was sober, and he was not alone. Behind him came his newly pregnant queen, who was followed by a nurse carrying the infant Ptolemy. Behind them came the princesses: Berenice, then solemn Cleopatra, last of all little Arsinoe, holding the hand of a court lady. The marines parted to let them pass, then re-formed, their spears steady.

The message was plain: Ptolemy was putting himself and his family under the protection of Rome. As he reached the top of the steps, Creticus handed him the treaty wordlessly. The king perused it as his family filed within the embassy. Then he turned to face the crowd.

"General Achillas, come here," Ptolemy said.

I must hand it to the man: I never saw anyone so coolly brazen. He walked up the stairs with perfect confidence and bowed deeply.

"What would my king have of me?" he asked.

"An explanation," Ptolemy said. He held the condemning document before Achillas's face. "You sought to arrest young Senator Metellus when he tried to bring this to me. Can you tell me why?"

"Of course, your Majesty. He was obviously deranged, a danger to both himself and the community. Alexandria is not safe for Romans at this time, and I wanted to subdue him for his own protection."

"And this little document?" Ptolemy asked.

"I have never seen it before," he said quite truthfully. Ptolemy raised an eyebrow in my direction.

"It was his henchman Memnon who arranged the final draft, along with the Parthian ambassador, Orodes, and the fraudulent holy man, Ataxas, acting as scribe."

"Memnon was found murdered this morning," Achillas said. "What does the Senator know about that?"

"It was a fair fight. He was conspiring against King Ptolemy and against Rome. He deserved to die. But he was acting in your name, Achillas."

He studied the document with mock seriousness. "Then he did so without my knowledge. I see neither signature nor seal to indicate my participation. I protest that anyone should regard my name written by another's hand to be incriminating evidence."

"Fetch the Parthian ambassador!" Ptolemy called.

"Unfortunately," Achillas said, "Lord Orodes was found dead near the Palace gate this morning. It seems he bled to death from a cut on the forearm."

"Ridiculous!" I said. "I didn't cut him that badly. There would have been more blood on the floor when he ran away."

"You've been busier than a gladiator at a munera sine missione," Creticus commented.

"And what would be the response," Ptolemy said, "should your king summon the priest Ataxas?"

"My officers report that he was killed in the rioting this morning. You know how these things are, sir. First the mob wants to kill Romans, then any foreigner will do. It seems that he was dressed and barbered like an Asiatic Greek and nobody recognized him as the Holy Ataxas. Tragic."

Ptolemy sighed. "General Achillas, the nomes near the first cataract are in revolt. My markets on the Elephantine Island are in great danger. You shall gather your troops and set out southward before nightfall. You are not to come back until I send for you."

Achillas bowed. "Your Majesty!" I protested as Achillas descended the steps and began barking orders to his troops. "That man is a deadly danger to you! He plotted against you and against Rome. He had Iphicrates murdered when he learned that the man was making the same promises to other kings. He had Orodes and Ataxas silenced before they could be arrested and made to talk. He should be crucified forthwith."

"His family is a very important one, young Decius," Ptolemy said. "I cannot move against him just now."

"I beg you to reconsider," I said. "Remember how your ancestors would have handled this. They were perfect savages and they would have killed him, then annihilated his family, then gone all the way back to Macedonia, found his ancestral village and leveled it with the ground!"

"Yes, well, the world was younger and simpler then. My problems are very complicated. I thank you for your services, but leave the statecraft to me." Then he turned to Creticus. "Excellency, we must go inside and discuss important matters. I must have Roman protection from my domestic enemies. I will pay full reparations for damage suffered by Romans in Alexandria." The two went inside and the rest of the embassy staff went with them. I was left alone at the top of the steps, above the crowd of Roman refugees. Achillas finished giving his orders and he came up the steps, grinning at me. I itched to draw my sword and kill him, but I was so tired, he would have taken it away from me and skewered me with it. Then he stood a foot from me, wearing a strange expression of hatred, puzzlement and grim respect.

"Why did you do it, Roman?" he asked.

That was simple. "You should not have committed murder within the sacred precincts of the Temple of the Muses," I told him. "That sort of behavior angers the gods." He regarded me for a moment as if I were truly insane; then he whirled and went back down the steps. Weary to my bones, I turned and staggered back within the embassy. They attacked me as soon as I was inside.

Laughing and whooping, the embassy staff bore me to the floor and tied my hands behind me; then they bound my feet at the ankles.

"You still think you can get out of paying me!" I gasped, too weak to do anything else.

"Don't forget to gag him," Creticus said. A rag was stuffed in my mouth and tied securely behind my head. Creticus came over and nudged me in the ribs with his toe.

"Decius, in case you were wondering where those marines came from, the war galleys Neptune, Swan and Triton are in the harbor. I've sent orders for the Swan to come to the royal harbor, and that's where you are going right now. The marines from the Neptune are going out on a little mission of arson on Lord Achillas's nearby estate; then the flotilla sails for Rhodes. That is as far as they take you."

"Beautiful place, Rhodes," Ptolemy said. "A bit dull, though. No army, no politics. In fact, nothing there except schools."

"Maybe you can attend a few lectures, Decius," Creticus said gleefully, nudging me with his toe again. "Learn a little philosophy, eh?" Then the two of them laughed until the tears ran down their degenerate old faces.

I was carried down to the harbor and thrown aboard the ship. Julia accompanied me tearfully, holding my bound hands, which were already growing numb. She said she would follow me to Rhodes as soon as possible. Probably just wanted to meet all those scholars, I guessed. Hermes carried my weapons and a jug of wine, muttering and cursing, already missing the soft life in Alexandria.

As the ship backed away, Creticus came down to the dock and yelled across the water, "If we hear that Rhodes has sunk beneath the sea, I'll know who was responsible. Captain, don't untie him until you're out past Pharos!"

By the time we rounded the lighthouse, another column of smoke rose to the east of the city, a short way inland. I knew that much wood should make a fine fire. I was glad we were too far away to smell the stench from those human-hair ropes.

Before long, Alexandria was out of sight. I would not see it again for twelve years, but when I returned, it was with Caesar, and Cleopatra was queen and events made my little adventures of my first sojourn there seem dull and uneventful, and I finally got to settle matters with Achillas.

These things happened in Alexandria in the year 692 of the City of Rome, the Consulship of Metellus Celer and Lucius Afranius.