The Blood of Alexandria (33 page)

No one was pressing against us. But the chair was beginning to wobble out of control as the carrying slaves panicked. I prodded the two in front with my slave stick and leaned forward with calm words and promises of money. Visibly scared, the guard officer looked at me for instructions. ‘No drawn swords,’ I mouthed in Latin. I flicked a fold of my robe over my own sword. He was still looking at me. ‘No drawn swords,’ I mouthed again, this time in Slavonic. He nodded and made the appropriate gesture to his men. Was it worth turning round and trying the back streets? Forcing a way through this seemed about as sensible as shoving your head into a lion’s mouth.

But now the two Sisters of Saint Artemisia stepped forward. They’d come with us supposedly as guides. I don’t suppose Anastasius had thought it would do with me to explain their real use. They walked straight forward into the mob, calling out something over and over again that included the name of their saint. One of them was waving her arms in the air. The sleeves of her gown fell away, showing thin and hideously scarred, but at the same time muscular, arms.

It was like passing through a night mist that was repelled by torches. As the Sisters advanced, the crowd hollowed out around them. From behind, it closed in again. So, one Sister on each side of us, we passed safely through. The speaker never let up his flow of oratory, other than to give the main crowd room for its increasingly monotonous responses. But if people looked murder at me as I sat still in my chair, with a probably failed attempt at the haughty, no one dared step into the slow-moving void created by the Sisters.

‘If you’ll pardon the expression, sir, it’s fucking chaos all over,’ the police officer shouted as we paused at the Egyptian side of the Wall. The mob was now bellowing its guts out in the square, about a quarter-mile back. By the Wall, a smaller mob – or perhaps a grouping of mobile crowds – was striking up the usual chant. Boys darted quickly in and out of the side streets, sometimes screaming abuse, sometimes throwing stones. I wondered why the police didn’t pull back to our side of the Wall. There was little enough they could do this side to keep order. And these occasional stone showers had already caused injuries.

‘It’s the grain ships, you see,’ the man explained with a look in the direction of the cheering. ‘Both the wogs and our own people think they shouldn’t go out. We’re stretched thin both sides of the Wall. If the Jews turn nasty, we don’t know how we’ll manage.’ He twisted round and shouted an order to some archers who’d appeared along the top of the Wall. They steadied their bows and let fly. They weren’t aiming to kill. It was flesh wounds they inflicted on some of the boys. They fell down screaming. The others backed off. The police moved forward to secure the vacated ground.

It wasn’t much better on the Greek side. Just like at night, the mobs were rushing up and down the streets, passing from agitator to agitator. This side of the Wall, I could at least understand what it was all about. As I’d expected, it was the grain fleet. Perhaps worse, it was also claims about the quantity and management of the supplies left in the granaries.

We’d left the Sisters behind as we passed through the gate. Now, if less scary, the streets were more impassable. We moved slowly down Main Street. Its great width served only to contain the so far aimless crowds of the hungry poor and their troublemaking leaders. All the shops were shut up and boarded. I glanced into the streets leading off, where the men of quality had their palaces. Being the richest of all the landowners, Apion took up both sides of one street, which was itself terminated by the high walls of his garden. He’d now barricaded the entry to the street, and armed his larger and more ferocious slaves to hold off any concerted attack.

How much had he known of the conspiracy? I wondered. He must have known something. It was bad enough if I’d been kept in the dark. But I was an outsider, only recently arrived. It would have been impossible for a man in his position to know nothing. If he wanted those preferments, he’d need to work considerably harder in my interest than he so far had.

I thought suddenly of the Mistress. How was she keeping in all this? I dismissed the thought. If she wasn’t willing to count on me for her safety, she was on her own – not, I had to admit, that she seemed unable to look after herself.

As we turned into the square before the Palace, the guards came forward to help clear a way through.

‘It’s bad news, My Lord,’ one of them told me as we finally passed through the treble gate into the fortified courtyard. ‘A child died of starvation earlier today in one of the poor districts – the one starting behind the Church of the Virgin. As the father carried her body through the streets, a crowd gathered and gathered behind him. It’s too big now to break up, and no one knows when it will catch fire.’

I looked up at the high walls of the courtyard. The windows started around sixty feet up. Even if the whole mob – Greek and Egyptian – broke through the front gates, it wouldn’t get any deeper into the Palace. The mob ever in their minds, the Ptolemies had built well.

‘Has my secretary’s chair come back yet?’ I asked. It had. I nodded. Martin hadn’t needed much encouragement to retreat into his own armoured chair for going about Alexandria. Nevertheless, I didn’t want him out on his relic hunt on a day like this.

I walked by myself into the glittering entrance hall of the Palace. It was here that chairs were normally set down, and this was the first view of the Palace that visiting dignitaries would have. At the far back of the hall was a giant mosaic of Alexander putting the Persians to flight. Down the side walls were statues of every emperor from Julius Caesar onwards. Lucky for us only the most Hellenised or loyal of the natives were ever let in. As it was, I was surprised their mob hadn’t yet based one of its chants on the fact that, with Heraclius, every available space down the walls was now filled up.

It had taken so long to get across the square that the eunuch greeters had been able to raise my own household. The slaves stood in a group beside the statue of Septimius Severus. Martin – so hastily changed, he was wearing shoes of different colours – stood to their right. He bowed low at the waist. The slaves threw themselves down in a full prostration. This was a public event, and the eunuchs could be severe judges if the formalities weren’t respected. Once we were through the door behind the statue, it would be more relaxed. The idea was that I should get into my internal chair and have myself carried sedately up the ramps to the fifth floor, where we had our main accommodation. Without those eunuchs looking on, I’d do no such thing. The kava juice had been having its progressive effect on my bladder since we’d left the Egyptian quarter. I was now bursting for a piss. It would be a quick dash up the stairs provided for the slaves.

‘Have you seen Macarius?’ I asked as we paused at the fifth flight. It took longer than I wanted for Martin, bent double, to gasp out his negative.

‘It doesn’t surprise me if he’s vanished again,’ he wheezed. ‘You know that antique chamber pot you gave Maximin last year – the brass one you bought in Cyprus? Well, it’s gone missing. Sveta saw it when we came back. Yesterday, she went looking and—’

‘Never mind,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I’m sure it will turn up in time.’ Trust Sveta to notice it was gone. I pointed at two of the slaves. They got either side of Martin and readied themselves to propel him the rest of the way. ‘I need you to arrange a meeting with the Viceroy,’ I said. ‘Before then, we’ve business in my office.’

Chapter 33

‘He went out yesterday evening,’ Martin confirmed. ‘Since then, I haven’t seen him.’

I looked again at the box of documents in Egyptian we’d lifted after Leontius had been murdered. Their content was now of some importance. If only Macarius hadn’t decided to vanish again, he’d now be with us in my office and working hard at interpreting them into Greek. He might also be able to have a go at the document in Persian – certainly with its translation in Egyptian.

Before then, though, he’d be explaining himself. The seeds of anger planted in conversation with Anastasius had quickly grown into a mighty tree of rage. His plain job had been to keep me informed of matters that, if not common knowledge, shouldn’t have been that hard to uncover. Even a month ago – never mind when he’d first shown up in Alexandria – a set of sorcery charges would have taken Leontius straight out of action. A few quiet hints they might be implicated, and those landowners would have been queuing up to throw their title deeds at my feet. What had Macarius been about?

I hadn’t told Martin yet about the Holy Family and Soteropolis – I needed him to keep at his relic hunt with more than a show of determination. But I had told him about the meeting with Anastasius.

‘You know my views on the man,’ he’d said with one of his sniffs about Macarius. I hadn’t argued. On the one hand, I didn’t want Martin dwelling too much on the alleged magical side of things. On the other, his words were running along the same course as my thoughts. There are some deficiencies too big to have been made by accident. I didn’t go so far as Martin, who was now wondering if Macarius had any tattoos on his body. But I certainly wanted an explanation.

‘Am I right that Sekhmet was an Egyptian goddess?’ I asked, pulling out the one sheet that we were able to read.

‘She
is
’ – Martin corrected my tense – ‘a demon once known to the Greeks as Sacmis. Her cult was highly regarded among the old kings of Egypt. It was then believed that she was protectress of the whole land, and that the hot winds of the desert were her breath. It was further believed that her breath could strike pestilence into the enemies of Egypt. There is a story that some of her statues could be approached only by those wearing special clothing – that anyone else who laid hands on such statues would be stricken with pestilence.

‘When I was in Antinoopolis . . .’ He paused.

I tried not to perk up too visibly at this rare mention of his time in slavery. He looked at me. The best I could manage without looking thoroughly unnatural was a weak smile. He swallowed and paused a little longer.

‘When I was in Antinoopolis,’ he went on at last, ‘a statue of the demon was uncovered during the laying of foundations for a church. It was in the form of a woman with a lion’s head. It was all of black granite, the head chased with gold. The farm workers who’d been brought in to do the digging set up a wail as the priest himself began prising the gold from its head.

‘As he attacked the last piece of gold with his hammer, the granite splintered, and a demon’s breath rushed out to kill the priest on the spot. Those who carried the statue to throw it into the Nile later sickened and died. For several days, dead fish came to the surface and floated down river of the spot where it was thrown.’

‘And you saw all this?’ I asked.

‘Not myself,’ said Martin with a defensive look. ‘But I heard it from a friend of my master as I waited at table. One of his slaves was present when the priest died.’

‘But surely,’ I asked again, ‘you saw the dead fish?’

‘No,’ he said, a slightly ratty tone coming into his voice. ‘My master ordered the household to keep away from the water. But I was anyway in no position to go and look. It was now that I had my big attack of sunburn. My skin peeled off and I was confined to bed. By the time I was recovered, my master had decided to sell me.’

It was the sort of evidence that would never have held water in an action over a disputed will. But I’d given up for the time being on laws made by and for the sane. For the prosecutions I now had in mind, this would have done very nicely. One day, I’d get the full story of his life from the moment he was sold into slavery to when he turned up in Cyrene as a rather unlikely boy prostitute. Now, though, wasn’t the time for prying. It was probably for the best that I’d visibly annoyed him by not believing a word of his wild romance. Anger is a fine corrective for embarrassment.

I took everything out of the box and spread the fifty or so sheets on the big table over against the external wall of my office. The sunlight that streamed in gave me an excellent view of them. A shame it needed rather more than that to understand a word of them.

‘These are in the pre-modern alphabet of the Egyptians,’ I said, indicating one line of papyrus, each sheet half overlapping the other. ‘These are in a script that bears some resemblance to the picture writing of the statues and temple walls, but seems to have been a simplified form used for less ceremonial purposes.

‘These two sheets, of course, are in the full picture script. Their somewhat weakened state indicates great age – greater even than the oldest documents in Greek you can see in the archives. These words written here and there in the modern alphabet under some of the picture signs appear to correspond with the fragmentary Greek translation. They do appear also to be in the same hand.’

Martin took up the two sheets of picture writing. They did look old, he agreed, though the freshness of the colouring suggested they had been stored safely for much of the time they had existed. Had they been recovered from a tomb? If so, what about the other sheets in the less ceremonial old script? We moved to a discussion of what Lucas and then Anastasius had said about Leontius. Add that to the items in his house, and it was fair to say that he’d been a skilled excavator of antiquities. Martin pulled out two more of the sheets, one in the old and one in the new script.