Our Man in Alexandria Read online

  ‘Ozymandias?’ The name sounded barbarous to Flaminius. Not Roman. Not Greek.

  ‘Ozymandias was assigned to work with Julius Strabo when the commissary centurion came to me with his wild stories,’ said Paulus Alexander. ‘Obviously, as commander of the civic guard, I couldn’t work directly on the case, but I put my best man on it. The fellow’s from Rachotis, the Egyptian Quarter in the south of the city. That means he’s a native, well, a freedman in fact, but Egyptian by birth. They can get anywhere, natives; except the higher circles of power, of course. Such folk are invaluable to anyone policing this city. Especially in cases like this investigation, which had… political overtones.’

  ‘Political?’ said Flaminius. ‘I understood Julius Strabo was investigating some kind of underground cult. That’s what I was told by my chief in Rome.’ Had Probus given him the wrong briefing?

  The commander placed his hands together like the apex of an Egyptian pyramid. ‘In this province,’ he said, ‘you will find that politics and religion go hand in hand.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Flaminius wisely. ‘Like in Britain.’

  He told Paulus Alexander a little about his recent experiences amongst the druids of that island. The commander nodded absently. ‘Alexandria is a place where East meets West,’ Paulus Alexander went on to explain. ‘Greek rubs shoulders with Judaean and Egyptian, Arab and Idumean, all ruled over by Romans, those newcomers on the scene.’

  ‘You’re not a Roman?’ Flaminius gave the man’s kohl another doubtful look.

  ‘I am a Roman citizen,’ said Paulus Alexander. ‘My family have had the citizenship for three generations. Before that we were citizens of Alexandria. But we are also Judaeans by blood. Which has caused us problems in recent years.’

  ‘I thought the Judaeans were all militants and fanatics,’ said Flaminius, surprised to find one in such a position of responsibility. ‘Back in Trajan’s day, and even before that, they had the East in an uproar.’

  ‘Zealots, and their like,’ said Paulus Alexander, dismissively. ‘Most Judaeans are willing to live side by side with the Gentiles—that’s the Greeks, of course, and even we Romans. But there is always a hardcore of hotheads, Pharisees and zealots, who ignore the law and the elders, and believe it to be their duty to fight.’ He shrugged. ‘There can be none left in Alexandria. Not since the massacre.’

  ‘Massacre?’ asked Flaminius. He’d heard of the rebellion in the East, and how Trajan and Hadrian had crushed it. He’d heard nothing of massacres. The city seemed peaceful and prosperous.

  ‘A Cyrenaican Judaean named Lukuas led his rebel army to Alexandria,’ said the commander. ‘The Romans had already abandoned the city. The Judaean militants defeated the Greeks and forced them to take refuge inside the city, which they proceeded to burn. But the Greeks fought back and there was wholesale massacre. Now the surviving Judaeans have been forced from their old quarter and now live outside the city walls.’

  He shrugged. ‘The whole rebellion was foolish, and a waste of life. It caused Rome to draw back from its conquests in Mesopotamia, which could have led on to the conquest of India. In the end, the revolt was put down by Lusius Quietus, governor of Judaea, who was later murdered on the emperor’s orders.’

  Hadrian’s accession had been celebrated by the murder of his rivals—on the orders of an overzealous Praetorian Prefect, however, not the new emperor. Ironically, shortly after Flaminius met the centurion who had carried out several of the murders, the man himself was murdered. There was a moral to it somewhere, Flaminius was sure of that, but he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  ‘Before the rebellion the Judaeans were strong in this city,’ Paulus Alexander went on, ‘governing their own affairs and living in their own quarter, walled off from the rest of the city, and subject to their own sacred law. Now the Judaean Quarter is in ruins, the surviving Judaeans have been driven out into the suburbs, and other people have crept in like rats to live in the ruins. But they are still significant enough for this business to be politically dangerous. I want it kept quiet until it can be proved who is responsible. We do not want more riots and massacres.’

  Flaminius pursed his lips. ‘The prefect has been informed, I take it.’ He sipped at the wine. It was very sweet, like all Greek vintages. Resinated. Slightly sickly. He didn’t like it.

  ‘The prefect will receive my report in due course,’ the commander replied. ‘And you will receive my full cooperation in your investigation. But it is vital that you understand the political situation in Alexandria before you make a start.’

  The man saw him as a troublemaker. By his own account, Paulus Alexander knew the city; Flaminius didn’t. The place was prone to ethnic violence and civil disorder. ‘Let’s talk about the murder,’ he said. ‘Who was it who found the corpse?’

  ‘It was I who discovered Julius Strabo’s body,’ said Paulus Alexander. ‘Like I told you, it was in a ruined temple in the Old Judaean Quarter, destroyed in the war. For some reason he was naked.’

  ‘What were you doing in the Old Judaean Quarter?’ Flaminius asked.

  ‘I went there because I had received a message from Julius Strabo. He thought he had uncovered something of real significance. I hadn’t heard a word from him for some time. To all intents and purposes, he had vanished.

  ‘In his message he explained that he had been living undercover for some weeks, collecting evidence. I went to meet him as arranged, but I found him nearby… dead.’ The measured tones of the commander grew irregular. His voice shook.

  ‘You worked closely with him?’ Flaminius asked sympathetically.

  Paulus Alexander held his palms upward. ‘Ozymandias worked more closely with him. At first, I told him the centurion was mad. What he said made no sense. No Judaeans indulge in… Bacchic revels. Not the kind Julius Strabo hinted at. But I was worried that there would be political implications, so I gave him a partner and gave him his head. He was an imperial agent. Like you. He could easily have gone over my head.’

  ‘Where is the body?’

  ‘It was sent to the embalmers in the City of the Dead. You’ll want to see it, of course. And you’d better hurry; it’ll be embalmed tomorrow at the latest. And I’ll be introducing you to Ozymandias. He knows about Julius Strabo’s investigation, better than I do. Even if he lost contact with him when we all did.’

  ‘Julius Strabo cut all communications?’ Flaminius said. ‘He went undercover without telling anyone? He must have had a very good reason for doing that.’ He spoke from experience. He’d been forced to go rogue when he was in Britain. That had been the beginning of the trouble that had resulted in him being sent to his barbarous province.

  Paulus Alexander raised his eyebrows. ‘He made no reports to anyone,’ he insisted. ‘Finally, he sent me a message via Ozymandias that he had successfully infiltrated this cult and had gathered evidence against them. He wanted to meet me. Well, I met him. What was left of him.

  ‘He was naked. He had been stabbed through the ribs at close range. Then a word had been carved into his brow. A meaningless word. “Abraxas.” His eyes seemed to be staring at me, accusing.’ Paulus Alexander rubbed tiredly at his shaven head. His own eyes seemed dark, and not just due to the kohl.

  ‘Where was the stab wound?’ Flaminius asked. Without speaking, Paulus Alexander tapped himself on the ribcage just below his breast. Flaminius sipped at his wine. ‘It suggests whoever it was who killed him was a friend. Someone who could get close to him before sticking the knife in.’

  Paulus Alexander shook his head. ‘I don’t think Julius Strabo had any friends in the Old Judaean Quarter.’

  Flaminius frowned. ‘You say he had infiltrated the cult. He must have befriended at least one of them. This carving of letters into his brow. Perhaps ritual activity.’

  But what cult? Julius Strabo thought it had been Bacchic. What were Judaeans doing worshipping a god who originated in Thrace? They had their own peculiar deity, Flaminius knew.

  He tried to rememb
er what he had read from official reports while on the way. The Judaeans were a race apart. Like the Getae, they had a single deity who they claimed to be the supreme god of the universe. They practised all manner of strange rituals, including circumcision of the men, an important rite undergone by converts to their cult.

  They had been exiles from Egypt, according to the more credible sources, slaves who fled the country when a helpful deity parted the waters of the Red Sea, allowing them to escape their masters, then they had journeyed across the desert to Judaea where they settled and built their temple. But they did not practise crude idolatry like the beast worshipping Egyptians; instead, like the German barbarians, they considered divinity to be beyond physical representation.

  But they retained many other Egyptian customs, including the practise of inhumation rather than cremation of the dead. Before the destruction of their temple by Titus Caesar, their priests had performed their rites to the music of flute and drum, wearing ivy wreaths, which had led some Greeks to think that the god they worshipped was Bacchus. However, the truth was that their religion was the utter reverse of the joyous, anarchic cult of the wine god. So what exactly was it that Julius Strabo claimed to have uncovered?

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ he asked Paulus Alexander.

  The commander shook his head. ‘I know nothing other than what I have told you already. I see you are resolved to investigate the murder. But let me warn you that, despite the recent war, or perhaps because of it, the Judaean people are not completely powerless in Alexandria. And they have many enemies, especially the Greeks, although the Egyptians too have little love for them. Anything you learn I would ask you to share with me before it is made public. Otherwise Alexandria may see further civil disturbances, even another uprising. The political situation is finely balanced. You would not want to be the one to provoke another war.’

  Darkly Flaminius remembered Londinium in flames, and a hasty return to Rome after bittersweet farewells. Chief Centurion Probus had given him this assignment as a way to improve his standing in the imperial service. Because of his previous experience with barbarian superstition. The last thing he wanted was to provoke a war in this turbulent city. And yet he had to learn who killed Julius Strabo and bring them to justice.

  ‘I’ll be sure to tread softly,’ he told Paulus Alexander. ‘You mentioned this Egyptian Ozymandias. I think it’s time I met him.’

  ‘You already have,’ said the commander.

  —3—

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘You must be mistaken,’ he replied. ‘I’ve met no one in Alexandria to speak to, except yourself and a couple of legionaries.’

  Paulus Alexander clapped his hands. The scribe from the outer room shimmied in through the bead curtain. Flaminius glanced at the man in distaste, if “man” was the word. The fellow wore heavy black kohl round his eyes, giving him a feminine air. Otherwise all he wore was a white linen kilt, a black skullcap, and a black leather thong round his neck from which hung a small lead identity tag. Snub nosed, he had protruding lips and skinny legs.

  ‘Ozymandias.’ Paulus Alexander introduced him to Flaminius, and the tribune gave the newcomer a second, longer look.

  When he had first seen the scribe, Ozymandias had been sitting cross legged on the floor, writing something on a papyrus roll, and had seemed small and inoffensive. Now he was on his feet, Flaminius saw that although he was scrawny and short he was also sinewy and lithe. He looked like a man who could be pretty handy in a fight, despite the femininity of his features.

  ‘This is Ozymandias?’ Flaminius said. ‘I thought him just your scribe.’

  ‘I’m a man of many talents,’ Ozymandias said in a low, but vibrant voice. Paulus Alexander introduced Flaminius to the scribe as the new commissary officer.

  ‘You were working with my predecessor,’ the tribune said as Ozymandias turned those feline eyes upon him.

  ‘Yes,’ said the scribe. ‘Until Julius Strabo vanished. By Sarapis, I had no idea he was intending to go undercover, let alone get himself murdered.’

  ‘You know what happened to him?’ Flaminius asked. He looked angrily at Paulus Alexander, who spluttered. ‘I thought no one knew anything of the case. How does this man know so much?’

  Ozymandias’ eyes were downcast. ‘I have a habit of listening at doors,’ he confessed in a sibilant whisper.

  Flaminius stared at him. ‘Do you indeed?’ He nodded abruptly. ‘It’s the only way to learn, says the chief. That’s Commissary Centurion Probus, back in Rome. He taught me all the tradecraft I know. So, we’re in the same line of work, are we, Ozymandias?’

  Paulus Alexander looked pained. ‘I would hope that you would restrain yourself when in headquarters, Ozymandias. Tribune, please forgive him this indiscretion. He’s a good man in many ways, and has many invaluable contacts. You began your career as a tomb robber, didn’t you, Ozymandias?’

  Again, the Egyptian looked self-conscious. ‘I was a youth of many talents,’ he said. ‘Sadly few of the monetary variety.’ He hooded his eyes like a hawk. ‘There were few other opportunities for a young man of my ability in the back streets of Rachotis. Not that the best tombs were located anywhere near the Delta. My fellow robbers and I had to travel up the Canopic Branch as far south as the Memphite Nome before the pickings were rich enough.’ He shrugged.

  ‘You robbed the tombs of your own ancestors?’ Flaminius surprised himself with the intensity of his own horror. He was an Epicurean, and didn’t believe in such superstitious notions as ghosts and curses. But the idea of stealing from the dead to make a living gave him the shudders.

  ‘They had no need for their wealth in the Afterlife,’ Ozymandias said. ‘And we robbers had families to support, not to mention the poll tax to pay. My sister never knew; I told her I was a scribe: our father taught me to write, yes, but only in Demotic, and there’s no demand for Demotic in a Greek city like this, and getting to another part of Egypt legitimately is impossible for an Egyptian unless you have the right documentation. In the end I was caught, and all Rachotis knew. I became a slave, and so after learning the Greek script I came to work for the commander. My knowledge of the ways of robbers impressed him, and at last he made me his freedman.’

  Flaminius didn’t know how far he should trust this Egyptian. Something about him seemed distinctly unwholesome. As a freedman he was technically a Roman citizen, so exempt from the taxes endured by the Egyptians and more protected under law, but he seemed to wear his citizenship lightly. Whether it was the feline, womanish look to his kohl rimmed eyes, his squalid past, or something less definable, Flaminius felt uncomfortable.

  He glanced at Paulus Alexander, who sighed impatiently, no doubt having work to do back in his office. The commander would hardly be where he was today, particularly not with his own dubious family background, if he was not a shrewd judge of character.

  Doubtful things should be interpreted in the best way, as they said back home. Flaminius decided to give this former tomb robber the benefit of the doubt. There was no one else in a position to help him complete his mission.

  ‘Very well then,’ he said, to Paulus Alexander’s evident relief. ‘You can take me to the ruined temple where Julius Strabo was found, Ozymandias.’

  ‘The temple still belongs to the Judaeans. You’ll need their permission to investigate it,’ Ozymandias warned him.

  Flaminius tapped the brooch that he now wore on his borrowed breastplate.

  ‘I can go anywhere,’ he said. ‘The Judaeans can’t turn away an imperial agent. A murder has been committed in their old temple. It has to be investigated.’

  He turned to shake the commander by the hand. ‘I’ll report back to you with my findings as and when I have any,’ he added.

  Paulus Alexander smiled broadly, betraying an eagerness to see the back of him. ‘Farewell,’ he said. He beckoned to Ozymandias, and they had a whispered conversation in a language Flaminius didn’t recognise.

  ‘Have them send another
scribe down to replace you as you go, Ozymandias,’ he added, returning to the Greek everyone spoke in this city.

  The afternoon sun was not as harsh as that of midday when they stepped out of the main gates of the palace and into the courtyard where Flaminius had left his requisitioned litter with its two bearers. All the same, Flaminius was very hot in his toga and military belt, and the sword and dagger (worn beneath the toga; he had not brought his customary cavalry longsword but rather a legionary short sword, more easily concealed) were a great burden. He ushered Ozymandias into the litter and climbed in after him, then gave the order for the litter bearers to take them to the Old Judaean Quarter.

  As they swayed off into the street, Ozymandias caught Flaminius’ eye and indicated the slaves with a well-manicured if ink stained thumb. ‘I used to do that job,’ he said in a murmur. He rarely seemed to raise his voice above a whisper.

  Flaminius grunted. His own past was hardly spotless, but he had no wish to hear about the Egyptian’s earlier life.

  ‘I thought Romans walked everywhere,’ the scribe added conversationally. ‘The men, anyway.’

  ‘Tell me about Julius Strabo,’ Flaminius said. The heat from outside the linen walls and the swaying of the litter was making him irritable. ‘You must have got to know him well, working alongside him. What was he like? Do you think there was anything in his notions?’

  For a while, Ozymandias did not answer, but gazed out at the street down which they were being carried. ‘So this is how rich Roman citizens live,’ he murmured sardonically. ‘Julius Strabo? Well, he was happy to walk everywhere. My feet were sore with following him about the city. Always rushing about, he was, poking his long Roman nose into everything.’ He broke off, glanced at Flaminius’ own nose, and abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘You know about his theories, then? Yes, he thought there was some outlaw cult up to mischief in the Old Judaean Quarter. He mentioned a man called Basileus, I think, who led it. I think he’d heard too many wild Greek stories. The Greeks would believe anything about the Judaeans, even when hardly any of them live there. I had to warn Julius Strabo that he was playing with fire. Even after the war, the Judaeans don’t lack influence. Now he’s dead, poor madman.’