Simon Clark has established himself as a writer of effective supernatural horror with his novels Nailed By the Heart (1995) and Blood Crazy (1996). His interests are wide and varied, and in the following story he teams up with art historian and writer, Gail-Nina Anderson, to explore a locked-room mystery set in the library at Alexandria during the reign of the Emperor Constantine.
Upon taking the city of Alexandria on Egypt’s Mediterranean coast in the year 642, the Arab General Amr sent a rather prosaic message to the Caliph reporting: ‘I have taken a city of which I can only say that it contains 4,000 palaces, 4,000 baths, 400 theatres, 1,200 greengrocers and 40,000 Jews.’ Little here illuminates any of the splendours of Alexandria, burial place of Alexander the Great, capital of the Pharaohs under the Ptolemy dynasty, the site of one of the Seven Wonders of the World, the fabled Pharos lighthouse, and home to one of the greatest libraries of the ancient world.
I am frightened.
Tonight, the statues of old Egypt have come alive and climb the walls to leap from roof to roof across this great city. A man lies dead in the next room. If his murderer is not identified, and more importantly the map not found, by the time the sun rises in six hours time we are to have our throats cut on the library steps.
You are the focus of my love, dear one. I thank all gods of all faiths that chance brought us together. Now my feelings flash from anger to sorrow to despair. Because, in this life, we are to be parted. At this moment I feel rage for I’ll never again see your throat suddenly flush as pink as a rose, nor take a Sybarite’s delight at the drip of the oil from your fingertips.
I do not know if you will be permitted to claim my body for burial. The best I can do is write you this letter in the hope it will somehow find you. I write because I know how I felt when my father died in Rome. I became obsessed with the nature of his illness and those hours of suffering he must have endured so far from his family here in Alexandria.
I want you to know that I am surrounded by my friends who have, like me, made this lovely library their second home. There is young Marcus, who you know well enough by now; the beautiful Marcus, you tease, with the eyelashes fit for a girl. He’ll turn heads in the marketplace no longer.
He has begun to grow a beard but it’s as red as copper. His hair, as you know, is black so he’s completely perplexed. Earlier he said to me, ‘Theo, you’re a physician. Have you any explanation why although my hair is black my whiskers are red?’ I laughed and told him I don’t know everything. He smiled and said, ‘One day you will, Theo, one day you will.’
Seated beside me, eating olives, and spitting the stones into a cup is Chrysippus, a court scribe. You’ve met him at the festival; a big bald man, forever eating or forever wondering where his next meal is coming from. He waddles like a tipsy elephant. He is also the most generous man I’ve ever met. These, and my other companions sitting on the benches opposite me, are not great men but I will be proud to die with them in the morning.
There . . . I have described my friends. How, I wonder, would they describe me? I recall Chrysippus did so once in a letter to his brother. My good friend, Theocritas Amun-Arten is a physician, [Chrysippus wrote]. He is a kindly man with oh-so weary eyes and the face of our favourite uncle. He walks with his eyes hard down to the street stones, always preoccupied with some new medical case he must treat.
If we dine out, Theo has a great, nay, insurmountable, fondness for duck roasted in a pot with honey, beer and apricots. His main passion is also his vice which has the power to leave him exhausted and sorrowful. Theocritas Amun-Arten is a man who, one can so readily believe, has been commanded by the gods to find a cure for every disease known to man. So he drives himself too hard. And yet he has worked so many, many miracle cures. But still this gentle, softly spoken man will blame himself, curse and beat his chest until bruised if he loses so much as a single patient – no matter of which caste, creed or race.
Now, as I write this beneath the reading lamps, hanging by their long cords from the ceiling spars, Marcus is saying we shouldn’t sit here and meekly wait to have our throats stuck like goats, but we should find the murderer and the map that General Romulus believes is so important. Chrysippus spits olive stones as he speaks: ‘Find the murderer . . . impossible . . . the man was murdered in a locked room . . . he was alone . . . there is no murder weapon . . . it’s as if a ghost walked through the walls . . . killed him . . . then disappeared with this miserable little map that’s more valuable than all our lives.’
‘So, you’re just going to sit there and wait for the blade?’
‘No, I’m going to sit here . . . eat olives . . . drink Librarian’s wine. There is nothing in the room or on the body to tell us who the murderer is, or where the map has gone.’
Marcus looks at me, his young doe eyes show more regret at losing life, than actual fear. He has a wife and baby; they will starve.
He speaks to me. ‘Theo. You are an intelligent man. Is there no way of learning who killed the scribe and stole the map?’
‘All I can say is, I imagine an unsolved murder is like an illness that still has no diagnosis. You must carefully examine the patient and look for the individual symptoms, no matter how minor, or seemingly unimportant, then you must collect them together and arrange them into some order that will help you identify the illness.’
‘You mean,’ began Chrysippus in his slow, elephantine way, ‘that if we list . . . everything that is in the room with the victim . . . it will somehow, magically, tell us who the murderer is?’
I smiled regretfully. ‘Not exactly, Chrysippus. But we could begin by noting certain peculiarities.’
‘Such as?’
‘The colour of the soles of the man’s feet.’
‘Why should that be important?’
‘Those who arrived here barefoot look at your soles. They’re the colour of chalk, because Alexandria’s streets are covered in a chalky white dust. The murder victim’s feet are smeared black.’
‘And that means . . .’ I shrugged. ‘Even though the victim never appeared to leave the room in which he was locked, he must actually have walked across an area of ground that was covered with some rich black material.’
Marcus added, ‘Then there were the dried lotus blossoms on the floor. They weren’t there when the man was locked into the room.’
‘Theo, would these clues tell us who murdered the scribe and where the map is hidden?’
I shrugged helplessly. ‘I can’t say. What it does tell us, is that though everyone in the library believes that the scribe was locked into the room, that he never left the room, then was found murdered, in actual fact he had, during that time, been somewhere else.’
Around me are the faces of my friends. They are looking at me. And I see expressions that trouble me more than the fear I saw before.
They are looking at me and they are seeing hope. A hope that I can find the murderer – and the map – before sunrise, and so spare them the executioner’s blade.
You, my love, might be curious to know what circumstances pitched me into this evil circumstance. I had been attending to Praxicles – you will recall he’s the carpenter who lives in the same street as your mother. I did intend to come straight home; however, I’d had word from Librarian that he’d recovered documents relating to some medicinal remedies I’d been rather anxious to obtain.
As I hurried along Canopic Street toward the library, I saw the statues come to life and begin to stream across the rooftops, and, with a shiver, I knew there’d be blood on the streets by dawn.
The statues of ancient Egypt come to life?
It sounds fantastic doesn’t it? And our old saying can actually strike fear into the hearts of visitors to our city. The truth is much more mundane. Whenever there is a threat of civil unrest the monkeys that nest amongst the ancient statues flee for their safe haven. The old temple of Amun. I hurried there too, for different reasons though. Because the temple was a place of worship no longer. For two centuries it had been one of the finest library museums you could find.
As I climbed the library steps the light from the great lighthouse on Pharos had already begun to burn out across the sea, with the fiery magnitude of a sun. High above my head I saw the flitting shapes of the monkeys leaping onto the library roof, until they covered it completely like a seething, living thatch.
Surprisingly, the library’s iron doors were locked and it was only by dint of hammering and shouting that I managed to summon one of the library servants. It was an omen I should have heeded.
‘Why are the doors locked so early?’ I asked.
The servant made a bored gesture to the rooftops. ‘They’ve come alive again, so Librarian ordered the doors locked to keep out the mob.’ The man clicked his tongue in disgust as more monkeys scrambled, chattering and screaming, onto the roof. ‘One day those filthy apes will be the death of someone in here. I’ve told Librarian a hundred times that the filthy brutes will bring the roof down on –’
‘Mosse, if you please . . . I need to copy some documents.’
The servant gave a careless shrug. ‘Go right in, Theo . . . it’s a circus in there anyway.’
‘Why?’
‘Some stupid Roman’s got himself locked in one of the reading rooms. Librarian and the rest of you book-flies are trying to open the door.’
I hurried into the body of the building anxious to make my copies and return home but cynical Mosse thought I was curious to see what was happening in the reading room and called after me, ‘It’s the Isis reading room, Theo, you can’t miss it, all the book-flies are clamouring round the door and cackling like geese. I ask you, have they no homes to go to? Don’t they have friends they can get drunk with, rather than swarming round here? Leave the place to the filthy apes to roost in I say, but no they . . .’
His voice faded behind me as I hurried through this fabulous maze of shelving piled high with the cream of books from around the world. Above me, the monkeys had climbed in through the windows to cling to the top of the columns or sit on the shoulders of stone gods. They chattered restlessly, their gemstone eyes glinting down at me in the lamplight.
I intended to hurry by the dozen men clustered around the Isis door but Marcus saw me.
‘Hey, Theo. Guess what? Some –’
‘Some Roman has got himself locked in the Isis room. Yes, Mosse told me. He’ll dine out on that for a week. Why he despises all Romans so passionately God only knows.’
‘I am ordering you to break down the door,’ demanded a stranger, his face as red as raw meat. ‘My assistant is inside there with a document that . . . that men would die for.’
Librarian, tall, calm, dignified, tried to soothe him. But this red-faced man, who despite the heat wore a woollen cloak, speckled brown and white like the breast of a thrush, would not be placated. ‘Break down the door – break it down, I tell you! I order it in the name of General Romulus.’
The babble stopped dead. Even the monkey hordes high above our heads seemed to fall silent at the sound of that dreadful name.
Librarian’s face turned white. ‘You did say, General Romulus?’
‘You heard correctly.’
Librarian nodded grimly. ‘Break down the door.’
Romulus’s reputation was as fierce as it was terrible. Wherever there was rebellion and civil unrest Emperor Constantine knew who would quell it: ruthlessly, completely, utterly. When the citizens of Rome herself rioted because of famine, Romulus turned the streets into freshets of blood that foamed and swirled and gushed in Babylonian flood. Survivors whisper that Romulus then bared his chest, drenched his hands in the blood and painted his breast, throat and face, until he looked like the son of the barbarian he is.
So, Librarian argued no longer.
We broke down the door.
There, in the centre of the room, lying face down, was the body of a grey-haired man of about forty. His name, we later learnt, was Diomedes, he was Roman, an assistant to the red-faced man, and most clearly, he’d been beaten around the head until his soul had eagerly fled its body.
What terrified the red-faced man was the loss of some precious map that had just been located within the library. Face redder than ever, he searched the room for the map. It wasn’t a long search because apart from a table, a rope and a pair of broken stools the room was quite bare. Then he tugged at his dead servant’s clothes like a man skinning a goat, in the hope the map would be concealed in there.
It wasn’t.
Clutching his head as if Athene herself threatened to burst from his forehead, he crouched on the floor and whimpered. When Librarian tried to console him the man shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. I had the map in my hand. A map drawn on a rabbit skin. I remember the colour of the inks, the tear in the top right-hand corner. Now I’ve lost it.’
‘But it’s only a map, my friend.’
‘Only a map . . . only a map! General Romulus has had me searching for the filthy thing for five years. And now I’ve sent word to his headquarters that I have it in my hands.’
Even as he spoke we heard the sound of feet on the marble floor. This wasn’t the hesitant, self-absorbed step of the book-fly. This was the muscular rhythm of the soldier.
With a moan the red-faced man gritted his teeth and stood up as General Romulus entered the reading room. He was dressed as if ready for battle, complete with shining breastplate and scarlet-plumed helmet (however, incongruously, his teeth were polished a brilliant white, like those of a rich man’s wife). He was accompanied by his German bodyguards; a ferocious body of men with huge blond beards, blue eyes and legs like tree trunks. Their armour was scarred and dented from years of hand-to-hand combat.
We quickly left for the main body of the library, leaving Librarian and the red-faced man with the general.
I will, my love, spare you a detailed description of the general’s rage at the theft of the map. How he screamed at the two men. How he slapped them, and even kicked at the unfortunate corpse of Diomedes.
Then out he marched to where we nervously stood.
His upper lip glistened with sweat; his ferocious eyes stabbed at us. ‘You know what’s happened. One of my servants has been murdered. And a map, a very, very valuable map, has been stolen. Therefore, I have decided to execute you all, so I shall be certain of punishing the murderer, the thief, and any tight-lipped witnesses who aren’t being so helpful as they might.’
I saw the hands of the bodyguard go to their swords.
‘But,’ continued the general, ‘I need that map, and as you were the only ones in the library when the murder took place, one of you must know where it is. So, this is my promise to you. If, when I return in six hours’ time, the map has been found you will be free to go to your homes. If it remains missing, I shall suspect an Alexandrian insurrection is brewing. I need no reason, but what better reason could there be for taking you out onto the library steps and personally cutting each and every one of your skinny throats? Understand? Find the map . . . you live. No map: you die.’
After leaving a number of his bodyguard to ensure we didn’t escape he marched away into the night.
You can, my love, imagine our fear, and the wild plans that we made and then discarded. ‘Escape from the library,’ Marcus suggested.
‘How? There are no windows at ground level, the doors are locked; the place is as secure as a prison.’
‘What a stroke of genius,’ grunted Chrysippus. ‘After all they are only gigantic Germans armed with swords and axes. Theo, you terrorize them with a roll of papyrus while I knock them out with a couple of Virgil’s odes. My God, Marcus, those men could shake us to death with one hand; don’t you . . .’ He stopped and sighed. ‘I’m sorry Marcus. I didn’t mean to be so rude . . . forgive me. It’s just . . . why is it so difficult to admit that I’m afraid of dying?’
I said nothing. I watched our German guards. They were fascinated by the monkeys scurrying to-and-fro in the massive vault of the roof. At first they roared with laughter at their gymnastics. Then they brought out bows and arrows, thinking what sport it would be to shoot them. They managed to bring down one slow-moving female, shot through the heart, with her baby, which died in the long fall to the marble slabs.
The monkeys’ fury erupted. Fragments of statues lying in niches, birds nests, scraps of papyrus rained down on our heads. The guards in turn swore back in their guttural subterranean language. They fired more arrows, which did not find any new victim. All the book-flies retired to the peace of the Isis room and left the beasts to battle it out.
‘Well, Theo,’ said Marcus, gazing down at the body of the scribe, looking even more dishevelled after its post mortem abuse, ‘you believed there might be a way to learn who murdered the man and perhaps even find the map.’
I shrugged. ‘Theoretically I believe it may be possible, but I don’t know if I am the man to do it.’ I looked up from the body. Librarian, Marcus, Chrysippus and the rest watched me hopefully. Even the red-faced man looked eager for me to continue.
I was their only hope, my love. If I failed there would be no harm done. After all, we would be leaving this world in the morning. Yet still I felt reluctant to shoulder that burden, the responsibility of their flickering hope.
I sighed. ‘I’ll do my best.’ I looked at each of the men in turn. ‘Do you all consent to my examination of you all, and do you pledge to answer all my questions truthfully?’
They all nodded vigorously, clutching at me as the slimmest chance for survival.
‘Thank you.’ I nodded. ‘Now, I understand everyone in this room was in the library at the time of the murder?’
‘All except, my assistant, Mosse,’ said Librarian. ‘He’s working in my office.’
‘I will have to speak to him,’ I said. ‘He’s a suspect, too.’
‘Surely not Mosse? He can’t bring himself to squash a spider.’
‘Understand clearly that he and everyone else here must all be suspects until we find the murderer. And the thief who stole the map.’
Marcus scratched his curly head. ‘Surely they must be one and the same?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Chrysippus blew out his cheeks. ‘Where will we begin to solve this riddle?’
‘By taking one very small step at a time.’ I tried to sound confident, but I was far from certain I could achieve anything in the five or so hours before General Romulus returned expecting to find one map and one murderer. ‘As I have said, I intend to approach this as if I am treating a patient. As I’d need to know all the patient’s symptoms, so I need to examine every detail surrounding the murder; it doesn’t matter how unimportant, how trivial they seem. I must know everything.’
Firstly, I made a list of all who were present in the library at the time of the murder. Excluding the late Diomedes, there were nine in all:
Librarian
Young Marcus
Elephantine Chrysippus
Servant Mosse
Benjamin (an elderly Jew, copying Hebrew texts)
Silanus (a teacher of mathematics from Sicily)
Ha’radaa (some kind of cleric from the East; he could only speak a few words of Roman)
Staki (alocalrogue, probablyonlyinthelibrarytostealbooks in the hope of selling them back again)
Gabinius (thered-facedscribeemployedbyGeneralRomulus)
First I took Gabinius to one side and asked him why he and the late Diomedes had come to the library.
‘General Romulus commissioned me five years ago to find a map.’
‘And tonight you found it?’
‘Yes. The search took us from Athens to Rome, through Spain, and finally here to Alexandria. It was a map drawn by the captain of a merchant ship during the reign of Tiberius.’
‘Why is it so important?’
‘I have been ordered by the General not to tell a soul about the map.’
‘You’re afraid the General will have you killed if you breathe a word about the map to me? I don’t think that’s an important consideration now, do you?’
‘Listen to me. I’m as good as dead now. What I don’t want to do is anger Romulus so much that he orders the execution of my family, because, believe me, Amun-Arten, that’s exactly what will happen if I tell you about the map.’
‘I can’t force you, but it might help.’
‘I’m sorry. I won’t discuss the map.’
‘Tell me what happened tonight then.’
‘The door was locked, as you know, when we broke in we –’
‘No. Tell me everything from you leaving your lodgings.’
‘That was this morning. Diomedes and I walked to the library together from the house I’ve been renting. It’s the first house in Hadrian’s Square.’
‘No one followed you here?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Nothing unusual had happened recently?’
‘Such as?’
‘No thieves had stolen any of your belongings, no strangers calling at your house?’
‘No. But wait a minute . . . there was something . . .’ His eyes flashed with triumph as if he’d solved the riddle. ‘I believe I know who was responsible.’ He beckoned to me so he could whisper in my ear. ‘The old man, sitting on the floor there.’
‘You mean Benjamin?’
‘Yes. I would often see him standing near the house. He must have been watching us.’
‘You saw him every morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘Good heavens, why?’
‘Because he is obeying my instructions.’
The man’s face turned dangerously red. ‘What’s this? There’s a plot?’
‘Calm down, Gabinius. You say you live in the first house in the Square of Hadrian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Next door to you is a man who keeps a herd of goats.’
‘I don’t understand what you –’
‘Benjamin, like most inhabitants of Egypt, has teeth worn down to the pulp. The millstone grit in our bread makes no distinction between creed or race. Three years ago Benjamin came to me so undernourished because he couldn’t bear to chew any food that his wife feared he would die. Abscesses in the gums, you see. So, I pulled his teeth and drained the abscesses with a hollow reed. I also recommended he drink a cup of milk every morning to supplement his diet. I’m heartened that he still heeds my advice.’
‘But he’s a Jew,’ added Gabinius more loudly as if seeing a way out of all this.
‘I see, and we should blame Benjamin, the Jew, for the theft?’
‘Yes . . . yes of course!’
I sighed heavily. ‘Benjamin is an Alexandrian who happens to be a Jew. Librarian is Gnostic. Marcus belongs to a Hermetic order. Chrysippus divides his worship between Apollo in the temple across the square and Bacchus in the tavern down by the harbour.’
‘But surely –’
‘But surely not even General Romulus could seriously suspect such an elderly gentleman as Benjamin to be physically capable of so determined a piece of violence? Moreover, Romulus will want his map. Does Benjamin have it?’
‘I imagine not.’ The red-faced man shook his head, defeated.
‘Now tell me what happened when you arrived at the library.’
Gabinius told me that they began sifting through the documents in search of the map. When they found it their screams of joy brought Mosse running, thinking Librarian was being murdered. At the same time the monkeys began arriving – a clear indication that there would be riots that night in the city. Librarian ordered that the library doors be locked in case the mob decided to rush the building. Regrettably the mob has lately seen books as a symbol of imperial authority. So if they can’t burn the Emperor they burn his books.
After the initial elation of finding the map had worn off, Gabinius realized he had a problem. With the map of such vital importance in his grasp, his first impulse was simply to run to the General’s quarters straight away to deliver it in person; with the mob threatening to take to the street, however, that was too hazardous. So he decided to send a messenger and await the arrival of armed guards to escort them and the map safely to the General. As always men’s egos can overcome logic. He decided he wanted to greet Romulus on the steps with the good news and so bask in the General’s congratulations, and no doubt promises of financial reward. Still fearing some harm might come to the precious map, he chose to lock both it and his assistant, Diomedes, into the Isis Room. The door was reinforced with iron strips and carried hefty bolts on both sides, so it could be locked on the outside by Gabinius and on the inside by Diomedes. Librarian, Mosse and Gabinius could all attest to seeing Diomedes alive and well – the map securely in his hand – as the door was locked; Gabinius even took the precaution of sitting on a stool right outside the door, a warder of his own good luck and, no doubt, a terrible temptation to Fate. He intended to wait there until the moment came to greet the General at the library entrance. A message was sent. Then almost half an hour later there came the sound of a commotion from inside the room. There were shouts, a series of heavy banging sounds, then complete silence.
Quite naturally alarmed by what must be happening inside the room Gabinius unbolted his side of the door, only to find it still bolted on the other side. Within moments all the book-flies and Librarian were there trying to rouse the man inside the room. That was around the time I arrived at the library. Then, of course, the door was forced and we found the unfortunate man dead. It took little of my skill to determine that his head injuries, caused by heavy blows, were the cause of death. He had, however, suffered bruising and grazing to other parts of his body; and his fists were badly bruised as if he’d punched his assailant. I noticed the man had a set of exceptionally fine teeth with no sign of decay, or indeed any of the kind of excessive dental erosion that is common in a man of his years. I clicked my tongue at the waste of such good teeth in a dead mouth.
Marcus had noticed the injured fists and said hopefully, ‘If we find bruises on the body of one of us then surely we have the murderer.’
‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘if you will all submit to an examination.’
All those present had no recent injuries. Except, that is, the Eastern cleric by the name of Ha’radaa, a tiny dark-skinned man with oriental eyes, dressed in a simple saffron-yellow robe. He had recent bruising to one cheek bone and his upper chest. Interrogating him wasn’t easy; he spoke only a few tourist phrases of Roman. He seemed very suspicious of us all and despite remaining softly spoken and constantly smiling I detected an agitated mind.
‘So, we have our murderer?’ Marcus allowed himself a smile. ‘He was bruised in the fight with the scribe, before killing him.’
‘And the map?’ I asked.
‘He’s hidden it somewhere amongst the books so he can collect it later.’
Again I gave a helpless shrug. A habit I’d developed in the last two hours. ‘Possible. Very possible. But those bruises may be anything up to a day old. And how on earth did he walk through that locked door, kill the scribe and steal the map? Librarian, do you know anything about this Eastern gentleman?’
‘Very little. He first came into the library three days ago. What was he interested in? Ah, yes. He’s been copying the ancient Egyptian papyri. I thought it a little odd because, as you know, no one knows how to read the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic script – and few would care to.’
I tried speaking with Ha’radaa again, but he could only answer ‘yes’ and ‘no’, and the look of confusion on his face was painful to see.
An idea occurred to me. The temple walls were covered with those impenetrable hieroglyphics. I pointed at an inscription ringed by a cartouche. The man’s eyes brightened, the smile broadened. ‘Imhotep,’ he said happily. I pointed to another. Without hesitation he said, ‘Rameses.’ Then slowly I ran my finger along a line of glyphs and he read them in a form of archaic Egyptian that was alien to me.
‘Thank you,’ I bowed my head to acknowledge his wisdom, then I turned to Marcus. ‘He does seem to be here to genuinely study the ancient texts, but because of the bruising we must place him at the top of our suspects list.’
‘Are you going to question everyone here? Staki’s a known criminal.’
‘True.’ I nodded. ‘And if he knew the map was of great value he might be tempted to steal it. But he’s a petty pickpocket, an opportunist thief who’ll steal a tunic from a washing line, or a book from one of these shelves; not a murderer.’
‘Where’s he sloped off to anyway?’
‘He’s sitting facing the corner. Obviously he’s hoping no one will notice him.’
Then a surprising thing happened.
The man to take most notice of him was little Ha’radaa. Immediately the man began shouting in his strange sing-song language, then launched himself at Staki. Staki bellowed and used big theatrical gestures that spoke in any language, ‘Come near me and I’ll punch your head in.’
Ha’radaa slapped his chest and his forehead while pouring out a torrent of words that no man there could understand.
At last we parted them.
‘What was all that about, Theo?’ asked Marcus.
‘Goodness knows. My guess though, is it’s a personal matter between them. And if it doesn’t have any bearing helping us find the map and the murderer I think it best if we ignore it. Time is running out, my friend.’
Marcus swallowed and lightly rubbed his throat, no doubt imagining the press of iron there in a few short hours. ‘I’m afraid, Theo. My wife is pregnant again. Who will look after her when –’
‘Hush, friend, hush,’ I said softly, then smiled. ‘Congratulations on the happy event anyway. You must bring Kiya to my house tomorrow evening, so I can satisfy myself everything is going according to nature’s plan.’
‘But –’
‘But nothing, Marcus. This is where we roll up our sleeves and solve the mystery.’
‘Are you going to question the others?’
‘A waste of time . . . a waste of very precious time. No, the only man who can tell us what happened in here is that man there.’
Marcus looked incredulous. ‘Diomedes? He can tell us nothing. The man is cold.’
‘Correction, young Marcus, that corpse can tell us everything. And the physician who cannot question the dead is scarcely worth his salt, my friend.’
I then took the precaution of clearing everyone out of the room apart from Librarian, Marcus and Gabinius. Chrysippus was charged with keeping Ha’radaa and Staki apart. They all took refuge in the adjoining reading room because the monkeys were still raining pieces of statue down onto the guards. The latter, not learning from experience, went on firing their arrows upward, hitting nothing but stone; their angry voices echoed from the walls.
I pushed the door of Isis room shut. ‘Gentlemen, do you remember if the room is still as you found it when we forced the door?’
Librarian said, ‘More or less, but the body has been – ahm – somewhat disturbed since the discovery. Friend Gabinius searched it for the map, and, ahm, General Romulus abused it in his anger.’
‘Do you agree, Gabinius and Marcus?’
Both nodded. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Allow me to talk this through with you. I acknowledge I’m all too human, therefore all too fallible. So please correct me if I miss anything. We have a room lit by three large oil lamps that hang by long cords from the ceiling. This is a reading room so they are suspended at a little over head-height.’
‘Is this relevant?’ interrupted Gabinius, face redder than ever.
‘It is relevant. In fact I believe it is vital. So, please, let me have your cooperation. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The room itself is very tall. I imagine eight men could stand on each other’s shoulders before the one on top could reach the ceiling. The room itself must have once served as some kind of antechamber to the main temple. We have bas-relief carvings of animals on the walls, carved hieroglyphics. Only at the very top of the walls do we have any apertures that admit daylight.’ I looked up and could just make out, reflected from the limestone walls, the soft peach glow of the lighthouse burning out there on the Pharos, guiding ships safely through the night. (How I wished, there and then, I could walk with you down to the shore, hold your hand, and watch the waves whispering, like the song of Arion, across the sand in the moonlight.)
I took a deep breath and continued: ‘The floor consists of rectangular stone slabs. It is scrupulously swept clean of litter and dust. And you’ll agree, gentleman, it is clean of any marks apart from a little of the deceased’s blood. There are a few dried lotus petals and a length of stout cord. Good. Now, on to the furnishings. In the centre of the room is one oblong stone table. It is bare. And there are two stools. Both of which have been broken.’
‘They must have been used in the fight,’ said Marcus.
‘At the moment, I feel we should confine ourselves to describing what we actually do see. Not speculating how the stools became broken. If we jump to conclusions about the stools we may jump to the wrong conclusion about what happened in here.’
‘But we heard the crash of stools being used as clubs.’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ said Gabinius, clearly irritated by my slowness, and hesitancy. ‘The assailant or assailants used the stools to beat my assistant to death.’
‘Marcus,’ I said. ‘Take this stool, it’s the more intact of the two. That’s it. Hold the legs with both hands. Yes, that’s right.’
‘But what do you want me to do with it, Theo?’
‘Why . . . hit me with it of course.’
‘You’re joking, Theo.’
‘There’s no time for jokes. Just use the stool as if it were a club and hit me with it. Go on, Marcus. Quickly.’
Although baffled he did as he was told, lifted the stool like a club and –
– clunk –
– the stool hit one of the low hanging lamps. It swung sending shadows dancing madly around the room.
Startled, Marcus lowered the stool. Librarian steadied the lamp.
‘Is it broken?’ I asked.
‘He’s knocked the bottom out of it. Careful you don’t step on the oil. You’d slip and crack your skull.’
I skirted the pool of oil on the stone slabs. ‘Let’s examine the other two lamps. See? They’re intact.’
‘So,’ Marcus said, his eyes bright. ‘You realized that if the murderer and victim had fought with stools they would have smashed one or more of the lamps when they raised the stools.’
‘So, how did the stools get broken?’ Gabinius sounded even more irritable. ‘How did someone get into this locked room and kill my assistant and steal the map? Did they have wings and fly in from one of those windows up there?’
I looked up. ‘I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I don’t believe in witchcraft. Whoever killed this man was mortal.’
Puzzled, Marcus ran his fingers through his tight curls. ‘Could anyone have entered through the window up there?’
I shrugged. ‘Possibly. But somehow he would have had to scale the outer wall of the library (the height of eight men remember) and then climb down here into the room, without the victim noticing; then returning the way he came – the murderer would have had to have been as agile as a monkey.’
‘Earlier you mentioned the state of the soles of the dead man’s feet. That they are coated with a black substance when they should be grey with street dust.’
‘Well remembered, Marcus. Yes, I think they hold a powerful clue to what happened in here. I think the dried lotus petals are significant, too. Oh? Please, you mustn’t allow me to miss any details. The cord . . . how did that cord come to be in the room?’
‘Ah, there is no mystery there,’ Librarian said. ‘It’s simply cord of the type we use to suspend the lamps from the ceiling spars. Mosse left it here after replacing one of the lamp cords last week. I intended reminding him about it.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘You must have one heck of a long ladder to reach the beams.’
‘No, years ago we perfected the technique of tying a light line to a weight and throwing it over the beam, then we haul the heavier cord over so it’s looped over the beam then tie both ends to the lamp hooks.’
‘Ingenious,’ I said, ‘but was Mosse so untidy as to leave the cord on the floor?’
‘No, it was hanging from one of the iron pegs on the wall. In the commotion it must have been knocked to the floor.’
‘So, we have stout cord, maybe thirty paces in length. It is uncoiled.’
‘No mystery.’ Gabinius now sounded bored. ‘With all the people milling about in here, they uncoiled it with their feet.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Look,’ hissed Gabinius. ‘We have a suspect. The foreigner, Ha’dar –’
‘Okay, whatever the devil’s name is. He has fresh bruising. Why don’t we simply beat the truth out of him. The guards would be happy, more than happy, to help there.’
‘You can beat most men into confessing to a crime they might or might not have committed, but I don’t think even those animals out there could beat Roman out of a man who clearly can’t speak the language.’
‘But all this talk of looking! Looking for clues! Looking at the feet of the corpse! Looking at the filthy lotus petals! Looking! Looking! Where the hell is it getting you?’
‘Look around you, Gabinius, what don’t you see now?’
‘What don’t I see? You’re talking in riddles, Amun-Arten.’
‘Look, by your feet. What was once there, and is there no longer?’
‘You’re talking nonsense, man.’
‘The pool of oil,’ said Marcus his eyes widening. ‘It’s drained away.’
‘There’s nothing so extraordinary about that!’ said Gabinius, hotly. ‘It’s simply drained between the cracks in the stonework.’
‘But,’ I held up a finger, ‘it’s a reminder of what lies beneath our feet. Look, the walls are solid, the door was locked from both the inside and the outside, the windows are too high to admit anyone. The only possible entrance is through the floor.’
Gabinius snorted. ‘So the murderer burrowed in here like a mole.’
I shook my head. ‘Beneath Alexandria is a labyrinth of ancient catacombs; a vast necropolis occupied by a million dead. The catacombs can even be accessed through the cellars of some of the houses in the very street that runs outside. Chrysippus once showed me one that can be reached through the stable in his back yard. We walked for a mile beneath the city streets. And in the ancient tombs there were thousands of coffins, and on the coffins were these.’ I picked up a dried petal. ‘Garlands of lotus blossom, dried crisp as ashes.’
‘Those lotus blossom leaves weren’t in here before Diomedes was locked in the room with the map,’ Marcus said eagerly. ‘Somehow the murderer brought them in here, perhaps stuck to his clothes.’
Librarian nodded sagely. ‘A murderer who gained access to this reading room via a subterranean tunnel, which has an entrance through this very floor.’
Even Gabinius’ hopes were renewed. ‘And for some reason poor Diomedes ventured down into the catacomb where the floor is covered in black dirt.’
‘Bring an iron bar and we’ll begin levering up the stone slabs until we find the entrance.’
Librarian ordered Mosse to bring the iron bar, and we began. Marcus, Gabinius, and even Librarian, shouted excited instructions to each other as we began lifting the stone floor slabs. How we chose the slabs to lift was made easy for us. Most had been cemented down, so we discounted those. With every slab we lifted we expected the characteristic gush of tomb air, heavy with the scent of ancient spices that had been used to pack the bodies; then steps leading down into a well of shadow.
But the time passed; each lifted slab exposed only the compacted sand of the building’s foundations. Perspiration poured off the three men. Hope and excitement began to turn to disappointment. Then despair.
We’d lifted every loose slab. Nothing but sand. At last I sat with my back to the wall, the corpse with his blackened feet still lying mute in the middle of the floor, and I held one of those dried lotus petals in my hand and cursed and cursed my arrogance and my stupidity. You, love, have said time and time again that I am obsessed with being able to treat and to cure every disease I encounter. And time and time again, love, you have rightly told me it is not my fault when a patient of mine dies. But still I will pace our rooms, whispering curses and slapping my forehead in frustration at my ignorance.
I knew now this case had no diagnosis. I’d merely been playing games to while away the time before I felt the blade bite my throat. Then I’d watch my life flow away into the gutter, and I knew I would cling, as a drowning sailor clings to a broken spar, to the memory of your beautiful eyes when they open in the dawn, and your trusting smile, and I’d feel so humble, yet so proud, that you made the decision to spend your life with me.
We have stopped searching now. The iron bar lies discarded against the wall. The monkeys still throw stones down onto the guards.
Now I am using what time I have left before General Romulus returns to finish my letter to you. Don’t grieve long for me, my love. Begin a new life. Part of me will be the desert winds that seem to call your name. And part of me will be the desert sands that forever fall from blue skies to speckle your bare shoulders like freckles. When you brush them from your skin, brush gently, my love. For somewhere I will feel the brush of your fingertips against my cheek.
Theocritas Amun-Arten
My name is Chrysippus. I am a court clerk of twenty years. My profession is to record verbatim speech of the litigants and the judicial decisions. Theocritas Amun-Arten, a good friend since boyhood, has asked me to complete this letter to you on his behalf.
Theo asked me into the Isis reading room to record the testament of the murdered scribe’s master, one Gabinius Larentia.
Gabinius spoke plainly. A condemned man’s statement to be committed to history: ‘My name is Gabinius Larentia. I make this testament freely knowing I will be dead within the hour. I was commissioned five years ago to locate a map drawn by the captain of a merchant ship in the time of Tiberius. There are stories handed down from ancient Phoenician sailors of a vast unknown continent. Legends say it is reached by sailing due west beyond the Pillars of Hercules and far out across the Atlantic. The captain of the merchant ship went in search of this land in the West and returned a year to the day later with the map I located today in this very library. On the reverse of the map is recorded information about the land. Its climate is Mediterranean, the rivers are swollen with fish, bison roam the flatlands in herds so vast no human eye can comprehend them. And there are men there with skins as red as copper.’
Theo asked, ‘What did General Romulus plan?’
‘He planned to create a new and greater Rome. You see Romulus is a pagan Roman. He despises the Emperor Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, and the removal of the seat of the Empire’s power from Rome eastwards to Constantinople. The General’s plan was to make a pact with the barbarians in the North, to simply let them walk into Rome and occupy it, while he intended to turn Spain into his fortress state. While Constantine battled to oust the barbarians from Rome, Romulus would execute a three-year plan that would see the exodus of the cream of Roman citizenship via Spain, westward across the ocean to the new and forever pagan Rome. He envisaged fleets of ships more than a thousand strong, carrying Roman families and gold. The ships would be beached on the new world beyond the Atlantic and broken up, their timber to be used in the construction of the city.’
‘What would the result of this exodus be?’
‘The Empire would be destroyed. Firstly, because Romulus would bankrupt the Western half in the building of the enormous fleet of ships and by denuding it of its craftsmen, armies and its finest citizens; and secondly because Constantine would never be able to defeat a barbarian army that has barricaded itself inside Rome’s city walls. Ultimately, the barbarian would take Constantinople herself and the Empire would be lost forever.’
‘But if all that is needed is to sail due west why does Romulus need the map?’
‘He dreamt that the gods visited him, offering him the map as a token of success. But they warned if he failed to find it, and so failed to restore the old gods to Rome, then they would smite him down from above.’
‘So Romulus is superstitious?’
‘Extremely superstitious. He was actually afraid to leave his headquarters after dark because he heard that the gods of old Egypt came alive tonight.’
Theo gave a grim laugh. ‘He’s obviously not aware of Alexandrian folklore.’
Wearily, Gabinius smiled. ‘I was alarmed too, until I learnt you were referring to your apes.’
Theo began to pace the floor of the room looking thoughtfully at the body of the scribe. ‘Gabinius, you have faith in the General’s plan.’
‘He doesn’t pay me to have faith in him. He paid me to find the map. Which I lost tonight.’
‘You’re a pagan?’
‘I show my face at the temple of Jupiter from time to time.’
‘So you wouldn’t be unduly worried at the loss of Constantine and the destruction of Christianity?’
‘Christianity’s a fad. It just happens to be fashionable with the upper classes at the moment because the Emperor’s family are Christian.’
‘I see.’ Theo rubbed his jaw. ‘You hate Christians?’
‘Hardly. I employed one.’ Gabinius pointed at the dead man on the floor.
‘Diomedes was a Christian?’ Theo looked up in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Then there came the march of feet with military precision. The six hours were up. General Romulus had returned for his map.
Theo said urgently, ‘Listen, did Diomedes have a family? It’s important. You must tell me.’
‘At this moment nothing’s important,’ said Gabinius, his red face at last turning grey. ‘We are all ghosts now.’
‘Gabinius. Listen to me. Did that man have a family?’
The sound of footsteps grew louder. The chattering of the monkeys stopped at the arrival of more soldiers. I saw Theo look up. The grey light that precedes the dawn had touched the top of the stonework. As Gabinius, resigned to his death, started to leave the room, Theo caught him by the arm.
‘Gabinius! Did the murdered man have a family?’
‘Theo, friend Theo, if I can call you that now. We can continue this conversation at our leisure in the next world.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to stop in this one a little longer?’
Gabinius stopped and frowned. ‘Why? What do you know?’
‘Does the dead man have a family? It’s vital that I know.’
Romulus entered the room. Gabinius closed his mouth tight. Theo looked at me despairingly. Then almost as if the words had sprung from his lips unbidden, Gabinius turned to Theo and said. ‘Yes. A wife and four young children.’
Theo nodded with gratitude and let out a sigh as if a sack of bricks had been lifted from his shoulders.
Romulus spoke like a man who had anticipated a certain outcome and realized he wasn’t going to be disappointed. ‘Gabinius, I understand the map hasn’t been found?’
Gabinius nodded, his face even more grey.
General Romulus’ expression was sour. ‘Then I will honour my promise to you all. You will each be taken outside and your throats will be opened.’
Under his breath, Theo said to me, ‘Chrysippus. Keep writing down all that you see and hear. Don’t stop writing. Even if I’m killed here where I stand, keep writing . . . keep writing.’
I was puzzled and, believe me, very frightened. I was to die too, but the very force of feeling in his voice kept my pen moving.
I write now what I see in front of me. Just as it happens.
Standing before me, as I inscribe the sheets of papyrus clipped to my scribe’s board, is General Romulus, three of the German bodyguard, young Marcus, Gabinius and Librarian. The body still lies on the floor; the lamps still burn.
What mystifies me, even alarms me, is the transformation of Theocritas Amun-Arten. Even General Romulus is taken aback. It’s as if Theo has undergone some mystical transfiguration. He looks suddenly larger than life, animated, as if some great spirit has filled him, infusing and enthusing him. His eyes shine, he moves from side to side; his hands sweep outward in priestly gestures as he speaks: ‘General Romulus. I am offering myself as the first of our number to be executed.’
‘A Christian?’ Romulus snorted. ‘Always eager for self-sacrifice aren’t you?’
‘My offer has a number of conditions that I should like you to agree to.’
‘You’re a strange specimen of a man. Conditions? You want to negotiate a contract, just moments before your death?’
‘Yes, I promise I will lie as still as stone on the library steps and guide the executioner’s blade myself if I prove unable to explain fully and clearly what happened to this poor man – and the map. Also I must have your promise that you will not order any harm to be done to the family of anyone in this library.’
‘That won’t be necessary, funny little man. I already know what happened.’
This time Theo looked surprised. ‘You do?’
‘I owe my present status to more than sheer brute force. I thrive on information. My German bodyguard aren’t ignorant men. One of them stood outside this doorway and carefully listened to every word said.’
‘If you know who the murderer is why haven’t you got the map?’
‘You really do have bad manners. I thought my status carried with it at least a modicum of respect.’
‘Being obsequious won’t save my throat now.’
‘True.’ He signalled to one of his guards in the doorway. ‘My men have arrested the murderer. We’ll merely have to look a little further afield for the map.’
Theo’s eyes widened as the man was brought into the room. ‘Ha’radaa?’
‘Of course,’ said Romulus, pleased. ‘You identified him yourself. The dead scribe has bruised fists. This oriental’s chest and arms are bruised from the blows.’
‘But how did Ha’radaa enter and leave a room via a door that is locked on both sides?’
‘The man is small, appears agile. He will have scaled the outside of the building, which the monkeys seem to have no trouble in doing.’
‘You’re suggesting that like a monkey he can –’
‘Once through the window at the top of the wall,’ Romulus continued, ‘he climbed down inside the room, using those iron pegs set in the wall.’
‘But those iron pegs only reach as far as the stone ledge, which is only half way up the wall, he would have needed –’
‘A rope? Probably. So here is our criminal.’
‘I believe, General Romulus, you have made a mistake.’
‘Oh, so our little Egyptian says I am mistaken.’
‘With respect, General, I can show you what happened in this room. First, though, I think I should dismiss this gentleman as a suspect . . . Marcus, please ask Staki to step inside.’
When Staki arrived, he stood nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Can I have a look at your hands, please, Staki . . . no, palms downward please. Thank you. Your left fist is bruised. The right fist has a cut, which has become infected. If you’d take my advice, Staki, you should treat a suppurating wound with a little honey. You’ve been in a fight, Staki?’
‘A few days ago. I . . . I . . .’
‘Who were you fighting?’
Staki stared glassily in front of him. ‘Sailors in the harbour tavern. They were . . .’
‘You are lying,’ said Romulus incisively.
Theo glanced at Ha’radaa. ‘Why did this gentleman become so angry with you earlier this evening?’
‘I . . . well . . . he obviously mistook me . . .’
Theo shook his head. ‘If we had the time to go into this further, Staki, I think the truth of the matter is, that you and probably your thug friends happened across this visitor to Alexandria here, beat him up and robbed him?’
Staki’s heavy lips trembled and he looked as if he was going to protest his innocence until his eyes met the hawk eyes of the General. His head dropped. ‘Yes. We followed him from Caeser’s Square and jumped him in the alley way that runs at the back of the temple.’
General Romulus gave a dry smile. ‘Punishment for petty robbery and assault is flogging. But there would be little point in flogging a dead man would there?’
The guard escorted Staki and Ha’radaa out of the room.
‘So,’ said Romulus. ‘You’ve now lost your prime suspect. You know, you had a chance to save your skins there by simply pinning the blame on the oriental.’
‘But that would have been unfair.’
‘So you’re more concerned about fairness and justice than your survival?’
‘Aren’t those the foundation stones of our civilization?’
‘Well . . . you must be the first Egyptian I’ve met who’s far too honest and honourable for his own good. But I’m afraid your principles are more impressive than your good sense. What’s your name?’
‘Theocritas Amun-Arten. I’m a physician.’
‘Right, Amun-Arten, give me your account of events in this room tonight. You’ve got the time it takes the executioner to sharpen his knife on the stone.’
Theo nodded, accepting the challenge. ‘First, I’ll admit my mistake. I believed there was an entrance through the floor to the catacombs that honeycomb the rock beneath the city. The assailant had entered the room via that passageway, so I wrongly postulated, killed Diomedes and made off with the map. As I’ve described before the Egyptians place garlands of lotus blossom on the coffins of their dead. My belief was that the assailant had inadvertently carried a few of the petals into the room with him.’
‘There are lotus petals in the room?’
‘Yes. If you give me enough time I’ll be able to explain how they came to be here. And no, General, there is no secret passageway into the room, we lifted all the slabs that are loose. There is only sand beneath them.’ Theo thoughtfully placed a finger against his nose. ‘Until moments ago one mystery I couldn’t explain away was the state of the dead man’s feet. His soles are covered with a rich black substance.’
‘So?’
‘You’ll see, General, that the floor of the room is kept scrupulously clean. Now, if you’ll allow me to conduct one small experiment. Chrysippus, please hand me a clean sheet of papyrus. Thank you. Now, I beg you to watch carefully.’
Theo crouched down beside the body, took hold of one of the dead man’s feet in one hand, and pressed the sheet of papyrus against the bare sole of the foot with the other.
‘See, gentlemen?’
There on the sheet of papyrus was one distinct black footprint as if stamped there in ink. Theo continued: ‘By rights there should be black footprints covering the floor. Where are they? Or was the black substance applied to his feet after death? Or did the deceased visit a place where the floor was covered with the black dirt, and then, for some reason, on his return his feet no longer had reason to touch the floor?’
‘He was carried here?’ ventured Marcus.
General Romulus shook his head. ‘Or do you suggest that after he muddied his feet he magically flew back into the room to die?’
‘I think, General, you are close to the truth.’
‘And I know, Amun-Arten, you’re blasted close to the blade.’
‘You want the map?’
Romulus nodded grimly. ‘So, who killed the scribe?’
‘Why, General . . . you’re looking at the killer.’
Everyone followed the direction of the General’s gaze. Gabinius’ jaw opened as if the muscles of his face had ceased to work.
‘Amun-Arten, what in the name of the blasted gods are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, General Romulus, that Diomedes murdered himself.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes. But he went to extraordinary lengths to make it look like murder.’
‘But what on earth for?’
‘I’ll explain the why later. But first the how.’ Moving his arms in those great priestly gestures, Theocritas Amun-Arten paced the floor as he explained. ‘Diomedes chose, quite calmly and rationally, to kill himself. He chose also to make it look like murder. He’s in a locked room. He has no knife. That limits the means of suicide quite severely, and even more so if it must be disguised as murder. There is the lamp cord hanging from the iron peg. But he could only hang himself with that, and that would clearly look like suicide. Murderers in a hurry don’t hang their victims. He also chose to make us assume, particularly you General, that he’d bravely fought his attacker before being bludgeoned to death. Quite simply he punched the walls until his fists were bruised. I’d guess he cleverly wrapped his hand in some article of clothing first to make it look as if he’d punched at flesh rather than solid stone. It must have taken a will of iron that even you, General, might admire.’
‘But there was a fight. The stools are broken. His head smashed.’
‘I demonstrated earlier that one or more of the overhead lamps would have been broken if there had been a fight in here using the stools as clubs.’
‘One is.’
‘Ah, I sacrificed that one in an experiment earlier this evening.’
‘Continue, Amun-Arten, I’m curious to know how the man contrived to beat himself to death.’
‘Quite simple. He employed a force of nature. Please, come here. See, the iron pegs set in the walls. He used these to climb the wall as far as the stone ledge. It is perhaps the height of four grown men standing on each others shoulders. You can imagine him standing there, he’s frightened, he’s praying to his God, but he believes the self-sacrifice is vital. Then, carefully assessing what he must do, he bends at the waist, then falls forward, allowing that force of nature to rush him downward head first onto the stone floor below. Death would be instantaneous.’
‘And I’m supposed to swallow that fantastic idea? Witnesses heard a struggle first, then a loud pounding.’
‘Those were made by Diomedes. He needed to make the people outside that door believe there was a furious fight taking place in here. So, he tied that length of cord to the stools, climbed up here to the ledge, carrying one end of the cord with him. He then hauled the stools up after him, beat them against the wall, breaking them, shouting all the time, before throwing the stools down to the ground; then himself.’
‘Reasonably plausible, Amun-Arten, but you’ve no proof. And where did the dried lotus petals come from?’
‘Marcus,’ said Theo, ‘it’s quite a hazardous favour I’m asking, but would you climb the wall, using those pegs, to the stone ledge? Then I want you sweep your hand along the surface as if you’re sweeping crumbs from a table.’
With difficulty Marcus scaled the wall using the iron pegs. Reaching the ledge, with his head just a little above it, he swept his arm across the stone work. Light objects like scraps of paper fluttered down. One fell onto the General’s shoulder. Briskly he brushed it off. ‘Dried lotus petals. Who put them there?’
‘The ancient Egyptians, when this was still a temple. Statues probably stood on the ledge. They’ve been toppled now, but some of the lotus garlands remain from their festivals. They’ve probably been there for a thousand years or more. Now . . .’ He called up to Marcus, ‘Marcus, please show the General your hand and arm. Good . . .’ Theo smiled. ‘You see. It is covered with the same greasy black as Diomedes’ feet. It’s a mixture of soot and the greasy dust lifted into the air by the heat from the lamps. If you’d like to send one of your men up there they’ll find, I believe, the whole of the ledge is thick with a layer of that black dirt. They’ll also find footprints that will match with those of the deceased. Naturally, when Diomedes stood on the ledge prior to his fall he did not notice his feet had become blackened.’
The General nodded slowly. ‘Very well, Amun-Arten, I accept your explanation. In the face of the weight of evidence I can do no other. But why did Diomedes kill himself?’
‘You knew he was Christian?’
‘No, is that important?’
Gabinius let out an involuntary moan. His eyes locked hard onto Theo in terror.
General Romulus understood perfectly the reason for the man’s fear. ‘What don’t you want Amun-Arten to tell me, Gabinius?’
Theo answered for the man. ‘To reach the truth I persuaded Gabinius to tell me why the map was so important to you.’
‘Well, after tonight I’m confident you’ll all keep my secrets safe.’
Theo obviously registered the General’s threat but didn’t stop speaking, ‘Diomedes was Christian. He knew of your plan to move the Empire westward to a new land across the Atlantic. He knew this new Empire would be strictly pagan, and that the results of this vast exodus would destroy the old Empire and Christianity would be wiped out beneath a flood of invaders with their own barbaric gods. I don’t believe for a moment Diomedes, nor even Gabinius, thought they would ever find the map, pointing the way to this mythical new world across the sea. When it did appear it caught Diomedes by surprise. He was locked into a room knowing full well that in probably less than an hour you’d walk through that door, you’d have the map in your hands, and that Christianity would be as good as dead.’
‘But why all the elaborate play-acting, then killing himself in such a bizarre fashion?’
‘Naturally he could have simply destroyed the map,’ said Theo, ‘and he knew you would have executed him anyway. No, he wasn’t afraid to sacrifice himself to safeguard his faith, but he was a family man. And he knew you would have exacted retribution on his wife and children. He balked at sacrificing them, too. So in the heat of the moment he concocted his plan to make it look like murder.’
‘And the map?’ The General’s expression was stony. ‘Presumably he burnt it.’
‘It wouldn’t have burnt easily; it was drawn on a rabbit skin.’
‘Then where is it?’
Theo knelt beside the body and gently opened the mouth and, with his fingers, reached inside. ‘Here, it is. Or at least a fragment of it.’ Theo held a scrap of parchment between finger and thumb. ‘We can imagine Diomedes frantically tearing at the map with his teeth, and he has exceptionally good teeth, too, unlike we poor Egyptians. No doubt half choking in the process he swallowed the map – a difficult task, then also with great difficulty he will have climbed up the wall using those iron pegs. Undoubtedly, his love for his God empowered him. Postmortem convulsions after he hit the floor will have caused the partial regurgitation of the shreds of skin into the back of his throat.’
‘Perhaps the map can be pieced together,’ said Gabinius, kneading his hands together hopefully.
Theo shook his head. ‘There are powerful acids in the stomach. The pigments on the map will have been utterly destroyed.’
General Romulus picked up his helmet from the table and sighed. ‘Diomedes was either a fool or ruthlessly ambitious. He should have known that if Christians will gladly sacrifice themselves for their God then their faith is indestructible anyway. Is it possible that the old gods have led me astray and that this puling, humbling Christ in whose name even the Roman Emperor now fights is fated to prevail?’
Theo raised an eyebrow. ‘Ruthlessly ambitious? You think Diomedes sought sainthood through martyrdom?’
‘Quite. This religion of self-sacrifice apparently carries its own rewards. Let us hope that he enjoys them now in Heaven, for his family will most certainly get little more enjoyment during their brief time they have left on Earth. Although this wretch is beyond punishment for his treachery, his family certainly are not.’
‘But you promised that –’
‘Amun-Arten. You are too trusting. Why should a senior Roman General be bound by his oath to a funny little Egyptian with no history worth speaking of and certainly no future worth mentioning? The moment is too bitter for mercy. Goodbye.’
As soon as General Romulus, his helmet under one arm, had left the room Gabinius, wild eyed, turned on Theo. ‘You heard that, Amun-Arten? Even after all this, he’s going to kill us anyway. Probably this very moment, out there on the library steps. Don’t you –’
He was silenced by the arrival of one of the lieutenants who barked, ‘Physician. Come with me. Now!’
I, Theocritas Amun-Arten take up the pen once more. I am tired; the end, at last, has come.
On being summoned by the General’s lieutenant, I followed him from the Isis room into the main body of the library. He marched quickly and I had to run to keep up with him. I had no doubt he was eager to cut my throat.
Then I saw a bizarre and incredible sight. Some of the bodyguard were pointing towards the distant ceiling, and while I watched in amazement, dried lotus petals fell gently from the vault of the roof. I’ve heard descriptions of snow from travellers. Surely this must be how it looks, fluttering palely from a dark sky. I followed the lieutenant to my death through this softly falling cloud of petals that misted the air white. Perhaps the monkeys had run out of stones to throw and had found the dried lotus flowers that must clutter every niche and ledge.
Through the mist of gently falling petals I made out figures. They were gathered about another figure that lay face down on the floor.
It was General Romulus. He had gone forward to meet his ancestors.
I asked what happened.
‘The General was walking towards me,’ said the lieutenant, ‘and appeared to be about to deliver his orders, when he was hit by a piece of stone thrown by one of the apes.’
I looked up through the swirl of petals cast by the now silent monkeys. Sitting in one of the niches that had once contained one of the gods of Egypt, was a huge specimen, the father of his tribe. He looked steadily back at me, the serene wisdom of Thoth in those ebony eyes.
‘The General is dead?’ asked the lieutenant.
I answered softly, ‘Oh yes, quite dead.’
After the guards had carried away the body Marcus picked up the lethal piece of stone and handed it to me.
Librarian appeared. ‘I saw Romulus fall as if he’d been hit by a thunderbolt.’
The piece of stone in my hands was a granite fist, twice the size of mine.
Librarian looked at the blood on the floor. ‘What Killed him?’
‘The hand of god.’ I held up the granite fist. ‘Which god?’ I shrugged. ‘A god. Any god. It doesn’t really matter at all.’
The rising sun is bringing a pink blush to the houses and temples and churches of this wonderful city. The streets are peaceful; the air still. In a little while, I’ll put down my pen and follow the monkeys as they stream homeward to their nesting places.
After the events of this turbulent night I feel both a satisfaction, and the warmth of a serenity that touches upon the divine. And now that warmth becomes a glow of anticipation. Because I know in just a few short moments I will open the door of our house, be greeted by the scents of home: sandalwood and musk and thyme, mingling with freshly baked bread, and as I climb the stairs, my heart will feel the fire of love, because, I know, at last, that’s where I will find you.