As soon as the ship entered the Great Harbour, the easternmost of the two harbours that were split by the heptastadion, the motion of the waves ceased almost completely. So sheltered was the inlet, part natural, part man-made, that despite the raging wind on the open ocean, the last short part of the voyage to the docks was so smooth it was like sailing on a barge down a canal.
Silus thought it felt almost unnatural, after three weeks of being in constant motion, to have a steady horizon to observe. Iason came and stood beside him as the pilot guided them in towards their berth.
‘You’ve never been here before then?’ said the captain.
‘I’m from Britannia,’ said Silus. ‘I thought Rome was a long way from home. I feel like I have travelled to the ends of the earth.’
‘The world is a lot bigger than you realise, my friend.’
‘So you know the place?’
‘A little. It’s old, but not as old as many cities. Founded by Alexander the Great himself, hence the name.’
‘I know that much.’
‘They say when he first decided to build a vast city on this part, they marked out the streets and regions with flour as they had no chalk. But as fast as they laid it down, the birds came to eat it. Some people thought it was a bad omen. But the soothsayer told Alexander that it showed that the city would go on to become the food-giver of the world. And he was right. Alexandria, and below it Egypt, feeds Rome. Without it, the capital of the Empire would starve.’
Silus whistled appreciatively. Although the seaborne traffic was much reduced in the winter season, there were still plenty of vessels in the docks, and many entering and leaving the harbour.
But it was the city beyond the docks that caught his attention. He knew that it was past its prime, that its zenith was before the Romans had occupied it, but it still looked magnificent.
Rome too had overawed him when he had first arrived there from the remote province of Britannia at the northern edge of the Empire. But it had been dirty, irregular, a city built hotchpotch over the centuries as the needs of an ever-changing population and an ever-expanding Empire had dictated.
This was different. It had been planned, and it had been designed by the conqueror of the whole world, the greatest general who had ever lived, and it had been built by his successors and turned into a seat of learning and culture that still beamed out across the Empire like its most famous structure, shining light into the fog and darkness of ignorance. Its vast structures of limestone and marble, obelisks and palaces and gardens and buildings whose purpose he could only guess at, overwhelmed the senses, and humbled Silus completely.
Atius summed up his feelings succinctly.
‘Fuck me, Silus,’ he said. ‘Fuck me.’
Silus couldn’t help staring around him, aware that he was marking himself out as a naive newcomer, but not caring. It was so beautiful. So magnificent. Behind him on the island of Pharos, the lighthouse was illuminated by the early morning sun, collecting its rays and hurling them out to sea from atop its 400-foot tower. In front of him, situated on a projection into the harbour, the waterfront was dominated by the Caesarion, the massive temple of the Imperial cult. It was piled high with dedicated offerings against its sides, and it was girdled with religious pictures and statues wrought in gold and silver. Within the structure he could glimpse porticoes, chambers, gardens, groves and wide-open courtyards. Further away, on a hill to the south-west, looking down over the city and the harbour, was the Serapeum, a vast complex of buildings surrounding the marble, colonnaded Temple of Serapis. And at every point along the skyline, temples of various sizes, shapes and designs jutted towards the heavens, imploring whichever god they were dedicated to to pay attention to them, to find them worthy.
Atius and Silus walked together down the gangway and onto the docks, ignoring the dock workers, paying no attention to Marcellus calling after them, or Soaemias screeching out, ‘Silus, Atius, where are you going?’ It was just all too fantastic, and at that moment, Silus could not bring his thoughts to bear on anything other than how small and humble he was, and how magnificent was this city he was so fortunate to find himself in.
That all changed when Atius kicked the cat.
It was a complete accident. Like Silus, Atius had been gazing at the rooftops, the buildings and temples, his mouth hanging open. Looking upwards, he had failed to spot the black cat basking on the walkway, soaking up some early morning rays. The cat, of course, was used to complete respect, and though it had seen Atius bearing down on it, until this moment in its life, it had always been revered so thoroughly that even laden carts and wagons had altered their courses around it, rather than have the temerity to ask it to move.
Atius would have had no such compunction, and would have gently but firmly nudged it away if he had seen it. But he hadn’t. So his large, booted foot, swinging through the air ready to take a next step, had connected heavily with the cat’s torso, and pitched it through the air. It let out a piercing shriek as it flew, legs spread wide in an attempt to slow its speed. Then its head knocked the edge of the walkway, and it tumbled into the sea with a splash and disappeared.
Atius looked around bemused, letting out a half grin.
‘Stupid creature,’ he muttered. ‘Hope it’s OK.’
But the surrounding dock workers weren’t smiling. Almost to a man, they had stopped their work and were pointing and muttering ominously. Those who did not look angry, such as a pair of long-haired, pale-skinned, Gallic-looking slaves, or a dark-skinned Aethiopian overseer, were backing away slowly.
From the corner of his eye, Silus saw a small figure sprint along the causeway and dive into the water with barely a ripple. He nudged Atius, who now noticed the stir he had caused. More workers came over to join their colleagues, who told them what had happened and indicated Atius.
Marcellus, Soaemias, Gannys and four legionaries caught up with Silus and Atius.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Atius killed a cat. I don’t think the locals like it.’
‘He did what?’ gasped Gannys.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Atius, an uncharacteristic edge of agitation in his tone.
‘You cursed fool,’ hissed Soaemias. ‘Don’t you know the cat is sacred to Egyptians?’
Silus did have some memory that they revered the little balls of fur, teeth and claws, which in Britannia were tolerated and vaguely encouraged for pest control purposes. Maybe this cat was a prized rat catcher.
‘We apologise for the accident with the cat,’ Silus called out to the men who were now forming a circle around them in large numbers. ‘We can pay the owner for its value.’
‘Silus, no,’ warned Soaemias, but it was too late. Muttering turned into shouts of anger.
‘Cat-murderer!’
‘Sacrilege!’
‘Death to the killer!’
The first missile thrown was a piece of soft fruit, which hit Silus on the upper arm, but it was soon followed by pieces of wood and pottery as the crowd smashed up cargo to use as weapons. The small party that had just disembarked crowded together, arms up to fend off the attack, and retreated slowly down the gangway back towards the boat as the dock workers advanced.
‘Stop! I have the cat!’
A slight woman, drenched from head to toe, water streaming from her long hair, was standing on the dock side. The cat was lying on its side, fur bedraggled, not moving and not breathing. The angry dock workers turned and stared, momentarily shocked into quiescence by the sight of their sacred animal dead. Then they turned back towards Silus’ party with hatred burning in their eyes.
‘Wait, wait!’ cried Silus, clinging to a desperate hope. He had seen his father drag a half-drowned Maeatae child from a river when he was just a young boy himself. To the amazement of all who had thought the little girl dead, his father had brought her back from Hades by pumping on her chest and blowing into her mouth. He didn’t know if it would work for an animal, but he had nothing to lose.
He knelt down by the limp body and touched his fingers behind its elbows. There was a heartbeat, faltering, but present. He pressed down with his palm on the chest, and was rewarded by a little spurt of frothy water coming from the mouth and nose. Inwardly reflecting on the things he had to do to get Atius out of trouble, he leant down and blew firmly into the cat’s nose and saw the chest inflate. He pressed again on the chest, rhythmically, with no idea how fast or how hard he should push, but acutely aware how much depended on saving this little animal. The mission. Finding Avitus. Atius’ life!
The cat gasped, its back arching upwards, limbs extended. The watching crowd, who had been holding a collective breath, let out a long sigh of wonder. Silus wasn’t confident yet. He had seen soldiers die who had made that same convulsive movement as they breathed their last. But the cat gasped again, coughed and spluttered, and began to breathe more regularly. Its eyes remained tightly closed, but its paw came up to bat at its nose, as if to remove a fly.
Silus sat back, and the woman who had dived into the water after the drowning animal held the creature aloft.
‘She lives! The stranger has saved the sacred cat. I will cherish her and ensure she returns to full health. The stranger’s friend will not be punished for this. I, Tekosis, priestess of Isis, so declare. Now disperse and return to your work, and the blessing of Isis, wife-sister of Osiris, mother of Horus, creator, protector of the seas and harbours and harvests and this great country of Egypt, who guarantees her worshippers comfort and luxury in the life to come, go with you.’
The crowd reluctantly dispersed, grumbling and throwing dagger glances towards Atius, while showing a more ambivalent reaction to Silus, a mix of fear and respect.
Silus turned to the priestess.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You saved us.’
Tekosis cradled the cat in her arms like a baby. ‘I saved Bastet, you fool,’ she said, matter-of-factly. She spoke Greek, but her accent was strong native Egyptian, a type of intonation that he had encountered among the Egyptians that lived in Rome. He looked at her properly for the first time, her long, white robe clinging to her slender body, long, black hair cascading down her back, still dripping. Her nose was pointed, her eyes large, but the dark kohl that would normally accentuate them into an almond shape had smudged and was now smeared across her fine cheekbones.
Silus felt his breath had been taken away as thoroughly as the drowned cat’s, then realised he had been staring for way too long. She cocked her head on one side, and gave him a quizzical half-smile.
‘Um… who is Bastet?’ was all he could think of to say.
‘This is Bastet. The goddess in cat form. As all cats are. And Bastet is the soul of Isis.’
‘And you… you are a priestess of Isis?’
‘I am Tekosis, as I said. Maybe you should introduce yourself.’
‘I am Silus. From Britannia.’
‘Just another Roman, no matter where you say you come from.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I am Egyptian,’ she said, an angry flash in her eyes.
Silus was contemplating what to say next when Atius appeared at his side.
‘That was amazing, Silus. I thought I was dead meat for sure. Was that some sort of magic?’
Tekosis also waited for his reply with interest.
‘Of course not,’ scoffed Silus. ‘When have you ever known me to do any magic? I learned it from my father. The poor little beast had lost the air from its lungs, and I put some back.’
Tekosis nodded at this, seemingly satisfied.
‘Silus, Atius. Leave this native be and attend me.’ Soaemias’ voice cut into their conversation like a rusty knife.
Silus gave Tekosis an apologetic shrug. ‘I would like to thank you more properly for your help today. Where can I find you?’
‘I am the priestess of the Temple of Isis Lochias. I am easy to find.’
Silus nodded, mumbled his thanks again, and turned back to Marcellus and Soaemias.
Marcellus fanned his face with his hand, blowing air between pursed lips.
‘That was quite a welcome,’ he said. ‘I had heard the Alexandrians were excitable, but that was something else.’
‘He disrespected their sacred animal. He should be executed, as a sign of our good faith.’
Silus gaped. This was the third time Soaemias had called for the execution of one of the Arcani. He was starting to get the impression that she really didn’t like them. ‘It was an accident. And the cat survived.’
‘I was talking to my husband, not asking your opinion, Arcanus.’
Silus opened his mouth to retort, but Marcellus held up a placating hand. ‘The first and only order of business, darling wife, is to find our son. It is Silus and Atius who tracked him here, and it is their job to bring him back to us. If they fail, then maybe we can revisit this matter.’
Soaemias looked distinctly unsatisfied, but did not reply. Silus didn’t feel particularly mollified by those words either.
‘Now Silus, Atius,’ said Marcellus. ‘Perhaps you could escort us to the prefect’s palace. And maybe we will reach it without an assassination attempt, a kidnapping or inciting a riot.’
The prefect of Egypt was a position of such potential power that it was not entrusted to anyone of senatorial rank. As the breadbasket that fed Rome, anyone taking control of Egypt could hold Rome hostage, and so its administration was given to a prefect of equestrian rank. Although this lower station did not necessarily reflect on the prefect’s ability, it made it less likely that he would be able to command sufficient support to lead a rebellion or usurp the throne.
Unfortunately, the prefect received no special training in how to run the unique province, with its arcane laws and customs, its complicated pantheon and its volatile population. Lucius Baebius Aurelius Juncinus had only been in the job for a few months, and he already looked worn out.
Silus sat on a comfortable wooden chair in a meeting room decorated lavishly with gold and silver fittings and adornments. Marcellus and Silus sat with the prefect, sipping wine and eating grapes. Juncinus was an affable man in his forties with a neatly trimmed beard and a toned figure suggestive of one who continued to exercise regularly and eat frugally. Beside him sat a tall man with eastern features. Juncinus had introduced him as Gratidius, the legate of the Legio II Traiana stationed in Alexandria.
Atius had been sent off to secure accommodation within the palace for the two Arcani, and Soaemias was ordering around both her own entourage and the palace slaves to unload their luggage, make a liveable space for her and her husband, and attend her as she bathed.
The prefect noticed Silus examining the decor. ‘This was one of the Ptolemies’ palaces. I forget which one. There were so many, and they all married their sisters. But they certainly knew how to decorate in style.’
Silus nodded in non-committal appreciation. He had never been one for opulent living. His tiny, run-down lodgings in the Subura suited him fine, although he would have been even happier in a small hut in a vicus in northern Britannia, or even a tent in the forest.
‘What sort of country is this?’ asked Marcellus. ‘We had barely stepped off the boat when the crowd erupted. I get that the cat is sacred to them and everything, but still…’
‘You got off lightly,’ said Gratidius. ‘You are lucky the cat survived. A Roman soldier was executed once for accidentally killing a cat. If the creature hadn’t made it, we might have had no choice but to put your fellow up on a cross, or the city might go up in flames.’
‘Is it really that unstable?’
‘Juno’s tits, Marcellus, this place is crazy,’ said Juncinus. ‘I’ve been here a little while, but I haven’t got close to scratching the surface of how it all works. No one prepared me for any of this. I’m a good soldier, and I know Roman law, so they sent me to replace Aquila. They didn’t tell me the people who lived here are all insane.’
‘Baebius Juncinus,’ said Marcellus. ‘We need your help.’
‘Of course. How could I refuse a propraetor, former Urban and Praetorian prefect and favourite of the Emperor?’
Silus wasn’t sure if there was any irony in Juncinus’ tone, but Marcellus either didn’t think there was or chose to ignore it.
‘You may have heard I am to take up the role of Governor of Numidia?’
‘I have. Even in winter, news still travels fast from Rome. We heard of the death of Geta only two weeks after it occurred.’
Silus noted the neutral terms he used for the death of the co-Augustus, avoiding terms such as ‘murder’ and ‘committed’.
‘We have been attacked twice on the way. Once near Neapolis by what we originally thought were pirates.’
‘Pirates? That’s unusual these days. Especially that close to Rome.’
‘Quite. But we were then attacked again in Syracuse. And this time my…’ His voice caught in his throat and he took a sip of wine.
Silus finished his words for him. ‘They took the governor’s son.’
‘Took?’ Juncinus sounded confused. ‘Took where?’
‘If we knew that, we would have him back by now.’
Juncinus whistled. ‘I thought when you first mentioned pirates, it was someone trying to stop you taking up the governorship in Numidia. Someone who wants the rebellion there to succeed.’
‘That would be the obvious conclusion,’ said Marcellus. ‘But why would they abduct my son? How does that advance their cause?’
‘Well,’ said Juncinus. ‘You’re here, aren’t you? Numidia is a long way from Egypt.’
‘Simpler to kill me.’
‘It sounds like they tried,’ said Gratidius. ‘Isn’t that so… Silus, was it?’
‘Yes, legate. And yes. The pirates would have killed him, if I hadn’t intervened. And the legionaries tell me the attackers in Syracuse pressed him pretty hard too.’
‘So they took his son when they failed to kill him, as a second best alternative.’
‘Maybe,’ said Silus.
‘You seem doubtful,’ said Marcellus.
‘It’s just… it sounds like it was the same man who tried to take Avitus on the ship, as the one who actually succeeded in Syracuse. And in each case, he hung back until the defenders were fully occupied, then chose his moment to make his attempt on your son.’
Marcellus frowned. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I may be wrong. It just feels like you either weren’t the real target, or that killing you was of secondary importance. That taking your son was their aim all along.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Marcellus. ‘Why would an eight-year-old boy be of value to anyone? Except as a hostage for a ransom. And then surely there are easier ways to make money.’
‘Maybe for leverage against you, to make you do something as Governor of Numidia that is against the interests of the Emperor.’
Marcellus shook his head. ‘Caracalla would have me replaced and executed instantly if I tried to go against his wishes. Surely that would be obvious to all.’
They all sat in contemplative silence for a moment. Then Juncinus spoke up again.
‘I still don’t know why you came to Alexandria.’
Marcellus nodded to Silus to explain, and Silus outlined the investigations that had set them on this course. Juncinus listened politely.
‘I understand, but how can I help?’
‘We were rather hoping you could tell us that,’ said Marcellus. ‘You know how the city works.’
‘I think we have already established that I don’t.’
‘But do we have your permission to search for the boy with a free hand?’ asked Silus.
‘Of course. But you had better do it without breaking any laws, Roman or Egyptian. Or religious. Or Greek, or Alexandrian, or Jewish, or… or… gods, I wish I was back in Rome.’
‘You don’t have any advice for us about how to go about our search?’ asked Marcellus.
‘No. I’m sorry.’
Marcellus’ shoulders slumped.
‘But,’ continued Juncinus, ‘I can introduce you to someone who may be of more use.’
‘Oh?’
‘His name is Canopion. He is my hypomnematographus.’
Silus glanced at Marcellus to check if he was being stupid. But Marcellus looked equally confused.
‘The hypomnematographus is an Alexandrian citizen, and a member of the Boule. He is the chief of my chancery.’
‘Boule?’ asked Marcellus.
Juncinus threw his hands in the air. ‘I did tell you it’s complicated. Go and see Canopion. He can explain the intricacies of Alexandrian society better than I will ever be able to. But I suggest you take a number of wax tablets with you so you can make notes.’
Canopion the hypomnematographus had offices in the prefect’s palace, and after Juncinus had introduced them and retreated, he cleared his schedule for them. Silus would have preferred to talk to him on his own. Marcellus was too emotionally involved. But Marcellus insisted, and in any case, Juncinus told them that as a local aristocrat, there was no way that Canopion would see someone of Silus’ sort without someone senior present. Silus tried not to take offence at the prefect’s words – he was used to being looked down on by the higher ranks of Roman society. But it was clear that the hypomnematographus also considered himself vastly superior to a mere foot soldier from the remote north, no matter how skilled or respected others thought him.
Canopion had typically Greek features – a long straight nose lacking the Roman bump, wavy dark hair, liberally salted with grey in his case, and large brown eyes with a full mouth. He used that nose to full effect, looking down it from his elevated chair at the two men before him, not even attempting to keep the sneer from his lip whenever he regarded Silus.
Silus decided he would take the initiative.
‘What exactly does a hypopneumoniagrapus do?’ he asked, taking pleasure in deliberately mispronouncing the title.
‘A hypomnematographus,’ said Canopion, emphasising the correct form, ‘is a senior magistrate and advisor to the prefect, assisting with judiciary matters. He is selected from the senior ranks of the Boule. The council,’ he added when Silus continued to look blank.
‘Sounds important. But you have no authority of Roman citizens, is that correct?’
‘I… no, that is not my jurisdiction. But there are others who…’
‘Thank you. We would like to ask you some questions. The prefect said you wouldn’t mind assisting the governor here.’
Canopion’s eyes flicked between the two, clearly wondering about the dynamics at play. Which one actually spoke with authority?
‘Of course. However I can be of assistance.’
‘The governor’s son has gone missing, and we believe he was brought here to Alexandria. With the bad weather, he cannot have arrived long before us. How would you advise we go about enquiring about the arrival of his ship, and tracking him down in Alexandria?’
Canopion sat back and spread his hands.
‘The first part is easy. The second, I really couldn’t say.’
‘Tell us the first part first, then.’
‘You need to go to see the procurator Phari.’
Marcellus sighed. Silus knew why – the administration in Alexandria seemed to be completely different to any other part of the Empire and Marcellus, who was from Syria, had fought in Britannia, who had followed Severus in Africa province and had held high office in Rome, felt totally out of his depth here.
‘Who is the procurator Phari?’
‘He is the official who collects the harbour dues at the ports. He is also responsible for protecting the shipping lanes against piracy and attack from foreign threats. And importantly for you, he strictly regulates the flow of persons and goods into and out of the port.’
‘We didn’t report to him when we arrived,’ said Marcellus, confused.
‘A man of your rank would not have been detained, but you can be sure your captain will have given a full inventory of crew, passengers and goods to the office of the procurator Phari as soon as you arrived.’
‘So we can find out when this ship docked, and who was on board?’ asked Silus, interest now piqued.
‘If you have enough detail, the procurator’s civil servants will be able to look up its arrival. As for who was on board, that will depend on what name they used, of course. But it may be that you will be able to find the official from the procurator’s office that inspected the boat, and he may recall some detail of use.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marcellus, and Silus also nodded his thanks. The pompous aristocratic official was being of more use than anticipated.
‘And the second part?’ asked Silus. ‘How might we find a missing boy in this city?’
Canopion steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips.
‘I presume you intend to go and talk to people and see if you can find him with a combination of bribes, threats and appeals to good nature.’
Silus shrugged. Put like that, it didn’t seem the most solid of plans, but he didn’t have anything better at this stage.
‘Then I think you need to understand how Alexandria works a little better.’
Marcellus inclined his head, indicating for the hypomnematographus to continue.
‘Alexandria was founded over five hundred years ago by Alexander the Great when he…’
Marcellus held up his hand. ‘Is a history lesson really necessary?’
Canopion looked put out. ‘It certainly helps to understand the interplay of races here. But if you want the short version…’
‘It would be a help. Time is pressing.’
‘Alexandria has a diverse population made up predominantly of Greeks and native Egyptians, plus Romans – mainly in government in the army – and Jews. The number of Jews is relatively small, although once more growing. They revolted a hundred years ago, and at the time many were killed or forced into exile.
‘The Greeks are descendants of the men who came with Ptolemy when he took Egypt as his prize when Alexander’s empire fell apart. The Egyptians have been here since before time began.
‘In terms of social ranking, ignoring the Romans who govern by right of conquest, the upper echelons such as myself are Greek. We have our own council, the Boule. We administer our own taxes, and our families are part of the Bouletic class – the aristocrats. All others in Alexandria are just part of the ochlos – the mob – be they Greek, Alexandrian, Jewish or anything else.’
Silus was beginning to understand where Canopion saw his position in society. Just like the Greeks in their home country, he paid lip service to his Roman overlords while not so secretly considering himself and his friends and family vastly superior to them, and indeed to everyone.
‘What about the Christians?’ asked Silus. ‘I heard there are a lot of them here.’
Canopion considered the question. ‘It’s hard to tell. The Emperor’s father, blessed be his name, ordered the Alexandrian Christians purged about ten years ago. Many were killed. Those who didn’t flee or hide were beheaded or burnt. It was a difficult time, even for those of us who stick to the faith of the old gods. But slowly they returned, and even though the divine Septimius Severus decreed a ban on conversion to Christianity, they now preach openly in the city. And it is not like with the Greeks and the Jews and the Egyptians – you can’t tell a Christian from the colour of his skin or the shape of his nose, even though some think of them as a separate race.’
‘So the city is volatile because there are so many factions?’ asked Silus.
‘Maybe. Pagans hate Christians, Christians hate Jews. Native Egyptians hate the Greeks. The Greeks look down on the native Egyptians. Everyone hates the Romans. Well, not everyone,’ he said hastily, as Marcellus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Of course I have the utmost respect for the culture and power of Rome.’
‘You said maybe,’ said Silus. ‘Why else is there so much trouble here?’
‘The native Egyptians trace their history back longer than anyone, and feel they are owed more respect than they get. Then there is the unique nature of Alexandria, which they think is part of Egypt but also somehow separate from and above it.
‘But I think really it is just in their nature, the mob. They are volatile from birth, and take offence at anything and everything. A missed greeting. Being turned away from the baths. A lack of a certain type of vegetable at the market.’
‘This is all fascinating, but how is this going to help me find my son?’ asked Marcellus.
Silus put a hand on his arm. ‘Sir, we are both foreigners here. We need to know how to talk to the locals without causing offence to get them to help us.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Canopion. ‘They wouldn’t spit on a Roman to put him out if he was on fire. Not unless they owed you.’
Owed me? thought Silus. Did the priestess owe him for saving the sacred cat? He suspected it was more the other way round. She had saved Atius and himself by her quick thinking and her calming of the mob. But she was the only native he had met so far, and he doubted it would be easy to get other introductions. Besides, though he only half admitted it to himself, he had another reason to see her again. Her face and her body in its damp tunic had remained in his mind’s eye since he had first seen her. He should pay her a visit, he thought, with Atius. On second thought, no, he couldn’t trust Atius not to say the wrong thing, especially as she was a priestess of Isis and Atius was a follower of Christos. He would see the priestess on his own.
As Silus approached the Temple of Isis on the Lochias promontory, his heart was beating faster than it should be from the short walk from the Imperial palace. The temple was near the water’s edge, built on top of a small mound of earth to raise it above the other buildings nearby. An open outer space was surrounded by columns, with the temple itself entered through an ornate doorway. He walked into a brightly lit room painted with colourful frescoes of scenes from the stories of the Egyptian gods, with a red and white background colour scheme throughout. A few worshippers sat in quiet contemplation, and a temple servant swept the corners of sand and dust. His footsteps echoed in the calmness.
One picture caught his attention – a painting of a goddess he presumed to be Isis, with a serpent wrapped around her wrists and some sort of mythological creature at her feet. It was a long green animal with scales and a lengthy tail, and a strange mouth like a huge beak full of teeth. His head was tilted to one side as he tried to work out what it could be when a voice made him jump, and his heart, which had calmed, began to race again.
‘Silus, wasn’t it?’
He whirled to find himself face to face with Tekosis, and his heart missed a beat. She was wearing a long robe that led down to her feet, and a scarf was pulled over her hair. Only her forearms and her face were visible, but her beauty was enough to render him speechless. Strands of dark hair escaped the scarf to hang over her forehead. Intricately applied kohl accentuated her already large eyes, no longer smeared from her dip in the harbour.
She smiled gently, and the breath caught in his throat.
‘Have you forgotten your name?’
‘Yes. No. Yes, it was Silus. It still is.’
She let out a little laugh that was like a sweet melody plucked on the high notes of a lyre.
Pan’s balls, Silus. Get a grip. You’re on a mission, stop behaving like a love-struck boy who has only just cast aside his bulla and donned his toga virilis.
‘Well, I’m glad we have established that. Are you here to worship Isis, or for some other reason?’
‘I’m here to see you, actually.’
‘Well, isn’t that sweet.’
Silus bit the inside of his cheek hard to restore his concentration and studiously kept his gaze locked on her face so his eyes didn’t inadvertently roam her body.
‘It’s not a social visit. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Tekosis did not seem disappointed at this news, and although the upward tilt at the corners of her mouth straightened, the smile remained in her eyes.
‘We can talk in my chambers.’
Tekosis led the way and Silus found himself captivated by the sway of her hips as she walked. Damnit!
Her chambers turned out to be a small suite of rooms, including a bedroom and a reception-cum-living room. She gestured to him to sit on a wooden chair with a cloth seat, and she sat opposite him. The bedroom was visible through a drawn curtain, with a luxuriously upholstered bed, nightstand and a basin and chamber pot in the corner. She caught the direction of his gaze.
‘Is this uncomfortable for you?’
‘I just worry about… propriety. Not for my sake, of course, but as a priestess, are you allowed to receive a man alone in your private quarters?’
She let out that melodic laugh again. ‘As a priestess of Isis, I can do what I like. This is Egypt, not Rome. I’m not a Vestal Virgin.’
At the mention of the priestesses of Vesta, Silus grew sombre. He had tried not to think about that horrific incident, but suddenly he was transported there again, watching the terrified expression on the young girls as they were taken down to be buried alive, hearing once more the terminal thud of the falling vestal who had tried so desperately to escape.
He was brought back to the present by a touch on his knee. Tekosis leaned forward, concern on her face.
‘I’m sorry. We heard of what happened to those poor girls. Were you there?’
Silus nodded, and this time it was not the priestess’ beauty that choked his voice.
Tekosis stood, walked to a side table and poured two glasses of wine from a jug. She handed one to Silus and sat back down. He looked down into the liquid and swirled it around. It was blood red, much darker than he was used to. Tekosis saw him looking at it suspiciously.
‘When the great sun god Ra became old, men made fun of him. So he summoned his daughter, the goddess Hathor, mistress of the stars, mistress of love, protector of the sun god, and ordered her to punish the blasphemers. But once she had a taste for killing, she would not stop, and continued to slaughter mankind indiscriminately, taking the form of the lioness Sekhmet and drinking the blood of men. Ra, realising mankind was about to be totally destroyed, began to feel sorry for the humans, but even the gods could not stop her blood lust. So while she slept, the gods mixed wine with red pigment and poured it over the land. When she woke, she thought the wine was blood and drank it all. She then became so drunk she forgot about killing, and became calm and merry.
‘We drink blood red wine to this day. And in some places, they still celebrate the festival of drunkenness in her honour.’
‘Well, that sounds like it could be fun,’ said Silus, and took a deep draught. It was very sweet, flavoured with herbs and spices he couldn’t identify. It was a far cry from British beer, but he decided he could get used to it.
‘Are you ready to tell me why you are here?’ asked Tekosis. ‘It isn’t to worship Isis, and it isn’t to visit me. And I’m sure you didn’t come here just to sample my wine.’
Silus took another drink. ‘I didn’t intend to come to Alexandria. Before I arrived, I knew hardly anything about the city, and knew nobody here. But I am on a mission, a search for… something. And I will need the help of someone who knows the city well. So far, I have been introduced to the prefect, who knows nothing, and the hypomnema… hypoenema…’
‘The hypomnematographus,’ supplied Tekosis helpfully. ‘There is a man who believes he knows his worth.’
‘He did seem rather full of himself.’ Tekosis was good at putting him at his ease, just like she had calmed the rioting mob. Was it a professional skill, or was she just a natural? he wondered.
‘So tell me about your search.’
‘I am looking for a boy.’
Tekosis raised her eyebrows.
‘No, not like that. I mean, a specific boy. One who has gone missing.’
‘I see. And you think he is in Alexandria?’
‘I do. We know the ship he was taken on set sail for Alexandria. We have checked with the procurator Phari and it arrived here three days ago. The boy was not declared as part of the ship’s manifest, but we are sure he must have been on board. The ship has now departed, but before it went, it was thoroughly searched by the procurator’s officials, and he is certain the boy was not on board. So he must be hidden in Alexandria somewhere.’
‘I’m sorry to hear of these troubles. But I don’t see how I can help.’
‘If this was Britannia, or even Rome, I would talk to witnesses, follow leads, sneak into houses, kick down doors, maybe bribe, maybe threaten. But I have a feeling, after our welcome yesterday, that that approach may not be successful here. Alexandria seems to be a uniquely dangerous city, and to be honest I’m at a loss how to proceed.’
Tekosis nodded. ‘I can see your problem. How well do you understand the politics here?’
‘The hypomnemomomo… Canopion… tried to explain it to us. But he seemed to have his own perspective on things. To him, if you weren’t part of the aristocracy, you didn’t seem to be worth notice. I doubt it is among the upper echelons of society that I am going to need to look for the kidnapper.’
‘As you said, he is full of himself. He belongs to a race and a class who believe in their innate superiority over all other men. But he forgets he is a newcomer to our land. Our civilisation is vastly older than his.’
‘So you are a native Egyptian?’
‘To my shame, I am half-Greek. My father’s side. But I was raised by my mother, and I am Egyptian and Alexandrian before all else. And my greatest hope is that one day Egypt will be free of the Romans and the Greeks who stand on the bent backs of my people.’
‘You are a revolutionary?’
Tekosis smiled. ‘Of course not. That would be treason. Anyway, Romans and Greeks are not the only threats to the Egyptian way of life.’
‘Really? Who else?’
‘The Christians.’ Her pretty faced twisted into an ugly snarl.
‘How do they threaten you? Don’t they preach peace and love?’ He had learned a little from Silus, and if his friend was typical of a follower of Christos, he didn’t have a problem with the strange cult.
‘They want peace and love only for their own kind. If you aren’t Christian, they want you to become one, or they believe you are damned. And they believe there is only one God, like the Jews. The Christians want to destroy the old gods and supplant them with their own triple deity.
‘And then there are the Jews themselves. They were largely killed or chased out of Alexandria after their great revolt a hundred years ago, when they tried to tear down and desecrate temples of the old gods, like this one. But they are creeping back into the city, and who knows when they will turn against the gods of Egypt and Rome again.’
‘The Romans are very tolerant of other religions,’ said Silus. ‘They welcome them and adopt them. Worship of Mithras and Isis and Serapis is common in Rome. But the Christians and Jews accept no other gods, not even the divine emperors, and the Romans don’t like that.’
‘I know there are many Isis worshippers in Rome. Tell me, Silus, which god do you follow?’
‘I don’t really…’ Again he found himself struggling for words. How did she do that to him? ‘I mean, all of them I suppose. Any.’
‘Who is the first on your lips when you are in danger?’
‘I guess that would be Mithras. But it’s a long time since I was in a Mithraeum, and I’m not an initiate or anything like that. Not even a raven.’ The raven was the lowest rank of the seven grades of initiation in Mithraism.
Tekosis stood abruptly. ‘Come. Follow me.’
She led him out of the chamber, through a large meeting room, to a hefty wooden door at the back of the sanctuary. She took out a large bronze key, turned it in the lock and pushed the door wide. She walked through, beckoning Silus, who entered behind her.
The room was well lit by high-up barred windows through which streamed shafts of sunlight. As elsewhere in the temple, the walls were painted in beautiful frescoes, images in which the goddess featured heavily, with a supporting cast of other gods – bearded Serapis, the Ibis-headed Thoth, beetle-headed Ra. Various strange beasts decorated the margins of the frescoes, including a fat animal that looked like an aquatic pig, and another of those long lizards with the scary teeth.
But more impressive and eye-catching were the contents of the room. A tall marble statue of Isis and Serapis holding hands. Silver and gold cups, plates, bowls, decorated with religious symbols. And in pride of place, on a marble altar inlaid with gold at the far end of the room, was a foot-high golden statue of Isis. The goddess held a sceptre topped with an ankh symbol in one hand, and there was an empty throne on her head. One breast was exposed, and she was nursing the baby Horus. It was beautiful, and clearly sacred, as well as highly valuable.
‘This is the sacrarium. It holds the most precious and sacred objects of the temple.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ sighed Silus, and he meant it. The scent of incense filled the air, and the sounds of harmonious chanting drifted out of the main temple area. He was in an exquisitely decorated room, before these magnificent artefacts, in the presence of a stunning woman. He felt a little light-headed, and took two deep breaths to calm himself.
‘I can see it is affecting you,’ said Tekosis. ‘Isis is here with us.’
At that moment, in that place, with that woman, he could believe it.
‘Do you want to know about her?’
He nodded, eyes fixed on the figurine.
‘Isis is the wife-sister of Osiris and the mother of Horus. She is a kindly goddess, maternal, caring, and she helps us on the way to the afterlife. Her magic powers are great, and she protects the earth, the skies and the sea. She is the cleverest of all the gods, and she has power over fate itself.’
‘You sound very proud of your god.’
Tekosis looked at him in surprise. ‘Who wouldn’t be proud of their god?’
‘Well, some of them are not so special. I mean look at the behaviour of Jupiter, the serial adulterer and rapist. Or Mars, who supervises destruction and death. Or Pan, who killed a nymph when she refused his advances.’
Tekosis looked thoughtful. ‘The gods of Greece and Rome are very different in character from the gods of Egypt.’
Silus turned towards her. ‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘You seem like you are seeking a deeper truth.’
He shook his head. ‘Really, I’m a shallow man. What you see is all there is of me.’
She looked into his eyes, and he suddenly felt like her gaze was penetrating into his soul.
‘I see very well, Silus.’
Silus swallowed, then shook his head to clear it of sweet fumes and seductive thoughts.
‘Will you help me?’ he asked.
‘In your quest? No.’
He stared at her. ‘But…’
‘Haven’t you been listening to me, Silus? I am Alexandrian and Egyptian. I do as I am required by the Imperial authorities and the local Boule. But I belong to Isis. And the goddess has no interest in a Roman boy.’
‘But think of his mother and father. Think how scared the boy must be.’
Tekosis reached out to touch his cheek. ‘You are a good man, Silus. I will pray to Isis that you find the boy. Now, it is my time for private worship. Please excuse me.’
‘That’s it?’ Silus felt as deflated as a burst bladder.
‘I hope you will visit me again.’
‘Will you at least let me know if you hear anything, from your worshippers, or other natives?’
She considered. ‘Yes, I will. Goodbye, Silus.’
Silus looked at her for a long moment, expecting something else, though not really sure what. Then he turned and walked disconsolately away, aware that he was disappointed on both a personal and a professional level. He trundled slowly out of the temple and walked back to the prefect’s palace.