Authors: John Maddox Roberts

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical

The Temple of the Muses (14 page)

BOOK: The Temple of the Muses

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“What’s that?” he whispered.

“I think I know, but I want a closer look,” I whispered back. “From here on, be very quiet and move very slowly. Watch me and do what I do.” With that, I lay down on my belly and began to crawl slowly forward on knees and elbows, dragging my spear along the ground by my side. It was a painful means of progression, but there was no remedy for that. I elbowed my way through the grass, keeping a wary eye out for the snakes that are so abundant in Egypt. I was not as nervous as Hermes, but only a fool discounts the creatures. After all, when you slither on your belly like a reptile, you intrude on the domain of snakes, so to speak, and had best be ready to answer their challenges.

A few minutes of this crawling brought me to the edge of the high grass and I paused while Hermes crawled up beside me. Slowly, like actors in a mime, we parted the grass before our faces and looked into the field beyond.

Surrounded by large farm buildings of the usual Egyptian mud-brick architecture was a broad field of hard-packed dirt, rather like a parade ground. In fact, it
was
a parade ground, for its inhabitants were soldiers. I could tell they were soldiers because, even though none of them bothered with armor or helmet in this place, still they wore their military boots and their sword-belts, without which they would have felt naked. They were a mixed group of Macedonians and Egyptians, and they were drilling on the most fanciful battery of war engines seen since the siege of Syracuse.

One team operated a contraption that looked like six giant crossbows yoked together. It looked ridiculous, but with a startling
crash it shot six heavy javelins across the field to smash through a formation of wicker dummies. The machine rocked with the violence of its discharge, and some of the spears went through four or more of the dummies before slowing down.

On another part of the field men worked at a huge, counterweighted catapult with a long, cranelike arm terminating in a sling instead of the usual basket. Soldiers placed a ponderous stone in the sling and stood back. At a shouted signal the counterweight dropped and the long arm swept through a graceful arc. It stopped against a rope-padded horizontal bar and the sling whipped around in an ever-accelerating half-circle and its free end released, hurling the stone an unbelievable height and distance, so far that we did not hear its crashing fall.

There were more conventional-looking weapons as well, moving tortoises slung with battering rams, their heads actually cast in the shape of bronze ram heads with curling horns: giant augurs to bore through walls; small, fast-firing catapults for rocks and javelins; and many others. But the centerpiece, dwarfing all the others, was the tower.

It was at least two hundred feet high, and completely plated with iron. That was the reason for its strange ruddy gleam. At various levels balconies protruded from the main structure, equipped with catapults protected by movable shields. Once in a while a plate would swing forward and up from the forward face and a missile would arch out, after which the plate immediately dropped.

“That,” I said, “to answer your earlier question, is something very like the ‘city-taker’ of Demetrius the Besieger. It was the biggest siege tower ever built, and I think this one may be even bigger.”

Then, amid a hideous groaning and squealing, the colossal thing began to
move.
Slowly, painfully, it lurched forward a foot at a time as the men inside it and atop it cheered. Of course, one expects siege towers to move, else they would be of little use, but they are always pushed by oxen or elephants or at least a crowd of slaves or prisoners. But this outrageous device moved with no visible
means of propulsion. Besides, there was something unnatural about anything so large moving at all. If I had not already been as low as I could get, my jaw would have dropped.

“Magic!” Hermes squealed. He tried to get up, but I grabbed his shoulder and held him fast.

“It’s not magic, you young idiot! It’s driven by some sort of inner mechanism, a windlass or capstan of some sort, a thing of gears and wheels and teeth. I was studying drawings of such things just last night.”

Actually, I had only the vaguest idea of what it might be. Even the simplest waterwheel seemed intolerably complex to me. Still, I preferred to think that there was some mechanical explanation. I had only the most minimal belief in magic and the supernatural. Besides, if the Egyptians possessed magic so powerful, how would we manipulate them so easily?

A trumpet sounded and all the soldier-engineers dropped their tools and left their engines. The duty day was over. Perhaps twenty men filed out of the tower. Last of all came about thirty oxen from the interior. Then a gang of slaves went in with baskets and shovels to clean up after the oxen. So much for magic.

“Seen enough?” Hermes asked.

“Our boatman won’t be back for us until tomorrow. I want a closer look. Let’s go back to the orchard. It will be dark enough soon.” We reversed our earlier progress, slithering rearwards until we were safely among the trees.

Two hours later, we passed through the grass again, walking this time, but crouched low. Slowly and with great caution, we made our way to the edge of the parade ground. Had this been a Roman encampment, we would have been challenged by sentries, but these were barbarians, lazy and incompetent, for whom soldiering was scarcely more professional than the tribal warrioring of their native lands. That they were within their own territory with no enemy for a thousand miles was no excuse. The legions fortify every camp even if they are within sight of the walls of Rome. Still, it was convenient for us.

The machines stood like dead monsters in the moonlight as we walked up to them. They were made of wood that had been painstakingly cut and shaped, then sanded smooth and in some cases painted. War engines are usually built at the site of a siege and are made of rough-hewn wood and are often abandoned when the fighting is over, after the ironmongery and the ropes have been salvaged.

Even with my inexperienced eye, I could see that these machines were held together by pins and wedges, so that they could be disassembled for transport. That, I guessed, was an innovation of Iphicrates. Egypt has little native wood save for palm, a soft and fibrous material unsuitable for such work. All of this wood had to be imported, shiploads of it.

We walked to the base of the tower, which gave off a powerful, disagreeable smell.

“What’s that stink?” Hermes asked.

“It takes a lot of oil to keep this much iron from rusting,” I told him. “There’s enough here to make armor for three legions.” I fingered a plate that had pulled a little loose from the frame. It was good metal, about the thickness of body armor. I walked up the back ramp and looked inside, but it was far too dark to see, only a little moonlight coming through the ports that had been left open. Despite the efforts of the slaves, the interior smelled strongly of oxen. This, mixed with the stench of rancid olive oil, finally drove me away.

The other machines told me little more. They were all as ingeniously designed and lovingly built. I assumed that the more commonplace machines all incorporated some improvement of Iphicrates’s design. If only in their ease of transport and reassembly.

“What do we do now?” Hermes asked as I stepped off the ramp.

“We could have a look at those buildings,” I said, “but they’re probably just barracks and storerooms. Whatever is going on is happening in Alexandria. This is just a training facility and arsenal.”
I thought for a while. “It might be fun to set fire to all this.”

“Let’s do it!” I could hear the grin in his voice. “I could sneak a torch from one of those buildings, and there must be plenty of oil jars in the storehouses to keep all this metal greased. We could have everything alight before they know what’s going on!” Arson was an unthinkable crime in Rome, so it was one he might never get a chance to commit at home.

“But then they’d sweep the area to find the culprits. They may not be much as soldiers, but they probably know how to make a search for fugitives.”

“Maybe we’d better not, then.”

“And I might need all this as evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

It was a good question. Rome would look with great disfavor upon this development, but would the Senate take action? I rather doubted it. And what had it all to do with the murder of Iphicrates? With these questions unanswered, we made our stealthy way back to the lakeside.

O
NE OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR A career in roman politics is an onerous but necessary apprenticeship in the civil service. Nobody likes it, but at least it teaches you how a state
works.
This is why kings so often rule badly. They know public life only from the top. They like the enjoyable parts: fighting and killing their enemies, lording it over everybody else, being above the law. But the rest of it bores them, and they leave it to men or sometimes eunuchs who may have ambitions of their own. Since the kings don’t know how the business of government operates, they don’t know that their flunkies are incompetent, or are robbing or even subverting them.

Washed free of mud and soot and dressed decently once more, I presented myself at the Land Office, a sizable government building near the Palace. I knew that here I would find the exact boundaries and ownership of every square inch of land in Egypt. The Egyptians invented the art of surveying out of necessity, since their lands are inundated yearly and boundary markers are often swept
away. Like most conquerors, the Ptolemies had adopted the most beneficial practices of the conquered people, and this office was staffed almost entirely by native Egyptians. In the first room I entered, a public slave hurried over, bowing.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Where might I find maps and documents concerning the lands nearest Alexandria?”

“Please come with me.” We walked past rooms where scribes sat cross-legged in the Egyptian fashion, papyrus resting on their tight-stretched kilts, brushes in their hands, inkpots resting on the floor next to them. Others labored over maps spread on long tables.

“This is the Office of the Royal Nome, Senator, and this is Sethotep, Royal Overseer of the Northern Survey.”

The man rose from his desk and came forward. He was a native and simply dressed, but by now I had learned to judge status by the quality of a man’s wig and the weave of his kilt. Sethotep was a high-ranking functionary, about equivalent to a Roman
equite.
We made the expected introductions and I launched upon the story I had made up.

“I have embarked upon a work of geography concerning Egypt. There has been none in Latin in more than fifty years, and the earlier works are translations from Greek and consequently riddled with errors. I think we need an original book of our own.”

“A commendable project,” said Sethotep.

“I have already embarked upon my work concerning the city of Alexandria, and I want to begin my study of the nearby lands. I propose to start with Lake Mareotis and the lands surrounding it. Have you any maps of the lake? I would prefer survey maps, listing the estates of the district and their owners.”

“Certainly, Senator,” said Sethotep. He stepped over to a rack like the ones in the Library and took out a large scroll. “Of course, ail land in Egypt is the property of his Majesty King Ptolemy, but, after ancient custom, the king grants dominion over broad estates to his loyal nobles.” That was just what I wanted to hear.

He took the map to a long table and slipped it from its leather
tube. To clear a space for it, he picked up some scraps of papyrus, glanced at them, then tossed them into a huge box at the end of the table. The box was half full. The Egyptian bureaucracy generated ten times the waste papyrus of its Roman equivalent. The stuff was cheap in Egypt and they didn’t even try to reuse it.

“Where does all the waste papyrus go?” I asked him idly.

“Every month the coffin-makers come to empty the bins,” he answered.

“Coffin-makers? Really?” Another strangeness out of Egypt.

“Oh, yes. Wood is very precious in Egypt. Only the wealthy can afford wooden mummy cases. The coffin-makers mix the papyrus with glue and mold it into mummy cases for the poorer and middling classes. As long as the tomb is sealed it will last as well as wood, or so they claim. Personally, I prefer to trust wood. My own tomb is almost finished, and I have provided coffins for myself and my wife made of the finest Lebanese cedar.” Romans are fond of funerals and mortuary preparations, but the subject is a veritable mania with Egyptians, who believe in an attractive afterlife. Give them a chance and they’ll chatter on about it for hours.

“This is the lake,” he said, his map now spread and its corners weighted. The lake thus displayed was irregular in shape, as most lakes are. Lines drawn at intervals defined the estates that bordered it, but the lettering was the sort called Demotic, a simplified form of hieroglyphic that represents phonetic sounds like the Greek or Latin alphabets, but only Egyptian is thus written. Thus did the Egyptians assure their place in the Ptolemaic service. Only they could read their maps or surveys.

“Are these the names of the landowners?” I asked him. “I shall be taking a tour of the lake, and I may wish to call upon some of them.”

“Well, let me see. Going from the canal westward …”

“Actually, I was planning to begin by going east. Who is the landlord of this estate?” I put my finger on the area where I had been that very morning.

Sethotep considered the inscription for a moment. “That estate
belongs to the Lord Kassandros. It has been held by direct inheritance from an ancestor who was a companion of Ptolemy Soter, first of the royal line.”

This was bitterly disappointing. I had never heard of the man.

“So it is to this Lord Kassandros that I must make representation if I wish to visit this estate?”

“For some years now, Lord Kassandros has lived in retirement on his estate in the Arsinoene Nome, on the shores of the Faiyum.”

“He has more than one estate, then?” I said.

“Like many kings, the Ptolemies have held to the policy of giving the greater lords a number of estates scattered about the kingdom, rather than one large holding. It reduces jealousy among the great men and assures that each gets some of the best land as well as some of the middling and some of the barren land.”

It also keeps them traveling among their estates and prevents them from having a large base of power, I thought.

“Very wise. Then to whom should I speak?”

He adjusted his wig, which had come somewhat askew. “That estate may be overseen by a steward, or it may be supervised by one of Lord Kassandros’s sons. The Lord Philip is the elder, but he is Steward of the Royal Quarries, and spends most of his time near the first cataract. The younger, the Lord General Achillas, is usually to be found here in Alexandria. You might apply at the Macedonian barracks or at Lord Achillas’s town house, but I am sure that his Majesty will be pleased to send a messenger on your behalf. To please Rome is always our most ardent desire.”

I could have kissed him. “I shall do as you advise at once, friend Sethotep. And now, I must be off.”

“But there is still much to learn of the lake,” he said.

“Another time. I have an appointment at the Palace that cannot wait.”

He looked unhappy to see me go. I could sympathize. A bureaucrat often has few people to talk to, save the toilers in his own office. The visit had not been wasted. Now I felt I had something to report.

Creticus looked up from his desk grumpily. Apparently I had missed a party the previous night.

“That was a short hunting trip. Did you kill anything?”

“No, but I spotted some promising quarry. Do you have a little time, and is it safe to discuss sensitive matters here?”

“Found a plot to your liking? Oh, come on, then, let’s take a turn around the garden. I suspect that some of the embassy slaves aren’t as ignorant of Latin as they pretend.”

In the olive orchard I told him of my findings and my suspicions. He nodded gravely, but that was just habit. It’s a skill every Roman politician learns. He might have been calculating odds on the next races, as far as I knew.

“This sounds ominous,” he admitted when I was finished. “But why are you so happy to find out that it was Achillas’s land, other than having knocked out his lieutenant, a fact which secretly delights much of the court?”

“Why, because this means it’s not Ptolemy,” I said.

“And why does that make you happy?”

“First of all, it means that Ptolemy can discipline his own fractious nobleman, and Rome need not take too open a hand in it, sparing Egyptian feelings. And second—well, I just like the old buffoon. He’s harmless and good company when he’s conscious, and I don’t think he’s hostile to Rome.”

Creticus shook his head. “Decius, you have a fine nose for the devious and underhanded, but your grasp of the obvious leaves much to be desired.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Several shiploads of timber, you said?”

“At least.”

“And that tremendous tower is
entirely
plated with iron?”

“Do you think I exaggerate? It’s covered with the stuff—oh, I see.”

“Exactly. How rich do you think Achillas is? There are no nobles in Egypt as rich as Crassus, and that much iron bought all at once would bankrupt a small kingdom.”

I should have thought of it. When Sethotep told me that Achillas was a younger son, I should have realized that Achillas probably owned little more than his arms and his arrogance. There was great wealth behind those military contraptions.

“But Ptolemy is a beggar!” I protested.

“Makes you wonder where all that money we’ve given him went, doesn’t it?”

My mind darted around. Somehow, even discounting my rueful affection for the old winebag, I couldn’t picture Ptolemy as the mastermind behind this absurd bid for power through superior machinery. Another thought came to me.

“Perhaps Achillas is front man for a horde of those disaffected satraps and nomarchs we’ve been hearing about,” I hazarded.

“That’s more like it. But I can’t see them pooling their wealth and keeping it secret at the same time. Support with words, yes, and promises of aid and alliance once war is joined, that I can imagine. But parting with substantial money? These little Macedonian and Egyptian lordlings are too jealous of one another for that. Each would think he was giving more than his share, that the others were cheating him. And, Decius, you must learn one thing about all large-scale foreign conspiracies against Rome. Heed me, now, because you’ll run into it many times if you live long enough.” This was the older generation of Metelli teaching the younger, so I listened respectfully. I also knew that it would be damned good advice, because the elders of my family knew domestic and world politics as few other people did.

“If many men of small power are asked to combine against us, there are
always
some who know that their future lies in bringing word to us and aiding us against their fellows. Many a little chieftain has become a subject-king that way.” I was to recall these words in later years when I encountered Antipater and his ferocious, gifted son, Herod. “No one has come to us with news of this conspiracy, expressing a willingness to replace Ptolemy on the throne in Alexandria.”

“Then what
could
it be?” I demanded. “Someone has decided
that Roman might can be challenged with these ridiculous machines, and has expended vast wealth on the possibility.”

“Well, that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to be good at ferreting out. Get to it.” With that, he left me pondering among the olives. That was where Julia found me.

“You look unusually grave this morning,” she said.

“This is what I look like when I’m torn between elation and distress,” I said. Then I brought her up to date on my discoveries of the previous day and that morning.

“Why didn’t you take me on your spying mission?” she said, which was just like her.

“For one thing, you’ve limited experience of guerrilla warfare.”

“You just wanted to go off adventuring by yourself,” she retorted.

“It could have turned very dangerous. I don’t want you hurt over this matter. The Caesars would never forgive me.”

“As if you cared about them.” Having established some form of verbal victory, she went on. “Have you seen the streets this morning?”

“They seemed rather crowded. Is there some sort of religious holiday being celebrated?”

“People are streaming in from the countryside. It seems that Ataxas has had another vision. Baal-Ahriman will speak very soon, ushering in a new age for Egypt and the world. People are dropping everything else to be there.”

“If it’s this crowded near the Palace, what must the Rakhotis be like?”

“I expect to find out. Berenice and a large party of her social set will be going to the temple this afternoon. She has invited Fausta and me to go with her. Would you like to go as well?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything!” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet you think those priestesses will flog themselves again.”

“No, far from it. The poor dears aren’t recovered from last time. It’s something else.”

Even narrower. “What?”

“I’ll have to muse it over for a while,” I said, unaware at first of my unintended wordplay.

BOOK: The Temple of the Muses

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