Date: 2018-03-11 05:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Schlock! Publications

The Games of Hadrian

The Archimedes Stratagem

GAVIN CHAPPELL

Copyright © Gavin Chappell 2018

Cover art by Ethel Ross Barker

All illustrations provided under license from Wikimedia.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

The right of Gavin Chappell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Schlock! Publications 2018

ISBN-13: 978-1984297815

ISBN-10: 1984297813

This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to actual persons and/or places are purely coincidental.

Schlock! Publications
www.schlock.co.uk

In the same series:

On Hadrian’s Secret Service

Murder in Hadrian’s Villa

The Hadrian Legacy

Our Man in Alexandria

The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit

And by the same author:

Crocodile and Leopard

The Man Who Sold the Roman Empire

Prologue

Library of Alexandria, Egypt, 31st August 124 AD

Shadows hung over the great open space like the cobwebs of vast spiders. Moonlight shone through the skylight, glimmering on the porphyry floor, striking highlights from the colonnade of marble pillars. In the daytime robed scholars walked here, scrolls in hand, or clustered together in small, quietly speaking groups. But at this time of night, silence hung heavy. The shelves towered upwards into the darkness, like the roughhewn monoliths of some barbarian shrine on the far edge of the world. It was more reminiscent of an Egyptian mausoleum than a place of learning.

Outside, the city was silent at last. Most of the night torches had blazed in the streets, illuminating boisterous, roistering crowds of citizens celebrating the eighth anniversary of their liberation. Throughout the day, races had been held, gladiatorial combats fought, sacrifices made, libations poured. But now even the most ardent celebrant sought his bed, and only lonely patrols of civic guards trod the silent streets. In the harbour, boats bobbed at anchor, the great lighthouse shone out to sea the beam of the fire upon its summit. Otherwise it was a city of the dead.

A sudden noise broke the silence of the library, a clatter that sounded and resounded through the vast, echoing space. Voices in the shadows hissed for silence. A hand reached picked up the fallen object. It was a gladiator’s sword.

Silent feet trod upon the marble floor. Four dark figures, wrapped in cloaks, crossed the hazy beam of moonlight, and vanished like a dream into the darkness. A door opened in the wall and they were briefly silhouetted against the light of a terracotta oil lamp. Then the door closed, and all was still and silent again in the Library of Alexandria.

The man with the lamp ushered them into the small, cramped office. Grudgingly he showed the first of his visitors to the chair behind the cluttered desk, while the others squatted down on the cold marble floor after two of them placed a wooden coffer on the floor. The last sat by the door clutching his sword.

‘Is all prepared?’ the man with the lamp asked, sitting on a stool.

His first visitor, who wore the visored helmet of a gladiator, shook his head. ‘No! All is not prepared!’ he said vehemently. ‘Our Delta encampment was overrun by natives who had been suborned by one of the emperor’s agents. My command force was annihilated but for the men you see with me.’ He spoke Latin with the accent of an Iberian, but the man with the lamp was a Greek, an Alexandrian citizen.

The Alexandrian’s expression did not alter, but his voice became a pale ghost. ‘Then all is lost.’ The shadows cast by his lamp wreathed his face. ‘We must give up our plan. We will only plunge the empire into chaos, and although the Greek cities might free themselves during the wars, they will be as divided and defenceless as they were when they fell first to the Macedonians, then the Romans…’

The Iberian shook his head. ‘Our own forces are scattered,’ he said, ‘but they can be gathered again. Messages have been despatched by secret channels, and our warriors will be making their way into tactical positions. What matters most is your own contribution.’

The Alexandrian studied that enigmatic mask of bronze. ‘So you are determined to go ahead with the plan? Very well, all is prepared. You know the test was successful, even if it drew unwanted attention. As Fortune granted it, no one guessed the reason for the fire aboard the ship. No one in this great city, it seems, has read the history of Archimedes. None but I. Those barbarians!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But the time of the emperor’s arrival remains a mystery.’

‘A mystery,’ the Iberian admitted, ‘but not to all.’

The Alexandrian raised his eyebrows. ‘You know when Hadrian will arrive?’

The Iberian shook his head irritably, and highlights glittered from his visored helmet. ‘Not yet. The knowledge was within my grasp. But then the Bucolics turned traitor and we were forced to flee, abandoning the others to their fate. We had to leave behind the one man who knew what we desperately need to know.’

‘You are telling me that one of your own men knew when the emperor will be arriving,’ the Alexandrian said, ‘and you left him to have his throat slit by a band of river pirates?’

The Iberian shook his head again. ‘He was not one of my men,’ he said, ‘but was a spy, brought to me by the Bucolics as a peace-making gift. Interrogating him I learnt that he was one of the few men in Egypt privy to the knowledge we desperately need. But he was dangerous. He said he knew my own identity, which I have kept a secret from even you. I gave him the chance to fight for his freedom, knowing that after the tortures we had already inflicted he would not survive. But he engineered a double-cross, and the Bucolics who had brought him to the encampment set upon my men. Without the knowledge we need we returned to the city for this meeting …’

‘You left the city because the civic guard had broken up your crime ring,’ the Alexandrian said. ‘Typical Roman, incompetent half barbarian. If I did not have to depend on your help…’

‘But you do,’ said the Iberian smoothly, ignoring the insults. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. All is in order. I have conceived a plan to capture this agent and wring the truth from him. Several plans.’

‘Several plans,’ echoed the Alexandrian. ‘But will any of them work?’

The man clutching the sword gave a growl, and the Alexandrian looked down at him in distaste. ‘It seems I offend your loyal hounds,’ he added wryly. ‘But your blundering has shaken my faith in you. It is only because I need your help to liberate the Greek cities that I remain allied to you.’

The Iberian cackled. ‘For an oriental Greek, you’re as frank as any Germanic barbarian,’ he said. ‘Very well, things went badly in the marshes. It was a mistake to use torture to extract information, the agent was trained to resist. And when I learnt that he knew my identity, I was forced to change my tactics…’

‘You panicked.’

‘Enough! I tried to have him killed. Then the Bucolics proved treacherous. They were working together, the agent and the river pirates. We had to flee. But he will follow us. We will secure the information we need, one way or another.’

‘You’re sure he will follow?’

The Iberian nodded. ‘He’ll follow,’ he said. ‘I made sure of that. I have my agents as well. The gladiatrix will have played her part. And when he returns, he will be walking into a trap.’

The Alexandrian pursed his lips. ‘You have known little success in this city,’ he said. ‘What of the civic guard? The prefect’s men?’

The Iberian shook his head. ‘They will be suborned. Or dealt with. We will ensure that the imperial agent falls into our hands. We have other agents in the city who will aid us. He will be captured, interrogated, and killed. Even if he does not truly know my identity, he is still dangerous.’

‘You come here bringing no real news,’ the Alexandrian grumbled. ‘Disaster in the Delta. Your identity revealed to this agent—when even I do not know your real name. And even now we do not know when the emperor will arrive. Will this agent provide that information? Unlikely, unless you can find a way to trick him. Of course, my villa is available for your use if you need somewhere to keep him, but taking him prisoner will be difficult... Who else will know? Someone else in the province must know when the emperor will be making his visit. Someone more tractable than an imperial agent.’

The Iberian shrugged. ‘The prefect. The legate of the Twenty Second. Their confidantes as well, perhaps.’

‘Do you have no one on the prefect’s staff?’

The Iberian gritted his teeth. ‘Haterius Nepos’ men have proved difficult to win over. Nevertheless, I do have a plan to penetrate his councils.’

He produced something from the folds of his clothes and held it up in the lamplight. The Alexandrian peered at it in surprise. He looked up. ‘Where did you obtain this? Is it genuine?’

The Iberian shook his head. ‘No. But convincing enough. I have seen the real one many times. It would convince me. And it will convince the prefect.’

The Alexandrian’s face relaxed. ‘Why did you not make use of this earlier?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I always keep something in reserve,’ the Iberian told him, ‘in case of contingencies. That is how to win in war and in politics.’

The Alexandrian nodded grudgingly. ‘And your forces will be mustered in time to strike as soon as the emperor is dead.’

The Iberian nodded. ‘The moment the emperor ascends to the heavens on a pillar of flame, they will move to seize key positions throughout the province. The legion and the civic guard will both be dealt with. Either they will come over to our side or they will be killed outright. Then Egypt will be ours, and we can starve Rome into submission by blockading the grain supply. The Roman mob will cry out to accept me as emperor.’

‘And when you are,’ the Alexandrian murmured, ‘The Greek cities will be liberated?’

‘Of course,’ the Iberian promised. ‘Wasn’t that the basis of our agreement? You provide the means to kill Hadrian, and in return I fulfil your dream.’ He nodded. ‘Now, you must return to your work just as we will return to ours. Oh, but first—do you have papyrus and a reed pen?’

The Alexandrian rose and rooted among the clutter of the desk. ‘This is the Library of Alexandria, after all,’ he said, providing the Iberian with what he required. ‘Writing materials are scarcely in short supply.’

Resting the papyrus on the desk, the Iberian wrote at length. At last he sealed the letter he had written. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘This will be delivered to the prefect’s office. You will have no other duties until we learn the time of the emperor’s arrival. Once that happens, you know what to do.’

The Alexandrian lifted his eyes to an imaginary horizon. He clenched his fist. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know what to do.’

—1—

Alexandria, Egypt, 1st September 124 AD

As soon as the patrol vessel touched the quay side, the Roman leapt across the gap. He turned to wave a grateful farewell to the centurion in charge and beckoned to his Egyptian companion, still standing on the side staring at the gap anxiously.

‘Thank you, centurion!’ Gaius Flaminius Drusus said. The man he addressed acknowledged his words with a curt salute and went to speak with his men.

The Egyptian looked at the Roman, shut his eyes, and jumped, landing in a tangle of limbs on the slippery cobblestones of the Great Harbour. The Roman grabbed him to steady him and looked around at the bustling scene.

It was morning, and the sun’s rays gleamed from the top of the Pharos lighthouse above a harbour that seethed with life. Crewmen and passengers embarked or disembarked, harbour guards tramped up and down, the brine tanged air was filled with the cries of seabirds and the shouts of sailors. The Egyptian turned in the direction of the Museum, and the Library, just visible over the city walls.

‘When do you think Arctos will hold this meeting?’ the Egyptian asked his Roman companion. ‘Quick as we’ve been, they must have got here ahead of us. If Kalasiris’ people hadn’t been friendly with those patrollers, we’d have taken even longer to get across the Delta.’

‘This is the Calends of September, Ozymandias,’ Flaminius said, leading the Egyptian up the quay side towards the Library. ‘Three more days until the end of the Days of Hadrian[1]. We don’t know when Arctos intends to hold his meeting; for all we know he’s held it already. But he doesn’t know when Hadrian will arrive, and he obviously wants to know.’

Flaminius was still weak from the torture he had received at the hands of the rebel leader and his gladiatorial companions. But he was determined to sound out Arctos’ plot and defeat it.

‘I don’t suppose you want to share that information with me, do you?’ asked Ozymandias, waddling at the Roman’s side. ‘Arctos has some plan to assassinate his imperial majesty when he sails into the harbour. But when is that going to be? Only you seem to know.’

Flaminius grimaced. ‘The prefect knows,’ he said, ‘and so does Avidius Pollio, the legate.’ The latter had only shared the information with Flaminius, his intelligence man. ‘But it goes no further.’

Ozymandias stopped dead in his tracks in the gateway that led into the walled city. ‘Oh, thanks!’ he said bitterly. ‘You don’t trust me? If it hadn’t been for me and my contacts in the Delta, you’d have been dead at Arctos’ hands by now.’

‘I doubt that,’ Flaminius said. ‘You certainly were instrumental, you and the river pirates. But the fewer people privy to sensitive information the better.’ He clapped Ozymandias on one wiry shoulder. ‘Don’t you see? It’s nothing personal. But if they were to take you prisoner, they might be able to get the information out of you. Everyone speaks under torture. I was close to blabbing when they were softening me up. If it hadn’t been for Kalasiris’ people, I might have told Arctos what he wanted to know. So might you, if he got you in his clutches. He’s ruthless, as good as any legion interrogator.’

Ozymandias bit his lip. ‘Very well,’ he said resentfully. They started walking again. ‘I don’t like to think that you don’t trust me, your own agent, but I understand your reasoning. Now I’ve got to face up to my two biggest worries.’

‘What are they?’ Flaminius asked.

‘We’re going to the Library. I’ll have to explain why I didn’t turn up for work.’

Flaminius laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘I think we’ve got worse things to worry about,’ he said. ‘I’ll put in a word for you, if it’s really troubling you. What was the other worry?’

‘Explaining my absence to Nitocris.’

Walking on in silence, they began to ascend the Library steps. Ozymandias’ sister-wife had been anxious about his absence when Flaminius last saw her. A sweet girl, she nevertheless had a tongue she could wield like a slave master’s whip when she wanted to.

They entered the Library. All was quiet at this time of the morning; even the Greek scholars who thronged its walkways were absent. Flaminius cast about in the opulent gloom, wondering where to start.

‘All we know is that Arctos was supposed to come here for a meeting,’ Ozymandias said, looking nervously at him. ‘We don’t know what time, or whereabouts.’

‘So let’s go quietly,’ said Flaminius in an undertone. Ozymandias’ words had stirred up echoes in the great space.

Even as the Roman spoke, he heard the sound of footsteps and people talking. Peering round the nearest set of shelves, he saw two figures stride out of a side door.

‘…was depending upon you to ensure the Library was secure overnight…’ one of them was saying.

‘My apologies,’ the other said. ‘I didn’t know that was my duty… you realise I’m a volunteer…’

Flaminius recognised from his previous visit as the senior librarian. He halted, and gave the other a conciliatory smile. ‘I blame myself,’ he said. ‘I should have ensured that you were fully conversant with your duties. It’s so vexing when reliable staff absent themselves without explanation…’ He broke off, seeing Flaminius and Ozymandias, and his face purpled. He strode forward.

The Egyptian gulped audibly. ‘I’m off,’ he squawked. Flaminius caught him by the collar of his tunic as he tried to run.

‘Don’t be a fool, Ozymandias,’ the Roman hissed. ‘I said I’ll speak up for you and I will.’

‘May I ask what you’re doing here?’ the senior librarian asked in a hostile tone.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Flaminius affably. ‘Isn’t the Library open yet?’ But the senior librarian was paying him no attention.

‘Usermaatre Setepenre!’ he barked at Ozymandias. This tongue twisting string of syllable was Flaminius’ friend’s name in Demotic Egyptian. ‘Where have you been?’ He gestured at the Greek at his side. ‘If my friend had not come to our aid and filled in for you, we would have been seriously understaffed! You vanished without a word...’ He glanced at Flaminius and halted mid-flow. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I remember you. You were the young man who came looking for him. So you found him! My thanks for bringing him back.’ He shook Flaminius’ hand. ‘Well,’ he snapped at Ozymandias. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

Ozymandias’ mouth hung open. Flaminius disengaged himself from the senior librarian’s grasp.

‘If I may interrupt,’ he said humbly, ‘Ozymandias’ disappearance is my own fault. I’m sorry if it caused you any trouble, but his assistance was of vital importance to me.’

The senior librarian looked from one to the other. His fellow Greek studied Flaminius with narrow eyes. The senior librarian put a hand to his brow. ‘You?’ he said. ‘But you said you didn’t know where he was. Vital importance? What is so vital that my assistant librarians are taken from me without warning?’

Flaminius hunted for the lancehead brooch that would identify him as an imperial agent until he remembered that he had left it with his tunic in the gladiator school before he set out across the Nile Delta.

‘It’s on a need to know basis, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand. Here Ozymandias is, ready to take up his duties again. But that’s not why I came here. May I ask you a few questions?’

The senior librarian exchanged glances with his friend. People were now entering the Library through the main doors. Others appeared from side doors and took up positions at the desk and elsewhere. The Library was open now. ‘You,’ the senior librarian said, waving a hand at Ozymandias, ‘you’re on the main desk. We’ll discuss your future later. You, young man…’

‘Gaius Flaminius Drusus,’ Flaminius told him as Ozymandias scurried away.

‘Come with me to my office. We can discuss this need-to-know matter of vital importance in there.’ The senior librarian’s lips writhed sardonically.

‘What about the break-in?’ the other Greek asked. He was the man Flaminius had met while looking for Ozymandias.

‘Break-in?’ he inquired.

The senior librarian was looking harassed. ‘Will you join us, Hero?’ he asked his friend. ‘We can deal with both problems.’ He gave Flaminius a suspicious look. ‘For all we know, there may be a connection.’

As the Library began to fill up, the senior librarian, who introduced himself as Theopompus, took them into his office. Flaminius remembered the place from his previous visit but it was even more disordered than before. Papyrus scrolls had been scattered on the marble floor and a reed pen lay beside a spilt inkpot.

‘We seem to have suffered a break-in during the night,’ Theopompus explained. ‘Hero was here even earlier than I, and he discovered the evidence, meeting me with the tale when I came here. He must have been close to surprising the culprits red-handed—I saw some disreputable looking men near the Library as I approached, but thought nothing of it.’

Flaminius said, ‘Was one wearing a gladiator’s helmet?’

Surprised, Theopompus nodded. ‘You know of him?’

Flaminius paced up and down. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘I hoped to find him and his friends here. Theopompus, you were lucky; you too, Hero. If you had surprised Arctos when he was here, I think he would have had you killed. He doesn’t care for spies.’

‘Spies?’ said Hero, quick temperedly. ‘Are you calling us spies? Do you know this Arctos, as you call him?’

Flaminius nodded quickly. ‘I think I ought to explain,’ he said. ‘And my explanation will help explain Ozymandias’ absence, Theopompus,’ he told the senior librarian.

Theopompus invited his guests to find somewhere to sit and took his accustomed place behind the desk. ‘Pray explain,’ he said frostily.

‘I’m here on imperial business,’ Flaminius began. ‘I can’t tell you much more than that, except that I’m investigating something that, unchecked, may become a rebellion on the scale of the Judaean Uprising...’

Hero sat up. ‘That sounds serious,’ he said gravely, watching Flaminius closely. ‘If that is the case, we must give you all possible assistance. But where does the Egyptian Ozymandias fit into this?’

‘Is my assistant librarian working on imperial business too?’ asked Theopompus. ‘I’ve never heard such arrant nonsense in my life!’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ he assured him. ‘Ozymandias is my agent.’

‘What has this to do with the break-in?’ Hero asked. ‘Were these intruders connected with this supposed rebellion? They weren’t thieves, we know that much; nothing is missing except a sheaf of papyrus.’

‘All I know is that Arctos was meeting someone else involved in the conspiracy,’ Flaminius explained, ‘here, in the Library. I followed him back from his hideout in the Delta, hoping to eavesdrop on the meeting and learn his future plans. Seems I got here too late. I can’t share much of what I know, it’s too sensitive, but the results could endanger the entire empire.’

Theopompus looked tired. ‘I’ve no idea what you are talking about,’ he said, ‘Rebellions and conspiracies, it’s all a bit much. What has the Library to do with sedition? Surely you have the wrong place.’ He frowned. ‘You said you wanted to ask me some questions.’

Flaminius bit his lip ruefully. ‘I wanted to ask you if you knew anything of this meeting,’ he said with a shrug. ‘You’ve told me all I think I need to know.’

‘What do you intend to do now?’ Hero asked. ‘All we can tell you is that there was a break-in, for what reason we don’t know, and that men were seen departing. Papyrus has been stolen but otherwise we know no reason why they should choose to make this break-in. And papyrus is dirt cheap in Egypt.’

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius. ‘All information is useful, as long as you know how to interpret it. Unfortunately I’m as puzzled as you. At least I know that Arctos is at large in the area.’ He rubbed his chin.

‘Personally, I’m at a loss,’ said Theopompus. ‘You barge in here making wild claims—I have yet to see any proof you are who you say you are—after dragging one of my hirelings off on a wild goose chase through the marshes, by your own account. As far as I’m concerned, this break-in means nothing except that we will have to increase security at night. Your histrionics and mysteries are something I need not concern myself with.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with? If not, I’m afraid I do have a library to run.’

‘My apologies,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’m trespassing on your valuable time. I’ll be going now.’ They all rose. He paused in the doorway. ‘Just one request,’ he said, ‘May I borrow your assistant librarian? His usefulness to me is not yet at an end. I’ll make suitable recompense once I’ve finished my work here, I promise you.’

Theopompus looked at Hero resignedly. ‘Old friend,’ he said, ‘I know you are eager to return to your work at the Museum, but it seems that the empire needs my assistant librarian. Will you help me a few days more?’

Hero smiled. ‘By all means. I shall not move from this spot.’ He turned to Flaminius. ‘Let me show you out.’

He accompanied Flaminius across the marble floor towards the main desk where Ozymandias was speaking in respectful undertones to a white bearded old scholar. ‘Please forgive Theopompus’ curt manner. I’m sure he’s as willing as I am to help the emperor’s representatives, but he can become impatient with barbarians.’

‘I’m a Roman,’ said Flaminius curtly. ‘Not a woad painted Caledonian warrior.’

Hero smiled again. ‘Theopompus, alas, sometimes fails to see any difference... Here’s your friend! Ozymandias, may I take over here?’

Surprised, Ozymandias let Hero take his place.

‘Come with me,’ Flaminius told the Egyptian. With a nod of farewell to Hero, he led Ozymandias from the Library.

—2—

‘What’s going on?’ Ozymandias demanded as they hurried down the steps. ‘Have you lost me my job again?’

Flaminius shook his head irritably and they made their way up a street leading away from the harbour. ‘You’ve just been given a short holiday,’ he said.

‘Did you find out anything about this secret meeting?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘Oh, you know what I realised when we were on the patrol ship coming here?’

‘Yes, I did find something out,’ said Flaminius; ‘that we had missed it. What did you realise?’

Ozymandias looked over his shoulder and moved closer to Flaminius. ‘Someone at the Library must be implicated,’ he said. ‘One of my colleagues is working with the rebels.’

‘How do you work that out?’ Flaminius followed his gaze. Two men in rough homespun tunics were watching them from the corner of a street. Were they being tailed? If so, who by? Arctos? The civic guard? The legate’s men, even? It could be anyone, with any agenda.

Ozymandias looked surprised. ‘Why else would they be meeting at the Library?’

‘The senior librarian said there’d been a break-in,’ Flaminius said. ‘Why would the rebels have to break in if they were meeting with one of your colleagues?’

Ozymandias looked pensive. ‘Good point,’ he admitted. ‘But why choose the Library as a meeting place anyway, if they’ve got no connection with anyone working there?’

‘Also a good point,’ Flaminius admitted. The men in the homespun tunics were following, barely trying to hide it. ‘Where is all this getting us?’

‘Nowhere,’ said the Egyptian, with a shrug. ‘Where are we going now?’

‘I need to go to the gladiators’ school in Nicopolis,’ Flaminius said. ‘I left my insignia there, my lancehead brooch. I had a lot of trouble convincing the senior librarian that I was an agent of the empire.’

‘Why did you leave it there?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘It’s a long walk to Nicopolis, and it’s getting hot.’

‘I left it,’ Flaminius said patiently, ‘because I could hardly go into the lion’s den with a brooch that identified me as an imperial agent. Look, you don’t have to go to Nicopolis with me. And you’d really better see Nitocris. She was worried about you when I called in on her.’

‘You called in on her, did you,’ Ozymandias said resentfully. ‘While I was away?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Flaminius. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be keeping away now we’re back in Alexandria.’ Ozymandias had always been suspicious of his sister-wife’s feelings for him. ‘You go home and reassure her that you’re still alive, I’ll go and get my brooch. Then we can work out just where we’re going to take our investigation.’

‘You know we’re being followed?’ Ozymandias said.

Flaminius nodded without looking back. ‘Two big men in homespun?’

Ozymandias nodded. ‘And we’re being watched from the alley over there.’

Flaminius cursed inwardly. They kept walking. ‘I didn’t spot that one,’ he said. ‘I’m getting rusty. Without looking at him again, describe him.’

‘Another big man.’ To the Egyptian, most men were big. ‘Old though. Looks like a Greek athlete gone to seed. Oh, he’s vanished.’

Flaminius made a covert glance to see that indeed, no one was standing at the alleyway. The two men in homespun tunics were still following. He halted, and it amused him to see them stop and pay rapt attention to the political graffiti on the nearby wall.

‘We’ve got no time to play children’s games,’ said Ozymandias wearily. ‘You’re right, I’d better go and see Nitocris. Look, it’s on your way if you’re going to Nicopolis. Why don’t you come with me? It might be easier to explain my absence if you back me up.’

Flaminius was surprised. Ozymandias must truly dread his homecoming if he was willing to risk his wife and Flaminius being in the same room. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I’m interested to see what will happen to our tails when we split up.’

‘I don’t think they’re following me,’ said Ozymandias as they started walking again.

‘Who knows,’ said Flaminius. ‘News travels fast in Egypt. It’s possible that your part in the attack on Arctos’ encampment has become known.’

They made their way through the Greek Quarter in the direction of Ozymandias’s townhouse. After a few twists and turns they seemed to have lost their followers or discouraged them. Flaminius was disappointed. He had been hoping that he would have a chance to identify them. Arctos had been accompanied by two henchmen, big gladiators about the size of the two men who had been trailing them. But their tails had been too far off for him to recognise.

‘It makes sense,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Arctos would want to keep an eye out for you. He knows that you know when the emperor will be coming here. He obviously needs that information, or he wouldn’t have tortured you. And he must still need it.’ The street was crowded, and it was impossible to be certain if anyone behind them was following, but certainly there was no more sign of the two big men in homespun. ‘Don’t you see it? You’re in danger, Roman. We came here hunting Arctos, but you could be stepping into a trap. Coming here after him was the most foolish thing you could have done. He can’t act without the knowledge that’s in your thick Roman skull. The hunted will become the hunters now. Maybe I shouldn’t let you out of my sight.’

It was a sobering thought, but Flaminius tried to laugh it off. ‘You think you could protect me against two strapping gladiators?’ he said with a scornful expression. But he knew that the scrawny, gutter bred Egyptian could handle himself in a fight.

‘Two are better than one,’ said Ozymandias. They turned into a wider street. The Egyptian’s townhouse was conveniently located only a couple of blocks away.

‘Very well,’ said Flaminius, ‘Arctos wants to know something only I know, but he’s also busy organising an uprising which involves rebel gladiators, renegade Egyptians, and river pirates, unless Kalasiris has won them all over.’

‘We should have asked Kalasiris to spare us a few of his Bucolics to back us up.’ Ozymandias had to raise his voice as a two-horse carriage galloped around the corner and shot down the street like a chariot in the Hippodrome.

‘Intelligence work is best done by a single man,’ Flaminius replied. ‘It doesn’t do to attract attention to yourself.’

The carriage screamed to a halt beside them, and two men jumped down and grabbed Flaminius, dragging him inside. Ozymandias snatched a knife from where he kept it concealed beneath his kilt but before he could do anything, the driver whipped up the horses and the carriage disappeared round the nearest corner.

Ozymandias hurried down the street, his long thin legs working frantically, but by the time he had rounded the bend, there was no sign of the vehicle. He put a hand against the corner of a building and stood there panting. People were staring at him, others were moving hastily away. He dabbed at the sweat on his brow and looked around him.

He had warned Flaminius. Hadn’t he just been warning him now?

Serapis damn the man, Flaminius was an imperial agent, he was with the Twenty Second Legion. He had had no need to creep about like that, risking capture or death at the hands of mysterious enemies. And yet he had done just that. And what of Ozymandias himself? He looked nervously about him and straightened his clothes, replacing his knife in its sheath beneath his kilt. Respectable Alexandrian citizens were still staring at him. He was a Roman now, he reminded himself, and that meant gravitas at all times.

There was nothing he could do here other than attract attention himself. He would report Flaminius’ abduction to the civic guard at the Palace of Hadrian. But first, he must go and see his wife and reassure her that he had not gone to join Osiris. He turned up the next street and hurried in the direction of his townhouse.

The porter’s jaw dropped as his master swept into the vestibule. ‘Yes, what is it?’ Ozymandias snapped.

‘Nothing, sir,’ the porter said. ‘But ma’am has been worried about you.’ He was trying not to stare at Ozymandias’ travel stained clothes. ‘She will be glad to see you have come back.’

Ozymandias gave a deep sigh. ‘Where is she?’ Now he would have to explain everything.

The porter directed him into the atrium. ‘She is with a guest,’ he added.

Ozymandias hurried from the vestibule, jealousy stabbing at him. Who was Nitocris entertaining in his absence?

He swept into the atrium to find his wife and another woman sitting by the fishpond. They turned at his entrance. Nitocris looked as surprised as the porter. Streaks of tears were visible on her cheeks.

‘Ozymandias! Brother!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

She raced up to him and flung her long slim arms around his neck. Fondly he embraced her, then drew back to look enquiringly at the woman who had been his wife’s guest. She had the olive skin and dark hair of a Judaean but wore a Roman woman’s stole.

‘Oh!’ said Nitocris. ‘You know Clara, surely?’ She laughed. ‘Ozymandias! You’re hopeless. Clara is Paulus Alexander’s widow.’

Ozymandias nodded. ‘Of course! My old patron’s wife. I last saw you at the funeral.’

‘Yes,’ Clara said quietly. ‘After my husband’s sad passing.’ Paulus Alexander, the man who had freed Ozymandias from slavery and made him a Roman citizen, committed suicide after his part in a murder was exposed. ‘We were worried about you,’ she added, ‘when you went missing.’ She gave a high laugh. ‘We thought perhaps we were two widows together!’

Ozymandias shook his head. ‘I’m still alive,’ he told her. ‘My apologies for vanishing, but it was very important. So important I can’t talk about it.’

‘Gaius came here,’ Nitocris said suddenly. ‘He was looking for you too.’

‘He found me,’ said Ozymandias curtly. ‘And brought me back. But now, he’s gone…’ He looked awkwardly at their guest.

‘I really must be going too,’ Clara said softly, taking the hint. She looked at Nitocris. ‘I told you he’d turn up,’ she said. ‘They usually do. With or without the help of Skimbix.’

Nitocris told a slave to bring her husband wine and accompanied Clara to the door. Ozymandias sat down and sipped his drink and tried to assemble his confused thoughts. So much had happened so quickly. He wondered what Clara had been alluding to

‘Where have you been?’

He looked up to see Nitocris had returned. She didn’t look happy.

In the gloom of the carriage, Flaminius was in the grip of two burly guards. The interior was unlit, enclosed, and stiflingly hot, and every time they passed over a pothole in the street, it rose and fell with a spine jarring thump. Flaminius’ mind seethed: he had fallen back into the hands of Arctos, and the man’s followers would not stint themselves in wresting the truth from his lips.

Ozymandias had been right. It had been rash of him to wander the streets without an armed escort. He should have gone to the legion camp in Nicopolis and arranged for backup. Once again, he tried to break free of the men’s iron grasp, but it was futile. They had muscles like the ones Hercules had on the statues, and they might as well be made of marble for all the good Flaminius’ struggles were doing him.

‘Let him free,’ said a voice. ‘He’s not a prisoner. Far from it.’

A lantern flared. Flaminius looked around him. They bounced over another bump in the road and the lantern shook back and forth. But even in the crazy swinging shadows Flaminius recognised the man who sat on the other side.

‘What do you think you’re up to, Apuleius Victor?’ he demanded. ‘You know full well who I am.’

‘Yes, I know who you are,’ Apuleius Victor told him.

Looking at this retired gladiator who had gone on to become impresario of a “family” of gladiators, Flaminius realised that he was the athlete gone to seed who Ozymandias had seen. So the two gladiators were the men who had been tailing them.

‘Have you joined the other side?’ he asked.

Apuleius Victor shook his head. ‘I’m still working for myself,’ he said, ‘The gladiator game has been unproductive of late, since my family mysteriously vanished in the night. But we know who’s responsible for that, don’t we?’

‘You seemed to be building up your stock again.’ Flaminius indicated the two big men. But Apuleius Victor shook his head again.

‘Civic guards,’ he said, ‘on loan from the prefect. ‘As far as the family goes, I’m finished. And that makes me all the more eager to work in that other field, the one we mentioned on our last meeting.’

‘You’re still the prefect’s agent?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Did Haterius Nepos tell you to do this? Snatch me from the street and drag me off like a prisoner?’

Apuleius Victor smiled coldly. ‘Not in so many words,’ he said. ‘But news came that you had been seen again in the Greek Quarter, after you had dropped out from sight for several days. And after the prefect received a visit from the emperor’s emissaries, he decided that you were the man he needed.’

Flaminius rubbed his bruises. ‘If I’m so important,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you just ask me?’

Apuleius Victor laughed. ‘You’re a wayward fellow,’ he said, ‘not easily bent to a man’s will. You might have argued, wanted to go your own way.’ He slammed a fist against the wooden wall of the carriage. ‘This ensures that you can’t argue. A fast carriage to your next mission.’

Flaminius was furious. ‘You’re right. I would have refused, if you’d asked. Not out of waywardness, though. My current mission is of the utmost importance.’ He still had no idea, of course, of how to find Arctos in the second biggest city of the empire. ‘Let me go this instant!’ Still the carriage hurtled through the streets. By now they must be nearing the city walls. He had to return to Ozymandias and get back on the trail. ‘Let me go…’ He broke off. ‘Are you going anywhere near the gladiators’ school?’ he asked suddenly.

‘We’re going that way,’ the impresario admitted.

‘Good,’ said Flaminius. ‘Let me off there and we’ll say no more of this. Tell Haterius Nepos that if he wants my help he can wait. I’ve got more important business. Whatever this problem is, it can’t be as vital as my own. Tell him to get the civic guard to investigate. I’m going to pay a visit to the gladiators’ school and then get back to my mission.’

‘We’re not stopping at the school,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘And I doubt that your mission could be of any greater importance than what the prefect wants of you.’

Flaminius felt the frustration of a general whose every move is countered by the enemy. He was getting nowhere. It might be time to resort to extreme measures.

‘Stop the carriage now,’ he demanded, snatching a dagger from the belt of the man on his right. The two gladiators tried to grab his forearm, but they couldn’t stop him pressing the blade close to the impresario’s carotid artery. Apuleius Victor met his gaze and laughed.

The carriage rumbled to a halt. ‘There’s no need for this,’ Apuleius Victor said, batting Flaminius’ hand away. ‘We’re there.’

He flung open the doors. The driver had halted outside the towering walls of the amphitheatre itself. Flaminius could hear the roar of the crowd even from their current position.

He gave a resentful sigh. ‘Just what is all this about?’ he asked.

Apuleius Victor’s face was bleak. ‘A plot against the life of his imperial majesty,’ he said in a low voice.

—3—

Flaminius laughed hollowly. ‘That’s old news,’ he told the impresario.

Apuleius Victor’s face was sharp. ‘You mean that you knew already?’ he said. ‘But you told me you were investigating the rebels in the Thebaid and their links with the missing gladiators. Nothing about an assassination attempt.’

‘I didn’t know it for certain,’ Flaminius said, ‘not when we last spoke. But since then I’ve received confirmation—from the arch conspirator himself.’

Apuleius Victor studied him for a moment. Beyond the wall, the roar of the crowd grew to a climax. Flaminius pictured the scene in the arena. It was morning, so the venators would be fighting the beasts. Some mountain of hide and bone would gore and trample a lightly armoured hunter, or else a hunter had brought down some beast.

‘I think you’d better discuss this with the prefect,’ the impresario said. At his nod the civic guards ushered Flaminius out into the full glare of the late morning sun. Apuleius Victor jumped down to join them.

They were just outside the Nicopolis amphitheatre. Nearby stood the camp of the Twenty Second Legion, and on the far side of the arena, Flaminius knew, was Apuleius Victor’s gladiator school. There his lancehead brooch, his insignia as an imperial agent, still lay concealed in his former cell.

A small gateway in the wall led to a flight of stone steps and it was up these that the civic guards took him, Apuleius Victor followed behind them, unspeaking. From somewhere high above came the shrill notes of a lyre.

The prefect was one of the few people other than Flaminius who knew that the emperor intented to visit Alexandria on the final day of the festivities, to make a surprise appearance in the imperial box of this very amphitheatre. The whole idea was very hush-hush. The only other person to know apart from Haterius Nepos was Avidius Pollio, legate of the Twenty Second, who had informed Flaminius solely because he needed to know for what stakes they were playing.

Should the enigmatic Arctos stage his revolt while the emperor was here, it would be disastrous. But although Arctos knew the emperor’s intentions—how, who could say, but the rebel leader was apparently a member of the Roman Senate, and privy to the emperor’s deepest secrets—he did not know which day the emperor would be making his visit. Not yet!

The dank stone walls ended, and Flaminius came out of the torchlit gloom and into the light of an open space. As his eyes adjusted, he saw below him the sands of the arena, shimmering like silver. A horseman galloped away from a speeding leopard. Even as Flaminius watched from his vantage point, the big cat leapt up and brought down the man’s whinnying horse. The venator hit the dust and even as he was struggling to his feet, the leopard was on him.

There was a sea of faces in the encircling seats, mouths open in greedy horror as the creature shook the bloody carcase like a broken doll.

‘The man was a fool to try to get away,’ said a voice nearby. ‘He should have met the danger head on. Such is the price of cowardice.’

Flaminius was still blinking from the glare. He saw that the lower part of the imperial box, which he realised was where he was now standing, was crowded with figures. In their midst, tended upon by pretty slave girls, played to by lyre players, lolling on cushions, was a man wearing the headdress and kohl of an Egyptian pharaoh. Sitting primly nearby were several Romans, men and women.

He strode down the steps. ‘Fancy dress today, is it, prefect?’

Haterius Nepos gave Apuleius Victor and the two civic guards a dark look.

The kohl he wore transformed it into the petulant glare of an ageing catamite. Beneath his pharaonic regalia he was the same bearded old bore Flaminius remembered from their brief encounter last Saturnalia, ruddy faced and with an apoplectic look to his bulging eyes.

He removed his headdress and mopped his brow, revealing a very Roman shock of black hair. ‘Haterius Nepos thought this man was to be brought here under guard,’ he said. ‘That was your advice, after all, Apuleius Victor.’

Sitting down beside the prefect, Flaminius helped himself to a roast dormouse from the tray a slave girl was holding. He grinned at her.

‘Don’t forget, Haterius,’ he addressed the prefect, ‘we’re social equals, you and me. You can’t just have me dragged here like some plebe.’ Down in the arena, the leopard was being driven back into a cage by Nubian slaves.

Haterius Nepos drew himself up, his belly and chins wobbling. Every time Flaminius spoke to him, he would squint at them in apparent incredulity. Flaminius had found it very off-putting during their rather stilted conversation in the legion headquarters last Saturnalia, until he realised the prefect reacted like this to everyone, unaware of what he was doing. His habit of speaking about himself in the third person was even more galling.

But whenever the prefect spoke, his eyes flashed like those of Olympian Jupiter. ‘What in Jove’s name are you babbling about, fellow?’ he asked. ‘You’re an equestrian tribune of the legion. Haterius Nepos is prefect of Egypt. A direct representative of his imperial majesty.’

‘As am I,’ said Flaminius, wishing he had his lancehead brooch; it was so very useful when he was pulling rank on pompous, middle aged fools of officials. ‘I’m an imperial agent.’

‘Indeed you are!’ The prefect seized greedily at this morsel. ‘And that is why Haterius Nepos had Apuleius Victor bring you here. He says that you have been resistant to authority in the past.’

‘Only to his authority,’ Flaminius said. ‘That was when he had the cheek to try recruiting me into his petty espionage ring for your civic guard. And now I’m being dragged into your presence like a prisoner, while in the midst of an important mission.’

‘The emperor’s life is at stake!’ the prefect hissed.

Two trumpeters standing on ledges to either side of the imperial box blew their trumpets to announce the appearance of several convicts, who staggered out from beneath a portcullis into the middle of the arena and stood there looking every which way, each anticipating an horrific demise.

‘You know as well as Haterius Nepos does,’ the prefect said, beckoning Flaminius close so only the two of them could hear, ‘that the emperor is planning to make an appearance in this very place at noon of the final day of the celebrations. Only three people in the province are privy to that information. And now we learn that someone is plotting to kill him. Does that mean nothing to you, imperial agent?’

Apuleius Victor joined them. ‘Apparently our keen young friend was already aware of this,’ he told the prefect. Flaminius munched at the dormouse, which was excellent. ‘For some reason he has been keeping it to himself.’

‘I’m on a secret mission,’ Flaminius spluttered, spraying the vicinity with half-digested dormouse. ‘I’m not obliged to tell anyone what I know. As a matter of interest, prefect, how did you learn about the plot?’

Haterius Nepos brushed fastidiously at his robe. He fixed Flaminius with a cold glare. ‘This office received a message from the emperor himself. A warning that his imperial majesty had learnt of a threat to himself in Egypt.’

Flaminius’ eyes widened. ‘Myself, I learnt it from the horse’s mouth,’ he said, ‘from the rebel leader in his encampment in the Delta. How did Hadrian find out in, where is he, Ephesus? Rhodes?’

The prefect shrugged. ‘His imperial majesty has a very efficient intelligence network.’

‘I should know,’ said Flaminius indignantly; ‘I’m it. I’m in charge of intelligence in this province. And I’ve only just found out the truth.’

Was there another spy network operated by the emperor?

‘It seems you’re lacking the necessary… intelligence,’ said the perfect snidely. ‘But his imperial majesty is not.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And you can report that to him next time you see him.’

‘Who brought this message?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Are you sure you can trust them?’

The prefect produced a scroll. ‘The imperial seal,’ he said, indicating the broken wax.

Flaminius examined the seal, which he recognised as genuine, and skimmed through the contents. ‘… “believed that forces are at work intending to assassinate his imperial majesty on his appearance offshore… method not known as yet… assassin yet to be identified but description has been given to the bearers of this message” …’ He looked up. ‘Who are the bearers of this message?’ he asked urgently. It sounded like they were people he ought to talk to. ‘Are they here?’

‘The messengers are not here,’ said Haterius Nepos. ‘After their troubled journey, they went to rest at the imperial waystation. It seems that they had problems with pirates and, shipwrecked in an obscure part of the Delta, had to travel to Alexandria on foot.’

‘Who were they?’

‘Two Praetorians, Gnaeus Rutilio Victorinus and Lucius Crassus Piso,’ the prefect said. ‘As you can see, they bore a message from the emperor, sealed with the imperial seal itself. Do you doubt it?’

Flaminius checked the seal again. ‘And they came to warn you of a plot against the emperor...’ Down in the arena, lions were pursuing the convicts, those who were not already red streaks of guts in the sand. ‘What else did they say?’

‘They advised Haterius Nepos to put his best man on the case,’ the prefect said. ‘Apuleius Victor suggested you. You are the imperial agent, after all.’

Flaminius relaxed. ‘I’m already investigating the same plot,’ he said, ‘although I have drawn a blank since returning from the Delta. I’m looking for the man who is the arch conspirator, a Roman senator.’ He told the prefect how he had identified Arctos from his gold senatorial ring.

‘Ridiculous,’ the prefect sneered. ‘No senator is present in Egypt without my say-so. The only ones this office is cognisant of are the legate himself, and the young broad-stripe tribunes who serve him.’

Tribunes were divided into those of equestrian rank like Flaminius—usually men in their twenties—and tribunes in late adolescence, of senatorial family, like his old friend Karus, who had used his command of a cohort as a springboard into a career in public service.

‘These Praetorians managed to get past your security net,’ Flaminius said. ‘They didn’t pass any customs post, but they got as far as your presence with no trouble…’

‘They were imperial messengers!’ the prefect objected.

‘They could have been anyone,’ Flaminius told him. ‘And let me make quite clear to you, based on recent experience, despite all the river patrols and civic guards and any number of security precautions, it is perfectly possible for any fugitive to pass quietly through the province without drawing attention to themselves. I should know, I’ve done it.’

The prefect purpled. Apuleius Victor looked from one to the other, incredulous. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m telling you that your security system could do with an overhaul,’ said Flaminius. ‘But I think we’re getting away from the point. The point is that Arctos, whoever he is, is behind the entire plot. And he is a senator, whatever the prefect thinks. Present in Egypt without the emperor’s permission, but he is aware that this is a highly important province.’

‘Everyone knows that,’ said Haterius Nepos smugly.

‘So if it is a hotbed of sedition,’ said Flaminius cuttingly, ‘as it has clearly become during your prefecture, then it is an ideal place to stage a bid for power.’

‘Are you attempting to blame Haterius Nepos for this situation?’ the prefect demanded. ‘Enough of your impudence. This office had you brought here for a very important reason. You can consider yourself under orders now, reporting to Apuleius Victor…’

‘I don’t have the time for this,’ said Flaminius wearily.

‘Now listen, young man,’ said the prefect. ‘You are indeed a young man, and clearly the whole business of being an imperial agent has gone to your head somewhere along the way. This arrogance is most unattractive. And it won’t get you anywhere in life. Haterius Nepos is the prefect of this province and if he requests your aid in this matter, you will provide it.’

‘Especially,’ Apuleius Victor murmured, ‘since it’s already your mission here. You say you’ve been in contact with the rebels? And the rebel leader?’

‘I led a group of river pirates in an attack on his encampment.’ Flaminius glossed over the fine details. ‘We wiped out his command group, but other cells of the rebellion are known to exist all the way from here to the Thebaid. The desert and the Delta are both home to native rebels, not to mention renegade gladiators. But Arctos escaped. I received word that he was coming to Alexandria to meet with a co-conspirator in the Library, but his whereabouts are now unknown. To me, at any rate. What did these Praetorians have to say?’

‘Simply that they have received word of a plot,’ the prefect said, ‘and that his imperial majesty sent them ahead to ensure that the plotters were exposed and brought to justice. They have a description of the chief plotter…’

‘They know what he looks like?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Arctos always wore a visored helmet.’

The prefect and Apuleius Victor exchanged glances. ‘They maintain that they do,’ the prefect said, ‘although they did not give him a name. They said that he was a young fellow, and that that was all they knew.’

Flaminius stared at him. Arctos was no youngster, he knew that much. He had never seen his face, but his hands were those of an old man, wrinkled and liver spotted. Was there another arch plotter? Someone behind even Arctos?

‘Very well,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll accept your mission. As Apuleius Victor says, I was investigating this matter anyway. I’ll expect the cooperation of the civic guard and your whole espionage network.’ When the prefect waved a hand airily, he added, ‘I’ll leave you to your onerous duties here and go to speak with these Praetorians. First, however, I must find my chief agent and reassure him that I haven’t been abducted by Arctos’ men. Do I have your leave to go? Sir?’

The prefect inclined his head with all the graciousness of the long-ago monarch he was aping, and Flaminius turned and walked out of the imperial box, descending into the gloom of the stairway.

—4—

Apuleius Victor followed. As both came out into the sunlight, the impresario said, ‘Where do you intend to go now?’

‘To the gladiators’ school,’ Flaminius said. ‘I want to collect my belongings.’ He noticed the impresario’s expression. ‘Is there a problem with that?’

‘Since my Family is disbanded,’ Apuleius Victor said, ‘The school has been let out to one of the other Families attending the Games of Hadrian. Your cell had to be prepared for Memnon the Ethiopian.’

He opened the doors of the carriage and produced a bundle. ‘But I kept ahold of your belongings,’ he said. ‘Did you know you left your brooch behind?’

It glittered on top of the pile of clothes, along with a sheathed dagger. Hastily Flaminius took the latter and strapped it on. This done, he showed the impresario the lancehead brooch.

‘You know what power this gives me?’ he asked. Apuleius Victor nodded. ‘As an agent of the empire, I am requisitioning your carriage and your driver,’ he went on. ‘And also your aid until the end of the Days of Hadrian celebrations.’

Apuleius Victor looked at him expressionlessly as he got up beside the driver. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘You’ll find me in the gladiators’ school. I’ve still got my office there, even if I use it for other work these days. May I ask what the imperial agent has in mind?’

‘Firstly,’ Flaminius said, ‘I’m going to collect my own agent, as I said. Then I’ll start tracking down Arctos. You don’t happen to have any information on his syndicates, do you?’

‘Of course,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘After our raid a few days ago, we have most of them under guard in the palace of Hadrian, although Arctos himself escaped of course. Come to my office later and I’ll have a report transcribed for you, or you could visit them in the palace if you prefer. Farewell.’

He went back up the steps to the imperial box.

Flaminius saw that the driver was looking at him resentfully. ‘Take me to the Greek Quarter,’ he said. The man whipped up his horses and drove them back towards the walled city of Alexandria.

Flaminius lay back against the seat, deep in thought. Hit had taken some gall to requisition Apuleius Victor’s carriage, but he was glad. Walking back to Ozymandias’ townhouse would have been hellish in this heat.

Alexandria had been founded in this part of the country because the climate was cooler than most of Egypt, but right now in the Dog Days it was sweltering. Besides, if Arctos was back in the city, Flaminius had better not go on foot, or alone. Not that he feared for his life at Arctos’ hands, not straightaway, anyway. He knew too much for that. But if any of Arctos’ people were tailing him like Apuleius Victor’s men had been, he would be able to shake them off.

Passing through the Gate of the Sun they came into the city proper and the carriage rattled down the wide pillar lined boulevard towards the Greek Quarter. After he reassured Ozymandias that he had not been snatched by the enemy, he would take a trip down to the palace of Hadrian and its cells. If anyone could give him an idea of where he might find Arctos, it would be a gang member.

At last they left the main boulevard, the Canopic Way, and under Flaminius’ instructions the driver took them through a series of side streets.

Shortly after they were pulling up outside Ozymandias’ townhouse. Flaminius jumped down.

‘Do you want me to wait here for you, sir?’ the man asked.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Return to your normal duties,’ he said. ‘I won’t be needing you.’

As the driver drove back down the street, Flaminius strode to the door and rapped on it. Time to find Ozymandias and renew the search for Arctos.

The porter opened the door and peered at him suspiciously.

‘You remember me,’ Flaminius said. ‘Gaius Flaminius Drusus. I want to see your master.’

The porter seemed surprised. ‘The master has gone to the palace of Hadrian,’ he said. ‘The mistress is here…’

‘Let Gaius enter!’

Nitocris’ voice was tremulous, emotional. The porter ushered Flaminius into the vestibule.

The Egyptian girl was standing in the door to the atrium, clinging on to the door jamb. ‘My brother said you had been abducted!’ she said. ‘Men snatched you and rode off with you! I told him he should have gone after them.’

Flaminius laughed heartily, striding over. ‘Just overzealous hirelings of the prefect,’ he said. ‘Haterius Nepos has got wind of what’s going on at last and he decided to waste my time. Your slave says Ozymandias has gone to the palace of Hadrian.’

Nitocris nodded emphatically. ‘To report your abduction!’ she said. ‘He said that you were in the hands of this Arctos, that they would be torturing you for information.’ Her big eyes grew even bigger. ‘He said they tortured you when you were last their prisoner.’

Flaminius flinched. ‘They did knock me about a bit,’ he admitted, ‘but then your brother and his friends set me free.’

‘Ozymandias did?’ Nitocris seemed unable to believe such heroic deeds possible of her brother-husband. She laid a hand on Flaminius’ arm. ‘Where are my manners? Will you come through into the atrium? I’ll call a slave to bring wine.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Flaminius placed his hand on hers to gently remove it, ‘I’d better be getting down to the palace before the civic guard starts quartering the city for me.’ At his touch, she trembled like a small bird. ‘Besides, there are prisoners in the cells who I want to speak to.’

‘Oh,’ said Nitocris. ‘Well… I suppose I’ll just stay here. But come back, won’t you, Gaius? Is it proper for me to call you Gaius? My brother seemed to think it was wrong, and he knows more about Roman ways than I do…’

Flaminius removed his hand. ‘Of course you can call me Gaius,’ he insisted. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’ Was he encouraging this girl’s infatuation? The empire was at stake and he was flirting with the wife of one of his chief agents. ‘I must go,’ he added. She saw him out.

Moments later, he was striding towards the palace of Hadrian, one of the palaces in the Greek Quarter, which had been home to the ruling class of the city since its earliest days. Now Romans ruled over Greeks, Egyptians, Judaeans and all the other people of the city, and the entire palace complex, which stretched as far as the Museum and the Library, was the administrative centre not only for the city but for the province as a whole. The prefect had his offices here, as opulent as any Pharaonic palace, and he spent much of his time in them when his duties did not take him elsewhere—the amphitheatre, for instance.

Flaminius strode up the palace steps.

His way was barred by two spear carrying civic guards. He flashed them his lancehead brooch. ‘I’m looking for my colleague,’ he told them, ‘Ozymandias, who used to work here as a scribe. He’s come to report my abduction.’

The civic guards lowered their spears and sent him to the main office where scribes sat cross legged on the floor, busy over their writing tablets. Ozymandias stood on one side with a man in the uniform of a civic guard commander, both studying a plan of the city.

‘Ozymandias,’ Flaminius said easily, joining them. ‘And, er, commander. You look busy. Sorry to intrude…’

Ozymandias whirled round. ‘Flaminius! You escaped?’

Flaminius laughed. ‘I had nothing to escape from,’ he said. ‘Just an urgent summons from the prefect.’

‘Is that so?’ said the civic guard commander, a bearded Roman citizen with a classic Italian look about him. With a start, Flaminius recognised him as Gabinius Camillus, who he had last seen in a compromising position with a gladiator. ‘I heard nothing of this. Really, Haterius Nepos could keep me better informed. We’ve been planning patrols to scour the Egyptian Quarter for you, tribune.’

‘Very efficient of you, commander,’ said Flaminius. ‘Luckily I’ve saved your men the trouble. But your preparations could well prove useful. I came here because one of your agents tells me that you have some of Arctos’ men locked up in the cells below.’

The civic guard commander looked away. Did he remember Flaminius from the orgy at the gladiators’ school? ‘I know nothing of anyone called Arctos,’ he said, ‘but a few nights back we made a raid on a house belonging to the syndicate and we took several prisoners. The ringleader escaped into the marshes…’

‘That’s Arctos,’ said Flaminius. ‘At least that’s the name he’s using. We have reason to believe he’s from very high up in the hierarchy. Seems to know his imperial majesty personally. And we also have believe that he’s returned to the city.’ He gave an edited account of his escapades in the Delta. The commander listened intently.

‘And you wish to question the prisoners?’ he asked when Flaminius had finished. Flaminius nodded. ‘They have already been questioned, of course,’ the commander added with a tinge of resentment. ‘I have the reports to hand.’

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius. ‘If you could provide me with copies, I’ll read them at my leisure.’ The commander called for a scribe to begin the work of copying. Flaminius thanked him. ‘However,’ he added, ‘I think it would be beneficial if I spoke to the prisoners myself.’

‘I fail to see the bearing illegal gambling rings in Alexandria have on the legion,’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘Crime in the city is the business of the civic guard. You’ll receive the reports in due course.’

Flaminius sighed. ‘You don’t understand the true scope of Arctos’ operation.’

‘Then tell me,’ the commander invited impatiently.

‘It’s not something I’m at liberty to discuss,’ Flaminius said, ‘not at any length. But I can tell you that this is more than a crime syndicate. Arctos threatens the stability of the entire empire.’

The commander laughed. ‘Look here, tribune,’ he said. ‘I don’t quite see…’

‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘You don’t. But I do, and I know that this is a matter of the utmost urgency. What’s more, the prefect himself has ordered me to investigate. And I intend to get to the bottom of this before the province if not the empire descends into chaos. So if you wouldn’t mind, Gabinius Camillus, I would very much like it if you could see your way to permitting me to interrogate your prisoners.’

The commander looked at him long and hard. ‘I would have thought a man in my position would not be kept in the dark if the situation is so grave,’ he said at last. ‘But if you are working for the prefect, it means we’re colleagues. Very well.’ He snapped his finger at a civic guard and ordered him to assist them.

A quarter of an hour later they were down in the cellars that Flaminius remembered so well. Flaminius sat on a folding camp stool, Ozymandias stood at his side, civic guards flanked them. Standing before them was the first of the prisoners, a burly man with the look of a wrestler. He was in fact a gladiator and gave his name as Crixus.

‘Is that your real name?’ Flaminius asked, ‘or your stage name?’

‘My real name,’ the big man rumbled, ‘is Bikilis.’

‘Are you a free gladiator or a slave?’

‘Free,’ said Bikilis.

‘How did you come to join the crime syndicate?’ Flaminius asked. ‘If you are a free gladiator you could leave your Family at any time. As long as you fight well, you stand to earn substantial amounts in prize money. So what is the attraction of crime?’

‘I was promised even bigger sums of money,’ Bikilis said, ‘if I lost a few bouts when the odds were high.’

‘Wasn’t there a risk of being killed?’ Ozymandias asked him. ‘If you lost, your life would depend on the whim of the mob, or the prefect, or whoever was in the imperial box.’

Bikilis gave the Egyptian a look of manly contempt. ‘It was all in the way of a gamble,’ he said. ‘A coward wouldn’t understand.’

‘A coward wouldn’t become a gladiator,’ said Flaminius. ‘A coward might well live to a ripe old age and die in comfort surrounded by his loved ones, but each to their own. Tell me about Arctos.’

‘I’ve already told the civic guard about him,’ said Bikilis sullenly.

Flaminius glanced at the copy of the report that he had received shortly beforehand. Looking over the sheaf of papyrus he peered at the recent burns on Bikilis’ limbs.

‘The interrogator certainly didn’t stint himself,’ he commented, nodding at a brawny man in a black tunic who stood beside a glowing brazier, turning over the tools of his trade with a clinking sound. ‘But I don’t think the commander knew what he was looking for. Do you?’

Bikilis gave the interrogator an anxious look, then shrugged. ‘Depends on what you want to know,’ he said.

‘I want to know where Arctos is now,’ Flaminius told him.

Bikilis shrugged again. ‘He ran off, didn’t he?’ he said resentfully. ‘How should I know where he is? I suppose he’s gone to that encampment of his, out in the Delta. I went there once, but all those channels through the marshes… I couldn’t guide you for all the gold in Rome.’

‘No need,’ said Flaminius. ‘He did go to his encampment, but then he returned to the city. He came back today, to a meeting with someone in the Library. Who might that have been?’

‘The Mechanist,’ said Bikilis promptly.

‘The Mechanist?’ Ozymandias echoed.

Bikilis nodded. ‘Don’t ask me any more, but I know he had a contact called the Mechanist. Maybe someone at the Library or the Museum. How should I know? I’m a gladiator.’

‘Knowing might secure you a better future,’ said Flaminius. ‘You’re already a gladiator, but what if you were sentenced to become a venator? An unfree beast fighter?’

‘Or a galley slave,’ suggested Ozymandias. ‘Nothing heroic about that, just a life expectancy of at the most three months and no pretty girls swooning at the sight of your muscles. Or we could break you on the wheel, flog you raw, brand you with hot irons…’

Flaminius grinned. The Egyptian was certainly getting into the swing of things; cruel people, these barbarians, even when given Roman citizenship. He remembered Aesop’s fable of the wind and the sun; sometimes kindness can get better results than harshness. ‘Of course, there’s a chance that if you cooperate, we’ll do everything in our power to get a new life for you, somewhere none of these people can find you.’

‘I don’t know anything about the Mechanist,’ said Bikilis. ‘I never met him. All I can tell you is that if Arctos is in Alexandria, you could do worse than look for him in the City of the Dead.’

—5—

Flaminius and Ozymandias exchanged glances. ‘The City of the Dead,’ said Flaminius. ‘You mean the Alexandrian necropolis? Are you telling us that Arctos is dead?’

‘I’ve said as much as I’m going to say,’ the gladiator replied. ‘Torture me if you want. I’ve faced worse. Send me to the galleys. Why should I help you? In the arena I had a reputation as an unyielding man.’

‘I’m sure you were,’ said Flaminius. ‘Hard as a rock. Bikilis,’ he mused. ‘That’s a Thracian name, isn’t it? I knew a Thracian gladiator they called Petrus.’

‘You know Petrus?’ Bikilis’ eyes widened. Then he shook his head. ‘No. You didn’t know him,’ he said bitterly. ‘You just watched him shed his blood.’

‘I knew him,’ said Flaminius quietly.

‘What was his true name, then?’ Bikilis asked. ‘His Thracian name, I mean. If you knew him, truly knew him, you would know his true name.’

Flaminius wracked his brain. Petrus had told him once. ‘Sitalkes,’ he said at last.

Bikilis studied the imperial agent. ‘You did know him, then,’ he said. ‘Petrus would never tell that name to people he didn’t trust or respect. When did you know him? What is he doing now?’

‘He’s with the shades,’ said Flaminius. ‘He was poisoned. By members of the syndicate!’ He didn’t point out that they had been undercover agents of the civic guard. That sort of detail was just too confusing.

Bikilis’ face, which had brightened momentarily, plummeted at this news. ‘Petrus dead,’ he said. ‘Poisoned by the syndicate.’ He shook his head. ‘I knew it went on, but not Petrus. We were in the quarries together.’

‘I thought you said you were a free gladiator,’ said Ozymandias.

‘I am free,’ the Thracian said. ‘I’m a freedman. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.’

Flaminius laughed. ‘Ozymandias knows only too well,’ he said. ‘Look here, these reminiscences are all very well, but we need to know if Arctos is alive or dead.’

‘I’ve not heard anyone say that he’s dead,’ said the gladiator. ‘But when he’s in town, he spends his nights in a ruinous mausoleum in the City of the Dead.’ He hung his head. ‘That’s all I know.’

‘It’s a start,’ said Flaminius thoughtfully. ‘Somewhere to begin.’ He raised his voice. ‘Take him back to the cells.’

‘Are you going to accept that meagre scrap?’ Ozymandias was indignant. ‘Tell the interrogator to do his work! Wring the truth from him!’

Flaminius shook his head as the civic guards marched Bikilis from the interrogation chamber. He glanced at the report. ‘We’ll see what Mycerinus the Hermopolite has to say for himself. I might need you to translate what he says. He’s clearly a native Egyptian.’

‘I’m glad I’ll be of some use to you,’ Ozymandias said huffily.

Flaminius gave him a weary look, then despatched a civic guard to bring this Egyptian into their presence.

When he had spied upon the meeting of the gang with Apuleius Victor—before he knew which side the impresario was on—he had seen several Egyptians there, including a snake charmer. When Mycerinus was dragged into the chamber, clad in his tattered linen kilt and smeared kohl, Flaminius was sure he had seen the man before.

He said so. The man looked scared.

‘No, sir,’ he said, speaking Greek with a thick Egyptian accent. ‘You never see me.’ His wary eyes travelled over to take in Ozymandias’ stony face and shot away to study the cellar ceiling minutely.

‘Look at me,’ Flaminius said. The eyes wavered back down to meet his own. ‘Is your name Mycerinus the Hermopolite?’

Mycerinus nodded tentatively. His eyes wandered over to the interrogator, and again Flaminius noticed the fresh burn marks on the prisoner’s skin.

‘The officer told you to look at him!’ Ozymandias said. He added something in Egyptian. The man’s kohl smeared eyes widened. Then he looked down in shame.

Flaminius leaned over to him. ‘What did you say?’ he whispered.

‘Nothing complimentary,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Just encouraging him to cooperate.’

‘Keep your comments in Latin or Greek, please,’ the Roman said. ‘Unless I tell you otherwise.’

Ozymandias scowled but nodded unwillingly. Flaminius turned to smile at Mycerinus.

‘I saw you in a house in Rachotis, the Egyptian Quarter,’ he said, ‘about a week ago. You met with a Roman citizen named Apuleius Victor and a Nubian called Syphax.’

‘They betrayed us,’ Mycerinus snarled. ‘The man called Victor, he lead the civic guard to us. I saw him! He laughs at me as I was taken away! Where is he? I would carve out his heart and eat it before him.’

‘That’s enough of that,’ said Flaminius. ‘When did you join this gang?’

Mycerinus looked abject. ‘I come to ‘Andria for work,’ he said. ‘No one gives me work. Then men of my nation, they helps me. They takes me from the gutter, gives me money for work.’ He shrugged. ‘They had much money.’

‘Money from illegal gambling,’ said Flaminius. ‘Did it not worry you that you were breaking the law?’

‘Roman law,’ said Mycerinus, with a sneer. ‘They did not break the laws of Menes. And with us was a holy man. We did no shame in Osiris’ eyes.’

‘A holy man,’ Flaminius repeated. ‘The snake charmer I saw playing magic tricks?’

Mycerinus’ eyes widened again. ‘Are you a magician? You walk unseen?’

Flaminius laughed. ‘I’m as good a magician as your friend the snake charmer,’ he told Mycerinus levelly. Producing a copper obol, he made it jump up and down on his fingers, a trick he had learnt as a student, to impress his friends. Ozymandias stared in surprise, while Mycerinus’ dark face paled.

‘It’s true,’ he gasped. ‘You’re as great a magician as the priest!’

Ozymandias leaned forwards. ‘What is this priest called?’ he asked.

‘We don’t know his name,’ said Mycerinus, and Ozymandias groaned; no one in Arctos’ network was known by name, it seemed. ‘But he is a priest of On.’

‘On?’ Flaminius had never heard of the deity. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Not who,’ said Ozymandias, ‘but where. On is what the Greeks call Heliopolis. The city of the sun.’

Flaminius nodded thoughtfully. ‘Send Mycerinus back to the cells,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve heard all I want to.’

He led Ozymandias back up to the steps. In the main office they met with Gabinius Camillus. A scribe stood by carrying a sheaf of papyrus.

‘Here are the other interrogation reports,’ said the commander. ‘Do you want somewhere to read them? How did your own interrogations go?’

‘They went well enough,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’ll take the reports with me. Right now I could do with a bite to eat.’ He turned to Ozymandias. ‘Not wanting to invite myself, but your house isn’t far away.’

‘Oh,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Yes, yes of course. Come with me.’

They walked from the building. ‘You don’t seem overjoyed at the idea of popping back home,’ Flaminius commented.

Ozymandias gave him a wretched look. ‘I was glad you’d been abducted, you know,’ he began. Then he frowned. ‘No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, it gave me a reason to get away.’

‘Oh?’ said Flaminius. Domestic troubles as well as everything else. ‘Is Nitocris giving you a hard time?’

Ozymandias nodded. ‘I should have warned her that I’d be away,’ he said, ‘but it all seemed too important to waste time. I knew where I would be likely to meet Kalasiris’ people, and I just got up and went in the middle of the night. I thought it better she didn’t know, really, in case it got out.’

‘You could have told me, too,’ said Flaminius. ‘So going back home isn’t a good idea?’

‘It’ll have to do,’ said Ozymandias. ‘We need somewhere to talk things over and work out our next move. Besides, I’m not letting you out of my sight again. It could be Arctos’ people abducting you next time.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’re being followed again,’ he commented.

A man was watching them from the corner. ‘Undercover civic guard?’ Flaminius said. ‘Or someone working for the Arctos gang?’

‘I think we’d better shake him off,’ Ozymandias said. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’

‘He’s not doing anything.’ Flaminius walked on, and the man followed, making no attempt to conceal himself. Flaminius rested a hand on the pommel of his dagger. ‘Now I’ve got this, I’m feeling a lot more prepared to face up to any number of enemies. Besides, it might be worth letting them take me prisoner. That would be a way of finding Arctos.’

‘You’re not trying that one again,’ Ozymandias said. ‘Last time they almost killed you.’ He shook his head. ‘I know we’re dealing with very cunning people, but it’s possible to be too devious.’

They reached his house a couple of minutes later. The porter let them in and they came through into the atrium, where Nitocris sat. She looked up resentfully at their approach. Then her eyes fixed on Flaminius.

‘You’re back,’ she said. ‘This time will you stay?’ She had nothing to say to her brother.

‘Flaminius was feeling hungry,’ said Ozymandias. ‘He invited himself here for lunch.’

‘Don’t be so rude,’ said Nitocris. ‘Gaius is always welcome in our house.’ She eyed the sheaf of papyrus he carried. ‘You have work to do. Would you like to use our study?’

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius awkwardly. ‘That would be very helpful.’

At her urging he took a seat beside her, resting the reports on the nearby table. Ozymandias sat down across from them and sat scowling. Nitocris clapped her hands and slaves brought in food. Flaminius, not having eaten since reaching the city, ate ravenously, as did Ozymandias.

‘My brother is very cagy about where exactly you went,’ Nitocris said, sipping at a glass of wine. ‘I suppose it’s all on a need to know basis.’

Still chewing, Flaminius nodded. He swallowed and said, ‘We’re in the middle of the investigation. That’s what all this paperwork is about. It’s not all sword fighting and dashing about, you know.’ She had worked as an agent herself in the past, of course.

‘I thought you had my brother to do your paperwork,’ she said. ‘Why else do you need a scribe? Oh, but he’s mistaken himself for a man of mystery recently, hasn’t he?’

‘That’s enough,’ Ozymandias snapped.

Nitocris began a long and involved story about a temple in the Egyptian district and a thaumaturge she had seen there with her friend Clara. Flaminius allowed his mind to drift.

‘Will you be staying here?’ Nitocris was asking suddenly. He snatched back his mind from the labyrinthine complications of the case and stared at her.

‘My sister is asking you to stay the night,’ said Ozymandias. ‘In a bed of your own, I imagine.’

Nitocris ignored him. ‘You would be very welcome,’ she said. ‘We have any number of rooms. It would be nicer than staying at the legion camp.’

Flaminius looked from one to the other, from sister to brother. There was a definite atmosphere in the atrium. These two Egyptians with their adopted Roman ways suddenly seemed very alien. It was contrary to Roman law for brother and sister to marry, yet the barbarians of this land considered it to represent the closest kind of love.

‘Thank you, Nitocris,’ he said, ‘but I’ll not presume upon your hospitality.’ He finished eating and rose. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind,’ he went on, ‘I’d like to take the opportunity to study these reports. If I could requisition your study, Ozymandias…’

‘Be my guest,’ Ozymandias said with elaborate politeness. He led him down a passage to a room lined with shelves that were filled with scrolls. ‘Will you be needing my help?’

‘Not right now,’ Flaminius said. ‘You could get back to the Library if you want. I’ll be investigating this mausoleum, if I can find it, and I could do with your help then, but you’re free until then.’

Ozymandias looked back down the passageway. Nitocris was watching them. ‘I think I’ll stay around,’ he said. ‘Call me if you need me.’

‘Thanks,’ said Flaminius. He looked helplessly at Nitocris, then entered the study, sat down at the table, and unrolled the first papyrus scroll.

Time to get to work.

—6—

Flaminius didn’t normally enjoy reading reports, although he much preferred it to writing the things, especially in code—which reminded him, he really ought to send a report back to the Chief, in Rome. But after the exertions and excruciations of the last few days, not to mention allowing his investigation to become mired in the domestic problems of his agent, it was pleasant to sit down in some peace and quiet, to take the weight off his sandaled clad feet, and have nothing more troublesome to do than peruse the execrable prose of the civic guard scribe and keep his mind from drifting off. Getting away from the bad atmosphere that permeated the rest of the house was also a blessing.

Again he read through the report. His tutor had rapped his knuckles whenever he wrote in the “ornate and opulent Asian style” of Greek, demanding a strict adherence to plain Attic. Someone should rap this scribe’s knuckles. Jove, it was hard going. Wait a minute, what was this?

…met with the aforementioned Bear in the Necropolis, off the Avenue of Elysium. At this juncture, prisoner maintained his involvement in the iniquity had been due to coercion on the part of...

The Necropolis. The City of the Dead. Another mention of Arctos—surely? ‘The Bear’ must mean Arctos—and he was mentioned in connection with the City of the Dead. The hideout that Bikilis had mentioned. Flaminius remembered his previous trip to the City of the Dead with Ozymandias, when they had watched the evisceration of a murder victim by a group of embalmers. The embalmers lived and worked on the outskirts of the City of the Dead, but some areas were as quiet as a tomb, to coin a phrase. The Avenue of Elysium… where was that?

He went to find Ozymandias, who was sitting by the fish pond in the peristyle garden.

‘You know Alexandria better than me,’ he said. ‘Where’s the Avenue of Elysium?’

‘Never heard of it,’ Ozymandias said, not looking up. He flicked some gravel into the water and ripples spread out in rings to lap like waves upon the little shore.

Flaminius sat down beside him. ‘It’s in the City of the Dead,’ he said.

Ozymandias looked up. ‘Contrary to Roman opinion, we Egyptians aren’t all necrophiles,’ he said waspishly. ‘I don’t go to the City of the Dead all that often.’

‘Anything the matter?’ Flaminius asked.

Ozymandias looked away and sighed. ‘You slept with her, didn’t you?’ he said in a choked voice. ‘In the temple crypt.’

Flaminius stared at him. ‘With Nitocris?’ he asked.

‘Last year,’ said Ozymandias. ‘When you were investigating those Christians. You were there with her at the agape. The orgy. How could you not have slept with her? You were both naked when we found you.’

Flaminius folded his arms and turned away. He saw that Nitocris was watching them from the colonnade. When she saw him looking her way, she vanished into the house.

He really didn’t need all this. The fate of the empire hung in the balance but all anyone cared about were their own petty concerns! If any Epicurean needed to demonstrate the maxim that love causes only pain, here it was. This brother and sister husband and wife couple… It was obvious that Nitocris loved her husband as a brother, but no further. As for Ozymandias, he was jealous and possessive, but of a wife or a sister, Flaminius couldn’t tell. Yes, they had slept together. And Nitocris had been no stranger to that game. But there had been mitigating factors, much the ones that Ozymandias had provided.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said frankly. ‘As you say, we had no option. Now, can we…?’

Ozymandias sprang up. ‘I knew it!’ he said and stalked away.

Flaminius gritted his teeth. He glanced round at the house and gardens, remembering the hovel Ozymandias had lived in when they had first met. All this was because Flaminius had made the man his agent. Ozymandias was well paid, and he had spent it well, giving himself and his sister a lifestyle they could only have dreamt of.

He would have to investigate this mausoleum on his own, Flaminius decided. He went back inside.

It was deathly still. Glancing into the atrium, he saw a slave sweeping up. ‘Tell your master and mistress I’ll be away for a few hours,’ he told the girl. She bobbed him a curtsey.

‘On your own?’

Flaminius turned to see Nitocris in the doorway. He shrugged. ‘Ozymandias has gone off in a sulk,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll have to go alone.’

‘Sulking?’ she said. ‘Typical of him. Never mind. I’ll come with you.’

Flaminius laughed. Her hurt expression told him that she had been serious. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think you’ll be much use in a street fight.’

‘You’re going to fight someone?’ she asked anxiously.

He shook his head. ‘I’m going to have a look at a mausoleum,’ he said. ‘It seems to be where the Arctos gang has its headquarters in Alexandria.’

‘How morbid,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll help you investigate.’

Flaminius smiled again, patiently. Her mouth became a hard line.

‘I was an agent before you even came to Egypt,’ she reminded him. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I’m just a sweet little girl. If my brother has abandoned you, I’ll come.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Flaminius, tired of arguing. ‘At the first sign of trouble, though, you run. Is that understood?’

Half an hour later they were walking together down a street of tombs in the City of the Dead. Nitocris’ eyes were wide, her face flushed with excitement. It was late afternoon, when the city of the living rose from its siesta, but nothing would awaken the inhabitants of the Necropolis. The avenues of cypresses swayed in a cool breeze, but nothing else moved except the occasional snake or scorpion.

‘People come down here,’ she said, ‘on the birthdays of the dead, or at festivals like the Greek Anthesteria[2]. Sometimes they have banquets in the tomb.’

It all sounded a lot better than getting up in the middle of the night to chuck beans around, bang pots and pans and give the ancestors their marching orders[3]. Flaminius looked up and down the street. ‘Where do you think the Avenue of Elysium might be?’

‘Further on,’ said Nitocris, and led him across an intersection. As they passed it, Flaminius saw that they were not entirely alone in the City of the Dead—figures were crossing further up a side street, at another intersection between lines of tombs. He caught only a brief glimpse of two men in Roman dress before they vanished from sight, but it seemed that they were moving in a parallel line to him and his companion.

‘Have you ever been there?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s on the far side. Very run down and ruinous. Nobody with descendants still living has their tombs there. It’s a very sad place. I liked to go there once, and try to read the inscriptions, and wonder why no one else went. In this district of the City of the Dead,’ she gestured at the well-kept tombs around them, ‘everything is looked after and loved, but around the Avenue of Elysium it is only desolation. Grass grows in the streets and the scorpion lairs in the broken tombs.’

‘And this is where you went for a day of fun, is it?’ Flaminius murmured.

She glanced at him, laughed, and struck him softly in the chest. ‘Oh, you…’ she giggled. ‘I was young then! Death fascinated me.’

‘I’m sure you were a lovely little girl,’ he told her and they crossed another intersection. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Looking round, he could see nothing and no one.

‘What is it?’ Nitocris asked looking up the side street after him.

‘I thought I saw movement from beside those tombs,’ he said. ‘There were two men, Romans, who I saw before. They were walking parallel to us.’

She shared an anxious look with him. ‘You don’t think…?’

‘We’re being tailed?’ Flaminius completed her question grimly. ‘It’s happened before.’ He rested his hand on his dagger. ‘This could turn nasty. Which is why I didn’t want you to come with me.’

She whirled round at movement from behind them. Flaminius followed her gaze. She crept closer. ‘Someone ducked into that doorway,’ she said, pointing at a gleaming marble tomb half a stade from where they stood.

‘Put your hand down,’ he murmured from the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t let them know we’ve seen them.’ He drew away from her and ducked into the cover of another tomb entrance. ‘Keep talking to me,’ he hissed, ‘as if I’m still with you.’

He crept up the street, ducking from cover to cover towards their tracker’s hiding place. Nitocris walked straight past him.

‘Wait…!’ he said urgently. ‘Where are you…?’

‘Come out of there!’ she said stridently, halting outside the marble tomb.

Flaminius watched in surprise as a shamefaced Ozymandias appeared. ‘I thought I’d better keep an eye on you two,’ he said in a small voice. ‘In case you got into trouble.’

Flaminius wasn’t sure that was the Egyptian’s real reason, but he strode forwards and clasped his hand. ‘Good thinking, Ozymandias,’ he said. ‘Well, your sister’s blown your cover now. You’d better come with us.’

‘I saw two men in a parallel street,’ said Ozymandias as they went on. ‘They were watching you. Somehow I don’t think they’re mourners.’

‘Arctos’ men?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Somewhere in this labyrinth Arctos has his hideout, when he isn’t staying in the houses of his criminal friends, presumably.’

‘Could be,’ said Ozymandias. ‘But for all we know, the prefect’s men are keeping an eye on us.’

‘Like you were with us?’ said Nitocris, giving him an appraising look. ‘That was good of you, husband.’ She reached out and stroked his arm. He glowed under her attention. Flaminius looked away in embarrassment.

‘Here we are,’ said Nitocris a few minutes later. They were in a street where the tombs stood in ruin, doors broken in, the street itself overgrown. Baboons played along the rooftops and rats skittered about the grass grown cobbles.

‘Where d’you suppose we’ll find Arctos’ hideout?’ asked Ozymandias.

Flaminius looked up and down the funereal street. ‘The Avenue of Elysium,’ he murmured. Only dead trees lined this thoroughfare, dead trees and stumps. Scanning the ground, he saw that someone had been this way in the recent past. The trail led to one tomb, large and yet more ruinous than the rest. Thoughtfully, he pushed at the door.

It swung open easily. Inside, the tomb was dark and dank, but in the shafts of sunlight falling from the open door, he could see that bedrolls lay in one corner, beneath the shelves on which sat sarcophagi containing painted portraits of the long dead. And in another corner, Nitocris found something else of interest. She could barely carry it, it was that heavy.

‘Look at this,’ she said. She was carrying a gladiator helmet. And not just any helmet. Flaminius recognised it at once.

‘Arctos’ helmet,’ Ozymandias agreed. ‘But where’s Arctos?’

‘He must have come here with his friends,’ said Flaminius, ‘after the meeting in the Library. But now that he’s shed his helmet…’

‘…nobody has a clue what he looks like,’ said Ozymandias. ‘But you said you think you know who he is?’

‘I narrowed down the field of suspects,’ said Flaminius, ‘to the Roman Senate. Arctos wore a gold senator’s ring. I got quite a close look at it when he seized hold of me. A senator in Egypt. And he was very old, I’d say. Too old to be mixed up in this chicanery. But that’s all we have to go on. Not a lot.’

Ozymandias looked round the empty tomb and shuddered. ‘The silence,’ he murmured. ‘That was what I always hated, back when I was robbing tombs richer than this one, out in the desert. The silence.’

There was a clatter from outside. Footsteps in the litter of rubble. Flaminius dashed to the doorway of the tomb. Coming out into the light, he saw two figures vanishing round the far end.

He hurried after them but on reaching the corner the next street of tombs was empty.

He returned to the others, who had emerged from the tomb. Nitocris still carried Arctos’ helmet. Ozymandias looked at Flaminius quizzically. He shook his head. ‘They vanished before I could get a good look at them. But they were wearing military belts.’

‘Legionaries, then?’ asked Ozymandias. ‘Of the Twenty Second? Maybe it’s not the prefect keeping an eye on us, but the legate himself.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Flaminius. ‘Unless they were Praetorians. But why were they following us? And why did they run away when I went looking for them?’

His only answer was the eerie sighing of the wind among the dead cypress trees.

—7—

At a loss, Ozymandias slapped his hands against his sides. ‘Well, what now?’ he asked. ‘Back to my house? It’s about time for dinner.’ He didn’t seem very enthusiastic about the prospect.

Nitocris, on the other hand, seemed eager. ‘Yes, please come,’ she said. They began walking back through the Necropolis. Flaminius had seen all he needed to see. ‘Today has been such an adventure.’

Flaminius looked from one to the other. It wasn’t just the pained look in Ozymandias’ eyes that made him say, ‘No, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll spend the night elsewhere. Let the emperor provide my bed and board. I don’t want to sponge off you two.’

‘Really, it’s no trouble,’ said Nitocris.

‘After all, it’s the emperor providing most of my money,’ said Ozymandias. ‘You don’t have to stay in barracks!’

They turned down the main avenue of cypresses, where the tombs were well tended and gleaming. ‘I wasn’t thinking of spending the night in camp,’ said Flaminius. ‘I think I’ll find the information I need at the imperial waystation.’

As they headed towards the Gate of the Moon and the city of the living, Ozymandias studied him. ‘Oh, I see. You’re looking for another lead.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘There must be a reason why those Praetorians were trailing us. I don’t want to sound vain, but I rather think it was me who they were following. The prefect told me that while they’re in town they’re staying at the imperial waystation. So I’ll go there, and with any luck I’ll meet them and then we perhaps can exchange notes. They’re investigating the same plot as me.’

‘But why would they be following you?’ Nitocris asked.

‘And why did they run?’ Flaminius replied. ‘I don’t know the answer to either question. But one way or another I’m going to find out—at the waystation.’

‘It’s a long way to the waystation on foot,’ Ozymandias observed. ‘Let me lend you a horse.’

They parted in the porch of Ozymandias’ house, Ozymandias and Nitocris standing in the doorway, Flaminius holding the reins of the magnificent bay stallion Ozymandias had loaned him, which he intended to ride across the city to Nicopolis where the imperial waystation was located.

‘Take care,’ said Nitocris.

‘Yes,’ said Ozymandias with added emphasis. ‘Take care! You know there are people looking for you. We really shouldn’t let you out of our sight. Maybe you ought to ask the civic guards to accompany you.’

Flaminius smiled. ‘Not even Arctos is going to snatch me from the Canopic Street in the middle of an Alexandrian afternoon,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m more likely to find out what I know if I court danger.’ He shook hands with Ozymandias, embraced Nitocris. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

He rode out of the Greek Quarter and down the bustling, column-lined boulevard, guiding his steed through heterogenous crowds of Nubians and Galatians, Arabians and Armenians, horse litters and elephants. Only Rome was larger than Alexandria; the city seemed big enough to fit the whole of the province of Britain into it several times. And the suburbs sprawled for miles alongside the road that led to the fashionable seaside resort of Canopus.

Outside the city, he saw the walls of the camp and the amphitheatre looming on the horizon, and he increased his pace. The Games would be ending soon, the roads packed with citizens returning to their homes or flocking to the temples for a night of Bacchic celebration.

Passing the camp he rode south. The waystation was near the Canopic Canal, a low two-storey building with white stuccoed walls and red tiled roof, like every other waystation Flaminius had ever stayed in from one end of the empire to the other.

He rode into the courtyard and flung his reins to a slave who appeared from the stables, then dismounted and strode stiff legged into the crowded common room.

‘A bed for the night,’ he requested of the tough looking old man behind the bar, showing him his lancehead brooch. ‘And an evening meal.’

‘Coming right up, sir,’ said the waystation keeper, a retired centurion if Flaminius had ever seen one, who must have sold up the farm he’d received on demob day and taken on this job. ‘We’ve not got many rooms fit for an imperial courier, but we’ll find you a bed.’ He leaned closer. ‘Coupla Praetorians in the biggest room.’ He looked impressed, and Flaminius did his best to feign surprise. ‘Not had any Praetorians here in eight years.’

‘Praetorians, eh?’ Accepting a bowl of bean stew and a flagon of rough wine, Flaminius sat down at the bar. ‘Any idea what they’re doing in the province?’

The waystation keeper wiped furiously at an invisible stain on the bar top. ‘Can only mean that the emperor is on his way,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be speaking of it to all and sundry, but I can trust a courier. Maybe you know more than me.’

‘Maybe I do,’ said Flaminius. Again, that common mistake, but he didn’t think he should correct the voluble old man. If he knew that he was speaking to an imperial agent, he would clam right up. ‘So when did they arrive, these Praetorians?’

‘Today,’ the waystation keeper said, ‘late this morning. Strange thing was, they’d just come into town after a long journey, reported to the prefect I suppose, then come here. But their clothes were clean. No travel stains. Almost like they’d been here a day or two.’

Flaminius considered this. The prefect said that the Praetorians had been shipwrecked and encountered trouble with river pirates. This, plus the fact they had been tailing him during his visit to the City of the Dead, seemed a little curious. Were these men all they seemed?

‘I’d like to speak with these Praetorians,’ he told his host. ‘I’ll take a visit to the bathhouse then sit myself over in the corner there. You give me the nod when they turn up, will you?’ He placed a drachma in the waystation keeper’s hands.

‘Be my guest,’ said the old man. ‘You’re the imperial courier. They went out earlier, said they had to speak to a man about a gladiator.’

After a much-needed bath, Flaminius came back into the common room to sit in the corner with a cup of wine. He had been pondering the waystation keeper’s words but could make no sense of them.

He was still sitting there two hours later, and the common room was almost deserted now, but there had been no sign of the Praetorians. And he was tired.

He’d almost fallen asleep while bathing. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the mauling he’d received at the hands of Arctos and his men. He was getting old! Time was, he’d take that kind of thing in his stride. But now…why, he was almost twenty-five! Old and tired. And he needed his bed.

‘No sign of your honoured guests,’ he said to the old man, who was mopping a spill from the bar. ‘I hope to see them in the morning. Right now, I’ll be taking to my bed.’

The waystation keeper looked up. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ll lead you there.’

Up a short flight of steps and along a passage he took Flaminius, holding an oil lamp high up, so flickering shadows danced across the whitewashed walls. Producing a key from his belt, he opened the third door from the far end, and ushered Flaminius inside. It was a smallish room with a bunk, a table containing another oil lamp, and a window with a view of the canal.

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius as the old man departed. He sat down on the bed, took off his sandals, left his tunic on in case it got colder, but removed his belt and the dagger in its belt sheath and placed them on the table. Then he picked up the lamp, pinched its wick and as darkness descended got wearily into bed, his room lit only by a gleam of starlight from the little window and disturbed only by the shouting of crewmen aboard passing boats.

The waystation keeper shuffled back down into the common room. Now that the imperial courier had gone to bed, it was empty. Time to shut up shop.

Just as he was about to lower the bolt on the big main doors, he heard a pounding from outside. Opening the door he looked out irritably. His expression abruptly one of obsequious welcome, he ushered two big men into the bar.

‘There was a man waiting here for you,’ he said as he poured two goblets of wine. ‘Seemed eager to meet you. An imperial courier, I think.’

The two men looked at each other. ‘Or an imperial agent?’ asked the bigger of the two.

‘Could be,’ said the old man, bringing them their drinks. ‘Didn’t occur to me. He’s in one of the rooms upstairs if you want to see him in the morning.’

‘Which one?’ asked the smaller, nevertheless a large, ill-favoured man with the build of a wrestler.

‘Room VII,’ the old man said. ‘Do you mean to call on him tomorrow?’

‘Maybe we will,’ said the first big man, draining his wine in a single gulp. ‘It’s been a long day. I’m for bed.’

His companion copied him, and they hurried upstairs. The waystation keeper sighed, wiped the cups and hung them from hooks over the bar, then went to seek his own bed.

Flaminius woke suddenly in the middle of the night, his eyes snapping open without his volition. For a moment he wondered what had woken him. Slumber had descended finally after the traffic of passing canal boats had decreased. Now he lay there, wide awake, he could hear one passing, but it must be very late.

Had it wakened him? All he could hear was the hiss of hull passing through water, otherwise the hot night was still and quiet. The room was close but he had got to sleep earlier when it had been just as warm. It was silent. Too silent. As if something was holding its breath. A dark shape moved across the glimmer of light from the window.

Someone was looming over him.

Flaminius froze. Hands seized him, not from the direction of the window but from the other side of the bed. As he struggled in their grasp, more hands seized him from the other side. He broke free, lashed out with a fist, connected with a nose. There was a muffled grunt.

‘Playing rough, is it?’ growled someone else. They seized him round the neck, wrapping a forearm round, crushing into his throat. ‘You’re coming with us.’

‘I’ll deal with this tricky customer,’ came another voice and a fist slammed down on Flaminius’ crown. Stars and constellations exploded in the darkness. Clutching at his head, he broke free, colliding with the table, and his flailing hand found the hilt of the sheathed dagger. He drew it and whirled round. Before he could warn his mysterious assailants that he was armed, the blade sank into flesh. Something warm and sticky flooded over his hand. A grunt wheezed out.

‘Pluto!’ the other man cursed. Briefly the light from the window was visible again. Then something huge and dark squeezed its way through, so the room plunged into darkness. The intruder vanished from sight; starlight seeped in, and Flaminius heard something hit the ground down in the yard at the back.

He crouched down to examine the man he had stabbed. Still alive. He could make nothing out in the darkness except that the man was still wheezing for breath.

He went to the window. Something was blundering away down an alley. Gritting his teeth, Flaminius sheathed the dagger, swung himself over the windowsill, and scrambled down the wall. Reaching the yard, he shot off down the alleyway, hot in pursuit of the running man.

He came out onto the canal side. There were no boats on the water, no one on the towpath. It was deserted. He went to the side and peered into the water. It was murky and still. He looked around again. No sign of anyone. The second man had got away.

He still had the first man to question. Hurrying back up the alley he found himself in the yard. Looking up, he saw his window. How in Jove’s name had he climbed down there in the dark? Shaking his head, he went to the front to knock up the waystation keeper.

‘…but how did you come to be outside?’ the yawning old man was asking as he led Flaminius back up the steps. ‘I just don’t understand it.’

‘I told you, men broke into my room,’ Flaminius told him. They reached his door, which he now saw had been forced open. ‘I dealt with one but the other jumped out of the window and ran off. I went after him, but…’ Pushing open the door, he saw the man he had inadvertently stabbed lying cold and still on the floor of the room.

He crouched down and rolled the motionless body over onto its back. Dead eyes rolled whitely in a slack face. In the time Flaminius had spent chasing his colleague, the man had died of the stab wound to his chest.

‘That’s one of them!’ said the waystation keeper in a gasp.

Flaminius glanced up. ‘One of the Praetorians?’

The man nodded. Flaminius returned his attention to the corpse.

The man he had killed had been a burly fellow, big enough to be a gladiator, but he had a military belt of the kind worn by legionaries, a sword in a scabbard, and a blood soaked green tunic. Round his neck was an identification tag. Flaminius examined the abbreviated inscription: Second Praetorian Cohort of Gaianus: Gnaeus Rutilio Victorinus.

‘What was a Praetorian doing in my room?’ he asked of the air. ‘Two Praetorians, the one who ran must have been his colleague. And they were tailing me earlier today.’

‘You killed him?’ the old man said.

Flaminius got to his feet. ‘They broke into my room,’ he said. ‘That must be what woke me. Then they tried to grab me. I fought back. Looks like I killed this one.’

‘You murdered a man of the Praetorian Guard?’

Before Flaminius could say any more, the man blundered out of the room, shouting, ‘Murder! Call out the civic guard!’

A clamour arose from the other rooms, doors burst open, questions were bellowed. As realisation sank in, Flaminius looked down in horror at the body at his feet. He had killed a Praetorian, one of the emperor’s handpicked elite. There were mitigating factors, but they wouldn’t save even him, an imperial agent. How in Jove’s name was he going to get away with this?

Hobnails clattered on stone, booted feet thundered down the passage. Gritting his teeth, rubbing at the rapidly swelling bump on his head, he went to the window. It was getting light in the east, and the rooftops were stained a rosy red. Before anyone came in, he climbed up onto the sill, and for the second time that night he half climbed, half jumped down into the backyard, then ran.

—8—

Nicopolis, suburb of Alexandria, Egypt, 2nd September 124 AD

Not far from the amphitheatre Flaminius found a secluded alleyway where he could lie low until the sun was fully risen. The resulting period of inaction gave him much needed time to think.

That fool of a waystation keeper had caused a panic. Civic guards had been patrolling the area for a long time after Flaminius’ getaway from the waystation, although they made only a cursory inspection of the alley, while he hid behind a pile of rubbish. Now the search had moved on. He had passed through the cordon. A while longer, and he was sure he could make a move. But where? The guards had gone on towards the city, which meant he would have trouble getting to Ozymandias’ house. If only he had taken up the Egyptian’s offer!

He had thought there was something fishy about these Praetorians when the prefect told him about their arrival. Why had Hadrian sent them ahead? He’d had word of potential assassins? Perhaps Avidius Pollio had sent him a message in Asia Minor—and yet, the legate knew nothing of recent developments: Flaminius had not been able to file a report during recent escapades. Equally, if he had reported to Probus in Rome, his warnings of assassins might have reached the emperor, what with the highly efficient communications system of the empire. But he had reported to no one. He hadn’t had the time.

So how did these Praetorians know? Were there other imperial agents at work in the city, men he knew nothing of? Was Hadrian playing so convoluted a game? And even if that was the case, why had the two Praetorians firstly tailed Flaminius, then tried to abduct him? He could not be blamed for killing one of them in self-defence, surely. But he knew that this wasn’t true. The Praetorians were above the law—so was he, but he was only a lowly imperial agent, not one of the emperor’s military elite. There would be no trial. He would be killed out of hand. Unless he could find some way to survive, to expose Arctos’ conspiracy. Yes, if he could go to the emperor as a man who had successfully foiled a plot against his life, the death of a Praetorian would be something his imperial majesty could wink at.

So that was it. He had to survive and continue his investigation. For that he needed friends, people who could help him. Ozymandias was on the other side of the city, and by now the civic guards of all Alexandria would be on the lookout for him. Who could he go to in these parts?

He glanced down the alleyway. The walls of the amphitheatre rose above the roofs. It was almost time for the beast fights to begin. The prefect would be in the imperial box. He would be difficult to reach. Besides, he was a highly successful career man, who wouldn’t risk his future advancement by sheltering a man who had killed one of the emperor’s guards. But maybe Flaminius would stand a chance with Apuleius Victor.

Decision made, he rose and hurried down the alleyway, not in the direction of the amphitheatre, but towards the gladiators’ school where the impresario still had his office.

Soon he was outside the building, a converted villa in the suburbs close by the amphitheatre, itself located around the corner from the camp. He had got there by a series of back alleys and side streets. Luckily, he had got to know the area well over the last few months, although he had spent most of his time in other parts of the province. He had been able to keep away from the roads leading to the amphitheatre; it had been filled with stragglers and latecomers on their way to celebrate the games of Hadrian.

Now he stood on the far side of the street. So many gladiatorial “families” had come to the city to celebrate the games, groups from as far as Cyrenaica and Syria, accommodation had to be provided elsewhere for most. Apuleius Victor, being premier impresario in Egypt and the vicinity, had taken over the official gladiators’ school while other families made do with rented suburban villas nearby. But now that his family had been either absconded or died of what, for gladiators, counted as natural causes (three feet of steel in the guts, for example), other families had moved in.

Apuleius Victor had retained his offices in the school, however, since he needed a base from which to coordinate his other, clandestine business. He owed Flaminius. And he was not without influence. He’d better help. Otherwise Flaminius would be on the run, or even become a prisoner of the civic guard, and the plot against the emperor might never be foiled. In which case, the empire would collapse into the chaos of a civil war from which who knows which ambitious senator would rise to seize control. Arctos? Or someone even worse?

Crossing the quiet street, Flaminius hurried round the side of the school, down another alleyway, alongside the wall that surrounded the school’s peristyle garden and practise arena. As he drew closer, the discordant music of blade on blade grew louder. Whichever family was now based in the school was preparing for their appearance in the arena.

A strange nostalgia knotted in Flaminius’ throat. He had only been a gladiator for a few days, but what days they had been! And who else was left? Petrus was dead. Syphax was dead—at Flaminius’ hands. Even Camilla the Amazon Queen was dead, interred by river pirates on an island in the Delta. Flaminius had been in too much haste to return to Alexandria to attend her funeral, or that of the many others who had died in the fight for Arctos’ encampment…

He spat on his hands and leapt for the tiled coping that ran along the perimeter wall. Seizing hold, he hauled himself up the stuccoed wall and peered over the edge. All was as he remembered it: to one side stood the practise arena, and through its gateway oiled figures were to be seen locked in combat. Otherwise the area was taken up by a luxurious garden.

On the other side was a colonnade, a portico and double doors leading into the school as a whole. No one was about. The gladiators were busy in the practise arena.

Flaminius swung first one leg over the wall, then the other, and jumped down into a flowerbed. Crouching for a while in the shrubbery, he scanned the gravel paths and marble benches, box hedges and tinkling fountains that lay between him and the colonnade. Nothing stirred. The sun beat down. Noon couldn’t be all that far off. Was Apuleius Victor in his office or at the amphitheatre? Flaminius wouldn’t know until he went looking for him. He rose and hurried on stiff legs towards the portico.

He crept along the marble passages in an eerie hush. The place was deserted. No gladiators, no impresario. He entered the dining chamber, where couches and tables were arranged upon a mosaic floor depicting the war of the Centaurs and Lapiths. Every evening before a show, the gladiators ate a ritual last supper, often accompanied by members of the public who—at least when Apuleius Victor was stage managing the celebrations—for an extra contribution to the widows and orphans fund, might spend the night in a strapping gladiator’s torrid embrace.

Housekeeping had taken a dive since the new family took over, and the plates of half eaten food and amphorae of wine had yet to be cleared away. Things were lax. Flaminius disapproved.

But he was starving. Fugitive on the run he might be, but one thing a life in the legions had taught him was to fill his belly whenever he had the opportunity. He snatched up half a cold Numidian chicken and tore into it ravenously, then washed the spiced meat down with a couple of gulps of wine from the amphora. Falernian, or he was no judge. Despite the barbarous way he devoured it, it was a marked improvement on the bean stew and vinegar he had had last night. All was silent except for the glugging from his throat and a very distant tintinnabulation of sword on sword from the direction of the practise arena.

Wiping his face with a fold of his tunic, absently noting that the latter was still spattered with the dried blood of the man he had killed, he snatched up a honey glazed ham and slipped it in his belt pouch for later. Time to find Apuleius Victor. If he wasn’t here, and the silence—not to mention the fact that the slave had been so dilatory—suggested his absence, Flaminius decided to hide in the man’s office and wait for his return. He would be safe, surely. Arctos’ people would never think to come here, and nor would the civic guard.

He took a last long swig from the amphora. A distant door banged somewhere else in the school, and footsteps padded down the passageway.

The amphora slipped from Flaminius’ startled fingers and smashed in a cataclysm of Samian ware and white wine across the face of Eurytion, who was attempting to ravish the bride of Pirithous. The sound of its shattering broke the hush like the end of the world.

The footsteps speeded up. Flaminius glanced frantically around the dining chamber. Whoever it was, they were heading straight for him. He saw a drape hanging from one wall, where a window’s green glass showed a dim image of the peristyle garden. Flaminius shot across the chamber and concealed himself behind it.

Just in time. Someone entered the chamber, and halted in the middle. Straining his ears, Flaminius heard a sigh, followed by a curse.

Curious, he peeked out from behind the heavy drape. In the middle of the chamber stood the slave Apuleius Victor had employed to look after the gladiators, holding a brush and looking despairingly round at the mess. Shaking his head, he picked up the fragments of the amphora Flaminius had dropped and piled them up on one marble table.

Flaminius took a deep, relieved breath. Despite the recent noise, it seemed that the slave had not realised the amphora’s breakage had occurred so recently, no doubt ascribing it to the uproarious gladiators’ banquet last night.

As he tidied up, the slave rubbed painfully at his temples. Flaminius guessed that he had had his own party last night and had been sleeping it off in his cubbyhole elsewhere in the school. But why had Apuleius Victor not dragged him from his bed hours ago and flogged him for his negligence of duties? Things had indeed become lax in recent days.

The slave whistled tunelessly, piling up crocks onto a tray, then mopping up the spilt wine on the floor. Finding another half empty amphora he paused, looked surreptitiously about him—for a moment Flaminius was sure he had seen him—then drank deeply from it. He wiped his mouth just as Flaminius had done, pulled a face, then drank some more. Clearly, he was familiar with Aristophanes’ maxim,

Take the hair, it is well written,

Of the dog by which you’re bitten,

Work off one wine by his brother,

One labour with another.

It was a remedy Flaminius had found efficacious in the past. But he had no time to waste watching lazy slaves experimenting with hangover cures. Behind the drape, he fretted.

The slave was called out into the garden by one of the gladiators demanding a drink. Flaminius waited a moment longer, in the case the man came back unexpectedly, then shot out from behind the drape and across the chamber. He sighed with relief in the welcome cool of the shaded corridors that led to the gladiators’ lavishly appointed cells. At last he was outside Apuleius Victor’s door.

He tapped on it quietly. No answer. He tapped again, harder. Was the impresario in the imperial box with Haterius Nepos? Flaminius would have to wait for him. Looking ruefully at the lock, he remembered the last time he had tried to pick it[4]. He gave the door a tentative push, expecting no result. To his surprise, it opened to a crack.

He set both hands on it and pushed it as quietly as he could. As it creaked open, he heard the slave in the distance, whistling as he returned to his Augean labours in the dining chamber. Gritting his teeth Flaminius opened the door enough to slip inside, then pushed it shut behind him with equal care. He rested his arm against it and leant his sweat soaked forehead against the back of his forearm. Now all he had to do was wait for Apuleius Victor to return, then talk fast.

At least he had won himself a breathing space—unless the slave came in here to clean up, too. In which case—he patted the head of his sheathed dagger—he could take the fellow prisoner, or kill him if needed. He sighed. How ruthless he had become over the years.

He remembered how guilty he had felt after his first kill, a barbarian who had attacked his patrol in the hills of the Brigantians. Since then there had been so many deaths. A trail of corpses. He had killed men, he had killed women. He had killed a girl he had loved, and she had tried to kill him. And he would have thought that each death came easier, but every single one was the same; guilt, and horror, and self-loathing.

One day, he would inherit his family’s farm up in the Apennines, retire from the legions. Or else he would return to Britain, melt into the heather, settle down with the warrior woman Drustica. And then there would be no more killing.

Or would there? Drustica lived on the very frontier; the Wall was being built through her tribe’s traditional hunting grounds. Even with camps and forts and milecastles, were her people’s lands safe from attack by the fierce northern tribes? Even if Flaminius renounced his Roman citizenship and joined the Britons, the fight for survival would not end until he was killed.

He turned around, shaking these thoughts from his weary mind, about to sit down at Apuleius Victor’s big marble desk. He stopped short.

Sprawled across the desk was the impresario. A look of shock sat frozen on his face. Blood soaked his toga in the region of his heart, surrounding a diamond shaped hole in the fabric. Someone had stabbed him. Stabbed him to death.

—9—

Slowly, tenderly, Flaminius sat himself down on the stool the near side of the desk, gazing resentfully at Apuleius Victor’s pale, contorted features, the colour of wet clay. To his horror, he heard himself babbling, ‘Oh, of course, you had to get yourself killed, didn’t you? Thanks, friend. Thank you so much.’

He got a grip. Rising, he went to examine the cold, stiff, hours-dead corpse. That was definitely a stab wound in the man’s chest, and his toga was glued to his flesh by dry blood, but there was no sign of the murder weapon. There was also a funeral wreath of black bruises round the impresario’s neck, as if someone had tried throttling him before putting the knife in.

Or perhaps they had seized him by the neck in one hand—must have been a big hand! Maybe a gladiator’s hand? —and stabbed him in the chest with the other. A well-aimed thrust, right at the heart. It must have been a quick death, but Apuleius Victor didn’t seem grateful. His expression was one of shocked distaste, as if at a social faux pas.

Whoever had stabbed him had done so from up close. As Flaminius saw it, they must have been standing in front of him, grabbing him by the neck with one hand and stabbing him in the heart with a hastily produced dagger held in the other. They had been able to get right up to him without their victim suspecting their intentions. It must have been someone Apuleius Victor knew and trusted. But who? Not to mention why?

The door opened. Flaminius swung round, startled, to see the slave entering with a brush in his hand. The newcomer halted.

‘Sorry sir,’ he said abjectly. ‘You were so quiet in here I thought you’d gone out.’ He peered at his master’s corpse. ‘Is something wrong?’ His gaze went to Flaminius’ blood-spattered tunic. Then back to Apuleius Victor’s mortal remains. He dropped the brush and ran.

Flaminius tried to grab him, but the slave dodged round the door and hurried off down the passage, screaming at the top of his voice.

‘Jove!’ Flaminius muttered. Indecisively, he took another look at the body and moved towards it, then went back to the door and flung it open. In the distance, the slave’s shrieks were still audible. He was out in the garden by now. And people were answering him.

Flaminius ran.

He almost made it to the street outside. As he shot across the freshly cleaned dining chamber, bronzed, oiled, muscular figures flooded in from the direction of the garden and the training arena. Amongst them was the smaller figure of the slave.

He pointed accusingly at Flaminius.

‘That’s him!’ he said. ‘That’s the man who murdered my master!’

Two gladiators seized hold of Flaminius. He struggled in their grasp but to no avail. Another lumbered up, heavy brows furrowed in titanic puzzlement. He looked like a Gaul or a Briton.

‘Why did you kill Apuleius Victor?’ the gladiator rumbled.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said patiently. ‘I found him dead.’

‘Where did you come from?’ another one of his captors said. ‘I didn’t see you come in. And there’s blood on you.’ His eyes lit on the dagger in Flaminius’ belt and before the Roman could stop him, he snatched it out.

There was blood on it.

The Gaulish gladiator looked at Flaminius. Flaminius looked at the gladiator.

The gladiator made a sign and they all trooped into Apuleius Victor’s office, dragging Flaminius with them, to examine the impresario’s mortal remains.

Silence hung heavy in the crowded little office. The eyes of all were upon Flaminius, the bloodstained dagger, the blood stains on Flaminius’ tunic, the bloody carcase lying on the desk behind him.

He had forgotten to clean his blade after—accidentally! —killing the Praetorian back in the waystation. An elementary mistake. Any raw recruit might make this kind of error, but Flaminius was a hardened legionary of several years and an imperial agent to boot. He could only put it down to his confusion and weariness last night.

‘Anyone can see that Apuleius Victor has been dead for a long time,’ Flaminius said, breaking the uneasy silence. ‘Several hours at least. His body is stiff. That’s a sign he died a while ago. I’ve only just come in.’

‘The stains on this dagger are not fresh,’ said the gladiator. He was in the wrong job, Flaminius thought; maybe he should get a job as a public informer. ‘Neither are the blood stains on your tunic. How do you explain them if you didn’t kill Apuleius Victor?’

‘You might have killed him hours ago,’ said the second gladiator perceptively. ‘No one’s seen him this morning.’

‘Killed him hours ago,’ chipped in a third, ‘and then returned to the scene of the crime. Where you were caught red handed.’

‘There’s no blood on my hands,’ Flaminius pointed out wearily. ‘Look, there’s an easy explanation for this.’ He slipped his hand into his tunic.

The gladiators produced swords. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ the Gaul barked.

‘He’s got a concealed weapon,’ another shouted.

Flaminius sighed. ‘That dagger is the only weapon I have on me,’ he said. ‘Look here, if you don’t trust me, put your hand in my tunic. You’ll find a brooch in there. It’ll tell you all you need to know.’

‘A talking trinket?’ muttered the slave. ‘This man must be a wizard! An Egyptian wizard!’

‘Jove Almighty!’ Flaminius exploded. ‘Do what I tell you! Now!’

The Gaulish gladiator slipped his hand inside Flaminius’ tunic and took out the lancehead brooch. He stared at it in puzzlement. Everyone in the office crowded round, except the slave, who tried to hide in the corner.

‘It’s not saying anything,’ said one of the gladiators disappointedly after a few seconds.

Flaminius sighed. ‘It doesn’t need to,’ he said. ‘It’s not a magic talisman, you fool. It’s my insignia. I’m an imperial agent.’

‘An imperial agent?’ said the Gaulish gladiator, scowling again. ‘What’s one of them? Are you with the civic guard? Or do you work for the emperor? Alexandrian citizens have some rights, you know.’

‘And does that mean you can go around murdering people?’ asked his colleague. ‘I don’t think so! We should haul you up before the magistrate and see what he thinks.’

Flaminius struck the Gaulish gladiator under the chin—he’d never liked barracks room lawyers—kicked the second in the groin, evaded the lunges of the others, and leapt up onto the table, vaulting over Apuleius Victor’s corpse, then flung himself at the window, expecting to go crashing through it in a shower of glass and lead.

A crack appeared in one pane but otherwise it remained unbroken and he fell to the floor, winded. Grasping at his chest, gasping for breath, he got up to find himself surrounded by gladiators. One was rubbing his chin painfully. Another was clutching at his groin. None of them seemed happy.

‘I’ll go and call the civic guard,’ the slave ventured.

‘You do that,’ wheezed the gladiator Flaminius had kicked in the groin. ‘We’ll keep him here.’

Flaminius stood there facing the angry gladiators, like a mouse facing down by a pride of lions. Nobody spoke. Two men picked up Apuleius Victor’s body from the floor and laid it out on his desk. Flaminius had visions of the man, a stylus-pusher for all that he had been a gladiator in his young days, being cremated on top of the desk at which he had, in life, tackled such massive amounts of paperwork. He suppressed a fit of the giggles.

Hobnailed boots tramped down the passageway, many of them. The door crashed open. In stomped several civic guards. They took up positions round the little office, shoving gladiators out of the way in the process, and if there was ever anyone who could shove gladiators out of the way it was these civic guards, who could have shoved Hercules himself.

In strode Gabinius Camillus.

‘Thank you, citizens,’ said the commander of the civic guard, flattering the gladiators, free and unfree, with the honorific. ‘We’ve been hunting this criminal throughout the city. Seems he’s been on a killing spree. He murdered a Praetorian guard in the waystation last night.’

‘He says he’s an imperial agent,’ growled the first gladiator. ‘Whatever that is! Does that mean he’s above the law?’

Gabinius Camillus gave a wry smile. ‘Sometimes, citizen,’ he confided. ‘Killing a washed-up gladiator impresario might have been winked at by the prefect, if Apuleius Victor hadn’t been working for the civic guard. But cold bloodedly murdering a man of the emperor’s personal bodyguard is wholly unacceptable. Besides, we have reason to believe—intelligence provided by the surviving Praetorian—that this man has been plotting to assassinate the emperor himself.’ As the gladiators gave Flaminius disapproving glares, Gabinius Camillus clicked his fingers at the civic guards. ‘Take him away.’

Flaminius was shackled, his hands chained behind his back, and hustled down the passage out into the bright white light of noon. He was in trouble. It hardly needed to be reiterated, but not only was he in trouble, but so was the emperor. And so was the empire.

He was beginning to wonder if the two Praetorians who had appeared so mysteriously in Alexandria had truly been the imperial representatives they claimed. They had spied on him, tried to abduct him, and now the surviving Praetorian was accusing him, of all people, of plotting against the emperor. Someone had decoded their signals with the wrong cipher.

He was marched towards the high white walls of the amphitheatre. The gladiators accompanied the civic guards, and the slave scampered breathlessly alongside Gabinius Camillus at their rear.

‘You really are making a serious mistake,’ Flaminius told his captors. ‘I’m the only man who can save the empire.’

‘A likely story, chum,’ muttered one of the guards. ‘Any more out of you and….’ Wisely, he left the rest unsaid.

They reached the doors to the flight of steps that led to the imperial box. Gabinius Camillus produced a key and opened them. He turned to the gladiators and the slave who had come with them.

‘Your loyal service to the prefect will not go unnoticed,’ he assured them. ‘Return to your school. It will not be long before your time comes to appear in the arena, and I would not wish to hinder your preparations. Rest assured that in the meantime this killer will be facing the prefect’s justice. Hail and farewell.’ He saluted them formally.

The gladiators and their slave drew back and made their way in muttering ones and twos back to the school. At an order from the commander, the civic guards hustled Flaminius up the cold, dank steps. Again they came out into the bright light of the imperial box.

Haterius Nepos lounged in exactly the same spot as last time, clustered round by catamites and concubines, eating and drinking greedily as two crocodiles chased a convicted criminal round a hastily set up pool in the middle of the arena. The prefect looked up as Gabinius Camillus marched in at the head of his men.

‘What is the meaning of this intrusion, commander?’ Haterius Nepos barked. ‘Can’t you see your prefect is in the middle of important civic work?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Gabinius Camillus soothingly. ‘But I must report that we have captured the killer of the Praetorian guard whose arrest you so eagerly anticipated.’

A man stormed forwards. Flaminius recognised him as the other Praetorian. ‘You’ve caught him, that murderer? Yield your prisoner to my authority at once, commander.’

Haterius Nepos rose from amongst his attendants and waddled up the steps.

‘Enough of that,’ he barked. ‘You may well be a Praetorian, but Haterius Nepos is prefect of Egypt. He gives the orders in his own province!’

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’m an imperial agent! I…!’

‘You think your status gives you the right to kill willy-nilly?’ the prefect demanded. ‘The emperor is first among equals, not the ringleader of a gang of criminals. You murdered Rutilio Victorinus! And now his colleague, Lucius Crassus Piso, asserts that you are the very man suspected of plotting the assassination of the emperor! So much for imperial agents!’ He spat dramatically on the stone steps.

Crassus Piso rounded on him. ‘You must yield your prisoner to me, prefect,’ he said quietly. ‘I shall wring the truth from his treacherous lips.’

The prefect gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Unnecessary. Recline and enjoy the show. The civic guard has everything they need to ensure that they get to the truth. If this imperial traitor has accomplices, they will learn who they are and hunt them down. You need not concern yourself.’

‘Prefect,’ the Praetorian said forebodingly, ‘I am the emperor’s representative.’

‘As is Haterius Nepos,’ the prefect said. ‘And Egypt is his province. You will accept his superior authority.’

Crassus Piso seethed. ‘Your attitude has been noted,’ he muttered, ‘and it will be reported to his imperial majesty.’

Haterius Nepos was undeterred. His authority had been flouted and he was determined to reassert it. He turned to Gabinius Camillus. ‘Take this prisoner to the Palace of Hadrian. There you have full authority to use any methods at your disposal you deem necessary to encourage him to assist you in your…investigations.’

Gabinius Camillus saluted. He gestured to the civic guards and they hustled Flaminius from the imperial box. Scowling, Crassus Piso followed them down the stairs.

—10—

As the civic guards dragged Flaminius out into the light of day, the Praetorian addressed them.

‘Let me escort this murderer to prison.’

Gabinius Camillus looked down his nose. ‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary.’

‘I insist,’ said Crassus Piso, and he looked like he meant it.

‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Flaminius, ‘don’t fight over me. You can both escort me!’

‘In the name of the emperor,’ Crassus Piso rumbled, ‘I demand that you yield your prisoner to me. I wish to interrogate him. Not only is he the killer of my comrade, I have reason to believe he has been plotting against the life of his imperial majesty. I must question him alone; he may have sensitive information, for my ears only.’

The Praetorian’s invocation of Hadrian impressed Gabinius Camillus, but he refused to back down. ‘You do not have the resources to question this prisoner. In the Palace of Hadrian we have all the necessary wherewithal to loosen his tongue. I suggest you take the prisoner there...’

‘Very well,’ began Crassus Piso.

‘…and I will provide you with one of my men to escort you to the Palace,’ Gabinius Camillus added.

Crassus Piso gave a deep sigh. ‘Very well.’ He saluted left-handedly and together with one civic guard marched Flaminius away.

The guard was a capable looking man in his mid-thirties, but he seemed awed by his Praetorian companion. Flaminius’ hands had been bound and it was the civic guard who led him up the suburban street, while Crassus Piso took up the rear.

‘Been looking for this scum long, sir?’ the civic guard asked.

Technically there was no need for the civic guard to honour a rank and file Praetorian with such a title, nor was there any precedent for referring to a tribune, even one accused of murder and conspiracy, in such a manner. But Flaminius didn’t think he was in any position to stand on ceremony.

‘Word of his machinations came to us out in Greece,’ said Crassus Piso. ‘The emperor sent my late colleague and myself to find him and bring him back dead or alive. He got Victorinus first. But now he’s in my custody, we can question him for what he knows, find the root of the conspiracy and rip it out.’

‘You don’t think he was working alone?’ asked the civic guard as they walked down another street, leading past several temples and villas.

‘Not according to our informants,’ said Crassus Piso, ‘but he was the man who was tasked with murdering the emperor.’

‘I was in the Praetorians once,’ Flaminius said suddenly.

They turned to look at him. Crassus Piso looked surprised. ‘I suppose you were thrown out for some misdemeanours,’ he blustered. ‘No doubt that’s why you’re plotting against the emperor. He holds a grudge,’ he told the civic guard. ‘That’s the worst sort. When a Praetorian goes to the bad…’ He shuddered dramatically.

‘Which cohort are you with, then, Crassus?’ Flaminius asked.

Crassus Piso halted and glowered at the captive.

‘Prisoner will speak when spoken to!’ barked the civic guard. He hauled on Flaminius’ bound wrists and urged him onwards.

‘Quite right,’ said Crassus Piso as they marched. ‘Don’t let these murderers give you lip. We’ll soon stop his comments and his questions. He’ll be answering questions soon enough, not asking them.’

The walls of the city gleamed whitely in the distance, but the suburbs resembled a sea of temples and villas and Flaminius was a Ulysses adrift upon the waters. At the mercy of fate.

If he had not killed that Praetorian, all would have turned out differently. But now that he stood accused not just of killing Victorinus, but also of plotting against the emperor’s life, the real plotters would be able to continue their machinations unhindered. The one edge he had on them was the fact that only he and the prefect knew when the emperor would be visiting the province. But Arctos had a rebel army scattered about the province, and the defeat of his men at the Delta encampment had done little to lessen the threat they posed. If only Flaminius could get a message to the emperor, tell him on no account to visit Egypt... But how could he dream of contacting Hadrian now that he was accused of being the arch conspirator?

‘We’ll go this way.’

Crassus Piso had halted. Flaminius and the civic guard stopped to look at him. The Praetorian was indicating a noisome looking alleyway that led off the main street.

‘This way, sir?’ said the civic guard dubiously. ‘The street leads to the Canopic Way, and from there it’s just a short walk to the Palace.’

Crassus Piso shook his head. ‘This is a shortcut, comrade,’ he said. ‘We want to get the prisoner back as soon as possible. The sooner we get the information out of him, the sooner we can do everything in our powers to ensure the emperor’s safety. Don’t you want that?’

‘Of course I do, sir,’ said the civic guard, ‘it’s just that… I know this city. You’ve only just come here. I’m afraid you’re mistaken if you think that this is a shortcut.’

‘Obey orders!’ Crassus Piso barked. ‘We’ve going this way. Now jump to it! That’s an order!’

The civic guard saluted. ‘Under protest, sir,’ he said.

Halfway down, the alley opened out slightly. ‘We’ll stop here,’ said the Praetorian.

‘What’s that, sir?’ the civic guard asked, turning to look at Crassus Piso.

Flaminius heard a sword being drawn. A blade flashed through the air beside his ear and he instinctively flung himself to one side. Overbalancing, hands still bound, he fell with a thud to the dusty ground.

But the Praetorian wasn’t trying to kill him. Clutching at the fresh wound in his side, the civic guard staggered back, face pale with shock as he stared at his attacker.

‘What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘Sir?’

The Praetorian stepped over Flaminius and lunged again. This time the civic guard dodged. Blood oozed down his side, his face was ashen, but he was still on his feet—more than could be said for Flaminius. When the Praetorian made another attack, the civic guard drew his own sword and met the lunge with an expertly executed parry.

‘I don’t know what’s got into you, sir,’ he panted. ‘But I must defend myself and ensure that the prisoner is taken to the Palace…’

‘Don’t count on it,’ the Praetorian said, his voice growing coarser as he forced the civic guard back in a flurry of blows. Up until now he had spoken in that pure Latin of Latium affected by all Praetorians. Flaminius blushed to remember speaking like that during his brief time in the Guards. In his defence, he had been undercover…[5] As the two men fought, although the binding of his hands hampered him, he tried to wriggle away back down the dusty alleyway.

‘Enough of that!’ The Praetorian had seen the movement and he turned to brandish his sword threateningly. As he did, the civic guard lunged, and his blade skittered off the Praetorian’s cuirass then ploughed into his throat.

The Praetorian swung round and aimed a cut at the civic guard. It sliced through the flesh of the man’s arm and sank into the bone; it must have cut an artery too, because suddenly the dusty alleyway was wet with a fine mist of blood. The civic guard’s corpse fell to the dust.

Even as it did, Crassus Piso slipped in a pool of blood and fell with a crash beside Flaminius, hit his head on the cobbles, rolled over, and was still.

Flaminius sat up.

The coppery, animal stink of blood hung in the air. Flies buzzed greedily as they gathered in clouds. Flaminius sat there trying to understand what had happened. A shadow fell across his face and he looked up to see what looked like a vulture circling high up above the suburban roofs. Soon there would be more. It was time he was going.

As he untied the bonds on his wrists, he peered down at the Praetorian’s face. His eyes narrowed. The man groaned and stirred. Flaminius turned and hurried from the alley.

In a side street bathhouse he surreptitiously swapped his own stained tunic for that of another bather much his size, after ridding his limbs of any blood stains. The bathhouse porter gave him an odd look as he left but said nothing. Refreshed and reinvigorated, he came out at last on the bustling quay a short way from the Library. He trotted up the steps and entered its musty silence.

To his relief, Ozymandias was on duty at the main desk. Flaminius gave him the code word, the Egyptian asked a colleague to cover him, and then followed Flaminius into the cover of one of the stacks.

‘We can’t keep meeting like this,’ the Egyptian began.

‘Never mind the banter,’ Flaminius said, deadly serious. ‘Remember those Praetorians when we went to the City of the Dead? Well, one of them has joined their number—and the other wasn’t looking too healthy when I last saw him.’

‘Who killed him?’ Ozymandias hissed, eyes wide.

‘I did,’ said Flaminius.

When the assistant librarian took a step backwards, he added, ‘There were mitigating factors. It was chiefly because he attacked me. But now the Praetorians and that fool Haterius Nepos have got into their tiny minds that I’m the one who’s plotting to assassinate the emperor.’ He coughed. ‘I’m, er, on the run.’

‘And you came to me?’ Ozymandias peered out from behind the shelving. ‘You’d better not have led them here.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I got rid of them in Nicopolis,’ he said, ‘or they got rid of themselves. But this makes everything so much more urgent. We’ve got to find Arctos and smash his conspiracy. And we’ve got to get a message to Avidius Pollio about the rebels. I can’t do that, but they’ve no reason to suspect you.’

‘But how do you think you’ll be able to find Arctos?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘He could be anywhere, in the city or back in the Delta!’

‘Looking for someone?’

At a voice from behind them, Flaminius whirled round.

The scholar who Theopompus had called Hero stood there, a scroll in his hand, a genial smile on his face. ‘My apologies,’ he added. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you. You seem anxious to find your friend.’

Flaminius nodded hastily. Ozymandias at his side was rigid. ‘It’s no problem,’ he said, ‘just a friend, as you say, who’s gone missing.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up!’

Hero nodded ponderously. ‘I hope he does,’ he said. ‘I hope he does.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Of course, if you believe in the superstitions of the mob, you could do worse than to consult Skimbix of Heliopolis.’

Ozymandias stirred. Hero beamed. Flaminius looked searchingly at the tall Greek.

‘Who is this Skimbix?’ he asked. ‘Do you know of him, Ozymandias?’

‘I think my sister mentioned him,’ he said. ‘A thaumaturge, isn’t he, sir?’ he asked Hero. ‘Surely you don’t believe in that nonsense.’

Hero laughed quietly. ‘I’m an engineer,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in anything I can’t measure. But Skimbix has something of a following, and a reputation as a miracle maker. He’s helped reunite loved ones, found buried treasure, even walked on water, they say. His temple is a miracle to behold. I’m just itching to take the place to pieces and find out how it works… I don’t believe in magic, do you?’

‘I’ve seen the so-called sorcery of the druids,’ Flaminius said, ‘up in Britain. Just a lot of magic tricks. I’m sure this Skimbix is another fraud.’

Hero nodded. ‘You’re probably right, young man. I’m a sceptic myself, as much as I adhere to any philosophy. I only mentioned it because you seemed so eager to locate this missing friend of yours. I spoke out of turn. I intruded. My apologies.’

He took his leave of them and wandered off down another set of stacks.

‘These Greeks,’ said Flaminius despairingly. ‘Still, we’ve got to find some way of locating Arctos. Do you know where this temple is?’

Ozymandias shook his head. ‘I don’t. But Nitocris will. I think she goes there with Clara.’

‘When do you get off from work?’ Flaminius inquired casually.

—11—

At siesta time, the city slept. Everywhere except for the amphitheatre in Nicopolis, where the gladiators Flaminius had met would be fighting, perhaps to the death, in the baking hot sun. All citizens wishing to show their support for the emperor would be watching from the shade of awnings as they had since the beginning of the Days of Hadrian. Flaminius was heartily glad he had got away from all that, even if he was on the run.

Although the Greek scholars in the Library were just too damn civilised to attend the Games of Hadrian (something Flaminius found a little suspicious), even the brightest of minds faded in the scorching sun of an Egyptian September, and the Library itself closed its doors until later in the afternoon. Ozymandias took the opportunity to slip away with Flaminius, back to his house.

Nitocris fanned her face as she sat in the cool of the colonnade looking out onto the peristyle garden. She greeted them listlessly and called a slave to bring wine.

‘How was your night at the waystation?’ she asked, then tripped on without waiting for Flaminius’ reply. ‘I’m sure you would have had a better time sleeping here! Waystations sound such awful places.’ She was playing the Roman lasy again today.

‘It certainly was pretty awful,’ said Flaminius ironically, sharing a sardonic grin with Ozymandias. ‘I was attacked.’

Her eyes grew wide. ‘Attacked! How terrible. Did you call the civic guard?’

‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘I fought back. It turned out that my attackers were Praetorians.’

‘Praetorians?’ Nitocris said, baffled. ‘You’re an imperial agent. Why would they attack you?’

‘They seem to have got word of Arctos’ plot. I don’t know how, I’ve not had time to send a report back to Rome. It must have reached the emperor from independent sources. But the story’s been mangled somehow, and now they think I’m the arch conspirator.’

‘I hope you explained that they were wrong,’ Nitocris said firmly.

‘We had a lengthy debate,’ said Flaminius, ‘but I was unable to persuade them. Now I’m on the run.’

‘Oh, Gaius,’ she said softly, and her brother gave her a sharp look. ‘You’re always getting in trouble.’

‘Flaminius needs to find Arctos and find him fast,’ said Ozymandias impatiently. ‘If he can round up the conspirators and bring them to justice, he’ll no longer be under suspicion.’

‘So do that!’ she urged Flaminius. ‘Do what my brother says! You can’t have everyone thinking you’re plotting against the emperor.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘I intend to. Right now, though, we don’t know where Arctos is, and time is pressing. The only advantage is this: I have information that’s vital to his plot. But it’s not enough to save the empire.’

Nitocris looked troubled. Flaminius looked at Ozymandias. Ozymandias looked away.

‘We were talking to one of the scholars in the Library,’ he said airily. ‘He overheard what we were saying somehow. We’d taken all the usual precautions, but… Anyway, hearing that we were looking for someone he mentioned a name I’d heard before. Skimbix of Heliopolis.’

Nitocris almost dropped her wine cup in surprise.

‘Skimbix?’ she said. ‘What did he say about him?’ She frowned. ‘I thought all those stuck up scholars considered him a fraud.’

‘You know this thaumaturge?’ Flaminius asked.

She turned her gaze on him again. ‘Clara and I have been to his temple,’ she said, then she grew enthusiastic. ‘He’s a true miracle worker, Gaius. You should see him. He heals the sick, cures the lame, turns water into wine…’

‘I seem to remember the same claims made about another magician,’ Flaminius said with a wry smile. ‘That crucified Judaean.’

She pouted. ‘You know I don’t like to remember those people,’ she said. ‘But Skimbix is different. He’s an Egyptian born and bred, one of the priests of On. He’s come to Alexandria to help his people. You should attend his temple! The wonders that I’ve seen there. They’re true miracles of the gods!’

She turned to her brother. ‘You know, I told you about them!’

‘Yes, you did, didn’t you?’ said Ozymandias uncomfortably. ‘Remind me.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you listen to a word I say,’ she said crossly. ‘His temple is down in the Egyptian Quarter, not far from where we grew up. It was a shrine of some minor godlet or other, but since Skimbix took up residence it’s seen some real changes.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Doors that open of their own accord. Trumpets that blow their own fanfare…’

‘Trickery,’ Ozymandias said, shaking his head. ‘I’m surprised you’d fall for it.’

‘Oh, is it?’ she said defiantly. ‘Explain it to me, if you’re so clever. I’ve seen statues come to life, even heard… the voices of the gods.’ Her own voice was even lower.

‘Do you think this Skimbix, this miracle worker, could help us?’ Flaminius asked. ‘All I want is to find Arctos. I don’t want to see the gods of Egypt do a song and dance routine.’

She pouted sulkily, then stuck out her tongue at him and giggled. ‘Skimbix is blessed by the gods,’ she said. ‘If anyone can do it, it’ll be him. You should ask him.’

‘Oh, but will such a great man stoop to aid us in such a minor matter?’ Ozymandias asked in tones of mock awe.

‘Gaius said the empire is threatened.’ Nitocris gave Flaminius a concerned look. ‘And besides, we can’t have him on the run from the prefect because of some silly misunderstanding.’

Flaminius shrugged. He doubted the power of this Skimbix. It seemed likely that it was indeed trickery as Ozymandias suggested. He’d seen temple miracles in his days; they made for an entertaining show as long as you didn’t fool yourself into believing they were the powers of the gods. If there were any gods, why would they put themselves at the beck and call of priests and magicians? If they were so powerful, why didn’t they do something about injustice and crime and corruption in the empire, instead of performing like trained animals?

But what other option did he have? Arctos was prepared for Hadrian’s visit, even if he didn’t know the exact date. If Hadrian came ashore to find the province in the midst of an uprising, he would be unhappy to say the least. Parts of the province remained in ruins even eight years after the last uprising, the one whose suppression they were celebrating in these Days of Hadrian.

‘I suppose it’s worth a try,’ he said at last. ‘The Egyptian Quarter is a bit of a way to go, and the civic guard will be on the lookout for me. We’ll have to go by the backstreets. Do you know a way?’

Nitocris looked thoughtful. ‘My brother will be able to help. He knows all the most disreputable backstreets shockingly well.’

‘Now might be the best time to go,’ said Ozymandias gruffly. ‘When no one’s about.’

‘No one except civic guards,’ said Flaminius. ‘I want to find Arctos before the emperor comes here, but I think we’d better wait until the city is busier.’

‘You’ll be staying?’ said Nitocris in delighted. ‘How nice. Let me show you round the garden!’

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius gently. ‘But I was thinking about finishing off those reports. No knowing what else I could learn from them. Also I have a report for the legate that I want to convert into cipher, plus another one for the Chief in Rome. As soon as you get the opportunity, Ozymandias, I’d like you to take them to the camp and request the signal corps send them.’

Nitocris looked put out. ‘Please yourself.’

They set out several hours later, when it was cooler and afternoon shoppers thronged the main thoroughfares. The civic guard was out in force as well, and Ozymandias took them down a series of winding back alleys. To get to the Egyptian Quarter they had no option other than to cross the Canopic Way, the bustling main boulevard of the city that led from the Gate of the Moon in the west to the Gate of the Sun in the east. An alleyway in the Greek Quarter ended at the Canopic Way and they halted in its shade, scanning the busy street beyond.

‘We could just run across,’ said Nitocris after a long silence.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Ozymandias.

Flaminius ignored the married siblings’ bickering and concentrated on studying the road. Elephants and camels, chariots and carriages made up the majority of the traffic in the middle of the road, while throngs of people of every colour and description walked in the shade of the columns and the palm trees that lined either side. The air was hot and dry, and heavy with the stink of incense and sweat, animal dung and perfume. A group of civic guards thrust their way through the heterogenous crowd. They were heading in the direction of the alleyway.

‘We’d better get back out of sight,’ said Ozymandias, seeing them approaching.

But Flaminius was studying the roadway. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll do what Nitocris suggested.’

He led them at a dash, out from the shade of the alley, through the passers-by, and into the heat and dust of the roadway. Coming towards them from the left were a couple of elephants carrying dark skinned men in high howdahs.

‘You! Stop where you are!’ came a bellow from behind them. When they kept running, the same voice said, ‘After them!’

Flaminius reached the far side of the boulevard. The passing elephants were stirring up dust in clouds and the civic guards could barely be seen, coughing and choking as they tried to follow.

‘Good thinking, Roman,’ said Ozymandias approvingly. ‘Now get up this lane before they can follow.’

Nitocris laughed gleefully as they shot down the alley, passing the gaping mouths of open doors leading into shaded houses and yards, past a rug seller’s shop and then up a narrow alley.

‘That was fun,’ she said breathlessly.

‘We’re in serious danger here,’ Ozymandias said. ‘Don’t be a little idiot. This isn’t fun at all.’

‘I know we’re in danger,’ Nitocris told him. ‘But it’s still fun. Maybe the danger adds something.’

They turned a corner. Flaminius had no idea where they were, and Nitocris seemed equally uncertain, but Ozymandias led them expertly.

‘When you’re a married woman,’ Nitocris added, ‘and spend your days housekeeping and gossiping, this kind of life is a real eye opener.’

‘Personally,’ panted Ozymandias, ‘I’d rather be back at the Library.’

They reached a junction. Mudbrick buildings towered over them.

‘Where now?’ Flaminius asked.

Hearing a clatter from back down the passage he wheeled round to see armoured figures looming out of the gloom.

‘This way!’ Ozymandias led them down a narrow alley to the right.

—12—

Some time later they came out into a busy street in Rachotis, the Egyptian Quarter. ‘We seem to have shaken our tails,’ said Flaminius.

‘My brother must have played in some very strange places when we were children!’ said Nitocris. ‘Those winding alleyways were disgusting. I never want to go that way again!’

Ozymandias looked somewhere between flattered and ashamed, but all he said was, ‘The chances of the civic guard coming down here aren’t high, but if they’re looking for a dangerous man like Flaminius here, it’s a lot more likely. Now I don’t know where this Skimbix has his temple, so you’re going to have to guide us, sister. But keep us off the busier streets if you can.’

She gave him an arch look. ‘I certainly don’t know any dirty alleyways,’ she said impudently. ‘Well, come on. This way.’ They made their way down the busy street.

Flaminius kept his eyes out for civic guards. He knew from experience that they seldom came into the Egyptian Quarter, but when they did, they came in large groups—for their own safety. And now Crassus Piso had persuaded the prefect that Flaminius himself was an enemy of the state, they might be more willing to come here. The civic guards they had evaded had last seen them heading south.

This Heliopolitan thaumaturge had better prove worthwhile. It was an indication of how desperate Flaminius felt that he was even willing to consider him. He had nothing but contempt for wonder workers and magicians. It was all trickery, just as Ozymandias had said.

They came out into a small square. ‘Where now?’ Ozymandias asked his sister.

She put a hand to her brow. ‘Wait, wait!’ she said, flapping at him. ‘I’ve only been to the temple a couple of times. It’s a shame we don’t have Clara with us. She has a better sense of direction.’

Ozymandias fumed. ‘Surely you brought a slave with you on these jaunts.’ Anyone would have thought he had never grown up in the gutter or spent several years as a slave himself. ‘We should have brought him with us.’

She shook her head. ‘Clara’s slave accompanied us,’ she told him. ‘And we went in her palanquin, anyway. We should ask someone.’

Ozymandias shook his head, frustrated. ‘You must remember the way. You said you did. Come on, think. Didn’t you look out at the street ever, or were you too busy listening to Clara’s endless jabber?’

Nitocris scowled. ‘Just what do you mean by that?’ she asked. ‘Insulting your own wife’s friends now, is it? That’s nice…’

Flaminius went up to a group of Egyptian youths sitting by a well in the shade of palm trees. ‘Do any of you fine gentlemen know where I might find Skimbix of Heliopolis?’ he asked.

‘Who wants to know?’ The response, coming in a thick Alexandrian accent from a cross eyed youth, was so easily anticipated, Flaminius already had an answer.

‘I’m a seeker after mysteries,’ he said, gesturing about him mystically. ‘I have come from faraway Rome because the stories I heard that Skimbix is the greatest magician the world has ever known.’

‘Why do you want a magician?’ asked another youth. ‘Is it something to do with that hairdo? You’d need a magician to fix that.’

Flaminius’ hair was the height of fashion back in Rome. It was hardly his fault that these provincials were out of date.

He kept his temper despite this assault on his vanity. ‘It’s my one true love,’ he told them. ‘She’s been stolen away by pirates, and I know not where she is. Only a magician such Skimbix will be able to tell me where the pirates have taken her.’ He silently acknowledged the popular Greek novelists whose plots he’d plagiarised.

‘Pirates, is it?’ asked the biggest youth, who was still small and skinny by Roman standards. All of them had thin brown arms that resembled twigs Flaminius could break with ease. ‘How do you know we’re not pirates ourselves?’

Flaminius smiled broadly and shook his head. ‘You’re all true Egyptian warriors, sons of Rameses; anyone can see.’ He produced a drachma and danced it up and down his fingers. ‘There’d be money in it. For the likely lad who could tell me where the magician Skimbix is to be found.’

He beckoned them closer. ‘I’m learned in the dark arts myself,’ he hissed. ‘Tell me true and this drachma is yours. Tell me false, and you’ll find it becomes an obol in your purse.’

The second youth reached out to snatch it, but Flaminius raised his arm and the coin danced out of his way. ‘Now, now,’ he remonstrated. ‘Information first, payment second.’

The youth pointed down the street. ‘Skimbix’s temple is down there, second left, then up the Alley of the Blue Ibis. Now give me my payment.’ One of the other youths sniggered. The rest were looking a little too straight faced.

Flaminius clapped his hands then held out a coin. The youth snatched it up but peered at it in puzzlement. ‘This is an obol,’ he complained.

‘What did I tell you?’ Flaminius said. Ozymandias and Nitocris had joined them and they were watching his antics open mouthed. ‘You tried to cheat me, didn’t you, lad? I’m a magician. The coin always knows.’

The other youths laughed uproariously. ‘It’s the third left,’ said the biggest of them. ‘And it’s the Alley of the Nile Perch. Now give me my coin! Or can’t you magic it back? What kind of magician are you, anyway? I’ve seen better.’

‘Flaminius…’ Ozymandias said warningly. A group of civic guards had appeared on the far side of the square. Flaminius flung the youth the coin—and it had miraculously transformed itself into a drachma again.

They hurried away. ‘See how easy it is to be a miracle worker?’ Flaminius said smugly, as the civic guards forced their way through the truculent crowd. ‘Superstitious barbarians are easily fooled.’

‘And the civic guards?’ Ozymandias said. ‘You can convince a street gang that you’re a thaumaturge, but what about several hardened flatfoots?’

‘Yes, well,’ said Flaminius. ‘We’d better try to shake them again. Have they seen us yet?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Nitocris, looking back. ‘They’re questioning people, describing you by the looks of it. Rather insultingly, if those gestures are anything to go by.’

‘What was it the youth said?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘Third left, then up the Alley of the Nile Perch. I know it. Quick, run!’

Flaminius put a hand on his arm. ‘No wonder you were caught, you old tomb robber,’ he said. ‘Running would only bring them after us. We leave the square casually, like this.’

He sauntered from the place. As they followed, Nitocris looked over her shoulder again. The civic guards were still asking questions. Two of them were speaking to the youths, but they were getting nowhere. The biggest one was facing them down in a belligerent manner. Just as she followed the others around the corner, she saw him swing a punch at the first civic guard.

‘Hurry up,’ Ozymandias scolded her as she joined them. ‘If those civic guards catch us up…’

She smiled impudently. ‘I don’t think we’ve got much to worry for a while.’ The noise of fighting came from behind them. ‘They’ve been asking the wrong people the wrong questions.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Flaminius. ‘Now if you don’t mind, the empire is still at stake.’

They turned a corner, then followed an alley whose entrance was marked by an emblem of a large fish. After a dingy and winding way, it opened up into a smaller square. Deserted, this court was dominated by a dark walled temple on the far side. Flaminius paused in the entrance to the square.

‘Is this it?’ he asked Nitocris.

She nodded, biting her lip. ‘I was lost for a while,’ she said. ‘Clara and I only came here at night. But yes, this is the temple where we saw Skimbix work his miracles.’

‘I tell you,’ said Ozymandias in a small voice. ‘It’s all just trickery.’

The temple was low roofed, only one storey in height, but an avenue of granite pylons flanked its entrance, marked with the mysterious glyphs of the Egyptian priests, rumoured by the Greeks to be magical in nature. Over the single entrance, with its doors of blackened pine, an eye was carved, which Nitocris identified as the eye of Ra, the Egyptian sun god. But there was nothing sunny about this temple to Flaminius’ mind, it was a place of darkness.

He tried to remember all he knew of the Egyptian superstition. They worshipped animals, and animal headed gods, a fanatical belief at odds with the intellectual rigour of civilised creeds like that of the Romans. What he knew disturbed him.

‘Do we go in?’ asked Ozymandias, indicating the doors which stood slightly ajar.

Flaminius blew out his cheeks. He shrugged. ‘I don’t even know if this is going to get us anywhere,’ he said, ‘but I should think it’s the last place the civic guards will come after us, even if they get out of the mess they’ve got themselves into.’

‘The mess that we got them into,’ said Nitocris.

He glanced at her. The girl’s high spirits had vanished. She gazed at the dark temple as if it was something she feared. He touched her arm gently and she looked at him.

‘You don’t have to go in,’ he said. ‘Neither of you do. I’ll go in alone.’

‘You’ll go nowhere alone,’ said Ozymandias hotly. ‘Arctos’ agents are looking for you. They want to know what you know.’

‘What does Gaius know?’ asked Nitocris.

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘If you knew, and they found out you knew, they would be after you as well.’

‘Well, I’m coming in with you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been there before, even if it was at night and there was a large congregation present. I’m not scared.’ But her voice shook.

‘Come on,’ said Ozymandias. ‘We haven’t even seen these magic tricks and you’re already afraid.’

He waddled up to the doors and pushed them open. After checking inside, he glanced back at Flaminius and Nitocris, and beckoned them.

‘It’s just a temple,’ he said. ‘The outer sanctum. Statues and murals and such.’

He went inside. Nitocris slipped a hand into Flaminius’ and together they walked up to the doors.

The outer sanctum was a large room, its walls ornamented with religious frescoes showing mythological scenes and reaching high up into a darkness unlit by the flickering cressets that thrust out from the walls at head height. Somehow it seemed that this was a different place from the temple exterior. It was too large. Those blocky pillars were too massive, like the work of cyclopes. The statues that stood on plinths between them were eerie, too; made of some black stone or perhaps metal, like Nubian slaves, but they seemed to watch the intruders with their bone white eyes.

In the centre was a large pool of dark water.

‘Priest!’ Ozymandias shouted suddenly. His voice echoed and re-echoed round the room, but it was his only answer.

Flaminius took a step forward. The floor beneath his feet seemed to give way; for an instant he expected to be tipped into a hidden pit full of snakes. Then the doors hissed shut behind him. They all whirled round, and Ozymandias went to try them.

He looked back. ‘Tight shut,’ he said grimly. ‘There’s no way out until we find that priest.’

‘Well,’ said Nitocris, ‘we won’t die of thirst.’ She went to a wall mounted statue showing the face of an aegipan or similar fantastic beast. ‘Gaius, do you have that drachma?’

With a shrug, Flaminius handed it to her. She slid it into a slot in the side of the statue. There was a grinding and a gurgling and water poured from the mask’s mouth into a small cup. She lifted it up and encouraged Flaminius to drink from it.

He wrinkled his nose. It tasted brackish, like water that had been kept too long in a barrel. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘It’s holy water,’ she said. ‘You make your offering and the god creates another miracle. It will purify you, too.’

‘Holy water!’ Flaminius said. ‘I should hope so, at a drachma a time.’ That was a day’s wages for most men. ‘Couldn’t this magician make something really useful, like wine?’

‘Oh, he can do that,’ Nitocris said seriously. ‘I told you I’ve seen him turn water into wine.’

‘Nonsense,’ muttered Ozymandias.

A smaller door on the far side must lead to the inner sanctum. Perhaps this Skimbix was through there. Flaminius licked his lips. His mouth was dry. The slamming of the doors had been uncanny. Perhaps there really was something in these tales of Egyptian magic. Or was he losing his mind…?

‘He must be further inside,’ he said at last, his voice breaking like ice in some northern spring. ‘I’ll go and find him and ask him to let us out of here.’

As he crossed the room, sidling round the black pool, Ozymandias called, ‘We came here to ask him to help find Arctos. Now you only want to get out of here.’

Flaminius looked back over his shoulder. Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed to be getting colder in this mausoleum of a temple. He heard a sudden sibilance, as of a giant serpent, and the cressets began flickering. Steam hissed from the walls. Ozymandias and Nitocris stood beside the doors watching him.

‘When we find Skimbix,’ Flaminius told them both, ‘we’ll be able to discuss both—the doors and Arctos.’

Nitocris shrieked. ‘The statue!’ she cried out. ‘Oh, Gaius! The statue!’

Flaminius whirled round. One of the images, a tall Nubian slave wearing a silken loincloth and a pshent of solid gold, had begun to move, lifting its arms and turning its head; its white eyes followed his movements. Flaminius moved as if to run. Jerkily, it thrust out an ebon leg, as if about to climb down from the plinth.

‘It’s between you and us!’ Ozymandias yelled. ‘Go the other way!’

‘Gaius! Run!’ Nitocris shrieked. ‘Through the other doors!’

The statue moved once again. Flaminius turned and ran to the door. It slid open. Beyond it was a firelit chamber, smaller than the outer sanctum. He dashed through it.

And the door slid shut behind him with a loud clang.

—13—

The statue stilled into immobility, standing there on its plinth as if it had never moved. As if it had all been a dream. Ozymandias rubbed at his eyes. He felt like thousands of tiny snakes were swimming beneath his skin.

‘I told you,’ Nitocris said. ‘Skimbix is a magician.’

He turned. ‘What’s this magician done with Flaminius?’

When she didn’t answer, he went to examine the statue. It was motionless, lifeless, as if it had never moved. He reached out an impious hand to touch it. To his surprise it was not made of stone but some kind of metal.

Ozymandias was an Egyptian born and bred, and the blood that ran in his and his sister’s veins contained a heritage of thousands of years of dark civilisation and superstition. Long before Rome was established as an encampment of outlaws on the Seven Hills, the kingdom of Egypt had brooded in silent majesty upon the banks of the Nile, ruled over by god-kings and priests who wielded uncanny powers.

Their degenerate descendants, under the yoke of foreign rulers, had only the mighty and enigmatic ruins to demonstrate the power of the old ones, those people who had built the pyramids, carved the Sphinx… Surely it was sorcery that had heaped those stone blocks on top of each other. Even regiments of slaves could not have built such edifices…

Nitocris was investigating the doorway into the inner sanctum. ‘It’s sealed shut,’ she reported.

‘Let me.’ Ozymandias joined her and pounding upon the sliding door. ‘It’s all trickery, I keep telling you.’ He gnawed his lip and slammed his fist against the unmoveable door. ‘Oh, it’s hopeless,’ he said immediately.

Nitocris looked upset. ‘I don’t know why Skimbix is doing this,’ she said. ‘He is a good man who heals the sick and cures the lame…’

Ozymandias pounded on the door with both hands. ‘Flaminius!’ he bellowed. ‘Flaminius!’

All Flaminius knew of his Egyptian friend’s efforts to aid him was a distant booming sound on the edge of hearing. But his attention was focused elsewhere.

On the far side of the cresset-lit space stood the statue of the god, tall and mighty, with the head of a dog or baboon. Lambent flames guttered on either side of that carved and painted face, giving the impression that it was grinning at Flaminius, leering bestially. Beneath it stood the open door of a furnace, like the one that had burned in the temples of the Carthaginians—for the sacrificial offering of the first born. Momentarily he expected this idol to step down from its plinth and stride in his direction. But it did not move.

A great bell-like voice tolled out. ‘Blasphemers! Intruders in the holy of holies!’ The lights flickered, the face of the idol writhed, and the voice rolled round and round the chamber. ‘Infidels! You shall all die!’

Flaminius’ blood froze in his veins. He turned to run. But that door cut off his retreat, the one that had opened and closed so mysteriously… as if by magic. He was trapped.

This was impossible, he reminded himself. Like Ozymandias said, there must be some trick. He was a Roman, after all, not some superstitious barbarian. He had been brought up to believe in the power of Almighty Jove, and Minerva, and all the other gods of Rome. Magic was trickery, using poisons and drugs to achieve foul ends. Besides, the gods didn’t exist, or else they existed in some other plane far beyond this one...

He was making no more sense than an animal-worshipping Egyptian.

The voice had stilled, and now all was quiet again in the inner sanctum. For a while a noise had been audible from beyond the door, as if someone was trying to get in, but it had gone. He looked wildly around the shadowy room. Pillars marched along either side, flickering lights cast eerie green shadows on the mosaic pavement. An altar stood before the baboon headed idol…

Now a voice resounded from the far corner. ‘Draw closer, blasphemer,’ it said. ‘Why do you come hither?’

Flaminius took a step forward, peering into the shadows. It sounded like someone was there; it wasn’t the booming voice of the idol, it was the pleasant tones of a middle-aged man. But he could see no one.

‘I’m sorry if I’m trespassing on holy mysteries. I came here to ask for help. I’m looking for someone.’

‘Looking for someone?’ The voice came from behind him, louder this time. He spun round to see nothing but his own quaking shadow.

‘Who are you looking for?’ The voice came from another corner now, as if the speaker walked unseen from place to place. ‘And how will you pay?’

Flaminius turned. ‘All I know is that Skimbix is a wonder worker. If you are he, why not drop this pretence and talk to me straight. Show yourself. Then we can discuss payment, if that’s what you want.’

A voice roared from the idol. ‘Seek you the Bear?’

Flaminius examined the unmoving granite face. ‘The Bear?’ he echoed. ‘I’m looking for a man who calls himself Arctos. That’s Greek for bear. So, yes—maybe I am.’

‘I know, I see,’ crooned the voice. ‘He is your enemy.’

Flaminius swallowed. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. ‘He threatens the peace and security of the entire empire.’

‘Egypt is far older than your empire,’ boomed the voice. ‘It has seen many empires. They have flourished and grown strong, then fallen back into the empty darkness. Empires are things of chaos, evanescent and fleeting.’

‘Not Rome,’ said Flaminius determinedly. ‘Rome will endure. As long as its rule is in the hands of men of justice and foresight.’

‘And is it now?’ the voice of the god asked. ‘Is it ruled by a man of justice? Or is it corrupt and evil, doomed to destruction?’

‘What is that noise? Is Gaius talking to someone?’

Puzzled, Ozymandias scratched his head without answering immediately. This side of the door the voices were muted, and it was impossible to be certain what they were saying. But it did sound like Flaminius was talking to someone—to this Heliopolitan magician?

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You tell me. You’ve been here before.’

Nitocris shuddered delicately. ‘It wasn’t like this,’ she said with a scowl. ‘There were more people, and there were sacrifices and miracles.’

Ozymandias squinted up at the statues. They showed no sign of moving again, but he didn’t trust them. Didn’t trust his own senses. ‘We’ve seen wonders of our own,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Nitocris, ‘but last time I was here, the lame walked, a man walked across the water of that pool.’ She frowned. ‘It was truly wonderful. It’s all been spoilt now.’

Beyond the door, the conversation rolled endlessly on and on. Ozymandias wished he knew what they were talking about. He tried to open the door again.

‘Help me!’ he urged his sister.

‘Never mind the rights and wrongs of the Roman Empire,’ Flaminius was saying. ‘I want to speak to Skimbix. Is he here? If not, let me go back to my friends. You can’t keep me a prisoner here.’

‘And why not?’ the god replied cunningly. ‘You were a fool to enter into my domain.’

‘So it seems,’ said Flaminius. ‘You’ve certainly got a lot of trickery at your hands, Skimbix, but if you’re not going to help me, why not let me go?’

‘I am not Skimbix,’ the voice replied. ‘I am the Hidden God. I am the maker of miracles.’

Flaminius took another step forwards. ‘I bet you are,’ he said cynically. ‘And if I have a look behind that statue, what am I going to find? An Egyptian priest who’s learnt a few tricks of voice projection from a Greek actor? Who uses them to trick the credulous out of their hard-earned drachmas?’

‘Keep back!’ boomed the voice. ‘Blaspheme the sacred stone with your presence and you will be struck down!’

‘I doubt it,’ said Flaminius. ‘There are no gods, and this is just the trickery of a priest. Where are you, Skimbix? Behind the idol, or somewhere else? There’s no hidden god, but there’s a hidden coward. Come out and face me like a man, and not a spineless barbarian.’

He approached. Despite his bravado, he was more than half convinced that he was indeed about to be struck down, whether by the gods or by some trickery of the priests of Heliopolis he didn’t know. Gritting his teeth, he mounted the steps.

‘You!’ he cried out on recognising the man behind the image. ‘I’ve seen you before! You were…’

The small man held a wand in his brown hands. He flung it at Flaminius and the Roman saw it transformed into an asp that began coiling around his arm.

‘Help me with this!’

Ozymandias had left the door and was now struggling to detach one of the black statues from its plinth. Nitocris stood beneath him. ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed. ‘You can’t just wreck the temple! The gods will be angry with you!’

‘This is not the temple of any god worth worshipping,’ Ozymandias said. ‘Flaminius is trapped in there. Who knows what horrors he faces? We’ve got to break down the door!’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Nitocris said. ‘That statue must be heavy. It must be solid diorite.’

Ozymandias shook his head. ‘It’s not stone at all,’ he began. ‘It seems to be some kind of metal…’

He broke off. The statue’s arms extended abruptly, wrapping themselves around him, hugging him, crushing him to its metal breast.

Nitocris shrieked.

Flaminius flung the snake away from him. It hit the side of the idol and fell with a clatter to the paves. He stared at it. It was a wand again.

He clapped ironically.

‘Your tricks get better every time,’ he told the snake charmer.

‘You’ve never been in my temple before,’ the small Egyptian told him, picking up his wand. ‘Where have you seen me?’

‘I was spying on you,’ Flaminius admitted. ‘It’s an occupational disease, you see. Incurable inquisitiveness. You had a meeting with the late Apuleius Victor, the equally late Syphax, and a gang of Egyptian robbers. I saw you with a real snake, milking it for venom. I believe that poison was intended for me, to bring about my death.’

‘I knew nothing of this,’ said the small man. His eyes seemed to glow like coals. ‘It was you spying on our meeting? There were spies, certainly…’

‘Surely a magician of your calibre is all knowing?’ said Flaminius sardonically. ‘You are the famous Skimbix, aren’t you?’ The small man nodded modestly. ‘But you knew nothing of me spying on you?’

‘Apuleius Victor betrayed us. He joined with us but secretly he was working for the Romans. But that traitor is dead.’

Flaminius’ eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

‘I have my ways.’ The magician laughed. ‘Perhaps I am indeed all knowing. I know that you are my enemy. And you, Roman, are in my power! Very soon, you will be going on a journey. A long journey!’

Flaminius laughed incredulously. ‘Fortune telling now?’ he said. ‘Have you cast my horoscope?’

Skimbix laughed with him, nodding vigorously, evil eyes gleaming. He raised one hand to his lips. In his palm was a pile of dust. He blew it into Flaminius’s face.

The Roman fell back, choking. All around him, the temple seemed to shimmer and change…

—14—

To Ozymandias’ surprise, the metal arms did not crush him. But they clutched him tightly, so tightly he couldn’t move or wriggle free. The statue, however, had stopped moving now and seemed entirely lifeless again. Eyes almost popping from his skull, Ozymandias craned his neck round.

‘Nitocris,’ he called hoarsely to his sister. ‘Can you find something to crowbar me free with?’

The girl hunted round. She saw a nearby cresset and tried to detach it from the wall. ‘It’s stuck,’ she cried out looking atr him over her shoulder. ‘I can’t break it!’

‘Try something else,’ Ozymandias urged her, but then the cresset broke free so suddenly that Nitocris fell backwards. It hit the floor, the girl beside it, flames roaring as it plummeted, but they went out the instant it landed. She got up, rubbing her bruises, and carried the cresset over. Together they managed to insert the length of metal between Ozymandias and the statue’s arm and lever the latter back enough for Ozymandias to slip free.

‘Now we want the whole statue,’ he told her.

Together, they put their shoulders to it and slowly pushed it from the plinth. With a thundering crash, it hit the paving below and went skittering over the side of the pool. Ozymandias reached out to grasp it, expecting it to sink to the bottom. To his surprise, it seemed to float on the top.

Nitocris clapped her hands. ‘Another miracle!’ she cried, her voice ringing through the temple. ‘The god is on your side!’

‘I doubt that,’ said Ozymandias darkly.

Jumping down, he went to the side of the pool. He dipped his hand into find that less than a cubit below the surface was some kind of transparent material, crystal perhaps. Perhaps some kind of glass, but clearer glass than any he had seen before. The statue lay on top of this, but its impact had splintered it, and Ozymandias could only see it due to the web of crack marks.

‘Help me with this,’ he said, assisting Nitocris as she climbed down. ‘As soon as we break those doors down, we can get in the inner sanctum to see what’s happened to Flaminius.’

Together they struggled to haul the statue out of the water and onto the paving, then dragged it across to the second door. Nitocris was panting and sweating. Ozymandias wasn’t much better off. Now they lifted the heavy statue to use it as a battering ram. The boom as it collided with the door echoed through the chamber, and Ozymandias was sure it must be loud enough to be audible outside. But not a mark had appeared on the door.

‘Try again,’ he said remorselessly, and they swung it a second time. Again the noise rang out through the temple, but this time a dent appeared in the door.

‘It’s working!’ Nitocris gasped. ‘Again!’

But as they rammed the statue into the door another time, someone began pounding on the main temple doors at the other end of the chamber.

They exchanged glances. ‘The guards,’ Ozymandias muttered. ‘Hurry!’

Another crash rang out as they slammed the statue into the door. The door was definitely beginning to bend. But even as they drew back for another try, the main doors burst open and in rushed the civic guards.

‘That’s enough of that!’ a centurion bellowed, scandalised. ‘Put that statue down at once!’

Ozymandias and Nitocris lowered it resignedly.

‘Look, we’ve got to get through that door,’ Ozymandias began. ‘Our friend is…’

‘It’s the ones we were following,’ announced the centurion’s optio. He was wearing a fresh bandage on one arm and the other men had also clearly been in the wars. ‘They were with that assassin we’re following.’

‘I see that, Metellus,’ snapped the centurion. ‘But where’s the assassin?’ He marched up to the two Egyptians. ‘Where is he?’

‘Don’t I know you?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘You were promoted to centurion when Paulus Alexander was commander, didn’t you? Julius Balbillus, isn’t it?’

The centurion peered at him. ‘The scribe Ozymandias?’ he laughed. ‘I remember you. Not seen you since the old commander fell on his sword. What are you doing smashing up this temple?’

‘It’s a long story…’ Ozymandias began.

‘Save it for the wineshop,’ said Julius Balbillus, and his tone became pompous and officious. ‘You were seen in the company of a known fugitive, an enemy of the state who has been accused of plotting to murder the emperor. You and this young girl.’ He looked speculatively at Nitocris.

‘My sister,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Yes, we were with the fugitive in question…’ He swallowed, his mouth dry.

‘You’re working with him?’ Metellus barked.

‘Of course not,’ said Nitocris quickly. ‘My brother works for the Commissary these days. He was tailing this assassin. But the quarry escaped into this temple. He’s through there.’ She indicated the door to the inner sanctum.

‘The door’s locked,’ said Julius Balbillus observantly.

‘My sister’s right,’ said Ozymandias. ‘He went through here and then the door closed. We were trying to get to him.’ He darted his sister a grateful look.

‘But you came just in time to help us,’ said Nitocris, giving the centurion a soulful look.

Julius Balbillus reddened and coughed. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Come on, men, get that door down. The fugitive is behind it.’

Ozymandias drew his sister to one side. ‘What happens when they get through?’ he said in an undertone. ‘They’ll arrest Flaminius.’

‘One thing at a time,’ Nitocris told him.

Another crash resounded round the outer sanctum. Three brawny civic guards had propelled the battered black statue into the door, which bent under the assault and almost broke. ‘And again,’ said Julius Balbillus gruffly.

A final charge and the doors burst open. As the civic guards crowded round, Ozymandias dodged between them, dragging Nitocris after him, and entered the inner sanctum.

With a grinding of stone on stone, the great baboon idol on the far side moved towards them. ‘Look out!’ Nitocris wailed. ‘It’s come to life!’

‘Get back!’ shouted Julius Balbillus. Then with a crash the idol settled into immobility, facedown. Awe on their faces, the civic guards tramped into the inner sanctum, swords at the ready.

But it was empty.

‘I want to know what’s going on,’ said Julius Balbillus a quarter of an hour later.

He stood over Ozymandias and Nitocris, ruddy face dark with anger. ‘What kind of trick is this? We’ve searched the whole temple and found no sign of the fugitive or anywhere he could have gone. Admit it, he was never here!’

‘What would we gain by deceiving you, centurion?’ Ozymandias sighed. It was the kind of thing Flaminius would say, and it usually put people in their place. For some reason it didn’t work when Ozymandias tried it. Oh, for the benefits of a classical education.

‘I swear to you by Isis and Osiris,’ said Nitocris, ‘that the man you were chasing came into this chamber. The door closed behind him, that’s all we know. He must have got out some other way.’

She felt some relief knowing that Gaius was still at large. The civic guards had searched the entire inner sanctum, then the temple as a whole, without finding a sign of the imperial agent or any way he could have escaped. The statues had remained motionless, and everything that had seemed magical about the place when she had visited with her friend was gone. It had been ransacked.

Ozymandias shook his head. ‘My sister’s right. I’m as confused as you, centurion, but he’s got away. We won’t achieve anything by staying here. You’ve already had trouble with the people of this sector, going by those fresh wounds. Now I suggest we tidy up the mess you and your men have made and leave before a priest comes and raises the alarm. Otherwise we might spark off a riot.’

Julius Balbillus looked despondent. ‘You’ve got a point, damn you,’ he said. ‘Our prey was just within our grasp, but now…’ He shuddered. ‘Snatched from us by Egyptian sorcery! They’re all in league, these people, all in league.’

After his men had done their best to repair the damage, they withdrew. Julius Balbillus took them back to the Palace of Hadrian to make his report to the commander, and he insisted on Ozymandias and Nitocris accompanying them.

As they hastened through the still bustling streets, the two Egyptians held a hushed conversation.

‘What are we going to say when we have to make our report?’ Nitocris wanted to know.

Ozymandias smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll think of something,’ he said. ‘Or I will, at least. You keep quiet: I’ll do the talking.’

‘You?’ said Nitocris. ‘I don’t know what good you think you’ll be.’

Ozymandias reminded her that he was a former employee of the civic guard. ‘I know what to say,’ he added. ‘I’ve processed enough reports to know what goes down well.’

‘But we’ve told the centurion that we’re working for the Commissary,’ Nitocris said.

‘You told him that,’ Ozymandias reminded her.

She scowled. ‘How can we prove it? We don’t have brooches, like the one Gaius has.’

‘We are imperial agents,’ Ozymandias told her. ‘Leastways, you’ve worked for them before, and I am still one of Flaminius’ agents. Even if I’m not good enough to get a shiny brooch, I know the right codes and passwords. That should be enough.’

She gnawed her lip and walked on in silence at his side. They were at the back of the group of guards, but Julius Balbillus’ men were keeping a quiet eye on them.

‘We should just slip off when they’re not watching,’ she told him.

‘That would get us in worse trouble,’ he replied. ‘Then we would be on the run just like Flaminius was.’

‘What do you suppose happened to Gaius?’ she asked. ‘He vanished… as if by magic.’

Ozymandias shrugged. ‘Maybe it was magic.’

‘I thought you said magic was just trickery,’ she snapped.

‘I just don’t know any more,’ he told her. ‘I know nothing about it. You’ve been to the temple before, and anyway, you knew those Christians. You tell me how they did it! I admit that Flaminius seems to have vanished. Well, haven’t you seen anything of the sort in the past?’

She mused. ‘Water into wine…fire appearing from nowhere…doors that shut of their own accord…but no, I’ve never seen a man vanish before.’

Ozymandias grunted. ‘We didn’t actually see him vanish.’

‘Well, what else happened?’ she challenged him. ‘He—and Skimbix the sorcerer—were in the inner sanctum. There was only one way out and we were there all the time. They vanished!’

They said nothing during the rest of the journey. They were back in the Greek Quarter, but they weren’t going home. Ahead of them stood the great marble walls of the so-called Palace of Hadrian. To Ozymandias’ knowledge, the emperor had yet to set foot in the place; it was mainly a base for the civic guard. They would report to the commander, whose scribe would copy down their words. That had been Ozymandias’ job once. And after that?

‘I think it’s time we changed sides,’ he told his sister.

She looked at him in shock. ‘Change sides? What in Isis’ name do you mean? Betray Gaius?’

Ozymandias indicated the civic guards. ‘We have one thing in common with our friends here,’ he said. ‘They will be looking for Flaminius. So will we. But we know he’s not plotting against the emperor.’ He gave her a bleak look. ‘We have to find him because he is the only man in Egypt who can save the emperor.’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to join the search. But… we’ve got to find Gaius first!’

—15—

He heard the lapping of water, felt warm air on his skin, smelt the tang of salt in his nostrils. Beneath him was something hard yet gritty.

Sand?

His feet were wet. Something was tugging at him, gently but insistently. He had just woken up, but he still felt tired and groggy. That must have been one hell of a banquet, he told himself, thinking that he was still working as a gladiator. But that was all in the past.

Apuleius Victor’s corpse! He had found the impresario, stone dead, a knife in his back. He had been suspected, for that and for the death of the Praetorian. He had killed the latter, of course. But it had been unintentional, the man had tried to abduct him.

Cold sweat broke out on his brow. He was suspected of plotting against the emperor! He, of all people, was a suspect.

Where was he now?

He was lying on hard, tight packed sand. Brine was in his nostrils. His legs were wet, and something was tugging at them. Was he lying in the water?

He opened his eyes, flinching at the bright light that lanced into his mind. He was face down in the sand. He tried to roll over but surprised himself by purging the contents of his belly in a flood of stinking bile.

When the fit of vomiting was over, he got to his hands and knees and turned around, bleary. His stomach was painfully empty, his head swam. He sat down and stared at the endless blue waters that stretched away to the distant horizon. Where was he?

He must have been lying half in and half out of the water, like Ulysses shipwrecked on the shores of Calypso’s isle. But how had he got here? And where was here? Muzzily, he shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

Another memory clicked into place. He had gone with Ozymandias and Nitocris to the temple. The statues had come to life, the doors had closed without anyone touching them. And he had met the wizard. He had met the wizard Skimbix and confronted him. The wily Egyptian had tried all manner of tricks, but Flaminius had withstood them.

That was his name, he remembered with a start. Flaminius. Gaius Flaminius Drusus, tribune of the Twenty-Second Legion, stationed out in Egypt. How could he ever have forgotten?

And where was he now?

Numbly he stared out across the salt sea. Blue water met blue skies far off on the misty edges of things. Had he been in a shipwreck? He remembered nothing after the Egyptian wizard blew that dust into his face. What had happened? Where was Ozymandias? Nitocris?

Where, for that matter, was he?

Painfully, he got to his feet. The lower half of his tunic was wet through and crusted with salt, but his hair and face were dry, although he had to brush sand out of the former. He turned slowly round, surveying the scene.

Inland, the ground rose gradually upwards. Trees and bushes grew in the distance. Smoke trailed into the sky. He caught a glimpse of red tiled roofs. A distinctly Roman scene.

That came as a relief. Wherever he was, he was still in the empire. He hadn’t been spirited away to far-off barbarian lands, or into the land of the dead.

His legs gave way under him and he fell with a thump into the sand. There he lay for some time, struggling to regain his breath. That dust the Egyptian had blown into his face… what had it been? Some kind of narcotic? A soporific, like poppy seeds? Had he been asleep ever since? And how long was that?

He dragged himself to the far side of the beach and propped himself up against a low, twisted tree. It was a tamarisk. Where did tamarisks grow?

Pretty much everywhere in the empire. The warmer parts, anyway. They didn’t have them in Britain. Maybe not Northern Gaul either. But they grew everywhere else. So that was no help.

But he must be somewhere near Egypt, if not in that province itself. Was that sea he could see the Mediterranean? It must be. He had been unconscious for a while thanks to Skimbix’s sorcery, but not so long he had been taken as far as the ocean. He was hungry, but not so hungry as all that. Unless the wizard had employed Pegasus himself to transport him! He shook his head. It was as if he had slipped out of the mundane world and into the lands of myth.

It was also time he found out where exactly he was. The sooner he learnt, the sooner he could get back and defeat Arctos’ conspiracy.

The place was silent but for the lapping of the water and the soughing of the wind among the tamarisks. Birds cried in the sky above.

That was a homely sound. He remembered listening to the bird calls when he was a dreamy young boy, long before he had joined the legions. So long ago and far away, it seemed. Although, for all he knew, he was in Italy now. Still, it would be a long way from his father’s farm in the hills. He had grown up many miles from the sea. As far from the sea as you could be, in Italy.

From the shore he had seen red tiled roofs, but now he was making his way inland he could see no sign of them. He blundered through the tamarisk thickets in confusion, his head still groggy, and that must surely mean that the drug, whatever it was, had been administered only recently. So what had happened? Had Skimbix had him carried off, a prisoner? The wizard was in league with the Alexandrian gangs, and the Alexandrian gangs were under Arctos’ control. Therefore Skimbix was one of Arctos’ allies. But why had he taken Flaminius to this remote place and abandoned him? Even if it was a distant island, he could build himself a raft and sail to the mainland. Why hadn’t they just killed him?

A tamarisk branch lashed him across the face. He forged on through the darkest of the thickets. How long would it be until sunset? The final day of the Days of Hadrian was tomorrow. And that was when the emperor was to make his surprise appearance in the imperial box, at the height of the festivities.

But was it truly tomorrow? How did Flaminius know that he had not slept in drugged slumber for days? Hadrian might be dead and gone by now, the empire in anarchy, or under Arctos’ rule.

He remembered the Praetorians. Somehow, Hadrian had learnt of the plot. Would that have deterred him from visiting the province? Flaminius hoped so. But he had no way of knowing. No way of getting back to Alexandria. And no way of warning the emperor.

Pushing through another thicket he came out into the open.

Ahead were rose bushes…box hedges…gravel paths…and in the middle distance, terraces, stuccoed walls and red tiled roofs. A Roman villa, in the middle of the wilderness. He had found it, the place he saw earlier, a sizeable house with outbuildings standing in the middle of a well-kept garden. Presumably farmland lay beyond. Flaminius breathed a sigh of relief, as if he had been lost in the Libyan Desert and had at last stumbled across an unexpected oasis.

He crossed the grassy lawn. Scents of oleander and honeysuckle hung heady in the air. What kept the garden so green and fertile? There must be hidden irrigation systems, underground tunnels bringing water down from the hills. Or maybe this was a particularly fertile part of this country, wherever it might be. But it was all silent, deserted. No slaves were at work among the flowerbeds. And yet the gravel paths were tidy and well weeded, the plants well kept. Where was everyone?

Hearing a footstep in the gravel behind him he spun round. Facing him was a small group of big men, clad in drab homespun tunics. They were holding spears and bows and it was clear that they were willing to use them.

‘That’s far enough,’ said one of them, a black bearded man with a broken nose and a scarred cheek. ‘The master has a short way with trespassers.’ He spoke Latin with a Thracian accent.

Flaminius smiled affably and spread out his hands to show he was unarmed. ‘My apologies if I’m trespassing on your master’s land,’ he said. ‘I was cast up on the shore, shipwrecked, and wandered inland with no notion of where I was. Tell me, friend, what part of Egypt is this?’

The bearded man scowled, shook his head. ‘You make no sense,’ he said. ‘The master will have to hear about this. He’s the magistrate. He rules this island.’

Flaminius frowned. ‘What island is this?’ he asked. ‘Like I told you, I’m lost. I woke up on the shore with no notion of how I got here…’

‘You must have been in a shipwreck.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘I came looking for someone who could help me. You see, I’m desperately in need of getting back. There’s some very urgent business I have to wind up.’

‘The master might help you,’ the bearded man said grudgingly. ‘Ships call in to our port several times in the year. There will be one soon. Where do you come from?’

‘Italy originally,’ Flaminius said, ‘but my business took me to Alexandria. I would be very grateful if you could help me return there.’

‘Alexandria in the Troad?’ asked the bearded man. ‘Or Alexandria by the Latmos?’

Flaminius felt a cold sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. The two places the man had named were in Asia Minor. ‘No,’ he said in a small voice. ‘Alexandria in Egypt.’

The bearded man stared at him. ‘You must have come a long way.’

‘Why? Where am I?’ Flaminius asked, bewildered.

‘You’re about as far north of Egypt as you could be without being on the mainland, Asia or Greece,’ said the man. ‘I don’t know how you came here, but this is the island of Karpathos in the Aegean Sea.’

—16—

Ozymandias walked out of the southern gate of the legionary camp, his face troubled. Nitocris rose from the curbing stone where she had been sitting, growing steadily more unnerved by the looks the two armoured sentries had been giving her, and rushed up.

‘What did the legate say?’ she asked breathlessly.

Ozymandias shook his head. ‘The legate’s not here. Flaminius told us that, if you remember. There’s a staff tribune on duty.’

Nitocris shook her head impatiently. ‘Legate, tribune, whatever he calls himself. What did he say?’

‘He had a report from the prefect’s office.’ Ozymandias made a gesture and they started walking. ‘Accusing Flaminius of plotting against the emperor. He was going to send the legate a message. I persuaded him to send a different message—in code.’

‘How did you manage that?’ Nitocris asked, eyes wide.

‘I’m not without wiles of my own,’ Ozymandias said enigmatically. When she looked shocked, he added, ‘Marcus Pertinax is an old friend. He didn’t believe the reports about Flaminius because he knows him as well as we do. That was why he had delayed sending the report to the legate. The report I asked him to substitute was much more to his taste.’ He shrugged. ‘He’ll be guilty of disobeying an order, but as he said himself it was given by a civilian—the prefect. So to Hades with that blighter, he added.’

‘Does he really talk like that?’ Nitocris said, amused.

Ozymandias nodded. ‘They all do, these Romans,’ he said. ‘Speaking of which, our next move is to have a word with the prefect.’

Nitocris pulled up sharp. They had been heading for the amphitheatre, but she had not realised that it was their destination. ‘The prefect?’ she said. ‘But he’s the one who wanted Flaminius to be imprisoned.’

‘Only because these Praetorians told him,’ said Ozymandias. ‘He might have some idea where Flaminius got to. This is the plan. We’re imperial agents, right? We’re shocked that our leader has proved traitor, and we intend to bring him to justice. He escaped from the temple somehow. Does the prefect have any idea where he has got to?’

‘Do you think he will?’ Nitocris said doubtfully. ‘Why should he have a better idea than us?’

Ozymandias shrugged. ‘He’s got a spy network of his own. He’s prefect of the province, for Serapis’ sake! He’s in a better position to learn Flaminius’ location than we are.’

‘And what if he does find him?’ she asked. ‘He wants Gaius dead.’

‘We find Flaminius,’ Ozymandias said, ‘and warn him. Then we work together to defeat this conspiracy.’

‘What if we can’t find Gaius?’

Ozymandias looked bleak, but shrugged as if he didn’t really care. ‘Then we’re on our own.’

They reached the side door that led to the steps. Two civic guards were on sentry duty. From beyond the towering walls of the amphitheatre came the rumble of the mob and the roars of savage beasts. Out here, it was difficult to distinguish between them.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ one of them said, scandalised at the appearance of two natives. ‘You can’t come in here, it’s private. Prefect and his guests only. Go to the main entrance if you want to see the show.’

Ozymandias shook his head. ‘We need to see the prefect. Come on, Septimius Rufio. You must remember me from when I worked for Paulus Alexander.’

The civic guard peered at him. ‘You were his scribe,’ he recalled. ‘But you don’t work there now.’

Ozymandias beckoned Septimius Rufio closer and whispered something in his ear. The guard looked grave.

‘The man you work for is accused of conspiring against the emperor,’ he said. ‘I’m not letting you anywhere near the prefect.’

‘Flaminius stands accused,’ said Ozymandias. ‘We don’t. We’re trying to find him too, and bring him to justice. The Commissary likes to deal with its own. And we want to speak with the prefect.’

‘The prefect is busy.’ The other civic guard hadn’t heard Ozymandias give the password that so impressed Septimius Rufio. ‘On state business.’

‘He’s officiating over the Games,’ said Septimius Rufio sardonically. ‘But that doesn’t stop him from dealing with other business. Get up those steps and tell him there’s an imperial agent wants to speak with him.’ Scowling, the second guard stomped up the stairs.

He returned shortly after, puffing with exertion, and skidded to a halt. ‘Prefect says bring him up straightaway!’

‘My… fellow agent comes with me,’ said Ozymandias.

‘Bet she does,’ muttered the civic guard.

Septimius Rufio escorted them up the cold, dank stairway and out into the brightly lit imperial box. The box, which was crowded with Haterius Nepos’ cronies, was shaded with a white linen canopy but it was still hot.

The prefect sat in the seat of honour, fanned by slave girls, watching the beast fight in the arena far below. He looked up expectantly as the guard led Ozymandias and Nitocris into his presence. Then his face fell.

‘What is this outrage?’ he demanded. ‘This office received word that an imperial agent wanted to speak with the prefect! Not a couple of natives!’ He turned to glare at Septimius Rufio. ‘You can report at once to your commander. You will be demoted and flogged for this.’

‘Sir, the man gave a top-level password, sir,’ said Septimius Rufio, staring straight ahead. ‘He was working for the agent who is accused of conspiring against his imperial majesty.’

The prefect scrambled to his feet, chins wobbling, face red. ‘Haterius Nepos understood you had Flaminius under guard,’ he said, ‘not that you were bringing his co-conspirators! How dare you bring dangerous men…’

‘And women!’ Nitocris put her fists on her hips.

He goggled at her. ‘And women,’ he conceded, ‘how dare you bring them into the presence! It’ll be crucifixion for you before the day is out.’

‘Sir…’ the civic guard attempted.

Nitocris slipped to Haterius Nepos’ side. The prefect eyed her in dismay. ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ she told him quietly. ‘We’re on your side. We’re searching for our former leader. We want to bring him to justice.’

The prefect looked her up and down. ‘You’re with the Commissary?’ he asked. ‘Haterius Nepos didn’t realise they employed little girls. But the guard says you gave a top-level password… You say you want to bring Flaminius to justice? You’ve not come to kill your prefect?’

Ozymandias moved to his other side. ‘We’re here to help you, sir,’ he insisted. ‘We’re trained imperial agents. The Commissary takes care of its own. If you can help us find Flaminius, we will ensure that you are no longer troubled by the threat he poses.’

Slowly Haterius Nepos sat back down again. He gestured for the two agents to sit. ‘The prefect has Crassus Piso nagging at him to catch Flaminius, but the patrols he’s sent out report that he entered a temple and never came out again.’

Ozymandias looked disappointed. ‘We know about that,’ he said. ‘We were there. Have you heard no more of him?’

Haterius Nepos shook his head. ‘If you were present during the search,’ he said, ‘you know as much as the prefect does. The report mentioned two agents.’ He looked closely at the Egyptian. ‘You seem somehow familiar.’

‘I worked for the civic guard until last year,’ Ozymandias admitted. ‘I had to begin a new career after Paulus Alexander’s death.’

‘You became an agent?’ The prefect looked impressed. ‘Haterius Nepos is glad you intend to help him. But there has been no word of Flaminius since he vanished from the temple.’

Ozymandias grunted. Nitocris sighed. ‘Have you heard nothing else?’ she asked. ‘Nothing that could explain what happened? Not only did he vanish, so did the priest Skimbix. Surely a man so well known in the Egyptian Quarter could not disappear without some word. Some rumour.’

‘All that this office knows in that regard,’ said the prefect, ‘is that the Heliopolitan Skimbix, who is suspected of seditious connections, was seen departing the city by the Canopic Canal.’

Ozymandias and Nitocris exchanged glances. ‘When did this happen?’ Ozymandias asked.

‘You’d have to ask the civic guard commander if you want to access the full report,’ the prefect told him, ‘but it was not long after Flaminius’ disappearance. It was reported by an agent in the canal area, the customs official. The priest was accompanied by persons unknown, and their luggage included a sarcophagus.’

‘A sarcophagus? Didn’t your spy think that was suspicious?’ asked Nitocris.

The prefect flapped his beringed hands. ‘The priest Skimbix is said to be a thaumaturge,’ he said. ‘Besides, he is an Egyptian. Such barbarians have quaint ways, and an unhealthy obsession with the dead. Something to do with this filthy climate, no doubt…’ He broke off, eyeing the Egyptian garb of Ozymandias and Nitocris. ‘Apologies,’ he said gruffly.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Ozymandias said. ‘Please don’t think me a native. I am a Roman citizen.’

‘Oh!’ The prefect mopped at his brow. ‘A tribute to your skills of disguise, of course. Flaminius trained his agents well. A shame he went to the bad.’

Nitocris said, ‘The priest could have hidden Gaius in that sarcophagus.’

‘But why would he do that?’ Haterius Nepos asked. ‘These Egyptians have very strange ways, but there is no plausible reason why he would conceal Flaminius in a sarcophagus.’

Nitocris was impatient. ‘They wanted to smuggle him out of the city,’ she said.

‘If Skimbix is suspected of sedition,’ said Ozymandias, ‘and he knew Flaminius had been exposed by Crassus Piso, they would have to get him out of Alexandria. But where to, that’s the question. We must find out where he’s been taken. If he isn’t taken prisoner he might be capable of anything. The security of the empire,’—Flaminius had been fond of this phrase— ‘is at stake, as long as he is at liberty.’

‘This office can’t really help you there,’ said the prefect. ‘You were right to take your inquiry to the top, but Haterius Nepos is engaged in civic duties, as you can see.’ In the arena, a maddened bull was pursuing several women and children. ‘The prefect has no ready access to his files here. He would suggest you return to the palace of Hadrian and request the commander of the civic guard aid you in your investigation. As you say, it’s vital that Flaminius is found and taken prisoner. Brought to justice!’ He beckoned them closer. ‘It’s vital, truly it is. No doubt you know the reason why. Someone very important is coming.’ The prefect drew back. ‘It’s imperative that Flaminius is stopped.’

He beckoned to a scribe. ‘Write a note to this effect. “In the name of the emperor and the prefect of Egypt, the bearers of this document are to receive every assistance in their investigations”.’ The scribe wrote out the declaration on a waxen tablet, Haterius Nepos signed it, then handed it over. ‘Show this to the commander and he will allocate your own investigation top priority. You will be able to study all confidential reports.’

Settling back in his seat with a sigh at a job well done, he returned his attention to the spectacle in the arena. He glanced up briefly. ‘You will be provided with transport to convey you at once to the palace,’ he added, gesturing to the scribe, who scuttled away. ‘Was there anything else?’

Ozymandias shook his head. The implications were clear: they were to get out of the prefect’s hair and leave him to ogle the carnage in the arena. With a grimace at Nitocris he led her down the steps. Here two civic slaves stood with a litter to take them back into the city.

They settled down on the cushions inside. Ozymandias leaned his head out. ‘To the Brucheium,’ he told the lead slave. ‘The palace of Hadrian.’

He sat back as the slaves began carrying the litter away. Nitocris flashed him a smile and rolled her eyes at their opulent surroundings. It was a long way to the Brucheium from Nicopolis, but this would cut down the time.

‘I think I could enjoy a career as an imperial agent,’ she told Ozymandias with a giggle.

—17—

‘Turn around and walk ahead of us. If you try to run, we’ll shoot you down.’

‘Very well,’ Flaminius said over his shoulder as he turned towards the villa. ‘Where exactly should I be walking to?’

‘Just keep walking,’ said the man. ‘You’ll know if you go wrong. Make for the villa.’

Flaminius did as he was told. He heard their footsteps crunching in the gravel as he made his way through the grounds. ‘That’s where the magistrate is?’ he asked. He felt as if he was in a dream.

‘Keep your mouth shut,’ came the man’s voice. ‘You’ll see when you get there.’

Flaminius kept quiet. Reaching a flight of steps leading to the terraces he hesitantly mounted them. They led to another gravel path running alongside a marble wall honeycombed with alcoves in which stood statues of gods and heroes. The men followed in silence.

Whoever owned this villa wasn’t short of a denarius. Or did he mean an obol? Karpathos was an island in the Aegean Sea. But how had Flaminius got here? A chill gripped him.

Was the thaumaturge Skimbix truly a magician? And had he used his magic to spirit Flaminius away to the other side of the sea? He would have a hard time getting back to Alexandria.

They came to the top of the terraces and the villa, which until then had been concealed due to perspective, appeared again, bigger now it seemed, walls white as bone, roof red as dried blood. A large double door stood in the centre of ivy wreathed walls at the head of a short flight of steps, but Flaminius’ captors did not use this entrance, taking him round the side, through a courtyard and through a small doorway at the back.

It led to a large kitchen, warm and smelling of cooking food, where scullions and kitchen slaves were hard at work preparing the midday meal; the first people Flaminius had seen here apart from the men who took him prisoner. Some looked up curiously but no one asked any questions as Flaminius was taken through the door on the far side.

Now they were in the public part of the house. Lavishly ornamented marble corridors, hung with silken drapes, were lined with busts and statues. Flaminius was taken to the imposing oaken door of a room he guessed would be a study. The bearded man pushed past Flaminius and tapped respectfully on the door.

A slave opened it.

‘We have a prisoner,’ said the bearded man. ‘A trespasser found wandering in the garden. We’ve brought him to be questioned by the master.’

The slave bowed his head, vanished inside, and Flaminius heard the murmur of conversation, then reappeared swiftly.

‘You may enter,’ the slave told Flaminius. ‘Remain outside,’ he told the armed men, ‘where the master may call for you if he wishes.’ He turned back to Flaminius. ‘This way, please.’

He led the Roman into a large room, dominated by a marble topped desk, with more statues in each corner, and a set of shelves containing the pigeon holes where scrolls were kept. Sitting at the desk was a gaunt, stooped old man with white hair and a white beard. He wore the broad striped toga of a senator.

The old man gestured to a stool. ‘Please sit down,’ he said in urbane tones. ‘Wine for our guest,’ he told the slave, who provided it speedily.

‘Thank you,’ Flaminius stammered. He sat down and gazed at his host in silence, nursing the winecup in one hand.

‘You seem ill at ease,’ said the senator—the magistrate, if Flaminius had heard rightly. He spoke Latin with an accent Flaminius found vaguely familiar; somewhere in the west of the empire.

Flaminius laughed suddenly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting such hospitality. If you don’t mind me saying, your men were rather brusque. By the way, I’m Flaminius. Gaius Flaminius Drusus.’

‘My name is Servius Arcadius,’ said the senator. ‘My men are boors, but what else can you expect in a place like this? I’m sorry if they treated you badly. But may I myself be so churlish to ask, how did you come to be in my garden uninvited?’

Flaminius gave a brief account of his recent experiences.

‘Remarkable!’ Servius Arcadius exclaimed when he had finished. ‘A veritable Ulysses. But how did you come to be shipwrecked off our coast?’

Flaminius had not mentioned the magician. In fact he had been pretty vague as to how he came here from Alexandria. Understandable. And Servius Arcadius was understandably curious.

‘It’s a long story,’ he said evasively. ‘But I need to get back to Alexandria. It’s very important.’

Servius Arcadius steepled his fingers. Sunlight from the open windows glittered on his golden senatorial ring. He gave an elegant sigh.

‘That’s reasonable,’ he said. ‘I don’t quite understand how you came to my island, and I wonder if you do. Could it be that you were kidnapped? I’m a little out of touch up here, but you mentioned trouble with river pirates. Could it be that they abducted you and you were later shipwrecked?’

Flaminius considered his words. It had something to be said for it. There must be some explanation. He couldn’t believe that an Egyptian fraud like Skimbix could magic him to the other side of the sea. But if his unconscious body had been handed over to pirates or other seafarers working for Arctos, they could have taken him here. But for what purpose? It must be a long journey from Alexandria to this place. He rubbed his head, trying to remember exactly where Karpathos was, and winced. His head was still sore from where Rutilio Victorinus had clobbered him. A thought struck him.

‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘In which case a day must have passed since I was last conscious. Days.’ He was too late. Arctos’ forces would have struck by now. The battle for Egypt had been won or lost. Hadrian might have been murdered. The empire could be in chaos.

‘Where are we?’ he asked numbly. ‘The Aegean Sea? It must be a long way from Egypt.’

Servius Arcadius nodded. ‘Two weeks’ journey, give or take a day or two.’

Flaminius’ mind reeled. He had been unconscious for two weeks? That was impossible. He must have been spirited away by magic. But that was even more unlikely. He put his head in his hands.

The old senator waited patiently for him to recover.

He looked up. ‘Two weeks’ journey from Alexandria?’

Servius Arcadius nodded. ‘Ships call here from time to time,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I will ensure you gain passage on one and are able to return to your business.’

‘What news have you had from the rest of the empire?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Very little since midsummer when the last ship came here, and I received a bulletin from Rome,’ said Servius Arcadius. ‘We’re a little out of touch, I’m afraid. Off the main sea lanes.’

‘Midsummer?’ Flaminius asked. His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got no idea what is going on in the rest of the empire?’

Servius Arcadius shifted. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘you seemed rather agitated. Tell me, is there something we should worry about? Forgive me, but you have been rather mysterious. Here in Karpathos we are some way from the main stream of events. If dramatic deeds are being done elsewhere, we’ll know about it maybe six months later, maybe a year. Was it different in Britain?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘Britain was different, yes. We might not have known what was happening in the city or what the emperor was doing, but news reached us soon enough. People were always going back and forth, mercantile traffic or military. Even in Caledonia you weren’t completely cut off.’

Servius Arcadius smiled tranquilly, only adding to Flaminius’ frustration. ‘Alas, here we are indeed cut off. Very much so. I understand you wish to return to your important business in Egypt. Perhaps I could find some way to help you get back. I’m not without influence! I could summon a galley.’

Flaminius brightened. ‘Do you really think so?’

Even if he had been sent here by sorcery, the sooner he got back the sooner he could deal with whatever situation had transpired. The fastest of galleys would take weeks. It would be the end of September before he got back. But anything was better than spending the rest of his days in this backwater.

The magistrate inclined his head. ‘I do think so,’ he said. ‘Though I would be sorry to see a young man of your sophistication depart; the conversation here is dull. My dear fellow, this island must seem very remote to someone with your experience of the empire. I, too, felt this way when first I came here. I was accustomed to Rome and the more fashionable provinces. A posting to Karpathos seemed like the final insult at the end of a career of public service.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’ve come to like the place. It’s very quiet, and peaceful. I’m writing a history of the world. Perhaps you would like to read my initial draughts…’

‘Yes, I’d love to,’ said Flaminius as politely as he could. ‘But you said something about summoning a galley? It’s nothing personal, you must understand, but it really is imperative that I return to Alexandria as soon as possible.’ He sat back. ‘But maybe I would be wasting my time. By now, it could all be over.’

‘Now there you go again,’ said the magistrate. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you have my curiosity piqued. Something is clearly going on. You are evidently at the centre of things. This business you keep alluding to. It couldn’t be… imperial business, could it?’

Flaminius studied the old man’s face, experiencing a strange, nagging sense of familiarity. Had they met at some point in the past? ‘If it was imperial business,’ he said slowly, ‘you, as a magistrate, should appreciate that I couldn’t discuss it with anyone not in the know, as it were.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said the senator. ‘I fully understand the need for confidentiality. It’s just that if you were on imperial business it would make it much easier for me to ensure that you were taken back to Egypt as expeditiously as possible.’

Flaminius sat up eagerly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It is of vital importance that I return to Egypt. I have vital information. It could affect the future of the empire.’

‘Now that does sound important,’ said Servius Arcadius. ‘Tell me more.’

Flaminius produced his lancehead brooch. ‘I’m an imperial agent,’ he explained. ‘Some weeks ago I began investigating a rebellion apparently brewing in the Thebaid, the southern provinces of Egypt. My investigations led me to discover a plot to seize power over the entire empire.’

‘Wouldn’t his imperial majesty resist this?’ Servius Arcadius asked.

‘Of course,’ said Flaminius. ‘But that’s part of the plot. These conspirators, I’ve discovered, intend to assassinate the emperor.’

‘Assassinate him?’ Servius Arcadius echoed. ‘How appalling. But how could they hope to get to him? You say they’re in Egypt? We’re out of touch here, but I understand the emperor is travelling on the mainland. Greece, I think.’

‘Asia Minor, in fact,’ Flaminius said. ‘But here’s the key to it all. Very few people know this, but the emperor is planning a surprise visit to the province of Egypt. They’re celebrating the eighth anniversary of his defeat of the Judaean rebels, when he liberated the province. The emperor intends to visit at the height of the proceedings, making a dramatic surprise appearance in the imperial box of the Nicopolis amphitheatre on the final day of the celebrations.’

Servius Arcadius rose, placing his hands on the desk. ‘It’s vital that we ensure you can return to Alexandria with the utmost haste.’

Flaminius barely heard him. He was staring at the golden senatorial ring the man wore on his right hand. He recognised it. He had seen it before.

It held an image of a bear.

—18—

‘Gaius Flaminius Drusus has vanished from the city,’ announced Gabinius Camillus.

Ozymandias exchanged glances with Nitocris. ‘But don’t your guards have any notion where he might be? What was his last reported location? It’s important that we find him. The Commissary deals with its own.’

The commander of the civic guard leaned back, chair on two legs, and regarded his two visitors. ‘You say that you are imperial agents,’ he said, ‘and yet you have no insignia. Flaminius is an imperial agent and has the insignia to prove it, and yet the Praetorian Crassus Piso asserts that he is a traitor. What is a simple civic guard to believe in these dark days?’

Ozymandias leant forward. ‘We were Flaminius’ subordinates,’ he explained urgently. ‘We were given no insignia. But if he has gone to the bad, we must apprehend him and bring him to justice. The legion is elsewhere, and only we are here to represent its Commissary. The Commissary must deal with him, not the Praetorians, or for that matter—forgive me—the civic guard. But I hope you will help us find him.’

Gabinius Camillus studied a report. ‘He was last seen approaching the temple of Skimbix the Heliopolitan.’ He looked up and let the wax tablet drop to the desk. ‘That’s all any of us know.’

Nitocris spoke for the first time. ‘The man at the amphitheatre said Skimbix had been seen leaving town with a sarcophagus.’

Gabinius Camillus gave her an avuncular smile. ‘I fail to see the connection,’ he told her firmly.

Ozymandias rapped on the table. ‘Flaminius has been kidnapped and smuggled out of the city by this Heliopolitan priest.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Gabinius Camillus, ‘but why would a visiting thaumaturge abduct an enemy of the state? Who is Skimbix working for?’

Ozymandias took a deep breath. ‘We don’t know,’ he said, ‘but we think he’s with the rebels.’

‘So why would he abduct an arch traitor?’ asked Gabinius Camillus.

Nitocris looked wildly at her brother. ‘They’ve smuggled him out because they knew we were onto him,’ she lied. ‘But we need to know where he has been taken.’

Gabinius Camillus’ face changed. ‘That makes more sense,’ he told them. ‘So the would-be assassin of the emperor has been smuggled out of the city. In which case, the emperor will be safe whenever he chooses to visit Alexandria.’

‘You’re not that naïve,’ said Ozymandias. ‘We’ve got to find where they’ve hidden him. He’ll be back, you can depend on it, unless we find him.’

‘A native scribe and a little girl?’ said Gabinius Camillus scathingly. ‘Deal with a Roman tribune?’

In despair Ozymandias looked around the busy room.

Gabinius Camillus’ office was not the one Paulus Alexander had used when Ozymandias was working here. That other office had been up at the top of the building, quiet and airy, with one scribe—Ozymandias himself, usually—working in the vestibule. Gabinius Camillus’ office was down on the ground floor, a room that looked as if it had originally been designed as a dining chamber before the palace was co-opted by the civic guard. There was a brightly painted mural of cavorting tritons and sea nymphs on the walls, and a mosaic on the floor showed the Four Seasons surrounding a tipsy Bacchus crowned with ivy leaves.

In serried ranks stood other desks at which scribes worked on scrolls or abacuses, reading reports, calculating accounts. Ozymandias felt both nostalgic for a simpler time and alienated by the changes since his day.

He worried for Flaminius, but he could hardly show it. The commander was naturally sceptical of him and his sister; they hardly had the look of imperial agents, and even though Ozymandias had been employed as a lesser agent for some months, he had never been given a lancehead brooch, he was just part of Flaminius’ network. No doubt the tribune had other agents scattered about the province, all equally ignorant of their colleagues. But the only way he could hope to find Flaminius was to pose as a man searching for a traitor. And his cover was beginning to wear thin. Maybe if he had left Nitocris behind…

He wondered about his work at the Library. His attendance had been, to say the least, erratic. He doubted that he would be able to continue working there. And now Flaminius had disappeared, Ozymandias’ job as an agent—a very well-paid job, mainly dependent on his work at the Library—was likely to vanish just as mysteriously. He and Nitocris would be back in the gutter again.

But where was Flaminius? Had the magician Skimbix truly spirited him away, or had he carried Flaminius off in more conventional ways? If so, where?

‘Commander,’ he said at last. ‘You know that the Commissary does not employ obvious spies. My colleague and I may not be your picture of dashing imperial agents, but Flaminius engaged us in such a capacity, and with good reason. There’s much I can’t speak of. But if Flaminius has betrayed the emperor, if he is planning an assassination attempt, he must be found. Surely you have spies outside the city who could provide information as to Skimbix’s whereabouts? Can you not contact the relevant guards? Flaminius must be found.’

Gabinius Camillus shook his head. ‘The trail goes cold with Skimbix’s departure,’ he replied, ‘even supposing that was how Flaminius escaped the city. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do before this office closes. I can let you read the report of the incident, if there is anything you can glean from it. Otherwise, I suggest you contact Crassus Piso, who is coordinating the search for Flaminius. He is the man you should liaise with.’

‘And where will we find this Praetorian?’ Ozymandias asked as Gabinius Camillus beckoned over a scribe carrying a papyrus scroll.

‘I believe he’s taken up quarters in the prefect’s own palace,’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘The Ptolemaic Palace.’

The Ptolemaic Palace was the oldest palace in the Brucheium, having been built by Alexander the Great’s successors in Egypt, the Ptolemies. It stood near the Museum—and the Library. Maybe Ozymandias could deal with two sources of anxiety in one go. He studied the report intently. The boat upon which Skimbix had embarked had last been seen proceeding up the Canopic Canal in the direction of Canopus. Perhaps the thaumaturge was taking a holiday in that famous resort.

Somehow Ozymandias doubted it. There was a chance they could charter another vessel and go in search of Skimbix and his sarcophagus. But he had no authority to do that. The Praetorian Crassus Piso would be able to charter another ship, however, and he was as keen as Ozymandias to find Flaminius—if for different reasons. They could work together! Things would get difficult when they found Flaminius, of course: a conflict of interests.

Ozymandias returned the report to the scribe. ‘Thank you, commander,’ he said, smiling at Gabinius Camillus. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I think I’ll go and speak with Crassus Piso now.’ He nodded to Nitocris. ‘Coming?’

She rose, smoothing down her dress. ‘Coming,’ she told him.

Departing the palace of Hadrian they went by litter through the streets of the Brucheium. ‘What now?’ she asked. ‘Are we really going to talk to this Praetorian whose colleague Flaminius killed? Do you think he’ll be any help?’

‘As long as we can persuade him, yes,’ said Ozymandias. ‘With his aid we can get on the track of Skimbix and hopefully arrest him. And open that sarcophagus.’

‘What if it’s one of his ancestors?’ she asked with a giggle. ‘That will be embarrassing.’

Ozymandias gripped her hand. ‘This is serious,’ he reminded her. ‘You want to find Flaminius, don’t you?’

She nodded solemnly. ‘But everyone thinks he’s an assassin,’ she said.

‘We’re going to have to prove that he isn’t one,’ he told her. ‘But we can’t very well do that if he’s Skimbix’s prisoner. We must rescue him. And to do that, we’re really going to have to talk with Crassus Piso. Get him on our side. We’re frauds, but he’s the real thing. He can pull strings, call out the guard.’

‘But he wants to kill Flaminius,’ said Nitocris anxiously.

Ozymandias sighed. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Although I don’t know why. I mean, obviously Flaminius killed his colleague, but even before that they were looking for him; someone told them that he was plotting against the emperor.’

‘Arctos must be behind it,’ Nitocris said darkly. ‘He must have deceived them somehow. Don’t you think that is the only explanation?’ She studied him.

‘You could be right,’ he told her. ‘It’s all going to be a bit awkward if our ally learns that we’re working against him. But maybe Flaminius will persuade him that the assassin is somebody else. We can all work together against Arctos and his cronies.’

Nitocris peered out of the litter. ‘Oh look,’ she said. ‘We’re passing the Library. Have you told the chief librarian you’re not going to be in work?’

Ozymandias didn’t reply. He had enough to worry about.

They reached the palace of the Ptolemies shortly afterwards. Passing the Ancient Egyptian obelisk that the magpie Greeks had set up in front of the pillared portico, they ascended the steps. A civic guard challenged them.

‘Who goes there?’ he asked, gripping his spear tightly.

‘We’re looking for the Praetorian Crassus Piso,’ said Ozymandias. ‘We wish to question him concerning a plot against the emperor.’

The guard peered at him. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he asked. ‘You work for the commander, don’t you?’

Ozymandias nodded. ‘I used to,’ he said. ‘I’m currently working for the Commissary. Our investigations are following the same lines as those of Crassus Piso. We wish to compare notes with him.’ He showed the guard their authorisation from the prefect.

The civic guard gave Ozymandias directions and let them through. As they hurried down a marble walled corridor, Nitocris said, ‘You’re getting good at this. Maybe you should work for the Commissary full time.’

They reached the room where Crassus Piso was lodging. Ozymandias rapped on the door. After a moment it opened a little, and a suspicious face appeared in the crack.

‘What do you want?’ it growled. A livid bruise was visible on its broad forehead.

‘Are you Crassus Piso?’ Ozymandias asked. Flaminius had last seen this man unconscious in a dark alleyway.

‘Who wants to know?’

Ozymandias introduced himself and his sister. ‘We’re trying to find Gaius Flaminius Drusus,’ he added. ‘Word is, he’s vanished from the city.’

A pause. ‘You’d better come in,’ said the Praetorian.

He opened the door wider and they followed him into a small barracks-like cell. The Praetorian sprawled on the bed while the two Egyptians sat cross legged on the floor.

‘Flaminius has gone,’ said the Praetorian. ‘I know that much. Why do you want him?’

‘We’re agents of the Commissary,’ said Ozymandias. ‘We want to find him as much as you do. What have you done to locate him?’

‘He’s left town,’ said Crassus Piso dismissively. ‘Believe me, he’s no longer anybody’s concern.’

Ozymandias couldn’t understand the man’s attitude. ‘I thought he was suspected of plotting against the emperor,’ he said.

‘Yeah…’ said Crassus Piso. ‘But he’s out of sight and out of mind now. He’s not a threat.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Nitocris.

Crassus Piso scowled at the girl. ‘He killed my mate,’ he said. ‘I want to find him, yeah, and get revenge, but right now he’s not top priority.’

‘So what is top priority, then?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘Look, we believe he’s gone east, down the Canopic Canal. If we could take a river patrol that way we could maybe catch up with him.’

‘Why don’t you?’ Crassus Piso asked indifferently. ‘You might even find him.’

‘Why don’t we work together?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘You were sent here to capture him. We want to find him too. Use your influence to get a river patrol assigned to us, then go in search of him. The thaumaturge Skimbix has taken him prisoner. He’s thought to be hidden inside an old sarcophagus. All we have to do is find the boat, order them to heave to, then search the hold…’

‘How do you know you’ll find the right boat?’ Crassus Piso asked. ‘In the Delta during the inundation? They could have gone anywhere.’

‘At least we’d be trying!’ Ozymandias said hotly. ‘I thought that you Praetorians were the elite of the legions. It seems I’ve been misinformed.’

Crassus Piso rested his hands on his thighs and looked wearily down at the Egyptian.

‘Alright, we’ll do it,’ he said. ‘You two wait here and I’ll go and arrange for a river patrol to be assigned to my command.’

He vanished through the door. Ozymandias and Nitocris sat in silence for a while. Nitocris fidgeted.

‘He’s taking his time,’ she commented. She rose and went to the window.

‘Ozymandias,’ she said urgently. ‘Look at this!’

Ozymandias rose stiffly and went to her side. His face fell.

Hastening across the courtyard towards the palace gates was Crassus Piso. As Ozymandias watched, the Praetorians cast a look behind him, then increased his pace.

‘He seems very keen to help us suddenly,’ said Ozymandias. ‘He’s in a real hurry.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Nitocris said. ‘He’s running away!’

Startled, Ozymandias looked again. By now Crassus Piso was out of sight. But she was right. He had been running like a fugitive.

Now why was that?

—19—

‘Well, we’re not going to get any help from Crassus Piso,’ Ozymandias observed.

‘What a silly thing to say,’ Nitocris commented. ‘While you’re making your unfunny jokes, Gaius could be in danger.’

‘He very probably is,’ said Ozymandias, going to the door. ‘But we’ll not achieve anything lounging around in here. The best we can do is go down to the canal side and ask some questions ourselves.’

‘You’re not wondering why that man ran away from us?’ Nitocris joined him as he went down the corridor.

‘Of course I’m wondering,’ her brother told her. ‘But I’m not going to waste time mulling over it. We need to find Flaminius,’ he stressed the name, ‘and find him quick.’

As they left the palace the guard gave them both an odd look, but he said nothing.

The litter slaves took them back through the streets and into the Egyptian Quarter. They came out on the side of the Canopic Canal, whose slate grey waters ran east-west between the city and the reed infested, crocodile haunted Lake Mareotis. Warehouses and boatyards lined it. Ozymandias directed the slaves to halt outside the large red tiled building that was the customs station.

‘Wait here,’ he told them, helping his sister climb down from the litter. ‘We’ve got people to speak to.’

He led Nitocris to the doors. Here two guards stood; not civic guards, these, but customs guards, drawn from some auxiliary troop originating in the west of the empire. They had a lot of trouble understanding Ozymandias’ Egyptian accented Latin, but after a few drachmas had exchanged hands, they ushered Ozymandias and his sister into the building.

A long queue crossed the courtyard, made up of native Egyptians, Greeks and Romans, Ethiopians, Arabs and many more. Automatically Ozymandias went to wait at the far end.

‘What are you doing?’ Nitocris hissed. ‘We’re here on imperial business, remember?’

She grabbed his hand and led him up to the door.

‘We’re here to speak with the official,’ said Ozymandias importantly. ‘Imperial business.’

‘No business is so important that the official has to be dragged away from his own work,’ a guard insisted, but he changed his mind when, after Ozymandias shook his hand, he found a tetradrachm nestling in his palm.

Getting to speak to the customs official proved to be a costly business. When they were finally let though into the office of the customs official, Ozymandias was mentally drafting the expenses claim he would file when all this was over.

‘I understand this is important imperial business,’ said the official, a short, stocky man of Roman blood with an Iberian accent. ‘But can you make it quick? I have received reports of cargoes of contraband in the area.’ He looked sceptically from the thin legged Egyptian scribe to his pretty companion. ‘The native Egyptian gangs have been having a field day during the Days of Hadrian.’

‘Don’t we know it!’ said Ozymandias. ‘I’m just back from a secret Delta encampment which was a centre for robbery and sedition. With the aid of friendly Bucolics we managed to break things up, although the leaders got away. But that’s another matter. A report from the prefect says that you saw the thaumaturge Skimbix making his getaway. Might I ask why you didn’t make any attempt to intercept him?’

The official was unfazed. ‘I was not under orders to arrest the man,’ he said, ‘although I’d have liked to. He seems to have captivated several women I’d counted as paramours. I can’t see why. A skinny little wretch, typical Egyptian in fact. I…’ He broke off suddenly.

Ozymandias gave him a cold smile. ‘You were misinformed. Skimbix’s arrest should be your top priority. Now, can you tell me any more about what you witnessed?’

The official shrugged. ‘It was earlier today. I was inspecting a goods in from the desert when Skimbix and his cronies appeared, wanting to take a boat out straightaway.’

‘Up the canal?’ Ozymandias said.

‘Of course up the canal,’ said the official impatiently. ‘Only canal traffic is under my jurisdiction.’ He looked at Ozymandias curiously, as if his interrogator was familiar from somewhere.

‘I mean,’ said Ozymandias patiently, ‘were they going towards Canopus or towards the Eunostos Harbour?’

‘Towards Canopus,’ said the official, ‘if that has any bearing on the matter. I would hardly have considered reporting it, although it’s unusual for such trips to be made without prior arrangement. We don’t want the canal waters too busy, though our local merchants always want their own ventures to be given priority.’

‘What made you report it to the prefect?’ asked Nitocris, her voice low and pleasant.

The official looked askance at this slim young woman. ‘Partly because it was curious to see a local celebrity leaving in such a hurry,’ he said. ‘I suspect him to be a fraud, swindling the women who fall for his charms, so his hasty departure didn’t come as a surprise.’ Ozymandias looked at Nitocris, who coloured and looked downwards suddenly. ‘But such things are not for me to judge.’

‘No,’ said Ozymandias, ‘It’s a matter for the city magistrates. The prefect said your report also mentioned something about a… sarcophagus?’

The official’s bearded face took on a puzzled expression. ‘An old one, too,’ he said. ‘Not your modern, state of the art sarcophagus with a realistic painting of the departed, one of those clunky affairs you get in ancient tombs. They say the grave contains its secrets…’

‘How do you know so much about ancient tombs?’ Nitocris asked curiously.

The official smiled. ‘I used to command an auxiliary troop,’ he said. ‘On desert patrol we were often called on to apprehend tomb robbers. You’re a strange people, you Egyptians. In the old days you worked wonders to build mausoleums that put Alexander’s tomb in the shade. And these days it’s the self-same Egyptians who are ransacking them up and down the country. Clearly this can’t be tolerated. But it’s up to the Romans to ensure such sacrilege is stopped…’

‘Both my sister and I are Roman citizens,’ said Ozymandias in a voice as cold as the desert night.

The official gave another of his shrugs. ‘I’m just saying,’ he replied, then looked long and hard at Ozymandias. ‘If you’re Romans, why are you in native dress?’

‘We work for the Commissary,’ said Nitocris spiritedly. ‘Obviously that involves disguise.’

‘The Commissary?’ The official stared at her again. ‘You’re imperial agents?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And you are his sister?’ He jerked his head in Ozymandias’ direction, then turned to peer thoughtfully at him.

‘We are imperial agents, yes,’ said Ozymandias. ‘And we sometimes adopt Egyptian dress, to better facilitate our movements in places like Rachotis. But…’

‘I’ve been trying to remember where I know you from,’ the official said slowly. ‘And just now it’s come back to me. It was years ago, when I was with the auxiliaries. We’d received a tip off about a planned raid on a tomb on the far side of Memphis…’

‘Thank you, we don’t want to listen to your military reminiscences,’ Ozymandias said, trying to ignore a feeling of mounting alarm. ‘We’ve finished our inquiries here. We want to go on the trail of Skimbix, so maybe you could see your way to providing us with a river patrol to take us down the canal…’

‘Might I see your authorisation?’ the official said suddenly. ‘I know you say that you’re imperial agents, but to be frank you look like nothing more than a couple of rather suspicious natives…’

‘I told you, we’re Roman citizens,’ Ozymandias insisted.

‘…all a tribute to your disguise, of course,’ the official went on, ‘but it was rash of you to disguise yourself so well that you look the image of the notorious tomb robber Ozymandias of Rachotis, who I arrested a decade ago.’

Ozymandias studied him. ‘It’s these beards that are so fashionable these days,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t recognise you… Marcus Atilius?’

‘That’s right!’ Marcus Atilius roared with delight. ‘How are you these days, you old thief, you? I thought you had been a slave these ten years!’

‘Freed,’ said Ozymandias proudly, ‘by my master, the previous commander of the civic guard.’

‘So you really are a Roman citizen? If only a freedman.’ Marcus Atilius beamed. ‘And this is your…?’

‘Wife, yes,’ said Ozymandias quickly.

‘You said she was your sister,’ Marcus Atilius said.

‘Wife, sister, it’s all the same to us Egyptians.’ Ozymandias gave a nervous laugh.

‘You said you were a Roman citizen,’ said Marcus Atilius, frowning ever deeper.

‘We keep some of our native customs,’ Ozymandias explained.

Marcus Atilius stared absently at a document on his desk. ‘And you’re an imperial agent now,’ he said. ‘Requisitioning river transport.’

‘That’s right.’ Ozymandias was eager to depart for several reasons. ‘Can you get that done as soon as possible?’

Marcus Atilius looked up. ‘Of course, old friend.’ His face hardened. ‘Just as soon as I’ve seen your identification.’ He was smiling, but his eyes were cold. ‘Just a formality, you know. We officials become sticklers for these minor details. But as imperial agents you must carry the usual insignia.’

Nitocris flung Ozymandias a wide-eyed look. ‘We don’t have any,’ she said. ‘We’re retained by an agent called Gaius. He’s gone missing. We think Skimbix took him. When we bring him back, you can ask him…’

Ozymandias tried to stem the stream of babble, but Marcus Atilius held up a hand for silence. He smiled cunningly at Nitocris. ‘Go on, my dear,’ he said pleasantly. ‘This is all fascinating.’

‘I think we should go,’ said Ozymandias, rising.

‘Sit down!’ Marcus Atilius barked.

A guard poked his helmeted head in. ‘Anything the matter, sir?’ He gave Ozymandias a hostile stare. ‘Can I help you with these natives?’

‘Remain outside the door,’ Marcus Atilius instructed him. ‘Close it behind you. I’ll call you if I need you.’

As the guard shut the door, Marcus Atilius swung round to Ozymandias. ‘I’d hate to think a young fellow I once arrested had gone back to his bad old ways,’ he said, ‘but this is worse than robbing the dead! Impersonating imperial representatives?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll see you crucified for this one, lad, and your pretty sister too. Unless you’ve got a good explanation for me.’

—20—

Flaminius strode through the grounds of the villa, mind in tumult. What in the name of Almighty Jove had he thought he was doing, opening his heart up to the first friendly face? He had told the magistrate everything, even that most sensitive piece of intelligence, the emperor’s plans that had been entrusted to him by Avidius Pollio. And then had come that terrible moment of recognition—the senatorial signet ring worn by “Servius Arcadius”.

He had last seen that signet ring on Arctos’ hand.

There could be not two rings alike; that was the whole point of a signet ring, unless it was a forgery. And why should Arctos wear a forgery of the signet ring of a senator who was magistrate in a tiny island like this one? It was that ring that had told him that their faceless enemy was a member of the Senate. Now Flaminius had seen that face, albeit half hidden behind a bushy white beard. And that face had listened to him pouring out all his troubles.

Shortly afterwards, Servius Arcadius—Arctos—had called one of his men, then dismissed Flaminius with the explanation that he had important duties to carry out. It had not come at a better time. Flaminius would have given the game away if he had been expected to spend another second talking to the man. But Arctos showed no sign of knowing that Flaminius had recognised him. This gave him hope.

What also gave him hope was the realisation that they were too far from Alexandria for Arctos to send a messenger to his fellow conspirators. Or did he? For all Flaminius knew, the man had as efficient a signalling system as the legions, and could send a message south to Alexandria at lightning speed. Then the assassins would know when to strike, when the emperor’s galley would enter the harbour. At least Arctos had no idea that Flaminius was aware of the situation.

Gravel crunched beneath his sandaled feet as he took another turn up the path. If only he could get away, maybe intercept the emperor’s galley, tell him to turn back… But it was hopeless. Now the rebels knew when Hadrian was going to visit Egypt, and everything was lost. And it was Flaminius’ fault.

No, he would have to escape. He could not sit idly by when he knew what the consequences of his foolish actions would be.

He strode on down the path. He was at the front of the house now, in another garden where ivy clad statuary rose from amidst lush vegetation. In the distance were reed banks and beyond them the blue flash of water. There were buildings down there, some kind of small port. Could he find a boat, sail out to sea, make some attempt to get away? It might be hopeless, but anything was better than this aimless pacing. He had to take some action, however futile, or he felt he would explode.

He glanced about him. This part of the garden was empty. A long carriage drive led through it, but otherwise the place was thick with undergrowth. He looked back towards the house. Blind windows stared unseeingly back at him. He could see no one looking out from them, no one in the garden either. Or was there? A dark figure stood on the terrace, apparently watching him. But even as he looked, the figure turned and vanished.

Then there came a flare of light from a window on the second level. Flaminius scanned the surroundings. An answering flare came from somewhere out of sight over the horizon. A ship at sea? Or another island? It must be some kind of hydraulic telegraph.

Arctos’ people were sending signals. And that could only mean one thing. Flaminius turned and bolted.

After a tense journey through the overgrown garden he reached the park wall a short way down from the gates. It was high, but not so high he couldn’t jump up and seize the top, haul himself up and—avoiding the broken fragments of pot sticking up out of the cement to deter intruders—plummet down into the bushes on the far side.

He peered out from behind a screen of leaves. Fields and woodland met his gaze. No one was visible. He started running.

He ran as fast as he had ever run, as fast as Pheidippides, ducking down low, peering about him, then running on. The whole place was strangely quiet, deserted, if it was truly the estate of a magistrate. At last he came to a reed choked shore where birds called and wheeled above. It seemed like the area had been untended by man since Deucalion was a boy, and he saw no sign of the harbour buildings he had noticed earlier. Then something came into view through a gap in the reeds—a jetty jutting out into the water. Flaminius squelched his way towards it.

Turning a corner he found a small cove between him and the jetty and the reed huts that stood beside it—warehouses, perhaps. He was just debating trying to swim across the inlet or follow it round if the water was too deep when he saw a boat lying at anchor. No one was aboard, no one was about. The wind sighed among the reeds.

Flaminius waded out to the boat and climbed aboard. It was no kind of sea going craft a cursory examination revealed, but perhaps he could paddle across to another island of the archipelago and then find a ship bound south. But there was little chance he would reach the city before the emperor.

Casting off he began paddling down the inlet. Soon they had passed the shores of the island and green water stretched in all directions, but he thought he saw another island on the shimmering distant horizon. He paddled towards it.

Even as he did so, he felt water lapping at his toes. Looking down he saw what his brief survey of the vessel had not shown him—a sizeable hole in the hull now letting in water at such a rate that even as he looked the boat was submerged but for the gunwale. Gritting his teeth, Flaminius slipped off his tunic, slid over the side and trod water.

The island he had seen was still a long way off. The one he had escaped from lay close at hand. He would have to go back and find a better kept vessel. He started swimming.

Drenched in water he dragged himself onto dry land and lay there panting, the bundle of tunic in his left hand steaming slightly in the sun. He had kept his sandals and his belt wrapped up in it but jettisoned everything likely to drag him down. He was weary, though, and he lay there for some time trying to get his breath back before making another attempt.

The mud squelched with the footsteps of approaching men. He rolled over and came up in a fighting crouch, his bundle gripped as if it was a weapon. Three of them, men who had taken him prisoner in the garden. They stood looking down at him, spears levelled.

‘Going somewhere?’ asked their bearded leader.

—21—

Flaminius offered his interrogator a tired grin. ‘Just thought I would go for a quick dip.’

The bearded man shook his head. ‘You won’t get anywhere by swimming,’ he said. ‘The magistrate, he seems to like you. But I don’t trust you. Oh, he’ll hear all about this.’ He gave a look of disgust. ‘Get your clothes back on,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a gymnasium. And then you’re coming back to the villa with us.’

‘Your master could teach you a few lessons in civility,’ Flaminius commented, squeezing out his clothes as best he could and dressing hastily. ‘Preferably with the lash. Come on, then.’ He led his captors in the direction of the villa.

He was still steaming gently as he stood before Servius Arcadius in his office, and a slave was called to sponge up the water that dripped from his tunic.

‘I understand that you are eager to get back to Alexandria,’ said the magistrate—Arctos. ‘But embarking on the open sea in a holed boat? Very rash. It’s many days’ journey.

‘After I left you to walk in the garden, I sent a signal out requesting a galley be despatched here. It will take you to Alexandria as fast as the wind permits.’

Flaminius’ eyes narrowed. ‘Using a hydraulic telegraph?’ he asked.

Arctos nodded. ‘You’re familiar with such devices? They have their limits, but I know of no other way of communicating over long distance. Unless your Egyptian magician could help!’

‘I don’t think that would be very likely,’ said Flaminius, sitting down at Arctos’ invitation. Did the man guess that Flaminius knew who he was? Quite possibly not. He did not know that Flaminius had seen his signet ring on either occasion. If Flaminius had not received the training of an imperial agent, which stressed attention to detail, he would never have realised that this white bearded man was the same person who had concealed his features behind a gladiator helmet.

Flaminius glanced at the men who had brought him back, the Thracian and his fellows. Were they all gladiators? He didn’t recognise them, but they were big enough and tough enough, and he wouldn’t have liked to have met any of them in the arena. Escaping from them would be impossible. He would have to await his opportunity.

‘May I offer you some more wine?’ Arctos asked.

Flaminius accepted gratefully, and the drink had restored him. In fact, he felt quite giddy. It was potent! If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it unmixed wine.

‘Let us talk a little more about this plot,’ Arctos said, sipping at his own wine, then placing his goblet on the table. ‘You say that the legion is at its greatest strength in the Thebaid? What kind of presence does it have in Lower Egypt?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘That was the way matters stood when I left,’ he said. ‘Even if they get word of the emperor’s assassination, they will have a long journey downstream before they can confront the rebels.’ Arctos was fishing for more intelligence, but what else could he say?

‘That is terrible,’ said Arctos. He sounded sincere. Again Flaminius wondered if he had misidentified this kindly old man. He glanced quickly at the signet ring. ‘Why are the empire’s forces concentrated in such a distant area?’

‘Because that was the area where the most trouble was to be found,’ said Flaminius. He remembered Britain; the concentration of forces on the northern frontier led to a revolt in the south that had resulted in the burning of Hadrian’s rebuilt city of Londinium[6]. ‘Now that the province is under water due to the inundation of the Nile, it will be almost impossible for the cohorts to reach Lower Egypt in time.’

‘Do you think the rebels will seize control of the grain shipments?’ Arctos asked. ‘Starve Rome into submission as did Vespasian of Blessed Memory?’

Flaminius sighed. ‘That seems to be the plan,’ he said. ‘And unless I can get there in time…’ A thought struck him. ‘Your hydraulic telegraph,’ he said. ‘Could we use it to send a message?’ He had almost forgotten that Arctos was an enemy.

But the venerable senator shook his head. ‘The hydraulic telegraph is sadly limited,’ he explained. ‘The system is based on stock messages. For example, my message was “Send a ship” coupled with “At once.” The system, alas, is not sufficiently sophisticated to send any message more complex.’

Flaminius sipped at the strong wine.

Was Arctos trying to loosen his tongue? Of course the hydraulic telegraph would be useless. Even if it had been, he must have been mad—or half drunk—to think Arctos would help him.

‘Then that ship had better get here as soon as possible,’ Flaminius said, supressing a yawn. He glanced up at the skylight. It was getting dark.

It had been a long and confusing day. He asked for a bed for the night.

Half an hour later he lay on a bunk in a well-furnished chamber on the east side of the building, but he was wide awake. The room was large and opulent but, placed as it was on the highest floor of the villa and at the end of a long corridor down which he would have to pass on any escape attempt, it was effectively a prison. However, there were benefits to being so high up, even though escape down the side of the wall would be impossible—opening the window gave a grandstand view of the gardens and the land beyond, even as far as the harbour. There was a boat there, being readied for embarkation. The vessel was quite small, more like a river craft than a sea-going vessel.

Now that Arctos had the information he had so dearly sought, he had no reason to keep Flaminius alive. The tribune had to make his escape before they came to kill him. The last attempt had gone poorly. But he had to try again, for his own good—and the good of the empire.

As he lay there planning out his next move, someone started trying his door.

—22—

Flaminius sat bolt upright, the covers falling away from his fully clothed form.

As soon as he shut the door behind him, he had searched for some way to lock it, but although there was a keyhole there was no key, inside or outside, and he had resorted to propping a chair up against the doorknob. Now that chair was bending like a Scythian bow as someone shoved the door remorselessly open. The chairback snapped, the door burst open, fragments of chair flew across the room and Flaminius leapt onto the floor, hands outstretched.

Standing in the open doorway, eerily under-lit by the oil lamp he held in one gauntleted hand, was the bearded servant of “Servius Arcadius” who had taken him prisoner in the garden. He seemed surprised to see Flaminius awake, on his feet, and fully clothed.

This seemed unfair. Surely it was Flaminius who should be surprised by this night-time intruder. And yet he wasn’t.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked politely.

The man put the oil lamp down on a shelf, gripped a short sword in his gauntleted hand and swung it at Flaminius.

That would have been the Roman’s last sight this side of Hades if he hadn’t had the presence of mind to fling himself at the bearded man’s feet. Grovelling like a Parthian genuflecting before the King of Kings, he wrapped his arms round the man’s ankles and hauled him off balance. The man crashed into the doorjamb and his sword went flying. Flaminius flung himself across the floor to seize it but even as he did the man was already there. His foot came down on Flaminius’ outstretched hand, stamping cruelly so that the Roman could hear his bones grating together.

He groaned with pain and snatched his hand back, rolling backwards into the side of his bed. The man leaned down to retrieve his sword. Flaminius found the temptation altogether too great and kicked his enemy in the base of the spine. The man staggered forward, the crown of his head connecting with a bone cracking crash with the wall, and then fell flat, leaving a smear of dark blood on the fresco.

Flaminius stood panting for breath, absently massaging his trampled hand, suspiciously observing the prone figure of the bearded man as he lay motionless. Was he putting it on? Lulling Flaminius into a sense of false security? The sword lay half a cubit from his gauntleted hand. If Flaminius tried to seize it, would his enemy come to life, snatch it up, try to stab him?

The man still wasn’t moving. Flaminius took the chance to get his breath back. Whether it was a ploy or not, he would make the most of this lull in the fight. But his conscience panged him. He couldn’t wait around here while the fate of the empire hung in the balance.

He took great satisfaction in stamping his foot down on the man’s outstretched hand. No reaction. Either the bearded man was a stoic who would have made Zeno wince, or his ghost was waiting obol-less in the queue for the ferryman of the Styx. Flaminius snatched up the sword. As he did he saw that the man’s face was stuck to the floor by blood. He tried to roll him over, grabbing at the first thing that came to his grasp—his beard. It came free from the man’s face and Flaminius almost fell backwards. Recovering his balance he stood there staring stupidly at the unsightly tangle of blood and hair.

False. It was a false beard. The bearded man was not a bearded man. He had been wearing a false beard. For some reason, this baffled Flaminius more than anything else. He dropped the false beard, crouched down, took the corpse by the shoulder, and heaved. It rolled over limply, and in the flickering light of the oil lamp Flaminius recognised its beardless face. His own face creased into a scowl.

‘Brutus…’ he muttered. He glanced at the gauntlet on the corpse’s right hand. ‘I should have known…’

The Sicanian gladiator had been a prominent figure in Arctos’ rebel camp deep in the Nile Delta[7], one of the few of Arctos’ followers to escape, along with the two gladiators who had been Arctos’ bodyguards. Were they here too? Well, Brutus was going nowhere now, he could join Camilla’s wandering shade. A pity. Flaminius had sworn to himself that he would avenge the gladiatrix’s death. This accidental demise was not enough to atone for Brutus’ crimes.

Gripping the stolen short sword in one hand, the oil lamp in the other, he departed the room.

A short sword wasn’t his chosen weapon. A cavalryman by training, he preferred the longsword, but he hadn’t wielded one since leaving the Thebaid. All the same, it felt good to have something in his hand, something that could do damage to anyone who tried to stop him. But no one came.

He wandered opulent passageways and pillared hallways, searching for signs of life without success. The lamplight flickered and flung long, ominous shadows across empty chambers where couches and tables stood in solemn silence, and the only eyes that returned Flaminius’ inquiring gaze were the painted eyes of statues.

Were these stern-faced men and women frozen in marble Arctos’ ancestors? He wished he knew more about the history of Roman families—he might have recognised them and that would tell him which clan Arctos came from. No matter, he had seen the man without his gladiator helmet: he would recognise him if he saw him again, whether it was in the Nile Delta or the Roman senate house.

Maybe the next time he saw Arctos’ face it would be stamped on a coin. But no. If Arctos succeeded, Flaminius wouldn’t live to see the first minting of the new emperor’s coins. It was even possible he wouldn’t outlive the night.

But he met no resistance as he paced the pillared halls. The place was deserted, as if everyone had gone to Baiae for their holidays. He remembered the boat he had seen in the harbour. Were they moving out? But if so, where?

As he turned to go, he saw something lying on the desk. He had halted in the office where “Servius Arcadius” had first spoken to him. All was in shadow except where the light of Flaminius’ oil lamp fell upon the marble of the desk.

It was empty of papyrus or pens, but sprawling in the middle was what Flaminius first thought to be a small dead animal. In a flash he remembered Brutus, still face down in the chamber above. Placing the lamp down on the desk he picked up the object.

Another false beard. This one white and voluminous. Arctos’ beard.

So he had still been in disguise when Flaminius was speaking to him. There went all hope of recognising him in Rome—except there was his signet ring.

Speaking of which, something else on the desk glinted in a glimmer of starlight. Flaminius snatched it up. The ring! Had that been false, too? He studied it closely, then dropped it back on the desk with a grunt of disappointment. It was not the ring he had seen on Arctos’ finger.

A thought struck him. He picked up the ring again and studied it. No. It certainly wasn’t Arctos’ senatorial ring with its ursine emblem. But it closely resembled another ring he had seen before. He was very familiar with that seal. He slipped it into a belt pouch.

But he was wasting time. If he was lucky, he might find some way to escape being stranded on this remote Aegean island. He ran from the office, ran from the house.

It was dark amid the trees as he departed the gardens. He had left the oil lamp on the desk in Arctos’ office, and now he had nothing but starlight to guide his way. The night was silent except for distant noises from the harbour. A screech owl hooted. Otherwise an eerie quiet hung over the woods, while darkness enveloped it all in a shroud. Even the thud of Flaminius’ feet was swallowed up by the silence.

As he came out of the trees, the wind from the water hit him. In the distance, torches were burning, and he could see a white sail run up a mast. Arctos and his followers were down by the harbour. Everyone was leaving. And Flaminius must join them, or else he would be lost on Karpathos, marooned until the next galley visited the island. And by then it would almost certainly be too late.

Not too late for Flaminius. With his military training he would be able to survive here for months. But too late for the emperor.

Too late for the empire.

He reached a vantage point where he had a clear view of the little harbour. The river ship stood at anchor, but figures were visible coming up and down the gangplank, and others were busying themselves about the rigging. A small group stood on the shore, watching the proceedings but taking no part. Flaminius tried to get a good look at them but despite the torches two of them held, they were too far away. Yet one of them surely was Arctos—presumably that tall, gaunt fellow in the middle. Now that he had discarded his false beard, he would be recognisable. Unless he had adopted some other disguise.

Flaminius wormed his way forwards through the reeds. The chatter of the crewmen drifted towards him on the cold breeze, bringing with it the smell of the water. Mud squelched beneath his knees and elbows. At last he came out of the reeds just south of the harbour. It was dark here and he ran no risk of being seen. Should he swim out to the boat now and sneak aboard on the seaward side while embarkation was under way? It was his only hope, but something held him back.

He wanted to see Arctos’ face.

It might be his last chance. Even if he was able somehow to rescue the emperor and the empire, it would all be futile if the arch conspirator escaped to plot another day. If Flaminius could recognise him, well, he was one man in six hundred—the Roman Senate. It wouldn’t take long to track him down.

The sword was hindering him. Whether he was to swim out to the boat under cover of darkness or crawl closer to Arctos in the hopes of getting a good look, he would have to leave his weapon behind. Besides, there were too many of Arctos’ men around for him to risk any kind of sword fighting. The way forward lay in stealth, not swashbuckling. He would climb aboard when no one was looking and conceal himself somewhere in the hold, then stay hidden until they reached their destination. Then…well, then he would find out where that took him, and what he could do.

For now, the priority was Arctos. Carefully he put the sword down on the edge of the reed bank and began making his slow, painful way down the shore towards the harbour. Each time he moved, the nasty, sucking mud seemed to reach out to grab him, and it was reluctant to let him go. Now he was passing the first of the huts that made up the warehouses, boathouses or whatever they were. He made no attempt to investigate them. His mind was on the prize.

At last he was close enough to hear what they were saying, those people gathered at the foot of the gangplank. It seemed like an aeon since Flaminius had begun his crawl, but barely any time had passed at all. But—Jove curse it! —the tall, gaunt figure had his back to him.

He was bald. Flaminius could see that much. Bald and bare headed, despite the wind off the water. The rounded dome of a head ringed by a fringe of white hair. Arctos was tall, no longer stooping as he had in the villa, taller than the burly gladiators who he was addressing. He moved his hand in an imperious gesture and torchlight glinted on his signet ring. But he would not turn around.

Flaminius could go no closer for fear of being seen. He strained his ears to listen to what they were saying. To his shock he realised that his fate topped the discussion.

‘Brutus should have got here by now,’ Arctos was saying, his voice the harsh grate Flaminius remembered from the encampment in the Delta. ‘What’s keeping him?’

‘That spy is a tough bastard,’ said one of the gladiators. ‘You should have sent more than one man.’

‘Brutus can manage him,’ said Arctos confidently. ‘Finally I am rid of that pestilential fool.’ He turned abruptly towards the gangplank. Flaminius caught a brief glimpse of a beaky nose before he turned back to his companions. ‘We can come back for Brutus another day. He has wasted my time enough as it is. We’ll see how he likes being left to fend for himself. A salutary lesson. Come, the boat is ready.’

Surrounded by torch-bearing men, Arctos swept up the gangplank.

Alarmed, Flaminius glanced at the vessel. Intent on identifying Arctos he had not realised the truth. The boat was ready. The tide must be turning. The sails were bellying in the night wind. The gangplank was raised as Arctos and his companions went up onto the quarterdeck.

‘Let go aft,’ came the cry.

Slowly the boat began to move off into the wide waters. Flaminius rose, horrified.

He had left it too late. Now Arctos was getting away from him again. For one desperate moment, he considered diving into the water, swimming after the boat. But that was a crazy idea. He couldn’t hope to keep up with it. Already it was drawing off.

Turning about, it began to cut through the dark water, the lights from the stern growing smaller and smaller until at last they resembled a single distant star in an empty night sky.

And Flaminius was left there, all alone on the shore of an island deserted except for, back in the villa, the mortal remains of the man who had come to kill him.

—23—

Flaminius sat down on an upturned box and rested his head against his fist, a dark expression on his face. Was it worth trying anymore? Here he was, marooned on an unknown shore, with who knew how many miles between him and Alexandria. What had he been hoping to accomplish? To warn the emperor? To stop Arctos? He didn’t even know how the renegade senator intended to assassinate the emperor. He gave a bitter grin. Unlike himself, Arctos had not been forthcoming. He stared out across the waters, into the night.

A boat bobbed in the water a short way from where Arctos’ vessel had been moored. For a moment, Hope stirred him, and he half rose. Then he slumped back down. The boat was a one- or two- or at most three-man transport, like the one in which he had traversed the Delta on his journey to the rebel encampment. He could not hope to cross the sea in that cockleshell.

There were quicker ways to end his life.

He remembered the sword he had left among the reeds. Was that it? Should he go and find it, then fling himself upon it like some noble Roman of old? Like Paulus Alexander? Was everything lost? Had he brought chaos to the empire, and shame to his house?

He pictured his father in his mind’s eye, nodding approvingly at the Republican sentiment. Of course he should end his life. There was no other way he could atone for the havoc he had inadvertently wrought. As soon as he had realised that he was in Arctos’ presence, he should have throttled the man with his bare hands.

As he rose on shaking legs to search for the sword, his eyes fell upon the boat again. It really was oddly reminiscent of the boat he had crossed the Delta in. He stood gazing at it. Would he meet Camilla again? Would they meet once more on the banks of the Styx?

Going to the water’s edge he studied the boat more closely. It was built of reeds, in an Egyptian design. That was why it reminded him of his Delta journey. He frowned, puzzled.

He went to find the sword. After some searching in the darkness, his groping fingers closed round its hilt. Going back down the shore, he waded out to the boat, flung the sword aboard, then climbed in after it. With a single swing of the sword blade, he sliced the mooring rope in two, then began to push out into the open waters.

A short way out from land, there was enough of a breeze for Flaminius to chance running up the sail. Soon the white linen expanse was fluttering above him while the cordage thrummed in the cold wind. Running a three-man vessel single handed would have been hard going for a Phoenician sailor, and for a landlubbing Roman it was very difficult. At one point he almost knocked himself into the water with the boom. But at last he broke this steed of the waves and sailed south, guiding himself by the stars when he could see them through the clouds.

What kind of world he would find when he came ashore? Would everything be the same? Or would Hadrian be dead and Arctos be emperor? The man’s claim would be contested. Even with a stranglehold on Egypt, controlling its vast supply of grain that provided the Roman mob with bread, Arctos could not hope to rule the empire from Alexandria. And if he ventured north across the sea, he would meet resistance. But that would spell civil war, far worse than any uprising these parts had seen in a long time. Even if Arctos was defeated, the destruction would be terrible. Innocent people like Ozymandias and his sister would starve in the streets, if they were not murdered or raped by marauders. The only real option was to stop Arctos before he could wreak such havoc. But how could Flaminius hope to achieve that, lost and alone in the midst of the waters?

Really, he thought as the wind dropped and he began paddling again, he had been up against too much. How could he hope to fight magic? Skimbix’s temple was where it had all gone wrong. And as for being spirited away to this forsaken island, even Ulysses had not had to put up with anything like it, and he’d fought witches, sirens and a cyclops. Not even Alexander the Great in the wildest and most improbable tales of the marketplace storyteller had known the like. It shouldn’t be allowed. Not in this modern Roman world.

He knew what his father would blame it on: all these Greek loving young fellows, with their beards and their philosophy. The only philosophy a Roman needed was to make sure the crops were planted on time and the slaves didn’t sleep on the job. Flaminius gave a cracked smile, imagining his father’s fond old face. He’d have to go back home one day, see the family again. If there was still a home to go to, if civil war had not burnt those crops by the time Flaminius got back to Italy. He kept rowing.

The wind caught up again, and he rested on his oars. All around it was the blackest midnight. The clouds had rolled up the scatter of diamonds in the sky above, and the waters stretched, cold and windswept and endless, on every side. He glanced over his shoulder to see much the same beyond the prow of his little boat. He yawned. He was exhausted. He had been active today, very active all his life, it seemed. And now he was tired. Alone in the middle of the sea, alone and weary. His head drooped. He leant on his oars.

He slept.

With a guilty start he awoke from dreams plagued by his father’s nagging voice. Dawn light spread grey and dismal across the waters. The sea was still. The wind had dropped and was barely stirring the waters. Was that why the boat was no longer moving? Above him, the sail fluttered like a war banner, but the boat was going nowhere. It wasn’t even bobbing on the water. It was still, motionless, as if rooted in rock.

Wincing at an eruption of aches and pains—that was the last time he went to sleep sitting up! —he turned around, then gave another start. He stared in utter bewilderment at the scene before his eyes. No wonder the boat had stopped moving, he told himself. He had run aground.

He hauled himself over the side and his sandaled feet splashed down in mud. Standing up, he stretched and yawned, his vertebrae giving a resounding crack, as he surveyed the endless expanse of reeds that vanished into the early morning haze. As far as the eye could see, reed bank after reed bank. Everywhere else, a waste of waters stretched to the horizon.

He had come ashore on an island. An island of reeds. He’d hoped to reach the mainland, wherever that might be. Somewhere he could find help. Now he had no idea where he was.

He looked back at the boat. It was half buried in thick mud. He’d have a hell of a time freeing it. Maybe there were people on this island. Even if they were barbarians, they might help him.

Sword in hand, he took a walk up a reed grown slope to see what lay beyond the horizon. In many ways, that had always been his job, even when he was tribune of auxiliary cavalry. Certainly, it was the main purpose of the imperial agent. To look beyond the horizon, see what dangers were lurking.

He saw nothing but reeds, an endless expanse of them tossing in the breeze. And in the far distance, a glimmer of blue. Sea? Then this was definitely an island. But where?

Rotating on his heels, he caught sight of columns of smoke trailing into the sky. A settlement. Quite a large one. Questing about amongst the reeds, he found a waterlogged track; whether it was animal or manmade he lacked the skill to determine. Gripping his sword firmly, he set off, squelching.

The track wound through the reeds, and several times he lost sight of the smoke trails and all hope of finding any kind of civilisation. Twice he slipped and slithered in the mud, the second time losing his sword irretrievably in a pool of muck, try as he might to find it again. On his second dive, he noticed something strange. The water, though foul, was sweet when it touched his lips. Sweet, as in not salt.

Surely even a coastal marsh would have salt water, let alone one on a smallish island in the middle of the sea. How far had he come? To what land had Skimbix’s magic and his own sailing taken him? A sea of sweet water? Impossible. According to the latest philosophical thinking, the water of the sea was the sweat exuded by the earth due to the heat of the sun. Naturally it was salty, because all sweat is salty. It would be against nature for there to be a sea of sweet water in the world. Wouldn’t it?

He gave up trying to retrieve his stolen sword. Let it lie there until some fisherman or hunter found it. If he met with robbers among these islands, he would just have to trust to his fists, or his wits. He splashed off down the path with redoubled vigour.

As he turned a corner, the reeds opened up, revealing a stretch of water. Something else he saw caused him to halt in his tracks, then duck back into cover.

Peering out, he narrowed his eyes. Several reed boats were crossing the water, too far off for him to make out much of their crews, but he could see that the men were carrying spears, as the sun winked upon blades. Several of them seemed to be wearing helmets too. Gladiator helmets? Flaminius watched until they had vanished from sight.

The smoke trail was to his right now, in the opposite direction from that taken by the martial looking reed boats. He headed in that direction. As he did, ibis flew overhead, giving their weird screeching cries. He watched them fly as he strode onwards. Ibis. Reeds. Reed boats. It all seemed strangely familiar.

Coming around the corner, he saw the source of the smoke trails was a town. Water surrounded it on all sides but the water was shallow: he could see a man leading a herd of cattle through it. A few boats sailed to and from the town, a cluster of white walled, flat roofed buildings on a mound above the waters, interspersed with the occasional temple or larger building. A few people were out in the early morning streets.

Flaminius waded out to join the herdsman, a scrawny, brown skinned man wearing little more than a mud splashed linen loincloth.

‘What town is this, friend?’ he asked in Latin. The man scowled, shook his head, mimed incomprehension. Flaminius had come to a land where Latin was unknown, it seemed. He tried Greek.

The man’s face cleared. ‘Buto,’ he said. ‘The town is Buto. Are you a some kind of barbarian?’

‘Buto?’ Flaminius said. The man nodded. ‘Then all that water out there…’

‘It is the Butic Lake in the Nile Delta,’ said the herdsman tranquilly. Flaminius reeled.

He was still in Egypt.

—24—

Nile Delta, Sebennytic Branch, 3rd September 124 AD

Half an hour later, he was rowing a stolen boat through the shallow waters of the Nile inundation.

He could have used his lancehead brooch to requisition the vessel—which he had found tied to the roots of a palm tree and unattended—but since its owner wasn’t about, and besides, he didn’t want to draw attention to his presence in the Delta, he thought it better just to take it. He’d do his best to make amends at a later date—If he remembered. Saving the empire was his chief priority. Small matters like law and morality had to come second.

His sense of time had received a thorough drubbing recently, but if he was right, it was the final day of the Days of Hadrian celebrations. When would the emperor make his appearance in the imperial box? At noon, the prefect had said, at the cusp of the final day’s festivities, between the beast fights of the morning and the gladiatorial combats of the afternoon—the time when judgement was seen to be done in the eye of the sun, when condemned criminals were flung to the beasts. It was still early morning. Hadrian was on his way.

And Arctos would be waiting for him.

Flaminius rowed on, face grim. If only he knew Arctos’ plans. Now the tables were turned; Arctos knew what Flaminius had been keeping from him, but Flaminius had learnt very little about the rebel’s plans, except that he meant to murder the emperor. If only he could get back to Alexandria before noon! It seemed likely. that the assassination attempt would come when the emperor made his appearance. At no time before that would Hadrian’s presence be public knowledge.

Maybe Flaminius could get into the amphitheatre beforehand, into the imperial box. That was it. He would get in there somehow. It would be difficult, what with the prefect and his men still harbouring the crazy idea that it was him, Flaminius, who was the assassin. Somehow, he would enter the imperial box unnoticed, and warn Hadrian before the emperor made his presence publicly known. But how could he hope to get there? He toyed with ideas of disguising himself as a civic guard. Security would be tight. But he would have to get past it. He would have to call upon all his ingenuity as an imperial agent. One man against an empire, and all to save that empire from chaos.

There was only one thing in his favour right now: the low draught vessel he had stolen was capable of crossing what would be dry land outside the time of inundation. The last time he had been in these waters, he had been taken by a long and weary route south towards Memphis and then back along another branch of the Delta, which had wasted a lot of time. Now the conspiracy was coming to its awful climax, and he had to reach Alexandria straightaway. Due to the inundation, he would be able to row straight across the Delta. But it was still a long, long way. And his arms were already ablaze with pain from the rowing he had already done, the sweat of exertion was bedraggling his hair and running down his face. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

And it wasn’t just the many miles and the growing heat of the sun that would slow his dogged progress. River horses lay half submerged in the water, waiting for an opportunity to capsize his little boat. Crocodiles could be detected by the small bow waves that marked their passage through the water as they swam after him. Vultures hung in the sky high above, as if marking time until his inevitable end. And it wasn’t just the beasts of this vast waste of shallow water that threatened his progress.

He was negotiating his way round a small island of palm trees when the air hummed as if with hundreds of bees and an arrow grew abruptly from the reed strakes beside his right-hand rowlock. He glanced around. Another arrow hissed into the water on the far side of the boat.

He scanned the trees. No sign of anyone. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ he called out, ‘but if it means anything to you, I’m here on imperial business. Please let me continue. I have no money on me, but I can make it worth your while at a later date.’

His boat drifted on the flood waters. A shout rang out from the trees, and he turned to see spear carrying river pirates wading towards him. Some carried strung bows, with arrows fitted.

But their leader bounded up to Flaminius with a grin on his face, the sun glinting highlights off his red hair.

‘Kalasiris!’ Flaminius stood up in the boat to clasp the Bucolic chief’s hand. ‘What brings you here? This is a long way from Nikokis!’

The other Bucolics gathered around Flaminius’ boat, standing waist deep in the water, weapons at the ready as they scanned the surrounding reeds and water. Kalasiris gave Flaminius a sorrowful look. ‘We were forced out of our own land,’ he reported. ‘The Bucolics are on the march. We left our women and children in a safe place and now we patrol the waters. The other villages have united under the rebel standard and are marching on the city.’

‘The city?’ Flaminius said. He licked his lips anxiously. ‘You mean Alexandria.’

Kalasiris nodded. ‘It has come at last. And my people could have been there, marching side by side with the rest, had it not been for you—and our old friend Ozymandias.’

Flaminius remembered the reed boats he had seen. ‘I think I saw some of them,’ he said, and described his encounter.

Kalasiris nodded. ‘Now we must do what we can to stop them in their folly…’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I can’t ask you to fight against your own people...’

‘You have not asked us,’ Kalasiris said tranquilly. ‘It is a debt of honour. Besides, we cannot see them fling themselves against the walls of the city. I saw the city once, from afar. The walls reach up to the sky. They will die, all of them.’

‘I don’t know,’ Flaminius said, doubtful. ‘They’ve chosen a good time for their attack.’ He explained how Arctos had tricked him, how the man plotted to murder the emperor. ‘If your people strike at the same time, the whole city will be flung into chaos—and the empire will follow. Now if Ozymandias did what I asked him…’

Kalasiris’ face was bleak but resolute. ‘All we can do is harry them,’ he said. ‘Fight them to the end. Die fighting. We shall all die this day, but we shall take many with us.’

Flaminius shook his head wearily. ‘I can’t ask you to do that,’ he insisted. ‘Now I’ve got to get to Alexandria before noon. I must be going.’

Kalasiris looked enigmatically at Flaminius’ boat. ‘You’ll never get there in that tub,’ he said. ‘Come with us.’

He took Flaminius round the island. Flaminius’ mouth fell open at what he saw there.

‘Did you kill them all?’ he asked. ‘A whole river patrol?’ He examined the patrol boat moored in the shallow bay for signs of fighting.

Kalasiris looked insulted. ‘We killed no Romans,’ he said. ‘We stole this vessel long ago, from a fort near Mendes. It was unattended and…This was before we knew you, Roman.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Flaminius jumped down onto the deck and examined the patrol boat. It had been well cared for since the Bucolics stole it. ‘In this we’ll be able to travel up the main channels of the Delta in no time. You’ll take me there?’

Kalasiris looked apologetic. ‘We can’t go too close to Alexandria,’ he said. ‘We fight for you, but the patrols will not know that, they will attack. We can reach the coast near Canopus. Then you will have to make your own way.’

The Bucolics hauled the vessel through the shallows for a long way until they could find a deeper channel where it could sail unimpeded. Enough men to crew the boat climbed aboard, while the rest waded back in the direction of the island. With Kalasiris at the helm they set off up this Delta backwater. Their rout took them past flooded fields, water girdled towns and temples, until they came out at last into an island studded lake so large and so swollen with silty flood waters it resembled the sea.

‘Is this the Butic Lake?’ Flaminius asked suddenly. Was he going around in circles?

Kalasiris nodded, keeping his hand on the tiller and his eyes on the horizon as his men busied themselves about the deck. ‘With the flood waters it could be taken for the sea.’

‘How well I know that,’ said Flaminius ironically. ‘I more than half thought that I was in the middle of the sea when I was on Arctos’ island. I don’t believe in magic, but I thought Skimbix had transported me hundreds of miles.’ He shook his head. ‘If I hadn’t been so shaken up by it all, I would never have told Arctos what I did.’

‘That must have been the idea,’ said Kalasiris. ‘They knew that otherwise you would never speak. So they used their magic and their trickery. Even strong warriors cannot fight magic.’

Flaminius smiled wryly. ‘It was more trickery than magic,’ he said.

‘What of this temple you speak of?’ Kalasiris asked. ‘These statues that move, voices from the air, doors that close of their own accord…’

Flaminius was troubled. ‘I can’t explain that right now,’ he said. ‘But one thing is certain: I wasn’t spirited halfway across the empire as I thought. I was just knocked out and taken to an island in the Delta. If it hadn’t been for the inundation, I’d never have thought it was in the sea.’

‘Perhaps that is all that magic is,’ Kalasiris said, ‘trickery. But these statues and voices you tell of…’

‘No, I can’t understand anything about that,’ Flaminius replied. ‘When I get back I’m going to take that temple to pieces to expose Skimbix for the charlatan I know he is. But that’s not the most important thing…’

A shout came from the lookout. ‘Patrol vessel astern.’

Flaminius looked aft and saw a boat cutting through the lake waters. It was another vessel of the river patrol. And he was in a stolen boat crewed by river pirates.

‘This looks like trouble,’ he said. ‘Can you get any more speed out of this craft?’

Kalasiris bellowed orders in Egyptian. Some of the crew produced paddles and added their impetus to the wind in the sail, but still the river patrol bore down on them. Soon it was drawing alongside. A legionary in the bow signalled to them with flags.

‘What’s he waving those things for?’ Kalasiris said.

Flaminius read the code. ‘He’s asking us to weigh anchor. Do you have any flags like the ones he’s waving?’

‘Hold this,’ said Kalasiris. As Flaminius held the tiller he went for’ard and called to the crew, who rooted about in the hold. The patrol vessel drifted alongside them, though a stretch of water lay between, wide enough for them to be unidentifiable.

Soon Kalasiris returned, clutching a collection of faded signal flags. ‘I never knew what they were for…’ he was saying.

Flaminius snatched them, thrust the tiller back into his hand, then went to the side. It had been a long time since he had learnt the relevant code, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to remember it. What should he say? Ah, yes…

He signalled with the flags, holding them outwards, then up, then down, then back out again. Kalasiris watched in puzzlement. The patrol boat replied with a series of signals.

‘No, you idiots,’ Flaminius muttered furiously to himself. He gave a series of angry flourishes. There was a pause, and then a single signal came back. Kalasiris looked to Flaminius. The Roman was smiling coldly. Kalasiris glanced back and saw that the patrol vessel was turning about.

‘What spell did you cast?’ he asked, dumbfounded. ‘They are leaving us.’

‘No magic, Kalasiris,’ said Flaminius with a grin. ‘I used a signal code known only to a very few, even within the legions. Now they think I’m an imperial emissary travelling incognito on highly important business. I sent them off with a flea in their collective ear. They won’t trouble us again.’ He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘I suppose what I said was true, in a way.’

‘And I say that what you did was magic,’ said Kalasiris.

—25—

Flaminius bade Kalasiris and his people a fond farewell near the mouth of the Canopic Canal, then entered the town of Canopus surreptitiously, stowing away on a canal boat bound for Alexandria. It was getting dangerously close to noon, and he was in no mood to deal with any opposition. The journey, which he spent concealed in the hold behind several bales, seemed interminable.

At last he heard, drifting in through the open hatch, the noise and bustle of a harbour. Popping his head out, he saw the crew were guiding the boat into a moorage beyond which the high walls of Alexandria were unmistakable. When no one was looking, he sneaked to the side, lowered himself quietly into the scummy water, and swam to shore.

Gripping the coping stones of the quay, he hauled himself out of the water then hastened to conceal himself behind a pillar. Looking out, he saw a busy scene. The warehouses rang back the clamour of men offloading and loading vessels; wind thrummed in the rigging; curses in a multitude of tongues drifted across from the industrious knots of brown skinned figures. Nearby stood the customs post. He didn’t want to go anywhere near it. Waiting for a moment when the area was particularly busy, he stepped out from behind the pillar and hurried towards the city walls.

Even as he did so, he saw three figures appear from the customs post. Two of them he recognised.

‘Flaminius!’ Ozymandias called. ‘We’ve found you! You’ve got to come with us.’ Nitocris was scowling at his side. On his other side was a beefy man in an official tunic.

‘What’s all this about?’ Flaminius asked as they joined him. ‘Surely you know how important this is! Let me go at once!’

‘Our mutual friend Ozymandias has explained everything,’ said the official. ‘I’m glad to see you alive. Word was that you had been spirited away by the magician Skimbix.’

‘He was smuggled out of the city,’ said Ozymandias wearily, ‘in that sarcophagus you allowed to pass uninvestigated.’

‘Is this true?’ the official asked Flaminius.

Flaminius shook his head in perplexity. ‘All I remember is that Skimbix flung some kind of soporific dust at me. I woke up on an island. They told me it was several weeks’ journey from here…’

‘You must be a magician yourself,’ the official laughed, ‘to return so quickly!’

The official introduced himself as Marcus Atilius. He confessed to having been half persuaded by Ozymandias’ account. ‘But before I help you any further,’ he added, leading them back to the customs post, ‘and as you are a wanted man, tribune, I’d like to take a look at this temple. Perhaps you can show me how the magician Skimbix abducted you.’

‘This is a waste of time,’ said Flaminius wearily. ‘I don’t know how he did it, but he obviously used some Egyptian trickery.’

‘Listen to me, tribune,’ said Marcus Atilius seriously. ‘I have standing orders to arrest you and have you sent to the palace of Hadrian under maximum guard. Your friend Ozymandias persuaded me that it would be to my advantage to take this approach. You’re a dangerous man by all accounts; it’s to be expected of an imperial agent gone rogue…’

‘I haven’t gone rogue,’ Flaminius said, hurt. ‘I was framed.’

‘So you say, tribune,’ said Marcus Atilius. ‘But what I heard is that you murdered one of the emperor’s Praetorian Guard. As yet, I’m unconvinced. But let me tell you, if you can show me how this Skimbix worked his fraud and his abduction, I’ll be more willing to believe that sinister forces are working against you—that you’ve not gone over to the rebels, as the prefect believes. I’ve not cleared this with Haterius Nepos, I’m working on my own initiative. I can’t guarantee your safety. But if I see clear evidence, I’ll put in a good word for you. Otherwise, I’ll call the guard and march you off to the palace, assuming the prefect doesn’t decide to give you a starring role in this morning’s Games.’

‘All right, all right,’ Flaminius said. ‘You’ve convinced me. Can we get on with it? I’ve got an assassination attempt to stop.’

Leaving his men on standby, Marcus Atilius led Flaminius and his two friends through the city streets. Flaminius tried to talk to Ozymandias, but the Egyptian was tense and uncommunicative. So was Nitocris, who refused to meet his eyes.

The morning streets about the Serapeum were busy with shoppers going about their business before the heat of noon, but most of the Greek citizens were at the Hippodrome for the chariot races, the Romans at the amphitheatre. Only Egyptians and other barbarians were on the streets. Rachotis was nevertheless busy, until they left the main streets and traced the winding way that led to Skimbix’s temple.

Finally they reached the small square outside the dark building. Flaminius felt an unaccustomed tightness in his chest as he stared up at the pillars and the pediment. The place was eerie even in the morning sunlight. They stood there in silence.

‘Do we go in?’ Marcus Atilius said at last. ‘I thought you were in a hurry, tribune.’

Flaminius rubbed at his face. ‘Of course,’ he said apologetically. ‘Follow me.’ He marched up the steps and pushed the door, which creaked open slowly.

Marcus Atilius joined him, followed by Ozymandias and Nitocris. ‘No one has been here since the wizard made his getaway,’ the customs official said. ‘I’ve read the report. And the locals have stayed away too, even the local youth have been too afraid to break into the place.’ He peered over Flaminius’ shoulder. ‘Are those the statues that come alive?’ he asked, sounding nervous.

‘There’s the one I dealt with,’ said Ozymandias, as Flaminius led them into the temple. He was pointing at the shattered black shape that lay in the doorway to the inner sanctum. ‘It seized me. When I got free, I levered it off its plinth with a cresset and it crashed to the floor. It didn’t try anything after that.’

Flaminius patted him on his bony shoulder. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘A victory worthy of Hercules.’ Ozymandias gave him a look.

Crossing over to the plinth in question he climbed up to examine it. ‘You see this pipe,’ he said, showing Marcus Atilius and the two Egyptians a broken metal tube jutting up from the spot where the statue had stood. ‘This had something to do with it.’

‘To do with what?’ Marcus Atilius said impatiently. ‘Was this where you were abducted?’

Flaminius shook his head. He jumped down and peered at the pool. ‘What’s this?’ he said. He got down into the water and walked across it to the other side.

‘Oh, we found that.’ Nitocris spoke as if this minor miracle, which had left Marcus Atilius speechless, was nothing new. ‘It’s some kind of glass.’

Flaminius peered down at it. ‘Colourless. Almost transparent,’ he observed. ‘I’ve never seen transparent glass before.’ He shook his head. ‘The Egyptian priests have wonderful secrets.’

‘Mostly fraud and trickery,’ said Ozymandias disparagingly. He stood by the broken statue. ‘This is hollow inside, and there are gears and levers. An automaton. So Skimbix is the man the gladiator Bikilis called the Mechanist.’

Flaminius walked back across the pool to join him. ‘No doubt that pipe on the plinth led to this engine,’ he said, indicating a mechanism in the legs. ‘Powered by what? Steam? Water? It reminds me of the machinery they use in the theatre.’

‘I was taken in by all this,’ Nitocris said sullenly. ‘Clara and I, we both thought Skimbix was a prophet of the gods. He seemed to have such powers…’

‘What’s through here?’ Marcus Atilius asked, indicating the broken down doors of the inner sanctum.

‘That’s where the magician kept his god,’ said Flaminius. ‘And his altar. That was where I was when… when it happened.’

‘When what happened?’ Marcus Atilius said. ‘When he … cast his spell on you?’

‘And I woke up on a faraway island,’ said Flaminius with a bitter laugh. ‘More trickery. It was in a flooded lake of the Delta. Any other time of year, the shore would have been within sight. But because of the inundation, I was fooled into thinking I was miles away in the Aegean. At least until I made my escape. And that was where I made my big mistake.’

‘What was that, Gaius?’ Since returning to the magician’s temple Nitocris seemed to have regained something of her usual spirits.

‘Show me where you met the magician,’ said Marcus Atilius, pushing past them. They followed him into the inner sanctum.

Flaminius found the official standing in the middle of the torchlit chamber, gazing round him in silence. The idol lay on the ground like some toppled titan of the elder world, but with no wizard to tend it the furnace beneath the statue had gone out. With it had gone some of the wonder and the terror. Flaminius crossed over to the other side.

‘This was where I found Skimbix,’ he said, examining the area. ‘A voice filled the room, like the voice of a god.’

‘More foolery?’ Marcus Atilius asked.

Flaminius nodded. ‘The magician’s ventriloquism,’ he said. ‘Tricks to fool peasants and the uneducated.’

‘I heard that!’ said Nitocris angrily. She stared at the ground, adding something like ‘Serve you right if…’

‘I didn’t mean…’ Flaminius began.

‘Alright, Flaminius,’ said Ozymandias harshly. ‘We know what you meant. The wizard was a fraud, like all such people.’ He looked bitter. ‘Now can we get on with this?’ He turned to Marcus Atilius. ‘The tribune has done as you asked him. He’s shown you the magician’s tricks.’

‘You must be convinced,’ Flaminius added. ‘Skimbix lured us in here and after he used his trickery to shut me in the inner sanctum he blew dust in my face—poppy seeds or some other narcotic, I should imagine—then had me carried off while I was insensible. It was all a trick to get information out of me. Something few people knew other than me. But now the arch conspirator knows it, and the emperor’s life is in danger.’

‘We don’t need to worry about the emperor’s life any more,’ said Marcus Atilius. There was a note of certainty in his voice that Flaminius didn’t like.

‘What are you talking about, you fool? The more time we squander in fruitless investigation, the closer comes the hour. You’re wasting time. You’re wasting my time!’

Impatiently, he shoved the customs official aside and strode towards the doorway. Even as he did so, civic guards flooded into the inner sanctum. He turned and looked about him. There were too many to fight, and he was unarmed.

‘You fool!’ he said to Marcus Atilius, who was laughing sardonically. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done!’

‘I know exactly what I’ve done,’ the customs official said. ‘I’ve brought about the arrest of a man who plotted the assassination of the emperor! I’ll be promoted for this. But I’d never have got here if it wasn’t for the help of my comrades in arms.’ He bowed politely to Ozymandias and Nitocris. Ozymandias looked impassively at Flaminius. Nitocris glowered at the ground.

Marcus Atilius clicked his fingers. ‘Take this assassin to the palace of Hadrian!’

Flaminius ran.

—26—

It was a futile gesture. He dodged past two civic guards, shoved another aside, then the rest fell on him and he vanished beneath a rain of kicks and blows.

Dragged to his feet, battered and bruised, he glared at Marcus Atilius. ‘You fool,’ he said dispassionately. ‘You have no idea what havoc you’re causing.’ His gaze travelled over to Ozymandias. ‘But you do. What have they done to you to get you on their side?’

Marcus Atilius scowled. ‘Take him away!’ he snapped, and Flaminius was dragged from the temple.

After being marched through the morning streets from the Egyptian Quarter to the Brucheium, he was urged up the steps of the palace of Hadrian at spearpoint. The Commissary was feared and hated throughout the empire, but it was respected. The sight of an imperial agent fallen from grace brought out the bully and the coward in all fine upstanding citizens, it seemed.

He was taken before the commander, who stood beside his desk in the former dining chamber, hands on his hips, a sneer on his lips.

‘You caught him,’ he said to Marcus Atilius. ‘Good work! The prefect will be informed...’

‘Couldn’t he make it, then?’ Flaminius said. ‘Too busy with the Games…?’A guard struck him.

‘Silence!’ cried Gabinius Camillus, and Flaminius subsided, jaw aching from the blow. ‘There’ll be a promotion for you,’ the commander added, nodding to Marcus Atilius. ‘And you, I should think,’ he told Ozymandias. ‘Crassus Piso has been informed of the assassin’s capture, and he will send the news on by signal to the emperor. His imperial majesty will richly reward us.’

‘Good,’ said Ozymandias. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to my current job after so much absenteeism.’ His sister darted him an angry look.

‘Is that what all this is about?’ Flaminius exploded. ‘You betrayed me because I lost you your job? The empire’s at stake and all you care about is your career? You…’

‘Take this traitor below,’ said Gabinius Camillus to the guards. ‘Lock him in the most secure cell of the dungeons. Later on he will be questioned, by me personally, although I understand that Crassus Piso also wishes to speak with him, and will no doubt apply some persuasion if he isn’t forthcoming.’

‘You can’t torture a Roman citizen,’ Flaminius said, outraged. ‘I have rights, whatever lunatic notions you’ve got in your addle pated skull.’

‘You are a traitor,’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘Traitors lose all rights.’

‘I demand a fair trial,’ Flaminius said. ‘I demand to be taken to Rome. That’s my right as a Roman citizen…’

He wanted nothing of the sort. He was just playing the officious ass, playing for time.

And time was running out. It was almost noon. The emperor’s fleet would be off the coast by now.

‘Take him!’ Gabinius Camillus yelled, and the civic guards hustled Flaminius from the chamber.

He was led down the steps he remembered so well, then down a torchlit passage. On one side of it was an iron door. One of the guards produced a heavy iron ring jingling with keys, unlocked the door, then shoved it with his shoulder. It took several attempts before the massive door was open enough for the other guards to fling Flaminius through.

He landed on his face in a pile of stinking straw. With a grinding rumble, the door closed behind him, cutting off the dim torchlight. He rolled over and sat up. A small hatch clicked open in the door, a beam of light shot in and Flaminius saw an eye inspecting him malignantly. Then it slammed curtly shut and all sound and light was cut off.

The air wasn’t too good either. In the darkness Flaminius crawled to the wall. It was dry as the desert sands. The whole cell was dry, despite being down in the depths of the building; dry and dark and cold—like an Egyptian crypt in the depths of some ancient mausoleum. It was not the first time Flaminius had been down in this level, although he had never seen this cell. But now he was trapped down here at the pleasure of the guards and Gabinius Camillus. And the prefect.

And what was it the commander had said? Crassus Piso would want to question him. And the Praetorian had a comrade to avenge. Despite his expert knowledge of Roman law, Flaminius knew that there were circumstances when guards were bribed or simply chose to look the other way. He had a feeling that something like that was what was coming up.

All that was as nothing to what faced the empire if Arctos’ rebel gladiators and river pirates seized power over the province. If Hadrian was assassinated. If Egypt seceded. Arctos wouldn’t rule the empire, chaos would rule. The chaos that ruled in the beginning. It was inevitable, according to most philosophical schools. Chaos was the natural order of things, so to speak. The cosmos would eventually sink back into the chaos from which it had once risen. But if the Commissary had any role to play, it was to ensure that this inevitable descent was postponed—indefinitely, it was to be hoped.

Flaminius had been beyond the borders of the empire, into savage barbarian lands. He had seen the forces of chaos at first hand. He knew what horrors threatened civilisation.

He had little personal regard for Hadrian, that pompous Iberian fool. But he had been raised on stories of the Long Year, the Year of the Four Emperors, when the empire had descended into anarchy. One emperor had arisen from that chaos to renew the empire and begin afresh. Rebellions had broken out now and then since those days, though nothing on such a grand scale. But how many civil wars and uprisings could the empire stand? One thing was for certain, with an avaricious maniac like Arctos in power, Rome would face a greater threat than it had done since the days of Nero.

Lying back in the darkness he thought dark thoughts.

Inevitable as the descent of the universe into chaos, they turned to escape. He was deep inside the palace of Hadrian, behind an iron door as thick as a gladiator’s bicep, locked in. Beyond it were sentries, and guards patrolled all levels of the building. Beyond that stretched a city that knew him as a traitor, a would-be assassin. How could he ever hope to escape in time to warn the emperor?

If only he knew how the assassination was to be committed. He remembered something he heard, back in the Delta. A blaze of glory… Did Arctos intend to burn Hadrian’s ships before the emperor came ashore? Not an assassination in the amphitheatre as Flaminius had been thinking, but some kind of naval attack. Did Arctos have the resources?

The key turned in the lock and he looked up in hopeless hope.

The heavy door ground slowly open, and he heard the cursing of the gaoler as he shoved it wider and wider. Torchlight flooded into the straw floored little space, though under normal circumstances Flaminius would have thought it no more than a dim flickering. A tall figure stood silhouetted in the light. To his side the gaoler looked at him anxiously, keys jingling in his grasp. Armed guards stood behind them.

‘I have a lamp,’ said the tall man in familiar ringing tones. ‘Let me in and close the door behind me.’

The gaoler looked in disbelief from Gabinius Camillus—Flaminius had recognised the commander despite the blaze of light that ringed him—to the door. The commander shook his head. ‘You don’t need to worry for my safety,’ he said, lighting the wick of a terracotta lamp. The gaoler shrugged and gave the door an aggrieved look.

Gabinius Camillus entered the cell and sat down fastidiously, placing the oil lamp on the ground between him and Flaminius. As the door rumbled slowly shut, he examined the prisoner.

Flaminius looked back at him. Was this the questioning? The torture instruments had yet to materialise. Was Gabinius Camillus prepared to listen to reason? Maybe Ozymandias had explained everything, and he had seen the error of his ways. Both of them had.

‘You’re going to listen to me? We don’t have much time. First of all, you’ll have to set me free. I think I’ve worked out how Arctos intends to assassinate the emperor. I…’

‘You’re going nowhere, gladiator,’ said Gabinius Camillus coldly.

Flaminius thought of that night when he had surprised the Thracian gladiator Petrus, taking the woman’s part as this oh-so-respectable Roman official thrust frenetically behind him. It had been a lucky chance back then; he’d been able to turn the gladiator, make him an agent with just a little hint of blackmail. Petrus had had a substantial following amongst the mob, but rumours that he allowed prominent Roman citizens to penetrate him like a catamite would not have improved his standing. It had seemed like a lucky chance...

‘Gladiator?’ he echoed.

Gabinius Camillus looked away. ‘I knew you were a fraud from the start,’ he said venomously, ‘when you turned up, claiming to be an imperial agent. I could say nothing, of course. “And how do you know that this Flaminius is not what he says he is?” Haterius Nepos would have asked. I could hardly tell him…’ He leaned forwards and hissed, ‘I could hardly say that he surprised me while I was buggering a gladiator. Or that he was my wife’s lover.’

‘Did you know Petrus is dead?’ Flaminius said, not bothering to deny the absurd claim.

‘I know,’ said the commander, nodding solemnly. ‘I saw it happen. I was in the imperial box with the prefect. I saw him vomiting as he left the arena, heard the news that he was dead. One of these crime rings, I suppose. And then what happens next? You turn up, claiming to be an imperial agent—and almost at once the Praetorians tell us there is an assassin on the loose.’

‘There is indeed an assassin on the loose,’ Flaminius confirmed. ‘There’s also an army of rebel gladiators and Nile river pirates bearing down on Alexandria. I don’t care who you bugger in private—and for the record, I wouldn’t touch your fat wife with a Sarmatian lance. She attached herself to me that night when you went missing. Then we found you…’

‘Yes, you found me!’ Gabinius Camillus snarled. ‘But mark my words, you won’t blacken my name.’

Flaminius felt nothing but contempt for this man who could only think of his own reputation when the empire was at stake. ‘Are you going to kill me? How is that going to look? The commander of the civic guard goes to question a prisoner—a Roman citizen, may I add—and said prisoner winds up dead. You may get away with debauching gladiators, but you can’t get away with murdering a Roman citizen.’

‘I don’t believe you are a Roman citizen,’ said Gabinius Camillus coldly. ‘You’re a gladiator. A rebel gladiator. A conspirator against the emperor! Don’t try to deny it. If I were to kill you here and now…’ He rested a hand on his sword pommel.

‘Just try it, old man,’ said Flaminius dangerously.

‘If I were to kill you, I would be doing the empire a favour,’ Gabinius Camillus said. ‘I’ve heard the whole story, from one source or another. Even from the Egyptian who posed as your colleague. He was onto you from the start.’

Flaminius rubbed at his brow. ‘Ozymandias?’ he said tiredly. ‘What has that gutter rat been telling you?’

‘He told Marcus Atilius that he was waiting for you to return,’ Gabinius Camillus said. ‘That you were plotting against the emperor, and he had been working alongside you while hoping to expose you…’

‘This is nonsense,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’ve been working with Ozymandias for months …’

‘He was onto you from the start,’ Gabinius Camillus said with eager satisfaction. ‘He knew you were a traitor. He has been playing a long game…’

‘He’s a liar,’ said Flaminius. ‘He’s the traitor, not me. He betrayed me!’ Was this the Egyptian’s revenge for the time he had slept with Nitocris? ‘What does his wife say?’

‘I’ve not spoken to the girl,’ said Gabinius Camillus dismissively. ‘No doubt she agrees with her husband, as a good wife should.’ His face twisted savagely.

‘This is lunacy,’ said Flaminius. ‘Can you put aside your personal grievances for a second and do something for me? There is a rebel army approaching Alexandria. Inform the prefect, have him call out the guard, liaise with the legion, whoever is left in the camp—the rest are down in the Thebaid as far as I know…’ Even if the emperor was assassinated, if Arctos’ army was neutralised before it could do any damage, power could pass into the hands of whoever Hadrian had nominated…

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘Do you truly expect me to make such a fool of myself? The prefect is watching the beast fights in the arena.’ That meant it was still morning, Flaminius thought; he had lost all sense of time down in this black hole. But he should have known it was still morning. By afternoon, the emperor would be dead, the city under attack, the empire in the balance. ‘He doesn’t want to be troubled by the ravings of a gladiator rebel,’ the commander went on, ‘who poses as an imperial agent in an attempt to assassinate the emperor. We have you safely where you belong. And you... You won’t leave this cell alive.’

Flaminius felt a chill of fear. He knew this man meant it. Whatever confused ideas the commander had, he had the one man who knew his shameful secret under lock and key—at his mercy.

‘I can’t believe you’re going to try and kill me,’ he said. ‘You’re not even armed. You think you can kill me? I’m a young man, trained in a hard school. You’re old, gone to seed, decadent…’

‘I’m no beardless boy, like you, with all the men swooning after your tight buttocks!’ said Gabinius Camillus. ‘I’m a man. You’re nothing but a child.’ His eyes cold with cruelty, he caressed his sword pommel. ‘If things were different, I’d deflower you where you lie. But there’s no time for that.’

He rose. Flaminius leapt to his feet, fists clenched. But to his surprise, the commander went to the iron door and banged on it. As the gaoler struggled to drag it back open, Gabinius Camillus looked scornfully at Flaminius’ pitiful defence.

‘I won’t kill you,’ he said. ‘Your treacherous blood won’t stain my blade. You’re right: it would look bad. Even if you are a traitor, I don’t want your blood on my hands. But some people in the empire are above the law. I’ll leave it to them to mete out justice.’

The door opened. Gabinius Camillus picked up his lamp, then brushed past the gaoler. He called out orders, and Flaminius heard the receding tramp of feet.

A look of weary resignation on his face, the gaoler began the struggle to shove the door closed again.

—27—

It shut with a slam, cutting off all light and hope. Very distantly, through the thick iron, Flaminius heard footsteps receding and tuneless whistling.

He crawled back to the wall and leant against it. He had made an enemy in Gabinius Camillus. At the time he’d not put any thought to it, but the consequences of his own actions had come back to haunt him. And yet the commander of the civic guard had been afraid to kill him himself—afraid for his career. Now someone else was going to do his dirty work.

But the guards had been dismissed. Why was that? The last he had heard suggested even the gaoler had gone. So that there would be no witnesses? But what would happen?

Obviously, he would die. He would die in secret. Throttled or stabbed or smothered, who could tell…? Ah, he was growing morbid. He would die, and with him would die all hope for the empire.

He heard something beyond the door, some sound. Pressing his ear against the cold iron, he strained to identify the noises. The echoes were confusing, but they grew in volume. Someone was walking down the long passage. Towards his cell? The long, empty passage. Surely it was his executioner.

Could he escape? Could he hope to fight off the assassin, break free? The guard had been withdrawn. But he would have to fight his way through the palace of Hadrian and out into a city where he had no friends. He remembered the message he had given Ozymandias. But then he remembered something else, and the memory was like a knife blade to the heart.

Ozymandias and Nitocris had betrayed him.

Flaminius crawled away. The sound of footsteps reduced to a distant thudding. He sat in the corner, facing what he hoped was the direction of the iron door. When it opened, he would be ready for whatever came.

Closer and closer the footsteps drew until it seemed that they were echoing inside Flaminius’ own skull. This wasn’t the first time he had been imprisoned down here, but in the past at least he had known that he would face the due process of law. Now Gabinius Camillus, eager to avenge a slight to his dignity, had cast away all law and custom, everything that had ever made Rome great, condemning Flaminius to die at the hands of a murderer. The world was descending into chaos but as far as Flaminius knew the emperor was still alive, sailing towards an uncertain future in Egypt. Had Crassus Piso’s signal reached him? Did he think Alexandria was safe? But he would die before he came ashore, if what Flaminius had learnt was true.

The footsteps came to an end. A key was inserted into the lock. It turned slowly, then quicker. There was a click. The door rumbled slowly open. Flaminius could picture his new visitor heaving on the great metal construction. Sweat running down his face, pooling on his skin. The gaoler had been a muscular man but even he had found the door hard to shift.

A shaft of light cut through the stale air. It opened wider; a bulky figure was silhouetted in its glow. The newcomer peered into the gloom of the cell. Torchlight glittered on the blade of a short sword.

‘Crassus Piso,’ said Flaminius. ‘Come right in.’

‘You weren’t surprised?’ The Praetorian shouldered the door open before stepping inside. The torchlight illuminated a gloomy scene. Flaminius could see a tempting vista of the passage leading away to freedom. But between him and it stood a sword bearing Praetorian.

‘Perhaps a little,’ said Flaminius. ‘You helped me escape at one point. I was never quite sure whose side you were on. Technically, we’re both on the same side. We both want to save the emperor—and the empire—from destruction. But somehow you got it into your head that I was the assassin.’

Crassus Piso settled down in the doorway, cross legged like an Egyptian scribe, the sheathed sword across his knees. ‘You killed Rutilio Victorinus. Now I’m going to kill you.’

‘Take your time.’ Flaminius couldn’t believe how calm he felt. This was it. There was no escape. If he tried, he would die. If he didn’t try, he would still die. ‘I’m going nowhere. And you don’t seem to be going anywhere either.’

Crassus Piso shifted a little, leaning back against the door jamb. ‘I’ve got some important business at noon,’ he said, ‘but that’s still a while off. I can take my time about this job. There will be no mistakes.’

‘Was it a mistake when you killed the civic guard escorting me?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I escaped, thanks to you.’

‘That was indeed a mistake,’ said Crassus Piso. ‘It was also a mistake to let you fall under suspicion of murdering Apuleius Victor. He needed to go, he was working against us. It seemed a good idea to implicate you in his murder. But we couldn’t allow you to be questioned by the authorities. You knew too much. And you had information we needed. Vital information. That guard was difficult to kill, and you were fast. You got away from me before I could recover my wits.’ He shrugged. ‘But other agents brought it about that you were taken for interrogation under better circumstances.’

‘You mean the Mechanist?’ Flaminius said. A wild stab in the dark, not a happy thought under the circumstances, and yet it hit home.

‘You knew?’ Crassus Piso raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re good, I’ll give you that. Yes, it was the Mechanist who brought it all about. He’s been a great help. Even though he can be a liability.’

‘Arctos doesn’t like this wonder worker?’ Flaminius asked.

Crassus Piso laughed. ‘Nobody likes him,’ he said. ‘But he has his uses. I should think his reward will be a slit throat when his usefulness is at an end, and I’ll be only too happy to be the man to do the slitting. But for the moment, yes, he’s vital to our plans.’

‘To kill the emperor,’ said Flaminius. Crassus Piso nodded as if that was obvious. ‘You’re not a Praetorian at all, are you?’

‘I brought a message sealed with the emperor’s seal ring,’ Crassus Piso laughed.

‘A cunning forgery,’ Flaminius suggested.

Crassus Piso grinned. ‘Well done! You’ve never impressed me with your intelligence so much in the past.’

Flaminius peered at him. In the torchlight from the doorway, Crassus Piso was indistinct, shadowed. ‘Have we met before?’ he asked. ‘I mean before the incident in the waystation?’

Crassus Piso laughed again. ‘How pompous. How Roman. The incident in the waystation. Of course we’ve met before.’ He seemed piqued. ‘My disguise isn’t that good. I’m hardly in disguise at all. Neither Victorinus nor me were supposed to meet you face to face, for fear that you’d recognise us.’

‘You must be right,’ said Flaminius resignedly. ‘I can’t be all that clever. I don’t remember you. Where did we meet?’ He eyed the man’s physique. ‘Was it in the arena? You have the look of a gladiator…’

‘Light is beginning to dawn,’ said Crassus Piso, enjoying himself. ‘I was sent to the arena years ago. For what they considered to be crimes, although my master was a cruel, vile man. I killed him not because he beat me, but because he beat her. That young girl. Yes, she was a slave. Yes, it was his right. But he didn’t have to take such relish in it. I broke his neck. Then it was a choice between the arena or crucifixion.’

‘I see,’ said Flaminius drily. ‘I heard many such stories from gladiators, slave or free.’ He remembered Camilla’s own account, so similar in many ways. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’

‘Nothing?’ said Crassus Piso. ‘You never kept slaves? You never profited from the labour of slaves? All you Roman citizens do.’

‘Barbarians keep slaves as much as civilised people,’ said Flaminius. ‘The Caledonians do, the Egyptians do. I can understand that you might not like it if you are a slave—I’ve seen enough of that life while undercover to have an inkling of what it’s like, to be treated worse than a dog….’

‘You know nothing,’ said Crassus Piso bitterly. ‘You—you know nothing about what it’s like. What it does to a man. And then, to fight in the arena, to be the darling of the mob. All those free men and freedmen, hanging on your every deed…’

‘It must go to your head,’ said Flaminius with a shrug. ‘Now I’ve placed you. You and Victorinus, if those are real names, since you’re clearly not a citizen, and I assume your mate was the same. You were those hulking brutes of gladiators who went everywhere with Arctos. Has he promised you power when he finally gets control of the empire? The slave is as good as his master, is that it?’

Crassus Piso’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’re not taking me seriously,’ he said, leaning forward menacingly. ‘Unwise. Very unwise. I’m the man with the sword. I’m the one in charge now. You’re my slave, not the other way around. You can keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll kill you. I can. I have the power.’

‘I thought that was why you came here,’ said Flaminius. ‘I thought that was why Gabinius Camillus, that well-known respecter of slaves’ rights, dismissed the guard and gave you free run of the dungeons. To kill me. Or is there another option?’

Crassus Piso sat back on his haunches again. ‘There’s no other option. Arctos got everything he wanted from you. Now you’re just a danger. My mission here is to kill you. Then I’ll be going on a short sea voyage.’

‘Is that so?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Or have you just been to an oracle? I know how mysterious these people can be…’

‘Don’t play the fool,’ said Crassus Piso. But Flaminius was still playing for time. A sea voyage. That fitted with the notion of Hadrian’s assassination taking place before he set foot on Egyptian soil. And fire was involved. The river pirates… And fire? That sounded like the trickery of Skimbix—the Mechanist, as these people called him.

‘So it’s you who will kill the emperor,’ he said.

Crassus Piso shook his head. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I won’t kill any emperor, I’ll leave that to Arctos’ favourites. But now I’ve got it into your dense Roman skull why you’re going to die, I won’t delay it any longer.’

He rose to his knees, slipping the sword from its sheath as he did so. The sheath he flung to one side and it went skittering into the shadows on the other side of the small cell. The sword winked meaningfully in the twilight.

It was a gladiator’s short sword, much the same kind of Iberian steel blade used by legionaries in battle. Flaminius much preferred the cavalry longsword of the kind he had grown accustomed to while a tribune of auxiliary horse with the Ninth Legion in Britain. While the short sword could be used both point and edge, the longsword gave more reach in the fight, particularly useful if used from horseback. But Flaminius had wielded the longsword while on foot to particular effect. Since he had been working as a gladiator, in the arena or on the run, he had seen little of the longsword.

All this flashed through his mind in seconds, irrelevant detail sparked off by the glint of the blade. Even as his mind worked like a slave, his body tensed, the blood raced round, his teeth gritted and gnashed…

Crassus Piso brought the sword down.

Flaminius flung himself forward. Not away from the blade as it descended like a meteor betokening ill omen, but forwards, into Crassus Piso’s guard. His shoulder slammed against the gladiator’s muscular chest. While Crassus Piso’s backbone crashed into the door jamb his arms sprang wide as if anticipating crucifixion. A flailing arm caught the door and it shuddered shut. All light from the passage was cut off, and the cell fell into darkness.

Brawny arms wrapped themselves round Flaminius’ neck. Blood sang in his ears. He plunged his bony fist into a well upholstered ribcage and the gladiator grunted. Stars exploded in the darkness as Crassus Piso’s skull connected with Flaminius’ with maximum force. In the process, he must have lost his grip on the imperial agent’s neck, and Flaminius fell to the ground at the gladiator’s sandaled feet.

One of those feet stamped down on Flaminius’ shoulder. Bones grated against each other and pain flashed though his mind. He rolled over, seized hold of the gladiator’s foot, and heaved. The man hit the side wall with a bone crunching thud.

No mob would have paid to see this fight. It was violent but hardly showy. At least no one could see it, unless they were watching at the crack in the door. The line of light cut the darkness like a thin knife.

Flaminius rolled over and scrambled towards the half open door. Even as he did, a hand shot out of darkness and seized him by the hair. His eyes weeping as his roots tore against his scalp, he wheeled round again, sinking his elbow into where he judged the man’s ribs to be. As Crassus Piso staggered backwards they both heard a jingle of steel from the ground. The sword!

Flaminius flung himself down, colliding with Crassus Piso as he did. His fingers closed round a sword hilt. Crassus Piso’s own digits clamped vice-like round his own.

‘Holding hands now, are we?’ Flaminius grunted. ‘That’s nice.’

His left hook gouged into Crassus Piso’s nose and he heard the bone snap in the darkness. The fingers relaxed their hold. Flaminius stepped away, his back colliding with the cell wall.

He heard a grinding rumble. Light flamed in his eyes. He rubbed at them with his left hand. The fallen gladiator had seized hold of the lower part of the door and was heaving it open with Herculean strength. Torchlight struck highlights from Crassus Piso’s oiled biceps. Flaminius attacked him with the sword.

Crassus Piso rolled over, kicking upwards, catching Flaminius in the ribcage. Flaminius stumbled backwards, almost losing hold of the sword. Crassus Piso grabbed the doorjamb and levered himself out of the cell with a facility that would have warmed the cockles of Archimedes’ heart.

Flaminius, head swimming, scalp blazing with pain, forced himself into motion. He staggered out of the cell into the light of the corridor, sword in hand, in time to see a burly figure vanishing up a staircase at the end of the passage. Coming down towards him, glancing back in puzzlement after the running man, were two people, a man and a girl.

They turned to face him. Gasping, Flaminius levelled his stolen sword, ready to fight to the finish.

—28—

‘I don’t want to kill you,’ he warned them, ‘but I will do if you try to stop me.’

‘Flaminius!’ said Ozymandias, hugging his sister closer. ‘What’s got into you? Was that the Praetorian you told me about?’ He indicated the now vanished Crassus Piso with his thumb.

‘He came to kill me,’ said Flaminius. ‘We fought: he ran. He left this memento.’ He brandished the sword meaningfully at them.

Nitocris cried out, ‘Gaius! We’re here to help you!’

Flaminius’ lip curled. ‘Help me? Like you helped me before? Get out of my way. I’ve got work to do. You might not care about the empire, but I do.’

Ozymandias spread his hands. ‘Listen to me, Flaminius,’ he said, with an angry glance at his sister. ‘All that was a ruse.’

‘A ruse?’ Flaminius said. ‘Oh, of course it was. A ruse that gets me banged up down here where any fake Praetorian can come in and murder me.’

‘Fake?’ said Nitocris. ‘He’s not really a Praetorian?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘One of Arctos’ gladiators. So was the other one, the one I killed. I should have recognised them both, but they looked somehow different.’ He pulled a face. ‘I didn’t recognise Arctos when I saw him, either.’ He lowered his sword. ‘If it was a ruse, what was the idea?’

Ozymandias folded his arms and gazed at Nitocris. She looked down at the ground. ‘My brother is right,’ she admitted. ‘We had to tell the Romans we were against you or we’d have been in the same trouble. We met the customs man, Marcus Atilius, and it turned out that he had arrested my brother’—she made a face— ‘back when he was a thief. So that didn’t look good. So we said we were looking for you. We knew that when you were carried off you were taken down the canal. We hoped you’d come back that way…’

‘And so I did.’ Flaminius started walking up the passage. ‘And ran into a trap.’

‘Marcus Atilius agreed to help us,’ said Ozymandias, hurrying to keep up, ‘thinking we were truly hoping to trap you. The whole business with the temple and the ambush was his idea. We played along with it. There wasn’t much we could do without incriminating ourselves, and then we’d have been in no position to help you, wherever you had got to.’

‘So we went along with him,’ said Nitocris from Flaminius’ other elbow, ‘hoping that we would get the chance to set you free.’

‘And here we are,’ said Ozymandias, ‘setting you free. What happened to all the guards?’

‘I set myself free,’ Flaminius said as they reached the stairs to the ground floor, ‘with a little help from Crassus Piso and Gabinius Camillus. They both wanted me dead, for their own reasons. So the one colluded with the other. I couldn’t be legally executed without a trial, and all sorts of things might have come out during the proceedings. So they conspired to murder me.’

‘Wait,’ said Nitocris, as the sound of footsteps came from above. ‘If that Praetorian, fake or not, went up here, won’t he have warned the guards?’

Ozymandias halted. ‘Get back,’ he said. ‘Get back into the cell.’

‘Are you out of your tiny Egyptian mind?’ Flaminius complained, but he allowed himself to be hustled back down the passage.

‘Get behind the door,’ Ozymandias asked, shoving Flaminius into the dark space. In lieu of a better plan, the Roman did as he said.

Hobnailed boots trotted down the passage. ‘…always knew it was a bad idea,’ someone was muttering. It sounded like Marcus Atilius.

‘You’ve not been promoted yet, man.’ Gabinius Camillus’ voice echoed back ‘So don’t take that tone with me! It made perfect sense: legally, we couldn’t remove the assassin, and yet we couldn’t let him live. I could hardly have known that he would have fought Crassus Piso off weaponless.’

‘And where’s our famous Praetorian now?’ Marcus Atilius muttered. ‘He made himself scarce quick enough… Hold! What are you doing down here?’

Ozymandias’ voice came in reply. ‘We came to question the prisoner. Commander, what is the meaning of this? No guards on duty, and the prisoner has run off. Do you realise how this will look when there’s an enquiry?’

‘Run off?’ Gabinius Camillus’ voice shook with horror. ‘Where, where, where’s he gone?’ he stammered. ‘Is he not in the cell? Have you not tried looking in there?’

Flaminius pressed himself back against the wall, as if by doing so he would vanish into the shadows. He listened closely.

‘Of course we tried looking in there,’ Ozymandias said. ‘Your security is a disaster, commander. You leave the cell door open and no one on guard. It’s almost as if you’re conspiring with the prisoner!’

‘No, no, no!’ Gabinius Camillus gulped. ‘You’ve got it all wrong!’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, sir,’ Ozymandias said. Flaminius could tell that the Egyptian was enjoying himself. ‘You’re talking to an imperial agent.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Gabinius Camillus abjectly. ‘If he’s not in the cell, he must have escaped. Sir.’

‘Obviously he’s escaped!’ Ozymandias shouted. ‘Well? Start searching for him! No, not in the cell. He’s not going to be anywhere near here. You leave cell doors open and no guards on duty, your prisoner won’t wait around!’

‘I think I saw him making for the street,’ Nitocris added.

As a ploy it was threadbare, but Flaminius could heard the gratitude in Gabinius Camillus’ voice as he led his men back up the steps.

Their hurrying footsteps receded into the distance. Ozymandias poked his head round the cell door.

‘Still here?’ he said cheerily. ‘Time we were going.’

Flaminius detached himself from the shadows and joined them. ‘They’ve gone?’ he said gruffly.

‘My brother fooled them,’ said Nitocris, smiling. ‘Now what do we do?’

‘Escape, first,’ said Flaminius. He didn’t think for a second that it would be easy. ‘Then we have to find that assassin and stop him. If we can get on Crassus Piso’s trail... He said something about a journey by water…’

‘Come on then,’ said Ozymandias, and again they hurried up the passage.

At the top of the steps they halted, hidden by shadows thrown by the fiery torches below. The palace was a hive of frenetic activity, with guards racing back and forth, spears at the ready. Gabinius Camillus’ powerful voice was audible: ‘Twenty drachmas to the man who brings me the fugitive, dead or alive…’

Flaminius looked at Ozymandias. ‘This doesn’t seem like a good time.’

‘We’ll have to wait,’ the Egyptian said. ‘My sister told them you’d gone in the direction of the street. In which case, that’s where they’ll be heading.’

Soon silence descended on the corridors of the palace. Flaminius ventured out into the main passage. Outside, the sun was almost at noon. There was no time to waste.

‘This way,’ he said, and still gripping his stolen sword he led them towards the back of the palace. A backdoor led through a court and in the direction of the harbour. He explained this to his companions as they hurried through the palace.

But even as he was leading them through the main hall, doors burst open on either side and in swept a group of civic guards. At their head strode Marcus Atilius.

‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘I never trusted a word you said, tomb robber,’ he added, addressing Ozymandias. ‘Now I see that you’ve stooped as low as to consort with rebels and assassins.’ He clicked his fingers and the civic guards marched across the gleaming mosaic floor, spears levelled.

‘Back!’ Flaminius shouted, gesturing Ozymandias and Nitocris to retreat the way they had come. As the civic guards neared, he lunged at the closest with his sword, feinted, swung at another. They scattered out of his way.

‘Seize him!’ Marcus Atilius yelled from a tactical position at the rear. ‘What’s wrong with you? He’s only one man!’

Flaminius turned and ran from the hall before anyone could obey. Ozymandias and Nitocris followed him.

Out in the passage, Flaminius paused to slam the doors shut. ‘Help me with this,’ he told Ozymandias, indicating a large bolt in the door. They wrestled it into place while Nitocris kept watch up the passage. It slammed into place, sending dust clouds rising. The civic guards inside the hall began trying to smash the doors down.

‘Hurry,’ Nitocris called.

Flaminius turned, sword still clutched in his hand. ‘We’ve got to get to the harbour,’ he panted. He led them down the passage towards the main doors as spear butts and fists banged and clattered on the inside of the doors.

‘But Gabinius Camillus went that way…’ Ozymandias was halfway through the sentence when they heard marching footsteps coming up the steps outside.

‘In here,’ said Flaminius, gesturing at the door they were passing.

It led to the dining chamber that had been converted into an office for the commander and his scribes. The latter were all sitting up, staring at the three who had just entered. Flaminius, sword gripped firmly, put a finger to his lips for silence. He closed the door to a crack as armoured figures flooded the hall. Gabinius Camillus marched past.

‘Marcus Atilius! Where are you, man? There’s no sign of the assassin outside… What’s this?’

‘The doors are locked from this side,’ reported a centurion. ‘It seems some of our men are trapped on the other side.’

‘I can see that!’ Gabinius Camillus snapped. ‘Don’t they have the initiative to go around a different way? Oh, just get these doors open!’

Flaminius peered out. Gabinius Camillus and his civic guards were clustered round the doors to the main hall. He turned to Ozymandias and Nitocris.

‘This is our chance. Now!’

On tiptoes, they crept out of the room where the quiescent scribes sat in silence. From what Flaminius knew of their salaries, he doubted any thought himself well paid enough to be a hero. He followed Ozymandias and Nitocris to the main doors and they went down the empty steps into the harsh light of noon.

‘To the harbour,’ Flaminius urged them again.

The bolt was lifted, the doors to the hall burst open. Civic guards flooded out, Marcus Atilius among them, setting upon the men who had rescued them. Gabinius Camillus bellowed for order as the palace descended into a scene of riot.

‘What is this? The Alexandrian civic guard or a comedy troupe?’ His face was purple. ‘I haven’t seen such a farce since I last went to the Odeum! The prefect wants this man apprehended. He’s a dangerous fugitive and conspirator against his imperial majesty! He must be found and apprehended at once. And you don’t need to worry too much about taking him alive, cut the fellow down in the street if need be. And between you and me, it would suit me.’

Marcus Atilius marched up and saluted. ‘Sir, he was here,’ he gasped.

‘Here?’ Gabinius Camillus barked. ‘All I saw was a bunch of fools who’d got themselves locked up. Didn’t you think to go around? This isn’t the only way out of the hall, you dolt.’

‘Sir, he locked us in here,’ Marcus Atilius said. ‘We encountered him here but when we pursued him, he ran out here and locked us in.’

‘This isn’t sounding good, man,’ Gabinius Camillus said threateningly. ‘You can forget any chances of promotion. Where is he now?’

‘He went that way.’ Marcus Atilius pointed back down the passage.

Gabinius Camillus shook his head. ‘Absurd. I’ve just come that way. No sign of the fellow.’

‘He went that way, commander,’ Marcus Atilius reiterated. ‘And not just him—those two Egyptians were with him.’

‘Sir…’

Gabinius Camillus wheeled round. Another Egyptian had crept up behind him. For an instant he thought it was the imperial agent, Ozymandias. Then he recognised the skinny, brown skinned man as his chief scribe. ‘What is it, Sesonchosis?’

‘They came into our office, sir,’ said the scribe obsequiously. ‘They hid there while you went past, then went.’

‘Into the office?’ Gabinius Camillus shouted, and the chief scribe quailed. ‘Why didn’t you stop them?’

‘Sir,’ said the chief scribe, peering round his big nose in a dignified manner. ‘One of them was armed. We are not obliged to endanger our own lives.’

Gabinius Camillus struck the scribe across the face. ‘That man’s a sworn enemy of the emperor! You should have given your lives trying to stop him!’

‘Where did he go?’ Marcus Atilius said.

Sesonchosis shrugged. ‘He did not vouchsafe his destination to we scribes.’ The Egyptian betrayed no discomfort at the welt that glowed on his cheek.

‘Sir,’ said a young civic guard excitedly, ‘I think I heard them say that they were going to the harbour.

—29—

Flaminius halted. Behind them was the Museum and the Library, ahead of them the harbour stretched as far as the Heptastadion, the long causeway that led out to the island of Pharos, where legend said many-faced Proteus had dwelt in the days of Menelaus. The causeway also cut off the Small Harbour from the greater, the Harbour of Happy Return, which thronged with commercial sea traffic to the west.

The sweep of the shore was crowded with temples and palaces, round to the Great Harbour, which led out to the sea. It was enclosed by an arm of land on the right, incorporating causeways and piers, and more piers on the left, joining to Pharos the smaller island containiing the great lighthouse that held that island’s name. Both the Small Harbour and the Great Harbour beyond it were thick with ships.

‘This is where the emperor will come ashore.’ Flaminius gestured at the two harbours this side of the Heptastadion. ‘He will want to go to the Brucheium first before proceeding to the amphitheatre.’

Ozymandias was shading his eyes. ‘Either he’s late,’ he said, ‘or he should already be on his way. It’s almost noon!’

‘What are we going to do?’ Nitocris asked as crowds surged around them, embarking and disembarking from ships and boats. ‘Those civic guards will be searching the city for us.’

‘Only for me,’ Flaminius said reassuringly. ‘I’m the only one they think is an assassin.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Marcus Atilius saw us with you. He never trusted me, not since the days I was a tomb robber. Even now I’m a freedman I still have that hanging over me. A good reputation is priceless, they say. Well, it seems I’m still destitute…’

‘My brother’s right,’ said Nitocris. ‘We’re all on the run. We’re together in this.’ She slipped her hand into Flaminius’. When she saw her brother’s expression, she slipped her other hand into his.

‘In which case,’ said Ozymandias, impatiently disengaging his hand, ‘we’ve got no time for canoodling. We’d better find Arctos and…’

‘And stop him,’ said Flaminius firmly, although he had no notion of how he would achieve this. He had concealed the short sword beneath his tunic, and the cold steel was icy against his warm flesh. Through the fabric, he closed his fingers round the hilt. ‘But where is he?’

There was a sudden blinding flash from the Pharos lighthouse. A collective murmur rose from the people thronging the quay. Nitocris covered her face. ‘What’s happening?’ she wailed.

Ozymandias shaded his eyes again and peered at the lighthouse. The light had turned now and was shining out to sea again. ‘I don’t know,’ he told her. ‘The lighthouse crew must be carrying out some kind of maintenance. Strange time for it. Or are they signalling to the emperor? His ship must be in sight from up there…’

‘Or is it something else?’ said Flaminius grimly, the glimmerings of an idea dawning in his mind. ‘We need a boat, straightaway.’

Even as he spoke, there was a clatter of hobnails and civic guards appeared at the far end of the crowded quay.

‘A boat?’ said Ozymandias, distracted. ‘To get away?’

‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘To get to the lighthouse. Look!’ he added. Ozymandias turned.

Flaminius was pointing at the shores of the small island on which the lighthouse stood. Several boats were moored there, but Ozymandias couldn’t see what was so strange about that. They must belong to the lighthouse crew, or maybe to visitors. The titanic edifice, twelve or more stories high, must require people to maintain it.

Nitocris grabbed his wrist. ‘Hurry!’

The civic guards were forcing their way through the crowd towards them. Ozymandias went with her, after Flaminius.

The imperial agent spoke to the skipper of a small pleasure cruiser. As Ozymandias and Nitocris joined them, sunlight flashed from Flaminius’ brooch which he produced from beneath his tunic.

‘…gives me the authority,’ the imperial agent was saying, ‘to requisition your craft and your own services. You’ll be reimbursed for any losses in due course by the Commissary.’

‘But I’m waiting for the owner,’ said the skipper, a black bearded man with the look of a Tyrian or Carthaginian. ‘Can’t you requisition another vessel? There are plenty to choose from!’

‘Flaminius,’ said Ozymandias urgently. The civic guards were nearing. Marcus Atilius could be heard shouting something.

‘Do those people know you?’ the skipper asked wonderingly.

Flaminius pushed past and jumped down into the boat. The crew gaped up at the newcomer. Ozymandias and Nitocris bustled the skipper after him.

‘Cast off aft,’ Flaminius said remorselessly, and just as the civic guards reached the edge of the quay they set sail.

‘What course should I plot?’ the skipper said. ‘Under protest, you understand.’

‘To the Pharos lighthouse.’ Flaminius leaned against the gunwale, looking back. On the quay a tiny figure that he thought he recognised as Gabinius Camillus was gesticulating at the captain of a Liburnian galley.

‘Then what?’ the skipper demanded cynically. ‘Three times round the harbour? I don’t…’ He halted mid-sentence when Flaminius produced his sword.

‘Skipper, you’re under my orders now,’ the imperial agent declared. ‘If you won’t do what I say because it’s the emperor’s business, you can do it or die.’

‘This is piracy!’ Complaining, the skipper steered them across the busy harbour towards the Pharos lighthouse.

‘Sir.’

Crassus Piso’s voice was filled with worry.

Arctos looked up. A few days earlier when the plan had been trialled, the Mechanist had successfully infiltrated the crew, and no one had been at all the wiser when a ship bound for the quay had gone up in flames. But it had been risky and, having known several reversals of fortune in recent days, Arctos was not prepared to leave anything else in the hands of the most capricious of goddesses.

‘What is it?’ Arctos’ voice echoed irritably from beneath the gladiator helmet he had readopted. ‘The emperor’s fleet will be crossing the horizon. The Mechanist is above, putting the last touches to the plan. The mirror is focusing the sun’s rays. What difficulty do you bring me now?’

‘Sir,’ said the gladiator again, awkward. He stepped aside to let two of his fellow gladiators drag the body of the one of the lighthouse crew past. ‘Ships are heading straight for this island.’

Arctos’ rheumy eyes flared from within the eyeholes of his helmet. ‘Ships?’ he said. ‘What ships? You’re mistaken. Why would anyone be sailing here? They must be making for the open sea.’

‘I wish that was true, sir,’ said Crassus Piso. ‘But they are heading straight for us. One of them, a small pleasure craft, may be off course. But the rest are crammed with armed men.’

Arctos cursed. ‘By all the gods of the underworld,’ he said, ‘what has stirred them up? We made sure no one escaped. It is too late for anything to go wrong. The emperor’s ship will be approaching harbour. Nothing can stop us.’

‘They’ll come ashore and take over,’ said Crassus Piso. ‘It’s Gabinius Camillus’ men. They must have somehow followed me here…’

‘You brought this about?’ Arctos whirled round. ‘I should have known. All that matters is that the Mechanist has enough time to destroy Hadrian’s ship. I am too important to risk arrest. I will go to the ship with the others and we will remain anchored offshore until the crisis is over. But you can stay here and guard the Mechanist. You don’t have to survive. Neither does he. Just make sure he has sufficient time to carry out the plan.’

‘They’ll kill me,’ Crassus Piso protested.

‘I’ve thought about that,’ said Arctos. He clapped his hands and two other gladiators came forward. ‘Bring Talos,’ he commanded them. As they lumbered off to do his bidding, he turned back to the puzzled Crassus Piso and laughed.

‘Your friends are still following,’ the skipper remarked, looking aft.

Flaminius had put his sword down shortly after they had got under way, swearing a solemn oath that he would tell the authorities that the skipper had been acting under duress. The crew had been looking mutinous and it seemed the most diplomatic course to steer.

Now they were cutting across the choppy waters of the Small Harbour, rounding the pier that separated it from the Great Harbour. The Pharos lighthouse shone in the distance, and the noon sunlight danced on the waters, although it was cold in the wind that hissed through the rigging of the cruiser. Still there was no sign of the emperor’s galley. But aft of them, the ships Gabinius Camillus had requisitioned were closing in.

‘They do seem very keen to speak to you,’ the skipper added when Flaminius made no reply.

‘Just keep a course for the lighthouse,’ said Flaminius grimly.

‘What are we going to do when we get there?’ Ozymandias muttered. ‘I understand that we’re getting away from the civic guards, but we’ve not shaken them. How will all this help us stop Arctos murdering the emperor?’

Flaminius looked at him in surprise. Both Ozymandias and his sister were gazing expectantly at him. Of course, he hadn’t had time to explain.

‘It came to me in a flash,’ he said with a grim chuckle. Even as he spoke, the lighthouse flared again. ‘Do you remember that ship, Ozymandias? The one on fire? It was right at the start of the Days of Hadrian…’

‘Of course I do,’ said Ozymandias. ‘That was when I still had a job…’ He gave Flaminius a meaningful look.

‘You haven’t been sacked yet,’ said Flaminius brusquely. ‘Later, when I was a prisoner of Arctos, before you and your Bucolic chums came to my rescue, he said something that I won’t forget either. Hadrian would ascend to heaven in a blaze of glory, he said. It reminded me of the ship on fire. There’s a connection between the two, although I can’t see it yet.’

Ozymandias went to the side. He peered at the boats moored beside the massive lighthouse. ‘And you think that’s what Arctos is going to do? Set fire to the emperor’s galley? But how? Using naphtha, maybe? Is this some trick of the Mechanist?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘I think Skimbix is involved, but I don’t know about naphtha. I think…’

‘Look!’ said Nitocris. ‘They’re sailing away!’

Flaminius cursed. ‘Arctos,’ he muttered. ‘Running out on us again.’

‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ said Ozymandias, bewildered. ‘Unless…’ He looked stricken. ‘He’s going to attack the emperor’s galley, wherever it is.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘No, they’re just mooring a little way from the island.’

The boats had weighed anchor a few hundred fathoms from the lighthouse’s walls.

‘Should we change course?’ asked the skipper, who had noticed their departure.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘We can forget them. What we want is on the island.’

Ozymandias and Nitocris looked at him in confusion.

—30—

As the skipper took the tiller and guided them to the small quay, the Pharos lighthouse towered over them.

The famous edifice was constructed in three tapering tiers, built of large blocks of light coloured stone sealed together using molten lead, thus able to stand up to the lashing waves that broke upon them was the vessel drew closer. The lowest tier was a square section about eighty cubits high; above this was an octagonal section just as high, and above this a circular section, which rose to the top of the tower where a vast mirror was positioned to reflect sunlight, so the tower could be seen far out to sea. In the night-time a fire burnt up on that plinth, whose flames were reflected by the same mirror, and guided ships into Alexandria’s Great Harbour during the night watches. People called it the Light of the World.

The ship coasted into the anchorage, and the crew hurried to make them fast to the quay. Another shower of spray from the waves drenched everyone.

The skipper looked back over his shoulder at the remorseless civic guard galley, then turned to Flaminius. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked.

‘Do?’ said Flaminius, as if it was obvious. ‘Go ashore, of course. We have to get to the top of that tower. That’s where the assassin is.’

Ozymandias and Nitocris exchanged glances. Nitocris looked up. ‘It’s very high,’ she said.

‘Two hundred and fifty cubits,’ said Ozymandias knowledgably. ‘There’s a passage leading up to the top, though, a long stairway. They sometimes let people look round it. We went there when we were younger, didn’t we?’ He nudged Nitocris. ‘But we didn’t go up because Nitocris was scared.’

She glared at him, then hurried down the gangplank. At the bottom she looked back.

‘Aren’t any of you coming?’ she said scornfully. ‘Gaius says we have to go to the top of the tower.’

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and made her way up a ramp towards a high doorway.

‘I think I’ll stay here with my crew,’ said the skipper, ‘so I can explain to the civic guards that I was forced to transport you.’ He seemed very calm, almost as if the empire wasn’t on a knife edge. The Liburnian galley was drawing closer and closer.

‘You do that,’ said Flaminius, and he followed Nitocris, who had already vanished inside the building. Ozymandias gave the skipper an apologetic look and hurried after both of them.

As they slithered across the rocks towards the gateway, he said, ‘Just what are we doing, Flaminius? What do you mean, the assassin is up there?’

Flaminius gestured him to hurry. ‘There’s no time,’ he said. ‘No time to explain.’

Ozymandias halted. ‘You can’t expect me to follow you unthinkingly…’ He broke off at a cry from within the building. A girl’s cry.

They ran into the large square hall that took up the base of the tower. In the air hung the smell of lamp oil magnified many times. From outside they heard the crash of surf against rock. At the far end a wide flight of steps led upwards. Standing in the middle of the hall, hand to her mouth, was Nitocris. She was staring at a heap of objects in the corner. As they came in, she turned with horror on her face.

‘Dead…’ she gasped. ‘They’re all dead.’

Ozymandias ran forward and caught Nitocris in his arms. In the corner lay the bodies of men in drab tunics: slaves or freedmen. They had been butchered. Flaminius went to investigate.

Returning, he said, ‘No, it’s not Arctos or his men. They must have been the lighthouse crew.’

‘I saw them when I came in,’ Nitocris said. ‘This place is evil.’

‘They call it the Light of the World,’ Ozymandias said drily. ‘A beacon that guides ships through the night to the greatest city of the universe.’

‘Second greatest,’ Flaminius corrected him. But this was no time for civic pride. ‘We can do nothing about these poor fellows. We’d better get up the steps.’

They crossed the marble floored hall and began to ascend, soon reaching a landing and a right-hand turn where another flight led to the next level. The walls were ornamented with murals showing the wild and wonderful conquests of Alexander the Great. The place was large and strangely empty, their desperate footsteps echoing back from the walls was the only sound except the distant rumour of surf.

‘They’ve all gone,’ Ozymandias panted as they reached the top of the second flight. He was staggering. His recent career had been sedentary, and he’d had little time for running up cyclopean flights of steps. ‘Why are we wasting time and energy here?’

‘Keep running,’ said Flaminius. ‘The Mechanist is at the top of the tower. He means to assassinate the emperor with fire from heaven.’

‘Skimbix? But how?’ Nitocris panted. ‘You showed me that he was no magician, just a trickster. How could anyone do that who was not a genuine thaumaturge?’

‘I have a nasty feeling that I know,’ said Flaminius. ‘But we need to get to the top of the tower.’

They were passing the oil stores now, crossing another landing towards another flight of steps. Huge oil jars, each one higher than Flaminius was tall, stood in serried ranks, shrouded in darkness. Heaped on the floor were bundles of chopped wood.

The next flight of steps was illuminated by large archways in the wall that looked out over the surrounding harbour. Cold winds scurried up and down.

The lighthouse was on a north-south axis. The sea lay to the east, beyond the pier from the island that flanked the entrance to the Great Harbour. Were those sails Flaminius could see on the distant skyline? Just as he was about to ask his companions for their opinions, Ozymandias staggered to a complete halt.

‘What are you doing?’ Nitocris cried. ‘Why are you being such an idiot?’

‘I didn’t want to say it,’ said Flaminius grimly. ‘But your sister’s right.’

Ozymandias face was rigid. ‘I can’t go on,’ he gasped apologetically. ‘That height… all the way down…’ He made a circumscribed gesture that took in the entire sea and the rocks far below. ‘Carry on without me…’ he managed. ‘You’ve got to stop Skimbix, Flaminius.’

‘Come on,’ said Nitocris. They turned and hurried onwards.

As they reached the next landing Flaminius glanced back over his shoulder to see Ozymandias, face dark with fury and frustration, pounding his thigh with his fist. He must be suffering from vertigo. Flaminius was aware that it was a long way down, but he was too intent on reaching the top to have waste time on fear.

As they started up the next flight, they heard a slamming of doors far below, a pounding of footsteps and the boom of voices.

‘Gabinius Camillus and his guards,’ Flaminius muttered.

Running footsteps echoed right behind them. Someone was crossing the previous landing.

Nitocris turned in fright, then relaxed. ‘What are you doing?’ she scolded. ‘Don’t you know we’re in a hurry?’

‘It’s the civic guards,’ Ozymandias said breathlessly as he caught up. ‘They’ve entered the tower and they’re after us.’

‘Not suffering vertigo anymore?’ Flaminius asked as they reached the top of the next flight. The sound of many feet came from far below.

Ozymandias shook his head curtly. ‘I got over it. The only problem I can see now is the fact we’re running up a flight of steps with a gang of madmen with spears. And there’s only one way out of here.’

‘You think that’s the only problem,’ Flaminius muttered. His legs were an agony, his lungs blazed like the beacon above at night-time. His head was swimming.

The wind hit them as they came out at the top of the steps. They were out in the open on a great observation deck that showed a view of the surrounding city and the wide sea. A triton stood at each corner, while another statue, this one of Neptune, stood on top of the tower high above, where the mirror flashed back the light of the noon sun. Even as they watched, a ray sprang out, angling down towards the waves.

A hexareme was approaching. Emblazoned on its sail was an emblem of a laurel wreath. Flaminius recognised it as the emperor’s galley.

Above them reared a great octagonal tower. In its side was a door leading to another flight. In front of the entrance stood a tall statue of bronze, arms raised high in a seeming gesture of defiance.

‘We’re a third of the way up the tower,’ said Flaminius. ‘We’d better keep going.’

‘That statue’s moving,’ Nitocris cried out. ‘It’s another automaton!’

She was right. The metal statue was stalking towards them, menacing, arms outstretched. While those in Skimbix’s temple had not moved from their plinths, this—a more advanced model? —walked confidently, like a living man. But a living man of bronze.

Dry mouthed, the hairs rising on his sweat drenched scalp, Flaminius remembered the old tale of the bronze giant who had guarded the shores of Crete in the Heroic Age. This was no giant—it was taller than Flaminius, but no taller than the gladiators he had known.

Out there on the sea was the emperor’s ship. Hadrian himself must be there on the poop. And the mirror at the top of the lighthouse was sending out a beam of light. Flaminius remembered another story—Archimedes and the defence of Syracuse against the Roman fleet…

‘Gaius!’ Nitocris cried. The metal statue lunged at the Roman with a smashing blow of its mighty arms. Flaminius leapt backwards, the small of his back slamming against the balustrade that surrounded the observation deck, winding him. ‘Your sword!’

He remembered the weapon he had brought from the palace of Hadrian. The metal statue lunged at him again and Flaminius brought it up in a desperate attempt to parry the blow. The steel blade shattered into pieces and Flaminius was left clutching the hilt from which protruded half a cubit of broken blade. He flung it away and it skidded across the floor with a musical clang.

Cold bronze fingers sank into Flaminius’ neck. He was forced backwards over the rail. He grabbed his uncanny assailant by the brazen ribs and kicked at its metal legs, but it was as futile as… as attacking a statue. A statue made of bronze. It was forcing him over the edge. He received a confused, upside down view of the surrounding sea far below…

There was a clang, and the monster cocked its head as if wondering what fly had attacked it. Ozymandias had found a metal cresset somewhere, and as Flaminius watched, he belaboured the metal statue with it. It let go of Flaminius, who snatched hold of the rail with one hand and hung there, then stomped round in a circle. It lashed out with its arm and knocked Ozymandias backwards. Metal feet clanging on the marble pavement, it stomped after him.

Nitocris went to the balustrade where Flaminius dangled by one hand. She reached out to grab him. His pale face looked up to see her, and he lifted up his free hand to grab her slim wrist. He was heavy! His weight pulled Nitocris against the rail and for one awful second she thought she was going to be dragged over with him. But somehow Flaminius managed to grip the top of the balustrade and drag himself over.

Seeing Ozymandias being pursued by the metal automaton he moved as if to help him, but Nitocris seized his hand. She shook her head and pointed at the stairs leading up into darkness. ‘There’s nothing you can do here,’ she cried. ‘Get up there and stop them.’

Flaminius was about to argue when he saw the sense of this. He gripped both her hands comfortingly, then let go, turned, went through the arch and ran up the spiral staircase beyond.

Far below, the echo of the stamping feet of the civic guards drifted upwards on the breeze.

—31—

The staircase wound round and round. Archways led off at regular points. As Flaminius hurried past them he caught glimpses of long abandoned rooms floored with marble, walled with granite. For a building with a single purpose, much of it was going to waste. The smell of burnt oil grew stronger the further up he went.

He came out onto another, smaller, observation deck, a circular walkway and balustrade that ran around the third and final tier of the lighthouse, high above the tritons that stood on the corners of the lower deck. At the top of the circular pillar that was the third tier stood a dome on top of which was the statue of Neptune Flaminius had seen from below. It had looked very small back then, standing four square and indomitable, commanding the distant surf, trident in hand. Now it was larger than life, even by Olympian standards: it must be about three times as tall as a man.

Beneath it, between the pillars that held up Neptune’s statue, the great bronze mirror shone dazzlingly with the reflected light of the sun. It was angled downwards, down at the sea, and from it shone that ray he had glimpsed earlier, hazy and indistinct in the noontime glare, but directing the concentrated sunlight towards the sail of the still distant but rapidly closing emperor’s galley. A dark figure stood up there, silhouetted against the glare. Flaminius’ eyes narrowed. It must be the Mechanist.

Hearing the clash of weapons, he glanced downwards. On the lower deck a fight had broken out. The glare from the metal skin of the automaton caught his eyes blindingly. Almost as bright as the bronze mirror above.

Rubbing his eyes, he vanished into the final tier of the lighthouse, following another spiral staircase. It seemed very dark to his dazzled eyes; he staggered a few times, half blind, and had to clutch at the side wall. His legs felt ready to give way and his lungs seemed to have ignited like a funeral pyre.

At last he stumbled out into the light at the top of the tower. The wind whipped about him, and he looked downwards involuntarily. The waves crashed against the base of the tower, far, far below, and he felt very sick.

The tall figure spun round, arms lifted. He clutched hold of a stanchion and glared at the newcomer.

‘What are you doing?’ he said petulantly. ‘How did you get here? Arctos posted guards!’ He paused. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

Flaminius leaned against a pillar, gasping for breath, his eyes on the lethal ray of light. ‘Get that mirror back where it should be!’ he panted.

There was a large lever nearby, large enough to move the world it seemed to his dazed eyes, thrust low down on the floor. He pointed at it. ‘Is that the control? I’ll move it myself.’

He stumbled forwards, but the Mechanist rushed up to stop him. As he came out of the glare, his face became clear to Flaminius. This tall, dignified man was not the Egyptian wizard and fraud Skimbix, but the Greek engineer he had met in the Library.

‘Hero,’ Flaminius said. ‘We met in the Library. You’re the last person I’d have expected to side with forces of chaos.’

The Greek scholar laughed. ‘Such histrionics,’ he said with a sneer. ‘You Romans are barbarians. If Archimedes had known what he was about, he would have destroyed the whole race before you got beyond Italy.’

‘Archimedes,’ said Flaminius, glancing wildly at the great bronze mirror. ‘The siege of Syracuse.’

‘You know something of your own city’s history,’ Hero noted, surprised. ‘I’ll give you credit you for that if nothing else. Yes, when you Romans descended on the city of Syracuse in Sicily like the barbarians you are, Archimedes sprang to the defence of his fellow citizens, using his engineering skill to devise new weapons. One was a great bronze mirror that caught the rays of the sun and flung them, in concentrated form, at the sails of the Roman fleet. The sails blazed, the ships burnt. Alas, it was not enough to forestall the invaders, and the genius who was Archimedes died on the blade of some fool of a legionary.’

‘And that’s what you’re doing here?’

Flaminius was playing for time as he edged towards the great lever. He wondered if Archimedes’ inventions had included automatons. Or was Hero himself responsible for these men of metal?

There was barely any space up here, and wherever he stood, that vista of the sea far below assailed his mind. An image of himself falling to his doom flashed before his eyes. ‘You’re going to destroy the emperor’s fleet with this, this death ray?’

‘And the Greek cities will be set free,’ Hero said, nodding, ‘at last governing their own affairs without the interference of barbarians, something that has been impossible since the Macedonians conquered the Greeks, centuries ago. Freedom, you Roman fool. Do you understand that idea?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Flaminius, still moving towards the lever. ‘The cities of the Greeks fell under the thrall of first the Macedonians, and then the Romans. But that was because they refused to cooperate with each other against the “barbarian”. Divide and conquer, that’s a tactic we Romans have used to our profit time and time again. But why kill Hadrian?’

‘Why kill the emperor?’ Hero echoed him. ‘How else can we tear down the empire that has oppressed us for so long? Rome won’t be destroyed. Arctos tells me that she will continue to flourish, another city state among equals, although the imperial eagle will have its wings clipped. If we kill the emperor, the empire will unravel. One death for the liberty of many. Isn’t that fair?’ He sounded almost as if he was trying to persuade himself.

‘I saw that temple,’ Flaminius said, playing for time. ‘Skimbix’s temple. All those statues coming alive and divine voices. Your work?’

‘I worked alongside the Egyptian priest on that project,’ Hero admitted.

‘All that to pander to the superstitions of the mob?’ Flaminius asked. ‘What’s a civilised Greek like you doing encouraging superstition?’

‘Religion, superstition; it’s all one to these credulous barbarians, these lesser breeds,’ said the scholar dismissively. ‘Give them a few toys to play with and they’re your unwitting slaves. One day the whole world will be like that—childish barbarians pacified by machines.’

‘But what is it all for?’ Flaminius wanted to know, appalled by the vision. ‘What are you getting out of it? It wasn’t all just a trap for me, was it? You encouraged me to go to the temple...’

‘You overestimate your own importance,’ Hero replied. ‘It was to impress simple barbarian minds with miracles—in return for which they would hand over money.’

‘It was more about profits than prophets, you mean?’

Hero nodded sardonically. ‘Holy water? That’ll be a drachma—but look, it appears by magic! After Arctos’ gambling ring was broken up, he had to fall back on another plan to raise money for the rebellion. Luckily, Skimbix and I had been working on this one for some time...’

‘But to consider killing Hadrian,’ Flaminius said, still edging towards the lever. ‘Of all emperors, except maybe Nero, Hadrian has always been a friend to the Greeks, a lover of Greek culture. He was taunted for it as a boy. I hear that he intends to travel to Athens to become an initiate into the mysteries of Eleusis. Staunch, old fashioned Romans like Arctos hate him for his philhellenic ways.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve been played for a fool, Greek, for all your wisdom and learning. Arctos has wrapped your round his little Roman finger.’ He lunged for the lever.

But Hero was there before him. Despite his scrawny physique, the Greek was strong; all those calisthenics at the gymnasium had their benefits, Flaminius thought wildly as they wrestled in the midst of the cold firepit. Hero tripped him, and he fell face down into a pile of stinking ashes. The Greek pinned him. Flaminius struggled to move, craning his neck around. From here he had a view of the sea, and the emperor’s galley. Were those wisps of smoke he could see trailing up from the sails of the hexareme?

Ozymandias was dashing round and round the observation deck, running away from the remorseless automaton. Nitocris shouted encouragement from where she clung onto a statue of Triton, out of the automaton’s iron grasp. Ozymandias turned a corner and as he did so he saw armoured figures rushing out of the door that led to the downwards staircase.

He halted. The civic guard swarmed out. At their head was Gabinius Camillus, Marcus Atilius at his side. Gabinius Camillus pointed an exquisitely manicured finger.

‘There’s the Egyptian! Seize him, he’s one of them. Where’s Flaminius?’

Two civic guards rushed forward, spears levelled, to surround Ozymandias. The Egyptian raised his hands in token of surrender. As he did, the clang of metal feet rang out from behind him.

‘What’s that?’ asked a puzzled civic guard.

‘Look!’ shouted his mate, pointing.

Ozymandias glanced over his shoulder. Around the corner appeared the automaton, torso and limbs glittering in the light of the sun. Nitocris shrieked a warning from Triton’s plinth.

The automaton attacked the first civic guard, smashing him to the ground with a single blow. Ozymandias ran, the other civic guard with him.

Gabinius Camillus’ face was ashen. ‘What is that thing?’ he breathed. ‘A metal statue come to life?’

Ozymandias nodded. ‘An automaton,’ he said. ‘A living man of metal.’

Marcus Atilius swore as the automaton stomped towards them. ‘What Egyptian sorcery is this?’ he cried. ‘What unnatural horror have those devils summoned up from Tartarus…?’

The automaton seized him by the neck. He struggled, and the guards rushed forwards to jab their spears futilely at the creature’s metal hide. But the automaton increased the pressure of its bronze fingers, Marcus Atilius’ face purpled; he lolled in the machine’s grasp, a lifeless doll in the grip of a living man. The automaton cast his corpse aside. It landed with a thump on the stone paves.

The civic guards retreated towards the arch, Gabinius Camillus leading the rout. Ozymandias was left behind. The automaton turned to face him.

There was a cry from the tower above.

Flaminius lay on his back, his occipital bone resting on the very edge of the tower, a strong hand gripping him by the face, forcing him down. Hero sat atop him, beard and hair awry, eyes filled with an unholy passion, more a barbarian than a civilised Greek. Out at sea, the galley must be ablaze, but Flaminius could see nothing of it where he lay. Right now, only his own survival mattered to him. The entire empire could go to Hades. He’d probably meet it there.

‘You’ve not spent all your life bent over scrolls, I see,’ he choked out, clutching at Hero’s hand. ‘As tough as any Roman.’

‘I fought for my city against the Judaean rebels,’ Hero said. ‘Every citizen should fight for his city. Since which time I have worked with machines and engines. Not the trade of a weakling. Some of those Greek philosophers spend their days in contemplation, but not me.’

‘Very impressive,’ Flaminius mumbled round the Greek’s sweaty palm. ‘Very well, I submit. Some god has turned down their thumb for me. Are you going to kill me now?’

‘I’ll keep you for Arctos to deal with,’ said Hero triumphantly. ‘He should be coming up here any moment now, to see the destruction of the emperor’s galley.’

‘I don’t want to disappoint you in your moment of triumph,’ said Flaminius, ‘but Arctos has abandoned you.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘No lie,’ said Flaminius. ‘That’s how I got up here. He sailed away when he saw me and the civic guard coming.’ He omitted to mention that the guards had been pursuing him, not Arctos. ‘Leaving you here with only an automaton to guard you.’

Hero sat back, confusion on his face. ‘Automaton?’ He didn’t seem to know what Flaminius was talking about. But the imperial agent didn’t waste time. The moment the Greek released his hand, he writhed round and threw his assailant. Hero clutched at the air, as if demonstrating some abstruse engineering theorem. Then with a cry he vanished from view, plummeting into the windy abyss.

Gasping Flaminius scrambled to his knees. From where he knelt, on the far side of the tower, he could not see the emperor’s galley. But he could see the great lever a few cubits away. He ran over to it and seized hold, straining his muscles as he tried to haul it back up. He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t move it. That Greek really had been stronger than he looked.

Flaminius sobbed with frustration. He had spent more than a week running and fighting and getting very little sleep. It was beginning to tell on him. When all this was over, he fancied a nice spell of leave down at the decadent resort of Canopus. But that would hardly be possible if the Roman empire collapsed into anarchy on the death of the emperor.

He turned and pushed desperately, but still the lever would not shift. He looked around. Was there some kind of grease he could use to oil the machine? He certainly couldn’t see an amphora that might contain it. He froze, clinging to the lever, as he heard the pound of hobnailed boots on the steps below.

Suddenly the windswept top of the tower was crowded with armoured figures.

The familiar tones of Gabinius Camillus were audible. ‘Some of you, help this loyal citizen move that lever. Hasten! The emperor’s life is at stake!’ Flaminius found himself surrounded by civic guards, all putting their sizeable shoulders to the lever. With a grinding noise, it shifted, gathering speed, and with it moved the bronze mirror, directing its beam harmlessly upwards, away from the sea and into the noon sky.

Flaminius turned to see Gabinius Camillus, accompanied by Ozymandias and Nitocris. ‘Well done, old man,’ said the commander, shaking him by the hand. ‘Made a few mistakes along the way, but it’s all been cleared up now. All in the past, I’m sure.’

With them were two civic guards holding a prisoner. Although still clad for the most part in the armour that had seemingly him into an apparent automaton, Crassus Piso no longer wore the helmet and was immediately recognisable. He refused to meet Flaminius’ gaze.

Breathing in the salt air of the sea, Flaminius looked down to see the emperor’s galley sailing triumphantly into the Great Harbour. The sails were blackened and smoking, but someone had doused the flames and now the hexareme passed unimpeded.

There was no sign of Arctos’ ships, which had been moored some way into the sea beyond the pier, although some small dots on the horizon might represent his fugitive forces. A red stain on the rocks far below must be all that remained of Hero…

Flaminius gazed around him in wonder. Surely this was how Jupiter felt, up on Mount Olympus, with the whole world at his feet. He could see the sea to his left, to his right the city of Alexandria with its temples and palaces, its Museum and Library and its mighty walls…but what was that? Beyond the walls, in the far distant haze of the Delta… the winking of lights as if the sun flashed on many spears.

He clung to a pillar for support. Ozymandias saw his discomfort. ‘What is it?’

Flaminius gasped. ‘The Bucolic army… marching on Alexandria!’

Epilogue

‘…and today,’ the prefect droned, ‘Rome has seen that its citizens are loyal and devoted, devoted to the cause of justice. In lieu of his imperial majesty, who is unavoidably absent, it falls upon the unworthy shoulders of Titus Haterius Nepos to enforce Roman justice in full view of the public…’

Down in the arena, a gladiator was fighting for his life against three wild bull elephants. It was an unequal struggle, and some loyal citizens in the crowd were booing. But it was not meant so much as entertainment as instruction. Education. A lesson would be learnt today, demonstrated by death on the sands.

Flaminius looked round the crowded imperial box, seeing familiar faces and faces unknown. Faces half remembered and faces that were new to him, but who knew? Perhaps one day he could count on them all as friends and allies. Or enemies.

‘So Hadrian decided not to visit Egypt after all.’ He broke ruthlessly through Haterius Nepos’ oratory. ‘Makes everything seem a bit pointless, really.’

‘Cheer up, young fellow,’ said Avidius Pollio, lounging by the balustrade. ‘The rebellion is crushed, at least some of its perpetrators are meeting justice—or nemesis, or whoever. By all the gods, you’ve done good work here! His imperial majesty will be very pleased when he hears the news.’

Hadrian had changed his plans at the last moment. Not because rumours of assassination attempts or native uprisings, simply because the sea between Rhodes and Egypt had been the scene of a sudden late summer squall, and his naval prefect had advised him to sail directly to Athens for the Eleusinian Mysteries. The imperial galley that received a scorching at the hands of Hero and his Archimedean death ray had been escorting Praetorians bearing his imperial apologies. Their commanding centurion sat in the imperial box even now, watching the fight in the arena with the appropriate expression of gravitas on his wholesome Italian features.

‘Indeed,’ the prefect said in agreement with Avidius Pollio, though he had been scowling at Flaminius since the imperial agent interrupted him, ‘your Commissary officer must take some of the credit. Unfortunately he was hampered by some of Haterius Nepos’ own men, who received misleading reports. It was a cunning ploy of this fellow, what is his pseudonym, Arctos? Yes, it was a cunning ploy for him to send his own men in the guise of Praetorians…’

‘And accusing the tribune here of conspiracy almost worked,’ said Avidius Pollio. ‘It would have done, too, if it hadn’t been for Flaminius himself, and his assiduous efforts to break up the conspiracy—with no help from your civic guards, might I add!’

Haterius Nepos’ face went dark, but he kept silent.

Avidius Pollio turned to grin craggily at Flaminius. ‘But all that would have been useless, had you not sent your agent to the camp to signal me. We defeated the Bucolic horde in the marshes shortly before you confronted this crazy Greek philosopher up on the Pharos. We’d been marching north, a forced march, ever since we received your message. Just in the nick of time we caught up with that motley army. Bucolics and gladiators, but they put up quite a fight.’

Most of the cohorts were now back in barracks, apart from those privileged few who had earned the right to watch the final show in the Games of Hadrian; these were in the mob below.

‘No match for the iron might of Rome,’ the prefect said, complacent. ‘Roman law and Roman justice will prevail. As we see on the sands before us.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the Praetorian suddenly, ‘how you could have thought a couple of vulgar gladiators were members of the Guard.’ He laughed as if the whole business was absurd.

Of course, he hadn’t been there at the time. The whole business must seem like nothing more than provincial hysteria to him. Flaminius remembered his spell in the Guard. It had been another world…

The prefect sat up, furious. ‘They brought documentation with them,’ he protested, ‘Documentation sealed with the imperial seal! How was Haterius Nepos supposed to know they were imposters? This is intolerable. The imperial seal is unmistakable.’

‘But not unforgeable,’ said Flaminius, producing the fake imperial signet ring he had found in Arctos’ villa. ‘You’ll see it’s an exact copy.’ He allowed the prefect to inspect it. ‘Which begs the question…’

Avidius Pollio grunted. ‘How could a backwaters bandit who surrounds himself with Bucolics and renegade gladiators have been able to get his hands on so convincing a copy?’

‘A mystery as impenetrable as those of Eleusis,’ said Flaminius, who thought this sounded rather clever. ‘Since Arctos and the rest of his cronies—the sorcerer Skimbix included—made a hasty getaway when Hero fell from grace.’

‘But gladiators…!’ The Praetorian ruffled the feathers of the helmet he carried under his arm and laughed again. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Which brings us back to Haterius Nepos’ original point,’ said the prefect. ‘Roman law and Roman justice will prevail in this province as long as it is shown to be enforced. Let us watch the show, gentlemen.’

He turned to look at the arena. Flaminius and the others followed his gaze, and silence fell over the imperial box as they watched Crassus Piso fight his final fight beneath the westering Egyptian sun.

Battling three wild elephants, it was a poor contest. And thus was the justice of Rome served.

Everyone seemed to be very satisfied. But as far as Flaminius was concerned, he had failed. Crassus Nepos had been caught, and executed spectacularly. The Mechanist had been identified and had fallen to his doom. But they had both been little more than dupes—Hero of Alexandria in particular. In all the confusion and self-congratulation, the big fish had escaped the hook.

Somewhere in this empire, rebellion was still brewing. Somewhere, a member of the Roman Senate was still conspiring against his imperial majesty. Somewhere, not so very far away, Arctos was still at large.

The story continues in The Kingdom that Rome Forgot (Autumn 2018)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gavin Chappell has been involved in writing and editing for over a decade. He has written numerous short stories, translations, poetry, novels, and non-fiction.

Also a qualified teacher of further education, Gavin taught English and Creative Writing for many years. He has been published by various publishers including Penguin, and is a member of the Society of Authors.

[1] See The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit

[2] Ancient Greek festival round the time of the January or February full moon, including elements of a festival of the dead.

[3] Flaminius is describing the rites of the equivalent Roman festival, the Lemuria.

[4] See The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit.

[5] See Murder in Hadrian’s Villa.

[6] See The Hadrian Legacy.

[7] See The Gladiator Gambit.