The Temple of the Muses(27)

“You’ve never trusted me,” he complained. I could understand why he thought so, since I delivered that same speech, with minor variations, every few days. One can never truly trust slaves, and some, like Hermes, are less trustworthy than others.

The day was a pleasant one, as most are in Alexandria. The climate was not as ideal as that of Italy, but then, no place save Italy has such a climate. The throngs were lively and cheerful, and the scent of incense mixed with the pervasive smell of the sea. In most respects Alexandria was a more pleasantly aromatic city than Rome.

Armed with my royal commission, I mounted the steps of the Museum. I wanted to pay another visit to the Temple, but on this morning I had more urgent business. I passed through the entrance and made my way past the lecture halls that resounded with the droning of the philosophers, down the long colonnade of the Peripatetics, back to the courtyard where Iphicrates’s marvelous canal lock sat forlornly, unattended. This, I thought, was a project that might not see completion for a while.

I went into Iphicrates’s quarters, which had been tidied up. The blood had been scrubbed from the floor and a pair of secretaries were scribbling away, collating the writings and drawings on a large desk. A third man wandered around the study with a puzzled expression.

“Is the inventory nearly complete?” I asked.

“Almost, Senator,” said the elder of the two secretaries. “We will soon be finished with the drawings. This”—he indicated a papyrus lying on the table—“is the list of his writings and this”—he pointed to another—“is a listing of all the objects we found in these quarters.” I began to study the latter. It would have helped immeasurably to know what had been there before the murder, but this was better than nothing.

“And what might be your business?” I asked the third man. He was a Greek with a long nose and a bald head, dressed like the Librarians I had seen.

“I am Eumenes of Eleusis, Librarian of the Pergamese Books. I came here to find a scroll that the late Iphicrates borrowed from my department.”

“I see. Was it by any chance a large scroll, of Pergamese skin-paper, with olive wood rollers, the handles stained vermilion?”

He looked surprised. “Why, yes, Senator. Have you seen it? I’ve been looking all morning.”

“What is the subject of this book?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“Forgive me, Senator, but Iphicrates borrowed this book in strictest confidence.”

“Iphicrates is dead, and I have been appointed to investigate. Now tell me—”

“Who are you?” interrupted someone from the doorway. Annoyed, I turned to see two men standing in the doorway. The one who had spoken I did not recognize. Just behind him stood a man who looked familiar.

I drew myself up. “I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus and I am investigating the murder of Iphicrates of Chios. Who might you be?”

The man came into the room, followed by the other. Now I remembered where I had seen that one. He was the hatchet-faced officer who had shooed me away from the parade ground.

“I am Achillas,” said the first man, “Commander of the Royal Army.” He wore studded boots and a rich, red tunic. Over that he wore one of those leather strap-harnesses that military men sometimes wear to give the appearance of armor, without having to endure its weight. His hair and beard were trimmed close all around.

“And I’m Memnon, Commander of the Macedonian Barracks,” said the other. “We’ve met.” They were both Macedonians, a nation of men who simply use their names, without the of-this-or-that the Greeks delight in so.

“So we have. And what are you two doing here?”

“By whose authority do you investigate?” demanded Achillas.

I was ready for that one.

“The king’s,” I said, holding out my sealed document. He studied it through slitted eyes.

“That damned, drunken fool,” he muttered. Then, to me: “What is your interest in this matter, Roman?”

“Rome is the friend of Egypt,” I said, “and we are always pleased to render aid to King Ptolemy, Friend and Ally of the Roman People.” I always loved this sort of diplomatic hypocrisy. “I am known in Rome as a skillful investigator of criminal acts, and I am more than happy to place my expertise at the service of the king.” I refolded my commission and placed it inside my tunic, leaving my hand there for the nonce. Memnon pushed forward, glaring at me. He wore cuirass and greaves, but no helmet. I was intensely aware of the short sword belted at his side.

“You aren’t wanted here, Roman,” he growled. “Go back to your embassy and drink and fornicate like the rest of your worthless countrymen. This is Egypt.”