The Temple of the Muses(49)

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

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

“But Ptolemy is a beggar!” I protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even narrower. “What?”

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

“Muse? Who is the Muse of snoops and investigators?”

“A good question. Clio comes the closest, I suspect. She is the Muse of history, and I try to uncover the truth behind historic lies. Or perhaps there’s another Muse, a nameless one for men like me.”

“Your genius is a strange one. Uncle Caius has often said so.” Always Uncle Caius.

I rounded up Rufus and some of the livelier members of the embassy staff and told them of the upcoming sport. We had the huge official litter brought and loaded it up with enough food and wine for a minor banquet. We ended up with a party of six, each man bringing a personal slave to attend to his needs. Then we waited by the main Palace gate for Berenice’s party.