“Decius,” Creticus said. “I want you to forget about that Greek. I want you to concentrate on helping me, which means quieting the fears of the Roman community here and being agreeable to Ptolemy and his family. You are not to investigate any murders. You are not to go near Ataxas or his temple. You are to avoid General Achillas. Is all this clear?”
“Perfectly, sir,” I said.
“And you agree to my rules?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
He looked at me for a long time. “I don’t believe you.”
“You wound me, sir.”
“Get out, Decius. Allow me not to hear about you for a long time.”
I left, relieved at getting off so lightly. Back at my quarters, I found that my adventures for the day were not yet over. Hermes came to me with a tiny, sealed scroll.
“A slave girl came here this morning and gave me this. Said it was extremely important and you were to read it at once.”
“Did you recognize the girl?”
He shrugged. “Just some little Greek.”
“Did she identify her owner?”
“Didn’t say a thing except what I’ve told you. Gave me the letter and ran off.”
“I’ve taught you better than that.”
“She was well-dressed, but all the slaves in this Palace wear good clothes. She was small, dark-haired and -eyed, like most Greeks. I think her accent was Athenian, but I don’t know Greek all that well.”
Of course, all the elocutionists teach the Athenian mode of speech, but if a slave spoke that way, she was probably actually from Athens. That told me little, slaves being an international sort of people.
“Well, are you going to read the damned letter?” Hermes said impatiently.
“These things require a sense of pace,” I informed him as I broke the seal and unrolled the little note. It was on fine papyrus and was written in excellent Greek penmanship with what appeared to be a split-reed pen rather than a quill or an Egyptian brush. All of which was amusing but not terribly relevant. The message, however, was. It read:
To Decius Caecilius Metellus, the Younger, Greeting. We have not met. I am Hypatia, concubine to his Excellency Orodes, Ambassador of King Phraates III of Parthia. I have urgent information to convey to you concerning Parthia, Rome and Iphicrates of Chios. Meet me tonight in the Necropolis, in the tomb of Khopshef-Ra. It is the largest tomb on the south edge of the plaza dominated by the Obelisk of the Sphinx. I will be there at moonrise and will await you for one hour.
“I suppose you’ll go,” Hermes said. He’d been hanging on every word, naturally. “It’s the most foolish thing you can do, so you’ll just have to do it.”
“You think it’s a trap?” I said.
He gaped. “You think there’s a possibility it isn’t?”
“It’s conceivable. The woman has already told Julia that she was privy to correspondence between Iphicrates and the Parthian court. She may well have something she believes is valuable.”
“Why should she betray Parthia?”
“She isn’t Parthian, she’s Greek, and Greeks will betray anybody. Besides, she’s a hetaira, a companion hired for the ambassador’s stay here. He’ll go home to his wife and she’ll be looking for another patron, only this time she’ll be a few years older than last. It’s not the sort of relationship that builds strong loyalty.”
“You just want an excuse to go out and seek trouble again,” Hermes said.
“Admittedly, that’s a part of it. Creticus has forbidden me to pursue this matter any further, and that, to me, is like a bestiarius in the Circus, waving his red kerchief at the bull.”
“The purpose of the kerchief,” Hermes pointed out, “is to lure the stupid bull onto the spear.”
“Don’t trifle with my metaphors. Or was that a simile? I am going.”
And so, forbidden by a Roman official and warned by a slave, I went forth at dusk to meet with a high-class Greek prostitute.
10
NO DESERT ROBE THIS TIME. AFTER dark, a simple traveler’s cloak was sufficient. A cool wind blew from the sea across the city, making the street-torches flutter. These illuminations are something that would benefit Rome, where the streets are so dark that a man out in them and struck suddenly blind wouldn’t know it until morning. At intervals of about fifty paces along the broad streets, these torches burned atop ten-foot poles. They were made of tow or hemp soaked in oil and were tended all night long by public slaves. Between the torches and a fine, full moon, one could walk the streets of nighttime Alexandria as swiftly and assuredly as during the day. More swiftly, in fact, for at night the usual crowds were absent.