The Temple of the Muses(70)

“What is it?” I asked.

“Human flesh. Assuming that the lady was not a cannibal, this is a piece of her murderer. One of her murderers, anyway. A man in his late forties or early fifties, of one of the fair-skinned races, but he has spent much of his life exposed to sunlight.”

“Asklepiodes, you surpass yourself. Any idea which part it came from?”

“A part habitually exposed to the sun. There isn’t enough of it to tell much more than that. It did not come from the face, hands, feet or penis. My guess would be the shoulder or upper arm, but even my art cannot guarantee that.”

“It’s sufficient,” I assured him. “I’ll get them all and this will help.”

“No, you won’t,” Creticus said. “You are going nowhere except to your quarters. From there you are going onto the first ship to sail from here for Rome. You may not be a murderer, but you are more trouble than a cohort of Sicilian auxiliaries! I want to hear nothing further of you save the welcome news that you have sailed out past the Pharos. Good day to you!” With that he stormed up the steps of the embassy. I followed, the others patting me on the shoulder.

“I never thought you did it, Decius,” was the usual comment.

Asklepiodes went with me to my quarters. Hypatia’s body had been taken away, along with the bloody gown. I knew I would never be able to get into that bed again. I called for some slaves.

“Take that bed out and burn it,” I ordered. “Fetch me another.” You could do things like that in Egypt. Then, remembering that I hadn’t eaten, I called for some food.

“Any progress on the death of Iphicrates?” Asklepiodes asked. While our table was set and while we ate, I told him what had happened, always pausing when a slave was within hearing. Some of them, at least, had reported to Achillas. Asklepiodes heard me out, nodding and making wise sounds.

“Clever about the reflector,” he said. “Iphicrates was into more realms of knowledge than he let on. I wonder what Achillas promised him.”

“What? I suppose he paid him with money.”

“Possibly, but Iphicrates never struck me as a man with a great love of wealth. But many scholars want high prestige and honors among their fellows. If Achillas made himself king of Egypt, he would be in a position to make Iphicrates the head of the Museum. He could use all its facilities and endowments to further his grandiose projects. For the sort of scholar who actually likes to do things, to see his plans transferred from papyrus into reality, that is a heady prospect.”

“Asklepiodes,” I said, “I’ve known men to fight and scheme and commit all sorts of treachery for the sake of wealth, or for revenge. I’ve seen them devote their lives to war and politics and even to commit treason in order to gain power over their fellow men. I confess it never occurred to me that they might do all these things for … for a sort of intellectual preferment.”

He smiled benignly. “It has been your good fortune that you have never had to deal with professional philosophers.”





12

I WAITED UNTIL NIGHT, WHICH I CONSIDERED to be a display of commendable restraint. After Asklepiodes left, I was not without visitors. To my surprise, one of them was Fausta. She came shortly before dusk, cool and imperious as ever. She was a woman I always found intimidating. The Cornelians always considered themselves favored even among patricians, and on top of that, she was the daughter of Sulla, the most feared Dictator in the history of Rome. But these things were not enough. She was a twin, and one of an identical brother-sister pair. This was a combination so portentous that she was not merely respected but genuinely feared. Despite her great wealth, she had remainec unmarried until the unexpected suit of Titus Annius Milo, perhaps the only man of my acquaintance who was utterly without fear.

I knew that he would come to regret this match. For all his great charm and penetrating intellect, poor Milo lacked experience with women. His fixation, like that of so many, was power. In its pursuit he had neglected what were, to him, lesser matters, such as the necessary but sometimes bewildering relations between men and women. Milo had no use for bewilderment.

The fact was that Fausta was an acquisition for Milo. He was a nobody from Ostia who had come to Rome to win the city. He had started from nothing to become a prominent gang leader and had now started up the ladder of office. He wanted a wife, and the wife had to be noble, preferably patrician. It would not come amiss if she were presentable as well. Fausta was perfect, as far as he was concerned. He neglected the fact that Fausta was Fausta. It was like buying a horse for nothing but its looks and its bloodlines, forgetting that it might throw you and cheerfully trample and kick you to death for the fun of it. But all that was in the future.