The Temple of the Muses(78)

On the other side of the gate I found a paved embankment from which several small stone jetties protruded into the shallow, greenish water. Most of the fishing boats were out for the day, but a few night-fishermen sat on the jetties repairing their nets. They were native Egyptians and I approached them warily.

“I need boat transport into the Great Harbor,” I told an industrious-looking pair who sat near a well-maintained boat. “I will pay you well.”

They eyed me curiously. “How could you pay anything?” asked one without hostility. He spoke passable Greek. I took out a purse and let them hear the clink. That decided them. They folded their net and placed it in the boat, and in minutes we were rowing up along the peninsula of Cape Lochias.

With a little talk, I learned that they were not true Alexandrians; rather, they lived in the little fishing village that stood on the water just to the east of the city wall. They had no interest in the disturbances of Alexandria save as those affected the fish-market. That being the case, I removed my scarf and cloak. It was all one to them. They probably wouldn’t have known a Roman from an Arab.

We passed beneath the fort of the Acrolochias, then rounded the point, passing between it and the nearest of the little islands that stood off the cape, each bearing its tiny shrine to Poseidon. The Pharos was a great smoking pillar to our right as we came back down the cape. The fishermen began to pull for the docks, but I stopped them.

“Put me in there,” I said, pointing to the strait between the base of Cape Lochias and the Antirrhodos Island.

“But that is the royal harbor,” said one. “We will be executed if we go in there.”

“I am a Roman Senator and a part of the Roman diplomatic mission,” I said grandly. “You will not be punished.”

“I don’t believe you,” said the other.

I drew my sword, crusted with black blood. “Then I will kill you!” They pulled for the royal harbor.

Only a couple of guards in gilded armor decorated the royal pier. They shuffled down to where the boat pulled up and made indignant noises as I was paying my boatmen.

“I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus of the Roman embassy!” I shouted to them. “Lay hands on me at your mortal peril. I must see King Ptolemy at once!”

“We can’t let you in and we can’t leave our post, Senator,” said one. “We’ll have to pass word for the Captain of the Watch.”

One of Achillas’s men, no doubt. “Why?” I said, scanning the harbor like a slave in a comedy. “I see no enemy fleet rounding the Pharos. Let me by.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s our standing orders.”

“You are behaving like fools,” I insisted.

“Would you let Roman soldiers get away with neglect of duty, Senator?” said the younger of the two. He had a point.

“Can’t leave your post, eh?” I said.

“Sorry, sir no,” said the elder.

“Then you can’t chase me.” I dashed between them and sprinted for the Palace. As they hollered for more guards behind me, I thought that I must take up this running business seriously. This was my third hard run of the day. My prolonged relaxation in Simeon’s house had taken its toll, though. My legs had grown stiff and sore. My motions were wobbly, like one just ashore after a long, rough sea voyage.

I ran past the royal menagerie, where the lions and other predators set up a roaring and yowling. Anything running meant food to them. Slaves jumped from my path, alarmed at this wild-eyed apparition with his mysterious burden. Then I saw the stair leading to the throne room before me. Ptolemy would be somewhere near, and I vowed a goat to Bacchus if he would just be sober.

I charged up the stairs and came to a halt as the guards closed rank before me, their spears leveled, but with the inevitable look of uncertainty worn by soldiers everywhere when confronted by an unexpected situation.

“Senator Metellus of the Roman embassy demands audience with King Ptolemy!” I shouted. They muttered and shuffled; then someone came through the shadowed portico behind them. But it was not Ptolemy. It was Achillas.

“Seize that madman,” he said coolly. “And bring him inside.”

Ah, well. It had been worth a try. Luckily for me, even parade armor is heavy. I kept a few steps ahead of the clattering guardsmen all the way to the Roman embassy. If the servants and hangers-on had scattered before me on my way to the throne room, they were doubly swift to do so with all that pointed and sharp-edged steel bearing down upon me.

Then I was in sight of the Roman embassy. But it was not the placid scene I had grown used to. The steps were crowded with men dressed in togas and women in Roman dress and even children, the boys in purple-bordered togas. More to the point, in front of them stood a line of grim soldiers, their spears leveled outward. I was certain I was doomed until I recognized the shape of the big old-fashioned, oval Samnite shields. These were Roman soldiers, not legionaries but marines.