No way would the Emperor pay me to come and look at the Great Library. The mean old beggar was making no contribution to my travel expenses and the only reason I would actually complete a report for him would be a vague hope of future gratitude. Helena believed that in return for a good brief (which she had promised to write), the Emperor would give me a big thank-you. I thought he would just laugh. He had a reputation as a joker. Trying to screw payments out of Vespasian was the biggest joke on the Palatine.
So for this nebulous concept - a job that had never existed - I was now being hunted down by the hostile confederate of my scheming relatives. They knew nothing about the trouble they had landed me in; they were ensconced at home with their feet up, while doting women tended them with dollops of hot broth.
I now saw what their scheme was: acquiring scrolls cut-price from the twisting Museion Director, shipping them across the sea then presenting them in Rome as an easy-buy, save your on-costs, complete package for the so-far empty libraries of the Temple of Peace. If I knew Pa and Fulvius, they would recoup seven times their investment. The grim-faced Diogenes would want a large cut - but that shifty pair would still make an enormous profit. Was any of it illegal? It was certainly illegal in intention, for everyone from Philetus and Diogenes to Fulvius and Pa.
I was implicated as a relative. Since I was staying in the same house, it looked doubly bad. I doubted that even the eminent Minas of Karystos could get me off charges of guilt by association.
Furious, I walked to the end of the alley and I surveyed the street in both directions. I was hoping for a donkey that I could ‘borrow’ - better still, if I saw a man with a horse and cart, I would offer him a large sum to take me back to the centre; I could name somewhere he would be bound to know, the Caesarium, for instance, or the Soma, Alexander’s Tomb . . .
But my surveillance remained unfinished. I wanted to discover what ship Diogenes was using. It could already be half laden. I also needed to stop him conniving further with Fulvius and Pa - and stop him telling them that I was on to their project. I would like to arrest Philetus and Diogenes, but saw no way to do that without involving my relations.
Walking about, at last I recognised the street where the box-maker lived. All members of the public had now dispersed; both the baths and the temple looked closed for the night. As I turned up, a second horse and cart was arriving with the two clowns I saw at the Library, bringing a whole load more of scrolls. Despondently I parked myself in the shadows. A donkey came trotting by, carrying two men who from their build and manners looked like brothers, similarly dressed in black desert robes, with head-dresses they had wound up to cover their faces as if a sandstorm threatened. They stopped and looked at the box-maker’s, but rode on. Nobody else was about now, not at street level. I could hear woozy music from behind closed shutters, and voices from inside houses or shops. People had hung up lights, though at infrequent intervals.
As I continued to watch, the two clowns loaded up the first cart with filled boxes. Once all the boxes were in place, Diogenes came out and assumed the driving seat. As the clowns began unloading loose scrolls from the second cart and carrying them indoors to be packed by the box-maker, Diogenes set off.
The horse was tired and went quite slowly. I followed on foot. At one point, cursing, I had to stop to pick a sharp stone out of my boot. As I leaned one-handed against an awning support, fiddling madly, a donkey passed me, with two riders. It was the one I saw earlier. A while later, when the same donkey was drinking from a horse-trough, I overtook them again. The two men did not look at me; I wondered if they knew I was there. Somehow, I hoped not. I was starting to ask myself whether, just as I was tailing Diogenes, the two donkey-riders might be following both of us.
Diogenes went on in one direction, apparently aiming for the Western Harbour. He had turned north towards the ocean. Somewhere ahead must be the canal which I knew came through to this harbour from Lake Mareotis. To our right at the far end of its causeway stood the dark shape of the Lighthouse, topped at this time of night by the mighty glow of its signal fire, reflected out to sea but eerily lighting up the topmost turret. Diogenes turned on to Canopus Street, unmistakable in its porticoed grandeur. We were very near the Moon Gate; due to the city’s orientation, this end of Canopus Street lay quite close to the sea. The horse picked up speed. I saw Diogenes glance back over his shoulder. I ducked into the portico. When I dodged back out through the columns, I had lost him.
He could not have got far. I nipped along, trying to catch him up. Very soon, I saw the cart, recognisable by its load of scroll boxes. The horse was standing still, the driver’s seat was empty. Six feet away from the cart, someone else had abandoned a donkey.
My heart thumped unevenly.
XLIX
When completely stuck, ask passers-by. ‘Did you see where this driver went?’
‘That way! To the market.’
Simple.
‘And the men off the donkey?’
‘That way too.’
‘Walking?’
‘Walking. All walking.’
‘Very fast?’
‘Not fast.’
Never impose unnecessary complications. People often try to impede investigations. But if they don’t know who you are, they will often help.
I asked the man to keep the cart and its load safe in his yard at the back of his shop. I gave him money and promised more. If he was kind-hearted he might even feed the horse. ‘Someone will come tomorrow.’
‘What are these?’ he gestured to the scroll boxes.
‘Just some old fish-wrappers.’
‘Oh - dirty stories!’
He thought it was my private hoard of pornography. Apparently my grinning helper had met Roman travellers with scroll collections before.
I rushed after Diogenes and his two mysterious trackers. When I caught up, he was moving along briskly, but as if he was disguising the fact he was trying to get away. The men in desert clothes were following about five strides behind, one on each side of the road. I kept them all under observation until Diogenes hit the agora.
The market lay close to the heptastadion, the Pharos causeway. It was a huge square enclosure, open to the skies, as large as you would expect in a city devoted to international commerce, which had been established by a Greek. They love their markets. Since Alexandria was a city that hardly slept, most of the stallholders were still working. A rich odour of street food hung like a smoky cloud above the area. Shouts resounded. Wheels rattled. Footloose musicians, barefoot and threadbare, pattered on hand drums and tooted peculiar pipes. It was well-lit and vibrant, somewhere that a trader who knew his way around the city, might well feel he could lose a couple of wild men in dark cloaks who were harassing him.
At first it only looked like a man moving fast between the stalls, with others perhaps trying to catch his attention so they could all go for a drink. I was bemused but game. Where they went, I followed.