Why did the people hate their king so bitterly? Some years ago he had risen to power by driving his older brother from the throne; as far as I could tell, he had done so with the support of the Alexandrian mob. Then, as if to patch things up, he married his deposed brother’s daughter. (These Egyptian rulers were always marrying family members, even siblings.) Then he killed his mother, who apparently thought that she should be the true power behind the throne. Now the people were restless, and to show their desire for a change, they rioted. This was what passed for politics in Egypt!
To a Roman who had grown up with yearly elections and magistrates and written laws, trying to make sense of Egyptian politics and history could induce a terrible headache. All the kings and queens seemed to have been brothers and sisters, or mothers and sons, or uncles and nieces, and they were forever marrying each other, then killing each other, then sending the survivors into exile, whereupon the ones in exile plotted a way to return and kill those who exiled them, perpetuating the cycle.
The first King Ptolemy, the founder of the dynasty, had been one of Alexander’s generals. When the Great One died, Ptolemy made himself king of Egypt, and his descendants had ruled the country ever since, becoming the longest reigning dynasty in the world. To those who loved royal romance and intrigue (which seemed to be everyone in Egypt), the Ptolemies provided a source of endless fascination, like characters on a stage. The personal and public drama of their lives amused, enthralled, and enraged the populace. In taverns and shops, outside temples and courts-anywhere you went in Alexandria-people talked of little else.
Like a typical Alexandrian, Bethesda could name every one of the Ptolemies in chronological order, the good and the bad, the dead and the living, going all the way back to Ptolemy I. Listening to her, I would become hopelessly confused, since the same names recurred in every generation: Berenice, Arsinoë, Cleopatra (the name of the king’s late mother), and of course, Ptolemy-sometimes several of them living at once, and in every branch of the family. With all the enthusiasm of a Roman recounting famous battles, or a Greek swooning over Olympic athletes, Bethesda had tried to explain to me who had done what to whom and when and where, and why it mattered so much, but I could never keep the players straight. One Ptolemy was the same as any other to me.
I only knew that every so often, if one dared to venture out, there was likely to be a bit of screaming and trampling, and perhaps some smoke and cinders, and probably a bit of slaughter. And all because the people hated King Ptolemy.
But on such a splendid day, even the threat of a riot was not going to keep me indoors. At the age of twenty-two, one feels invulnerable. I was quick-witted and fleet of foot. What had I to fear? If anything, the increasing disorder in the city had been a boon to me. When public order fails, private misconduct increases; and when people no longer trust the authorities, to uncover the truth they turn to people like me. Finder my father called himself, and the skills he taught me had proved quite useful. I could pick any lock, I could follow a man without being seen, I could tell by a woman’s eyebrows if she was lying to me, and I knew when to speak and when to keep my mouth shut. The fact that I was an outsider only enhanced my usefulness; I was a free agent, with no ties to any particular family or faction. I was not getting rich by plying my father’s trade on foreign soil, but I was managing to make ends meet.
I happened to have a few extra coins on my person that morning, with which I planned to buy something special.
“Shall we play tourist today?” I suggested. “I’ve been so busy lately, grubbing about in lowly taverns and disreputable gaming houses, I’ve forgotten how beautiful the city can be. Let’s take in the sights.”
So we set out. We made our way out of the Rhakotis district and headed up a broad boulevard lined with palm trees, fountains, obelisks, and statues. Our route took us to the sacred tomb precinct in the center of the city, where magnificent buildings set in lush gardens housed the mummified remains of the Ptolemies.
At a very broad intersection, we came upon a towering structure that dominated the skyline-the Tomb of Alexander. Its walls were decorated with extraordinary relief sculptures that depicted the career of the conqueror. Though not quite as grand, the structure reminded me of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. But whereas the burial chamber of King Mausolus was sealed, the room that held the remains of the mummified Alexander was open for paying visitors. On this morning, even though the tomb was not yet open, the line to enter wound all the way around the building and out of sight. From their costumes, the visitors appeared to come from all over the world-Persian astrologers wearing ziggurat hats and pointed shoes, Ethiopians the color of ebony, Nabataeans in flowing robes, and even a few Romans in togas. All had come to file past the famous golden sarcophagus of Alexander and pay their respects-something I myself, in all the months I had lived in the city, had not yet done.
Bethesda made bold to draw alongside me. “Perhaps, Master, on your special day, you would like to visit the tomb of the Great One.”
“And stand in that line under the hot sun all morning? I think not. No matter how large and elaborately decorated, a mere golden sarcophagus is unlikely to impress a traveler who has seen the Seven Wonders of the World.”
“You would prefer to go on one of the days when visitors can gaze upon the face of Alexander himself?”
“Now that might be more interesting,” I admitted. The sarcophagus was opened and the mummy displayed to the public on only two days each year, Alexander’s birthday and the anniversary of the founding of the city. On those occasions, the admission price would be doubled and the lines would be ten times as long.
Taking my eyes from the line of tourists waiting for the tomb to open, I was struck by the great number of royal guards around us, even more than was usual in the precinct of the royal tombs. Holding their spears aloft, a contingent of soldiers made a show of marching up and down the broad boulevard. More soldiers formed a virtual cordon along the line of visitors queuing to see Alexander’s sarcophagus. Looking up, I saw yet more soldiers stationed on balconies and along parapets and on the rooftops of the tombs of the Ptolemies. Soldiers almost outnumbered the ordinary people thronging the street. No doubt they were there to protect the tourists and keep order in one of the city’s most prominent public areas, but the sight of so many royal guards made me uneasy. Knowing the Alexandrians, I thought such a show of strength would as likely spark a riot as prevent one.
We moved on, into a neighborhood of grand houses and elegant apartment buildings. Here lived many of the minor officials and bureaucrats who served in the huge royal palace complex, including the Library and the Museum, but who were not important enough to have quarters within the palace itself. Some of Alexandria’s best and most expensive shops were in this area. On previous walks I had noticed Bethesda’s fascination with the luxury items displayed outside the shops, as she stole glances at a necklace strung with lapis and ebony, or at a silver bracelet set with tiny rubies. Such items were far beyond my means, as anyone could tell by looking at me; the brawny servants posted as guards outside each shop gave me nasty looks if I so much as slowed my pace.
Nevertheless, in front of one of the shops, I dared to come to a complete halt.
“Why are we stopping here, Master?” said Bethesda.