"Most of them," he admitted.
"Mithridates did it, and so have others. It's what will precipitate the war with Gaul, if that comes. The local king or chief or whatever sends out agitators to stir up bad feelings against the local Romans-never difficult to do at the best of times. The next thing you know, there is riot and general massacre. By the time people have come to their senses, it's too late. They're at war with Rome and they have no choice but to support the leader who encouraged their folly in the first place."
"It's effective," Creticus allowed. "The Roman public is always for war when foreigners slaughter Roman civilians. If Egypt wasn't so damned rich and tempting, I wouldn't mind a quick war of conquest myself. But it's the wrong time for a war in Egypt. Macedonia's a fiasco and we're preparing for war in Gaul. Even Roman legions can get spread too thin, and there would be that many more veterans to settle."
"Keep working on Ptolemy," I advised. "If he's afraid of Achillas, he might not be upset to see the man out of the way."
"What are you suggesting?" Creticus demanded.
"Just that one less troublesome, subversive soldier would be infinitely preferable to riot and war, both civil and foreign."
"Why, Decius, I never took you for an assassin." There was something akin to family pride in his voice.
"Nothing underhanded about it," I said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's open warfare between me and Achillas now, and the better man will walk away from it."
"Spoken like a true Roman," he said, chuckling.
Back in my quarters, I made preparations for a foray into the city. First I laid out my weapons: caestus, dagger and sword. I decided against the rather bulky legionary gladius I wore when in uniform. Instead I had a very nice short sword of the sort favored in the arena by certain types of gladiator. It was about three-fourths the size of the military sword, light, wasp-waisted with a narrow point for stabbing and edges so sharp you could cut your eyes just looking at them.
"You're not really going out in the streets, are you?" Hermes asked with a touching concern for my safety.
"I'll be safe enough," I assured him. "As long as I'm not dressed as a Roman and don't speak Latin, nobody will notice me." In our travels down the river I had picked up some good desert garments for protection from the sun. I had an excellent striped robe with a hood that would conceal my Roman coiffure. I kicked off my Roman sandals and slipped my feet into a pair of light, camel-skin slippers such as the caravaneers favor.
"Got your will made out?" Hermes said. "The one where you give me my freedom in the event of your death?"
"If I ever made such a will, I'd live in fear every day of my life. Don't worry, I'll come back safe." Actually, I'd long since made out my will and registered it at the Temple of Vesta, with manumissions and stakes for all my slaves. But you must never allow a slave to think you softhearted.
With my weapons concealed about my person, I slipped on the long desert robe. I fought the temptation to darken my skin. Such subterfuges are rarely convincing and would make me that much more likely to be uncovered. The fact is, fair-skinned people are not all that rare in the East, what with the mercenaries who had policed Persia's far-flung empire and Alexander's rampaging armies and the equally polyglot Successor armies, which for the last two hundred years had included Gauls from Galatia. My typically Italian features would pass easily enough, as long as I watched my tongue. I could butcher Greek with the best of them.
"Good luck, then," Hermes said.
"Stay out of the wine," I cautioned.
Out in the street, I made an effort not to walk like a Roman. This was not too difficult as the desert men also have a very erect posture, but they walk more slowly. We are accustomed to the quick legionary pace, while they adopt a stride calculated to avoid heat stroke. My main worry was that I might encounter real desert men who would want to converse, but that was no great danger. There are a number of languages spoken in the dry parts of the world, and I could always pretend to speak one of the others. In any case, the desert people are very haughty and rarely deign to acknowledge someone of another tribe.
I walked casually, as if I had already sold my goods and was engaged in a little sightseeing before mounting my camel for the caravan homeward. In a city like Alexandria such a one was all but invisible, which was what I most desired.
Most of the city streets through which I walked were quiet, if a bit uneasy. Few of these people were Egyptians and they did not look like good material for a rampaging mob.
In the Rakhotis it was different. Here there was an air of tension. People spoke in mutters instead of their usual cheerful babble. They drew away from foreigners and generally exhibited the mannerisms of people who were on the verge of violence directed against outsiders I had seen it at work elsewhere. I had seen much the same in my recent visit to Gaul, although we had managed to temporarily calm matters there.
But I was not merely tasting the mood of the city. I had a specific goal in mind. My mission also contained a certain amount of dangerous foolhardiness, and I took pleasure in that. Before long, I stood at the steps of the Temple of Baal-Ahriman.
Many people lingered around the courtyards, as if waiting for something to happen. I mounted the stairs unnoticed, just another sightseer. Then I stood on the platform before the sanctuary of the god himself. I passed within.
As I had anticipated, the inner sanctum was deserted. In Egypt the temples are not places of assembly. When there are rites to be performed, the priests go within and perform them. The rest of the time the inner temples are deserted. The occasion of Baal-Ahriman's address to the faithful had been an exception.
The shaft of sunlight still illuminated a small space before the ugly idol. I avoided the light and circled until I was within touching distance of it. I looked around to make sure that I was unobserved; then I put out my hand and gripped its jaw. There was no movement whatever. It was carved from solid stone. But I did feel something odd, and I leaned close and squinted to make out the anomaly.
Near the thing's putrid-looking lips and paralleling them were ridges of stone, also in the shape of those lips but not so prominently carved, as if the sculptor had begun one set, then changed his mind and carved another without destroying the first effort. Then I ran my fingertips over the lion's teeth and found there were two sets. The easily visible teeth were much longer. In front of them were shorter teeth, offset in serried order like legionaries standing in open formation. I felt the interior of the mouth. The tongue was oddly rippled and I noticed that the roof of the mouth had been painted black. Why black? So as not to reflect light?
I looked to the pool of light where Ataxas had knelt, his hands clasped to his belly. And what had he been doing? Holding a silver bowl. A silver bowl much like the ones I had seen in Iphicrates's study.
I searched the sanctum and found a table that held boxes of incense and the silver bowl. I took the bowl and walked back to the pool of light. Another quick scan for watchers, and I held the bowl low and directed its reflected light to the face of Baal-Ahriman. Carefully, I shifted the bowl, making the spot of light move along the god's mouth and jaws. The ridges and false lips and serried teeth had been exquisitely placed to reflect light alternately, so that only one set at a time showed. The effect was that the jaw seemed to move as the light played across it. But what of the flashes of light that had seemed to shoot from the mouth? Even as the thought occurred to me, a wisp of incense smoke drifted past the statue's face, and the light reflected startlingly from the white smoke. The silver bowl had contained frankincense, and Ataxas had dumped it into the brazier before going down on his knees. Every aspect of the effect had been carefully planned.