"What are you doing here?"
I almost dropped the bowl as I whirled around. It was Ataxas, flanked by a pair of brawny acolytes. It is never a good idea to get too absorbed in your work, however fascinating it may be.
"Why, I was just admiring your handiwork. First-rate design; you have my congratulations."
"I have no idea what you are talking about, but you profane our holy of holies. And, Roman, why are you dressed as a desert nomad?" It seemed to me that his heavy Eastern accent was slipping a little.
"The streets aren't safe for Romans these days." I looked for a fast-exit route. "Something about your god's predictions."
His eyebrows went up in exaggerated puzzlement. "But my Lord said nothing about Romans."
"No need to. Your message came across well enough."
"You talk in riddles. You are not wanted here, Roman. Go while you still have your life."
"Do you threaten me, you Oriental fraud?" I demanded.
He smiled, placed spread fingertips against his breast and bowed. "But how could a humble priest out of Asia Minor constitute a threat to an envoy of the mighty Roman Empire?"
"Sarcasm should be left to those with the wit to deliver it well."
He turned to his flankers. "My sons, expel this man." The two unfolded their arms and came for me.
I would never have accounted myself as any sort of professional swordsman, but I always took a certain pride in my capacity as a brawler. As the one on the right closed, I floored him with a left hook to which my caestus gave added authority. The man went down with a splintered jawbone.
The other fancied himself a wrestler and went for the classic cross-buttock throw, which I foiled by sticking the point of my dagger into his left armpit. He jumped back howling. I did not wish to complicate an already deteriorating situation with homicide, which I thought displayed admirable restraint on my part. I could have gone for my sword and killed both of them easily.
Now Ataxas was yelling, calling for guards and acolytes and priestesses and the legions of the faithful to come and slaughter this impudent Roman for him. I took the hint and deemed myself unwelcome. On winged heels flew from the Temple of Baal-Ahriman, stashing my weapons beneath my clothes as I did so. Ataxas pursued me, but his long, heavy robes hampered him. I was down the steps and heading for a side street before he even got out of the sanctum. The people I passed were too far from him to hear his words and only blinked in puzzlement as I ran past them. But I could hear sounds of pursuit beginning behind me.
Alexandria, I found, was not an easy place in which to shake pursuit. It was all those straight, wide streets. My beloved Rome was different. A veritable rabbit warren of a city, Rome featured so many twisting streets and narrow alleys that a few paces would carry you out of sight of those who thirsted for your blood. I ran from many a rampaging mob in my day, and no few assassins, and even a jealous husband or two, and I knew that the best way to lose pursuers was to get lost yourself. After all, if you didn't know where you were, how could they be expected to find you?
Not so Alexandria. Luckily, I had a long head start on my pursuers. I made random turns down side streets and never went more than a block without making a turn. To my great relief I chanced upon the Alexandrian Salt Market. In that part of the world, salt is the monopoly of caravaneers who carry blocks of it loaded on camels from the Dead Sea in Judaea. Among so many long, hooded robes my own did not stand out. Of course, mine was a good deal cleaner than theirs, but one had to get close to notice that.
I worked my way well into the crowd, pretending an interest in salt and the price thereof. The buyers were many, so the market was quite crowded when Ataxas's mob, mostly shaven-headed acolytes, stormed in looking for me. One of them grabbed a nomad and jerked his hood down, which proved to be a mistake. Not only was the man not me, but the nomads are a very proud and touchy people who consider it a mortal offense for a stranger to lay hands upon them. This one drew a short, curved knife from his sash and slashed the acolyte across the face.
The desert men thought they were attacked, which made sense, what with the recent anti-foreign sentiment that gripped the city. And, indeed, the mob may have been unclear about Ataxas's instructions and thought that he wanted them to attack all men they saw in desert robes. It is little misunderstandings such as this that enliven the days of any city, and soon there was a full-scale riot going on in the Salt Market. The followers of Ataxas were greater in number, but few of them carried any weapons save for staves, whereas no adult male nomad ever goes unarmed. All had daggers, some had swords and many of them employed spears as walking sticks.
It made for a fine bloodletting, but I thought it imprudent to stay too long to enjoy the show. I quietly slipped away down a side street and began to make my way back toward the Palace. I restrained myself to a leisurely pace. No one pursued me now, and I did not wish to attract attention. As I ambled past the Macedonian barracks, I saw men forming up hastily, scrambling into their armor as they did so. With a series of barked commands, they were marched out into the street and set out for the Rakhotis at the double. Apparently, a runner had come to bring news of the riot in the Salt Market.
As I neared the Palace I stepped into a small public garden and pulled my robe off over my head. With my weapons rolled up in the robe and the bundle thrust beneath my arm, I strolled through the gate dressed in my tunic. I acknowledged the salutes of the guards and made my way to the embassy. In my quarters I stashed arms and robe and practiced looking innocent.
The summons from Creticus was not long in coming.
He looked decidedly impatient when I walked into his study.
"Decius, you were seen this morning leaving the Palace compound dressed, for some reason, as a desert nomad. I have just received word that the desert salt caravaneers and an Egyptian mob are fighting a pitched battle and troops have been sent to restore order. This cannot be mere coincidence. What have you done now?"
"Just engaging in a bit of investigation, sir." I described to him what I had discovered.
"Do you mean to say," he began, in that long-suffering voice that superiors always use to dress down subordinates, "that you put on a childish disguise, went out and committed mayhem and got a riot started, just so you could satisfy yourself how a foreign mountebank accomplished one of his cheap tricks?" The written word fails to do justice to this speech, which began in a near-whisper but which ascended with each word until the last few were delivered in something very much like a shriek.
"There's more to it than that," I maintained. "In the first place, I didn't make those fools attack the nomads. Anyway, I am certain that it wasn't Ataxas who designed the talking idol. It was Iphicrates of Chios. He was working with the properties of reflected light, using concave mirrors identical to Ataxas's frankincense bowl. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he designed the system of pipes or whatever that transmitted and magnified the god's voice."
"Are you still fixated on that dead Greek? With all the problems we now have, with Roman-Egyptian relations in a shambles and anti-Roman riots in the offing, you are still concerning yourself with a dead foreign mathematician?"
"It isn't just him anymore," I said. "It's what he was up to! Somehow, everything that has been happening here is tied in to Iphicrates, and he was murdered because of it."