Keeper of the Flame (10 page)

And now the idiot-king and Cleopatra would marry, and Pothinus’s life would be forfeit.
I must get away, rally Ptolemy’s army. Achillas will know what to do.

“There!” Plebo shouted beside him and pointed a crooked finger toward the water.

Pothinus followed the finger and saw an Egyptian, barechested and bald, lift a meaty arm. He stood astride the prow of a small boat, with a dozen or so oarsmen behind him. The boat skimmed into an open slot at the quay, and the Egyptian jumped ashore.

Plebo trotted to the sailor and jutted his chin toward the ship. “Where have you been? The master had need of you immediately.” His nasal voice had the echo of Pothinus’s own stridency.

The Egyptian pushed him aside. “We are ready, master. The ship is fit and ready to sail to Pelusium this night.”

Pothinus crossed to the edge of the dock where the boat had been secured. He gathered his himation about his legs and stepped across. The boat dipped, giving him a moment of panic. He thrust out a steadying arm, then jumped.

The craft was frighteningly small, with ten beefy oarsmen, five at each side. The dark wood was aged with seawater and sun, and splintered in places. In the center of the deck a cabin stood
open, but Pothinus was not yet ready to sequester himself. “Well, what is the delay? Shove
off!”

Plebo swayed at the prow, one hand gripping the side, his face white.

“Come now, Plebo. Don’t tell me you’ve lived your life in the trading capital of the world, and do not like to sail?”

“I—I have never tried it, master, so I cannot say whether I like it or not.”

Pothinus covered his own concern with a harsh laugh. “The sea is our greatest ally, Plebo.”
Or our greatest enemy.

The boat shoved away from the dock, sails lowered to avoid notice. The men at each side began their rhythmic sweeps to guide her past the other craft clogging the harbor. But Pothinus’s attention was not on the water. He lifted his eyes to the lighthouse jutting above them. It stood in mute testimony to the rocky shoals rising from the sea bottom across the harbor entrance, waiting eagerly to rip out the underbelly of any ship fool enough to not heed the light. Even from here he could make out the sea tritons that perched halfway up, on the corners of the first platform. The monstrous structure dwarfed the harbor, the ships, Pothinus himself. He inhaled the salt-tinged air and expanded his chest to deflect the ominous weight of that brooding beast. It was like an angry master, peering over the harbor with an acacia switch, ready to bring the lash down on disobedient ships. Pothinus shuddered.

Plebo staggered to where Pothinus stood in the center of the ship. He set the wooden case down and followed his master’s gaze upward. “It is a fearsome thing.”

Pothinus pulled his attention downward, to the brown splintered wood of the ship, the dark churning of the seawater.
Already white limestone reefs poked through the surface. They sailed past a gull perched on a rocky outcrop. The bird seemed to follow them with its eyes, waiting for their downfall.

“Do you think we will come back?” Plebo’s voice carried a note of nostalgia.

Pothinus nearly slapped him. “We will come back. With all of Ptolemy’s army at our heels, and victory before us!” He grabbed an amphorae of wine from a stand beside the cabin, unplugged it, and swigged at its contents. The wine was soured and went down like a slashing at his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Alexandria has not seen the last of Pothinus.”

“But Caesar has Ptolemy in his clutches. And Cleopatra rules from behind Caesar. The people have switched their allegiance—”

Pothinus did slap him then. The slave raised a hesitant hand to his lip.

“All of that can change in an instant, Plebo. Do not be a fool. There are many ways to incite a people to take up the cause of one ruler and destroy that of another.”

“But the people of Alexandria want peace. They want to go on with their philosophy of the Museum, with their theater and their sciences.”

Pothinus took a deep breath again and scowled at the sweaty odor of the men who dragged on the oars. For twenty years talk of the Museum had sickened him, since the day he had been ostracized by men who were by far his intellectual inferiors.

Plebo was still whining. “Perhaps if you had control of the new discovery from the Museum—”

“What discovery?” Pothinus plugged the amphorae.

Plebo smiled, as though he had stumbled upon a treasure and was the only one to know where it lay.

“Come on, fool, what whisperings have you heard?”

Plebo shrugged. “Something Sosigenes has been working on.”

“Sosigenes.” Pothinus turned away. It was the second time today he’d heard that name. Years ago, before Ptolemy XIII had been born and Pothinus had become the minister of finance, there had been a group of them. Hot-headed scholars, ready to change the world.
And we would have. Could have.
“What has Sosigenes discovered?”

Plebo shrugged again. “No one seems sure, but it is rumored that he has been reconstructing the mechanism once lost—”

Pothinus held up a hand to silence the slave. He inclined his head toward the ship’s captain and the oarsmen. “No need to give everything away, Plebo,” he muttered.

Sosigenes. The
Proginosko
mechanism. Could it be?

He thought of Sophia in the streets during the riot, pleading for the scholar’s release.

His stomach curdled, partly in response to the sour wine and the swaying boat, and partly with a rancid ambition that had found a handle with which to turn the world. Yes, if it were true, it would change everything. Power had always been married to knowledge. With the right technology, even a eunuch could rule the world.

Pothinus turned on Plebo. “You must find out.”

“Find out?”

“Exactly what Sosigenes is doing. Get word to me immediately at Pelusium.”

“But how—”

Pothinus grabbed Plebo’s arm. “I don’t care how, just do it!” He pulled the slave toward the prow of the ship.

“But, I thought I was sailing—”

“Not anymore.”

It took little effort. One arm around the scrawny man’s waist, and one good heave, and he was over the side.

Pothinus leaned over, watched the slave come up sputtering and yelling.

“Careful of the pirates!” Pothinus pointed to the Pharos island, home to men who preyed on stranded ships. “And hurry!”

They had cleared the harbor entrance now, and Pothinus turned to the Great Sea. Though the way ahead was as dark as a tomb, Pothinus felt as though a torch had been lit solely for him, guiding him to what he should do.

Yes, I will return, Plebo. Backed with military strength and with a discovery for which the world would kill.

Eleven

B
ellus was reading from a borrowed copy of Epicurus and finishing his morning bread and feta beside the palace harbor when Caesar’s summons came. An Egyptian slave brought it. Bellus chewed the last bit of bread, now dry as dust. He slid the papyrus beneath his chain mail and followed the slave.

I must find a way to regain Caesar’s approval.

They crossed through the tangle of sweet-smelling color in the gardens, past the lotus-filled reflecting pool, and under the square stone lintel. The slave led him upward, to the private chambers Caesar had claimed for his own.

The general sat with his back to the door, a Roman in the center of Ptolemy XII’s sumptuous chamber. A barber stood behind Caesar, combing and snipping.

“Who is that?” Caesar called.

“Lucius Aurelius Bellus, General.” He tried to keep his voice steady and stood with shoulders back.

“Ah, Bellus. My Pilus Prior who would rather study dead men’s scrolls than defend Rome. What would your father have said?”

Bellus winced, remembering Caesar’s words of the night before.
You disappoint me.
He straightened. “The events of yesterday should never have happened, General. I regret—”

Caesar pushed away the barber, who cowered at his touch, and swiveled in his chair. “You regret? Bellus, where is that weasel, the eunuch Pothinus?”

Bellus stood at attention under Caesar’s gaze. His iron felt weighty against his chest. “We have not yet been able to locate—”

“I will tell you where he is. For it seems all of Alexandria knows. At least that is what I hear from Falah here.” He stood and slapped the barber on the back. The Egyptian lowered his eyes to his blade. “He has sailed for Pelusium in the night. To join Achillas, and Ptolemy’s troops, and no doubt lead them back here to attack me.”

Bellus inhaled and inwardly cursed this land. He had not seen such failures in all of his military career as he had since landing here.

“It is strange to me”—Caesar brushed tiny hairs from his shoulders—“that Pothinus should have sailed from Alexandria. Because I thought I remembered giving you clear orders yesterday to find him and put him in custody.”

From the bedchamber to his right, Bellus heard the low laughter of a woman. His hand went to his pugio.

A tray of olives and garlic, with lentils covered in a
gáron
sauce, was brought by a slave. The fish sauce was a delicacy not often seen in Rome. Cleopatra emerged from the bedchamber, dressed in flowing white robes tied at her shoulders, with gold armbands wrapped around each upper arm. Her long hair swung when she walked.

Bellus shifted his weight, shuffling his battle-worn sandals against the marble floor. He felt more like a boorish peasant than the Sextus Pilus Prior. “I will go after him, Caesar. He cannot have gotten too far ahead. I will bring the centuria and we will—”

“You have done all I have need of in this matter, Bellus. I have often noted your propensity to be slow to act.”

“I am careful not to shed blood without cause, General. As you know, my centuria has suffered fewer losses than any other.”

Cleopatra brushed past him and Bellus stepped backward. She drifted to a couch and stretched herself on it.

Caesar cleared his throat, and Bellus jerked his attention back to the general. “And yet I believe you are a bit too ‘careful,’ as you say, to shed the blood of the enemy as well.” Caesar waved a hand. “In any case, I have decided to place you elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere, General?” Bellus felt a ridiculous desire for his shield to stand behind. Caesar’s accusations were like enemy darts.

“It has occurred to me that the lighthouse is our most strategic location on this island. The lighthouse controls the harbor, and the harbor supplies the city. We must retain control of the harbor.” He joined Cleopatra on another couch.

Bellus saluted. “We will post ten legionaries at each of the—”

Caesar was shaking his head. Bellus let his plan go unfinished.

“No, there is no need of that yet.” He reached for an olive. “Pothinus will be some time raising the troops. No, for now I simply want you to take the lighthouse.”

“There is no enemy occupation in the lighthouse, General.”

Caesar laughed and looked to Cleopatra. “You would be surprised.” The queen smiled, but it was a smile tinged with annoyance. “But you are correct, there is no need to take it by force. I simply want you and your centuria to station yourselves there, until I have need of you.”

Bellus opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Station ourselves there?
He shifted, and the metal discs of the
sporran
that hung from the front of his belt clinked discordantly.

Caesar’s attention had moved to the food and the queen.

“Sir,” Bellus finally said, “surely you have a better use for an entire centuria than watching over a lighthouse?”

“Think of it as some time off, Bellus.” Caesar leaned his head against the red cushions. “You could do more of that reading you’re so fond of. And perhaps the next time I have need of you, you will remember what it means to fight.”

Bellus remained fixed before Caesar, searching for a way to refuse the shameful duty without insubordination.

“That is all, Bellus.” Caesar turned his eyes to Cleopatra, who smiled and touched his hand. “You are dismissed.”

Bellus saluted, pivoted, and stalked to the door.

“Oh, and Bellus?”

He turned.

“Watch out for that beast who runs the lighthouse. She may be the fiercest enemy you’ve yet faced!”

Caesar laughed at his own joke, but Bellus simply nodded and left the chamber. He marched through the palace, heedless of his surroundings.

Lighthouse duty! He may as well been asked to tend the palace gardens. He had fought the Belgic army, led a centuria through Gaul. And now he was expected to sit in that ghastly woman’s tower and wait for Caesar to call him back from the dead?

He found himself at the palace entrance and blinked at the morning sun that shot across the city and into the courtyard. He scanned the three-tiered wonder from bottom to top, taking in the base level that must house hundreds of rooms, the tall bottom tier with its glass windows on every side. Above the first section was a shorter, octagonal tier. He wondered what was on the platform where the second tier began. Above the octagon, the third tier was circular, and housed the apparatus that directed light outward, day and night. He had to admit a certain
curiosity about how it was accomplished. From this distance he could barely make out the figure of Poseidon atop the lighthouse, his trident stretched toward the water as though he alone commanded the harbor.

It’s a fascinating thing, to be sure.
But his curiosity could be satisfied with an afternoon visit. He did not need to camp there with eighty able soldiers!

There must be another way.

A palace slave scurried by, water pot in hand, and he roused himself, realizing he must look strange loitering about in the gardens. Besides, there was work to be done.

He crossed back through the palace and out to the city streets. This entire quarter of Alexandria was taken up by the line of Ptolemaic palaces that each successive Pharaoh-king had built for himself along the water.

These kings had too much time on their hands. Egypt’s natural defenses of sea in the north and desert to the east and west had left her fat and rich, with little to do but wallow in her luxury.