The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (40 page)

The beggar stood behind the rock, his black eyes glittering with the light of triumph; his long white beard fell off, and the rags dropped from his shoulders as he joined his companion who was lying behind the rock. He drew himself up to his full stature – Petamon, the son of Osorkon, and grandson of Petamon, the High Priest of Isis at Philae.

“Hey, Sheshonk,” he said to his subordinate, “I have baited the trap for my eagle right daintily, and the noble bird
shall have his wings clipped ere long.
He
mocks the divine Apis, does he, and blasphemes the Ape of Thoth!
He
thinks to come here and lord it over us all with his cursed Roman pride.”

“Well done, Petamon,” said Sheshonk, the assistant-priest, whose low forehead, heavy brow, and sensual lips were in strange contrast to his companions’ face, “what a pity there is nobody here to listen to you, and that such eloquence should be thrown away upon me, who know as well as you do yourself, if the truth were told, that Apis is only a bull after all, and Thoth’s ape is a very dirty troublesome ape; at least the one I had charge of at Hermopolis was.”

“Peace, fool,” replied Petamon, “the beasts are but beasts, that
I
know as well as you: but the beast is only the type of the divinity, whom the vulgar may not know. Enough.”

Next day Septimius was somewhat thoughtful; he retired early to his tent on the pretence of weariness, and when all was still he stole out of the town. The hour was the same, but how different this night was from the last. A tornado had been blowing from the south all day, raising the sand in huge clouds, which obscured everything and nearly chocked man and beast with a penetrating and impalpable dust.

At last he reached the granite boulder, and crouching in its shade, sat the beggar. He rose as the Centurion approached, and beckoned him silently to proceed. Septimius obeyed and followed in silence, plodding through the deep sand. At last the beggar turned.

“Sir Centurion,” he said, “the night is hot and the way heavy; let me ease you of your sword”; and before Septimius could remonstrate or resist, his nimble hands had unstrapped the belt, and slung the sword over his own shoulder. “What men you Romans are!” he continued slightly raising his voice as they passed along a narrow track between high rocks on either side. “You fear nothing in
heaven or on earth. I verily believe you would
make beefsteaks of the Divine Apis
”; and he halted full in the way and seemed to grow before the Centurion’s eyes.

The Centurion recoiled, and at the same moment two from each side, four strange white figures, each with the head of a hawk, surmounted by the disc of the sun, glided forth and laid hands on him. Septimius struggled like a snared lion; he threatened them with the wrath of the Emperor, and they answered with mocking laughter. He made one furious rush at the beggar who had betrayed him, and clutched him by the robe. Petamon quietly threw the sword far away over the sand and crossed his arms, while his allies advanced to the rescue. The prisoner was torn away, but not before he had rent off a fragment of the priest’s robes, which fell upon the sand. His good sword was gone far beyond his reach, and he was bound and lashed to a rude litter which was brought from behind the rock. The four mysterious phantoms silently raised the litter and bore it across the sands, while Petamon, with a vigour remarkable in one so far advanced in years, led the way.

They had advanced along the sandy tract for some distance when suddenly the eye of Septimius who could just raise his head and look forward by straining painfully against his bonds, caught the glimmer of the moonlight on the water, and before him rose a most unearthly, beautiful scene.

In the midst of a quiet lagoon lay the Sacred Island, Philae, girt in by hills on whose rugged sides the black rocks were piled in the most magnificent confusion – a green spot in the midst of a desert of stone – and, amid the Grove of Palms upon its shore, rose the roofs of temples and the tops of huge pyramidal gateways, while the solemn moonlight poured over all. A boat, manned by four more of the strange hawk-headed beings, was anchored at the shore. Silently the priest embarked, silently Septimius was lifted on board,
silently the rowers bent to their oars, and in a few minutes they were passing along under the massy wall which rises sheer out of the water on the western side.

Suddenly the boat stopped and the Priest struck the wall thrice. Silently a portion of the wall swung back and disclosed a narrow stair, up which they carried the Centurion; and by a side door entered the outer court. Before them rose a huge gateway, on each of whose towers was carved the giant semblance of a conqueror grasping with his left hand a group of captives by the hair, while he lifts the right to strike the death-blow. They hurried on through the great Hall of Pillars up a narrow stair, and, opening a small aperture, more like a window than a door, thrust in the Centurion, and left him, bound hand and foot, to his own reflections.

Next morning Lepidus was early astir, and, after going his rounds, entered the tent of Septimius. It was empty, the bed had not been slept on, and there were no signs whatever of the tenant. “Mad boy,” muttered Lepidus, “off on some frolic as usual. I must hush it up, or Septimius, great though his family interest be, will get a rough welcome from the General on our return. I must say he is sick. He gives me more trouble than the whole cohort put together, and yet I love the lad for his merry face and his kindly smile.”

Noonday and evening came and went, and still Septimius was absent; and next morning, Lepidus, blaming himself much for having delayed so long, gave the alarm that the Centurion had vanished or been spirited away, and instituted a regular inquiry. Little information could be elicited. One of the sentries had noticed Septimius wandering away towards the desert but he was too much accustomed to his officer’s little vagaries to take much note of the fact. Doubt and gloom hung over all, for the Centurion, rash as he was, was a brave leader and a kindly, cheerful man. Parties were detached to
search the neighbourhood in every direction, and Lepidus could only sit and wait for information, chafing inwardly at every moment’s delay.

Towards evening one of the sergeants craved an audience of him, and when they were alone together produced the Centurion’s sword and a piece of a heavy golden fringe. He had struck into the desert, come upon a spot where there were evident marks of a struggle, and picked up the sword and torn fringe lying on the ground. Sergeant and officer looked at each other, and the same fear clouded the faces of both.

“Petamon is at Philae?” inquired Lepidus.

“He is, sir.”

“Then may Jove the Preserver help the boy, for he will need all his help. I see it now: his foolish scoffs at the gods have reached the ears of the priest, who has hated us Romans bitterly for long, and he has kidnapped the lad. We may be too late to save him. Muster the men at once and let us to Philae –
quick
!”

In half an hour the cohort were tramping through the sand under the still moonlight, and an hour more brought them to the banks of the quiet river. There was no boat, and they had to halt till morning broke.

At sunrise a boat was brought from the neighbouring village and Lepidus, embarking with a portion of his troop, was rowed over to the Sacred Island. He landed at a flight of steps on the northern side, and mounting them, halted, giving the quick imperative, “In the name of the Emperor.” Soon a band of priests, headed by Petamon himself, appeared at the great gateway, and the Centurion, advancing briefly demanded to speak with their High Priest.

Petamon, with the rising sun flashing on his leopard-skin cloak and the golden fringe of his girdle, with his head and
beard close shaven, in his linen garments and papyrus sandals, stepped forward.

“I am Petamon, the grandson of Petamon, High Priest of Isis. Roman soldier, speak on.”

“I seek,” commenced Lepidus; but he stopped abruptly. His eye had caught the glitter of the golden fringe, and he saw that at one side a piece had been torn away. He sprang forwards, and grasped the priest’s throat. “Petamon, I arrest you on the charge of kidnapping a Roman citizen. In the name of Caesar Domitian. Soldiers, secure him!”

Priests and soldiers stood for a moment transfixed with amazement while Lepidus released his grasp on the priest’s throat, and they stood face to face till the Roman almost quailed before the fierce glare of the Egyptian’s eye. The other priests began to press forwards with threatening gestures; they outnumbered the Romans three times, and, though the strength and discipline of the latter would have proved victorious in the end, might have offered a stout resistance; but Petamon motioned them back. “Fear not, children,” he said, speaking in the Greek tongue, so that both parties might understand him, “the gods can protect their own, and
you
, Sir Roman, that have laid hands on the servant of Isis,
tremble
!” He walked forwards and surrendered himself to two of the soldiers.

“Rather him than me,” muttered Sheshonk. “The gods are all very well to fool the people with, but I doubt if Isis herself will save him under the Roman rods.”

Petamon raised his eyes and met those of Sheshonk. A few words in the Egyptian tongue and Sheshonk, with a deep obeisance retired into the temple and disappeared.

The soldiers were despatched to search the island, and Septimius heard them several times pass the door of his prison, but his gaolers had thrust a gag into his mouth, so he could give no alarm. He lay there sick at heart.

The search was fruitless, as Lepidus had expected; and he commanded Petamon again to be brought before him. “Sir Priest,” he said, “I seek Septimius the Centurion, who is or was in your hands; unless he is restored before tomorrow’s sun sinks in the west you die the death.”

“It is well,” said the priest, while the mock submission of his attitude was belied by his eye; “the gods can protect their own.”

Towards evening Petamon requested an audience of Lepidus, and when they were again together addressed him with more civility than he had hitherto condescended to use. He explained that it was the practice that the High Priest should, at certain seasons, sleep in the sacred recesses of the temple, and have the decrees of the goddess revealed to him in visions. He craved permission to perform this sacred duty; it might be for the last time. Lepidus mused for a moment and then gave orders that the priest, chained between two soldiers, should have leave to sleep where he would.

The night closed in; the shrine of the goddess was illuminated; and the blaze of a hundred lamps flashed on the rich colours and quaint designs on the walls of the shrine. Before the altar stood Sheshonk, burning incense, while Petamon, chained between his guards, bowed for a time in prayer. By midnight the ceremony was over; Petamon, chained to a soldier on each side, lay down before the altar; the lights, all but one, were extinguished; the great door of the sacred chamber was closed. Lepidus lay down across it with his drawn sword in his hand, and soon fell asleep.

The sun was bright when he awoke and, hastily rising, gave orders to change the guard upon the prisoner, and himself entered the chamber to see that the fetters were properly secured. The lamp was burning dimly, and there lay the two soldiers: but
where
was the prisoner? He was gone – utterly gone. The fetters were there, but Petamon had
vanished. Lepidus gave one of his soldiers an angry kick; the man neither stirred nor groaned; he snatched up the lamp and threw its rays upon the soldier’s face. It was white and still, and a small stream of blood, which had flowed from a wound over the heart, told too plain a tale. It was the same with the other.

Perplexed beyond measure, Lepidus hastily roused the cohort. It was some minutes before he could get them to comprehend what had happened; and even then the men followed him most unwillingly as he snatched up a torch and hurried back. To his amazement the corpses of the soldiers were gone, and in their place lay two rams newly slaughtered, and bound with palm ropes; the fetters had also vanished. Shuddering and horror-stricken, he left the chamber, followed by the soldiers; and, as he passed out of the temple, met Sheshonk in his priestly robes going in to perform the morning services.

A panic seized the soldiery, in which Lepidus more than half concurred. They were men, they said; why fight against the gods? In half an hour they had left Philae and were marching through the desert to Syene, with weary steps, under the already scorching sun.

Terrified though he was at this tragedy, Lepidus was too honest to abandon the quest. The soldiers refused to assist further in the search, and he was left almost to his own resources. After much thought he published a proclamation in Egyptian and Greek offering a thousand pieces of gold for the Centurion, if alive; five hundred for the conviction of his murderers, if dead; and five hundred more for the head of the priest, Petamon; and threatening the last penalty of the law on all men detaining the Roman a prisoner or sheltering his murderers.

His hopes were faint, but he could do no more; and having despatched a full report of the whole case to the Roman
general at Alexandria, he waited, impatiently enough, his heart sickened with alternate hopes and fears.

During the next few days he was much disturbed by the sentiments of disaffection which he heard being muttered among the soldiers. Like all ignorant men they were superstitious, the events which had occurred at Philae had produced a deep impression on their minds, and they murmured almost openly at Lepidus.

This feeling was much increased by an old beggar-man who constantly haunted the camp. He had attracted the attention of the soldiers by some ordinary tricks of magic and was constantly telling fortunes and reciting prophecies all foreboding evil to the cohort if it stayed in the neighbourhood; and, indeed, foretelling the speedy and utter downfall of the Roman power.

Lepidus ordered the beggar to be brought before him, and when he came taxed him with attempting to incite the soldiers to mutiny, and sternly reminded him that the punishment for such an attempt was death. The old man listened quietly and calmly, crossing his arms and fixing his glittering eye, which seemed strangely familiar to Lepidus on the Roman officer.