John Roberts - Temple Of Muses

"A commendable project," said Sethotep.

"I have already embarked upon my work concerning the city of Alexandria, and I want to begin my study of the nearby lands. I propose to start with Lake Mareotis and the lands surrounding it. Have you any maps of the lake? I would prefer survey maps, listing the estates of the district and their owners."

"Certainly, Senator," said Sethotep. He stepped over to a rack like the ones in the Library and took out a large scroll. "Of course, all land in Egypt is the property of his Majesty King Ptolemy, but, after ancient custom, the king grants dominion over broad estates to his loyal nobles." That was just what I wanted to hear.

He took the map to a long table and slipped it from its leather tube. To clear a space for it, he picked up some scraps of papyrus, glanced at them, then tossed them into a huge box at the end of the table. The box was half full. The Egyptian bureaucracy generated ten times the waste papyrus of its Roman equivalent. The stuff was cheap in Egypt and they didn't even try to reuse it.

"Where does all the waste papyrus go?" I asked him idly.

"Every month the coffin-makers come to empty the bins," he answered.

"Coffin-makers? Really?" Another strangeness out of Egypt.

"Oh, yes. Wood is very precious in Egypt. Only the wealthy can afford wooden mummy cases. The coffin-makers mix the papyrus with glue and mold it into mummy cases for the poorer and middling classes. As long as the tomb is sealed it will last as well as wood, or so they claim. Personally, I prefer to trust wood. My own tomb is almost finished, and I have provided coffins for myself and my wife made of the finest Lebanese cedar." Romans are fond of funerals and mortuary preparations but the subject is a veritable mania with Egyptians, who believe in an attractive afterlife. Give them a chance and they'll chatter on about it for hours.

"This is the lake," he said, his map now spread and its corners weighted. The lake thus displayed was irregular in shape, as most lakes are. Lines drawn at intervals defined the estates that bordered it, but the lettering was the sort called Demotic, a simplified form of hieroglyphic that represents phonetic sounds like the Greek or Latin alphabets, but only Egyptian is thus written, Thus did the Egyptians assure their place in the Ptolemaic service. Only they could read their maps or surveys.

"Are these the names of the landowners?" I asked him. "I shall be taking a tour of the lake, and I may wish to call upon some of them."

"Well, let me see. Going from the canal westward:"

"Actually, I was planning to begin by going east. Who is the landlord of this estate?" I put my finger on the area where I had been that very morning.

Sethotep considered the inscription for a moment. "That estate belongs to the Lord Kassandros. It has been held by direct inheritance from an ancestor who was a companion of Ptolemy Soter, first of the royal line."

This was bitterly disappointing. I had never heard of the man.

"So it is to this Lord Kassandros that I must make representation if I wish to visit this estate?"

"For some years now, Lord Kassandros has lived in retirement on his estate in the Arsinoene Nome, on the shores of the Faiyum."

"He has more than one estate, then?" I said.

"Like many kings, the Ptolemies have held to the policy of giving the greater lords a number of estates scattered about the kingdom, rather than one large holding. It reduces jealousy among the great men and assures that each gets some of the best land as well as some of the middling and some of the barren land."

It also keeps them traveling among their estates and prevents them from having a large base of power, I thought.

"Very wise. Then to whom should I speak?"

He adjusted his wig, which had come somewhat askew. "That estate may be overseen by a steward, or it may be supervised by one of Lord Kassandros's sons. The Lord Philip is the elder, but he is Steward of the Royal Quarries, and spends most of his time near the first cataract. The younger, the Lord General Achillas, is usually to be found here in Alexandria. You might apply at the Macedonian barracks or at Lord Achillas's town house, but I am sure that his Majesty will be pleased to send a messenger on your behalf. To please Rome is always our most ardent desire."

I could have kissed him. "I shall do as you advise at once, friend Sethotep. And now, I must be off."

"But there is still much to learn of the lake," he said.

"Another time. I have an appointment at the Palace that cannot wait."

He looked unhappy to see me go. I could sympathize. A bureaucrat often has few people to talk to, save the toilers in his own office. The visit had not been wasted. Now I felt I had something to report.

Creticus looked up from his desk grumpily. Apparently I had missed a party the previous night.

"That was a short hunting trip. Did you kill anything?"

"No, but I spotted some promising quarry. Do you have a little time, and is it safe to discuss sensitive matters here?"

"Found a plot to your liking? Oh, come on, then, let's take a turn around the garden. I suspect that some of the embassy slaves aren't as ignorant of Latin as they pretend."

In the olive orchard I told him of my findings and my suspicions. He nodded gravely, but that was just habit. It's a skill every Roman politician learns. He might have been calculating odds on the next races, as far as I knew.

"This sounds ominous," he admitted when I was finished. "But why are you so happy to find out that it was Achillas's land, other than having knocked out his lieutenant, a fact which secretly delights much of the court?"

"Why, because this means it's not Ptolemy," I said.

"And why does that make you happy?"

"First of all, it means that Ptolemy can discipline his own fractious nobleman, and Rome need not take too open a hand in it, sparing Egyptian feelings. And second-well, I just like the old buffoon. He's harmless and good company when he's conscious, and I don't think he's hostile to Rome."

Creticus shook his head. "Decius, you have a fine nose for the devious and underhanded, but your grasp of the obvious leaves much to be desired."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Several shiploads of timber, you said?"

"At least."

"And that tremendous tower is entirely plated with iron?"

"Do you think I exaggerate? It's covered with the stuff-oh, I see."

"Exactly. How rich do you think Achillas is? There are no nobles in Egypt as rich as Crassus, and that much iron bought all at once would bankrupt a small kingdom."

I should have thought of it. When Sethotep told me that Achillas was a younger son, I should have realized that Achillas probably owned little more than his arms and his arrogance. There was great wealth behind those military contraptions.

"But Ptolemy is a beggar!" I protested.

"Makes you wonder where all that money we've given him went, doesn't it?"

My mind darted around. Somehow, even discounting my rueful affection for the old winebag, I couldn't picture Ptolemy as the mastermind behind this absurd bid for power through superior machinery. Another thought came to me.

"Perhaps Achillas is front man for a horde of those disaffected satraps and nomarchs we've been hearing about," I hazarded.

"That's more like it. But I can't see them pooling their wealth and keeping it secret at the same time. Support with words, yes, and promises of aid and alliance once war is joined, that I can imagine. But parting with substantial money? These little Macedonian and Egyptian lordlings are too jealous of one another for that. Each would think he was giving more than his share, that the others were cheating him. And, Decius, you must learn one thing about all large-scale foreign conspiracies against Rome. Heed me, now, because you'll run into it many times if you live long enough." This was the older generation of Metelli teaching the younger, so I listened respectfully. I also knew that it would be damned good advice, because the elders of my family knew domestic and world politics as few other people did.