The Road to Rome (12 page)

Always one to remain inconspicuous, Tarquinius kept the hood of his light wool cloak up. With his long blond hair and gold earring, people had always stared at him. Now, though, they had even more reason. The slingshot had left a deep depression in the left side of his face, which accentuated the scar left by Vahram’s knife. Tarquinius did not care. All his emotions were muted by a heavy blanket of grief, his constant companion since that night in the harbour.

Falling back into the cold black water, the haruspex had been sure that his life was over. Yet again, he’d been wrong. A good part of him still wished that he had not been. Killing Caelius outside the brothel had been sweet revenge for the death of Olenus, his mentor, but the repercussions of his act had been profound. At the time, it had seemed the right thing to do. Now, he was not so sure. Time could not be turned back, though, and Romulus was gone with Caesar’s legions, to whatever fate the gods laid out for him. With luck, that would include a return to Rome. Tarquinius scowled. If that vision wasn’t wrong too.

Coming to a short time after Romulus and Petronius had carried him on to the sand, Tarquinius’ shame had been overwhelming. All he’d wanted to do was vanish. Somehow he had crawled up the rocky slope off the beach, finally falling into a shallow gully. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, he remained there until dawn the next day, waiting for the demon Charon. Death seemed the only apt punishment for the content and timing of his confession. Romulus had been rightfully incandescent, and Tarquinius doubted if the young soldier would ever forgive him. The pain he’d seen in the other’s eyes hurt more than the crushing injury to his face and left the haruspex with little reason to live. Yet, injured and alone, he had not died. After many days of agony, existing on brackish rainwater from rock pools, and shellfish, he had recovered – physically. In turn that meant that the gods still had plans for him. Whether it was Tinia, the greatest Etruscan deity, or Mithras, his guide since Margiana, who was behind it all, Tarquinius had no idea. Nor did he have a clue to his purpose, but he knew better than to fight against a will greater than his.

By the time the haruspex had ventured back into the city, the fighting was long over. Caesar’s legions had sailed east, joining with their allies from Pergamum and taking the fight to the Egyptians. At Pelusium, the boy king Ptolemy and thousands of his troops were killed. Caesar had
returned to Alexandria in triumph. Cleopatra was installed as queen, and the legionaries who had been reviled by the population swaggered about the streets like conquering heroes. Tarquinius was forced to go to ground. Although he had been press-ganged into the Roman army against his will, he was technically a deserter. It was also possible that he might meet Romulus, and that prospect was too painful. With nowhere else to go, he had fled to the vast necropolis which lay southwest of the city walls. There, among the gardens, groves and myriad tombs, Tarquinius’ companions were the criminal poor, lepers and the embalmers of the dead. In the shelter of a crumbling mausoleum to some long-dead merchant, he was content to live a solitary existence. Days blurred into weeks, and then months. Most of the graveyard’s residents gave him a wide berth; those who did not received short shrift. Age and injury might have been starting to take their toll on the haruspex, but he was still lethal with a sword or his double-headed axe.

Caesar had finally departed Alexandria a week previously. Feeling relieved that he was free to move about and guilty that he had not encountered Romulus, Tarquinius began venturing into the city on a daily basis. Haruspicy, his favoured method of discovering what the future might hold, had proved characteristically unhelpful. The winds off the sea, which lay to the north, and from Lake Mareotis, which was to the south, were a daily feature in the city. To Tarquinius, expert at reading air currents, they were refreshing but little else; the clouds he saw merely offered shade from the sun, and the birdlife, more varied and colourful than in Italy, was nothing other than that. After nearly twenty-five years of soothsaying, the haruspex was used to this episodic dearth of information. When his need was greatest, the world around him often revealed nothing, and when he did not care one way or another, it deluged him in detail. Although it was difficult to find enough privacy to sacrifice an animal, Tarquinius had managed it twice. Neither occasion had been fruitful, but he had not completely lost faith in his abilities – as had happened in Margiana. His gut feeling was that he would find out by another method, and it was time to locate that source.

To this end, Tarquinius had been visiting the great library daily. Thankfully, the warehouses that had burned down on the night of the pitched battle between the Roman legionaries and the Egyptians had not
meant its total destruction. That was no thanks to Caesar, he thought darkly. All the general had been concerned with was a diversion to panic the enemy troops, who considerably outnumbered his men. No, the library’s survival was down to the fact that it had two locations. The one on the dockside – which had been entirely consumed by the flames – was only a small part of the whole, with the majority of the documents being stored in a complex of spacious buildings near the Gymnasium.

It was here, therefore, that Tarquinius came to study each day. It was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream to do so, and his grief lifted a fraction each time he crossed the threshold. Inside were many tens of thousands of papyrus rolls on poetry, history, philosophy, medicine, rhetoric and every other subject one could think of. Collected for more than two hundred years, the library of Alexandria comprised the single greatest collection of information in the world. As well as his future path, Tarquinius also hoped to find a clue to the mysterious origins of his people. Despite decades of searching, the haruspex was no wiser about where the Etruscans had come from.

The complex was far more than a library or a storage place for scrolls. It was a combination of school, shrine and museum, also containing immaculate gardens, a richly stocked zoo and an observatory. Naturally, the temple was dedicated to the Muses, and was overseen by a priest of high rank. For generations, Greek scholars from all over the Mediterranean had come to the library as paid tutors, working together and sharing their knowledge with those who came to learn. Men who knew far more than Tarquinius did had spent years here: Archimedes, studying the rise and fall of the River Nile and inventing the screw which could lift water up great heights; Eratosthenes of Cyrene, who lectured on the route to India by sailing west from Hispania, who posited that the world was round and who had calculated its circumference and diameter. Others had propounded theories about the sun’s effect on the planets and stars, or had advanced medical science by their study of human anatomy.

Humility became a new emotion for Tarquinius as he paced the covered walkways of the library’s various wings, discovering the existence of more information than he could absorb in a lifetime of study. To him, the shelves filled with linen- and leather-covered scrolls and parchments were like all the gold and jewels in the world. Even though the majority of the information
had been catalogued, he found scant word of the Etruscans. A few fragments of crumbling papyrus referred to a people who had journeyed from the lands beyond Asia Minor. There was mention of a city called Resen on the River Tigris, and little else. Nothing to fill in around these skeletal details, which Tarquinius already knew from Olenus. In turn this made him wish that he’d had an opportunity to do some investigation after Carrhae. It was a futile thought, for he, like all the other Roman captives, had been kept under lock and key day and night when in Seleucia. Soon Tarquinius began dreaming about a return trip to Parthia.

Perhaps that was where his future lay? While part of Tarquinius’ heart rejoiced at this thought, much of it ached at its utter finality. Would he ever see Romulus again? Although there was no guarantee of a reunion by remaining in Alexandria, the haruspex was reluctant to leave until he unearthed, or was given, some kind of meaningful sign of his purpose.

For weeks, Tarquinius concentrated his search in the library section which contained material on astronomy and history. It was no good. He found nothing. Keen to keep a low profile, he did not ask too much of the librarians, translators and scribes, who tolerated his presence with reluctance. It was Tarquinius’ fluent Greek and medical knowledge which had allowed him entry in the first place, but that did not mean that they liked the silent, scarred stranger wandering up and down the covered walkways, or sitting alone, watching the debates between the resident scholars. He did not fit in.

There was, however, one scribbler, as the translators were known, who enjoyed Tarquinius’ company. Aristophanes was a stout, balding Greek in late middle age, whose main interest was in astronomy. Like his colleagues, he wore a nondescript off-white short-sleeved tunic. Stooped from a lifetime of leaning over documents, his fingers had been stained black from the ink in his reed stylus. Aristophanes’ work area was one of the small courtyards which bordered the book-lined corridors. Perched on a mat surrounded by scrolls and parchments, he deftly copied ancient tracts on to clean pieces of papyrus each day. This part of the library was also where the haruspex spent a lot of time. Inevitably they had spoken; Tarquinius wanted to read a particular text about Nineveh, but could not locate it and had asked the Greek for help. As they searched, a prolonged debate about the merits of papyrus versus those of calf-skin parchment developed.
Although they never found the relevant scroll, a friendship developed, one based on scholarly topics, and which avoided personal matters. Other than the fact that he was Etruscan, Tarquinius mentioned little about his past, and Aristophanes was content not to ask.

That morning was no different, and the two men resumed their discussion of the previous day, about whether it was possible to accurately measure the movement of the stars.

‘They say that there’s a box-like device on Rhodes which shows how the sun, moon and planets travel through the sky,’ the scribbler confided. ‘Made of metal, with dozens of little hidden wheels and cogs which move in unison. Apparently it can even predict lunar and solar eclipses. Not sure I believe it myself.’

Tarquinius laughed. He’d heard rumours of such a thing when visiting Rhodes himself.

Aristophanes frowned. ‘What?’

‘Look around you. Think of the wealth of knowledge which has been gathered here,’ he replied. ‘Why wouldn’t that appliance exist?’

‘Of course, you’re right.’ Aristophanes smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve spent too long here. Can’t see what’s in front of me any more.’

Tarquinius thought for a moment. While the data he studied in the library was fascinating, all too often it felt sterile, even dead. ‘Rhodes, you say?’ he asked.

Aristophanes nodded. ‘In the Greek school there. One day I’ll visit it,’ he said wistfully.

Perhaps I should also go, reflected Tarquinius. He’d stolen enough for the passage. Suddenly, the library’s tranquillity was broken from outside by the distinctive tramp of men marching in unison. The noise came to a halt by the main gate, and was followed by the hammering of a weapon butt on the timbers. Shouted commands rang out, demanding entry.

Aristophanes looked perturbed. Even the recent fighting had not affected the library’s status as an island of calm in the city. ‘What in the name of Zeus do they want?’

Tarquinius was on his feet before he knew it, clutching for a sword that wasn’t there. The orders had been given in Latin, not Greek or Egyptian. That indicated Roman soldiers were present, which meant trouble.
Legionaries might ask awkward questions. He felt the air about him move. Danger, the haruspex thought. Was it to him, though, or to someone else?

‘What’s wrong?’ Aristophanes had seen his response. ‘Are they after you?’

Calm down, thought Tarquinius. Few, if any, Romans in the city would recognise me. He took a deep breath. ‘Not exactly,’ he said slowly, knowing that the only exits apart from the main entrance were locked. He’d tried them already, seeking an escape route in advance – in case it should ever be needed. ‘I don’t like them, that’s all.’

The Greek gave him a sceptical look. He knew that Tarquinius was from Italy, and had gleaned that he’d served in the army. There was more occurring here than his friend was letting on. Yet, like most residents of the city, whether Egyptian or Greek, Aristophanes had little love for the new effective rulers with their arrogance, crude manners and martial tendencies. ‘Go back under the portico,’ he advised quietly. ‘Even if they come in here, the sunlight is so bright that they’ll only see a shadow. Just another scholar studying some old tome.’

Grateful, Tarquinius rolled up the tract on Assyria which he’d been perusing and did as Aristophanes said. Facing the rows of shelves, he could peer over his shoulder at anyone who came into this wing. What then, though? There was still no way out. With his heart thudding in his chest, he looked up at the patch of sky that was visible overhead. The air was calm, and the clouds made no sense. Tarquinius cursed under his breath.

To his surprise, the soldiers who clattered into the courtyard a few moments later were a mixture of Romans and Egyptians. First came two squads of ten well-presented legionaries, then the same number of royal guards, resplendent in green tunics, Greek helmets and bronze breastplates. Taking half of the area each, the two groups spread out in a protective screen, their spears and swords ready. Aristophanes and his accoutrements were simply stepped over and ignored. An officer whistled the all-clear and in walked a striking young woman; she was accompanied by several fawning courtiers and senior librarians. Tarquinius’ mouth opened. Knocking his pots of ink flying, Aristophanes jerked up and prostrated himself face first upon his reed mat. He had no time to warn Tarquinius, but there was no need.

Here was Cleopatra, sister to the dead king Ptolemy. Lover to Caesar,
she was now the sole ruler of Egypt. A goddess to her people. What was she doing here? the haruspex wondered.