highest point in the city. Aculeo turned eastwards down the street leading to the temple. Ancient statues pillaged from the banks of the Upper Nile – sphinxes, long forgotten pharaohs and animal-headed gods – decorated the streetside along its length while towering stands of date palms rasped overhead in the warm morning breeze off the sea. Not the most private place to commit a murder, he thought.
His hurried breakfast of fermented fish paste, a heel of bread and a cup of flat beer sloshed about in his stomach like lumps of wet paste. He’d woken only half an hour before to snatches of Xanthias’ inane gossip picked up in the Agora that morning, including mention of a dead woman found in the temple at the feet of the god Sarapis himself. Aculeo had tried to get back to sleep until the potential meaning of the discovery had slowly bubbled into his sodden brain and he had dragged himself from bed.
Perhaps a dozen murders of citizens took place in Alexandria in a given year, typically triggered by lovers’ quarrels, retribution for various misdeeds, drunken brawls that went too far, disputes between the various collegia or citizens of warring nations that had been carried over here. Countless other murders occurred as well of course, of slaves or other members of the city’s teeming underclass of freedmen, actors, pimps and pornes, but those were usually of little concern unless a respected citizen or official happened to be involved somehow. The possibility of the dead woman being Neaera was remote at best, but Aculeo could hardly ignore it. He hoped it wasn’t, of course – as long as Iovinus’ porne was alive, so was the chance she could lead Aculeo to her elusive patron.
Despite the early hour, the streets leading to the Sarapeion were already filling up with worshippers, young and old, healthy and invalid, Greek and fellahin, all moving up the steep slope to seek Sarapis’ renowned healing powers. A low wall lined the long, empty street leading to the great temple, topped with small, elegant sculptures of panthers, bees, peacocks and goats, with an occasional sphinx to break the decorative motif.
Aculeo looked with dismay up the hundred steps that led from the street to the temple, a vast compound encompassing most of the hilltop, then joined the dozen or so worshippers in the gruelling climb, grunting and cursing with the rest of them towards the summit. He paused halfway up to catch his breath, work out the kinks and look back over the city. Thick knots of dark cloud unspooled across the sea horizon, coupled with a throaty rumble of thunder, promising a heavy spring rain.
When at last he reached the top step of the temple, his legs and lungs were burning, his heart pounding in his chest. He leaned against a cool stone pillar to catch his breath. It had been years since he’d bothered to even come up here. The temple compound was enormous, fully two stades in length by one in width. An outer colonnade circuited the area with elegant porticoes leading to the living quarters for the priests along with a large and outstanding library. The compound itself housed a vast mazework of pillared corridors and shrines for the pantheon of Roman and Egyptian gods. The narrow stalls that lined the temple’s main promenade were manned by the merchants and moneylenders to deal with the worshippers.
He walked across the ceremonial dromos, the only sound the echoes of his own sandals scuffing along the marble tiles, until he reached the temple’s outer courtyard, then into the Hall of Appearance. An inner colonnade led from the hall across a walkway to a square red granite and porphyry sanctuary at the far end. Sarapis was enthroned within the sanctuary. A trick of the architects made him seem even larger and grander than he actually was, for the floor rose gradually as the ceiling lowered between the entrance and the sanctuary. Aculeo continued along the Path between Light and Twilight, across the Hall of Offering and
His hurried breakfast of fermented fish paste, a heel of bread and a cup of flat beer sloshed about in his stomach like lumps of wet paste. He’d woken only half an hour before to snatches of Xanthias’ inane gossip picked up in the Agora that morning, including mention of a dead woman found in the temple at the feet of the god Sarapis himself. Aculeo had tried to get back to sleep until the potential meaning of the discovery had slowly bubbled into his sodden brain and he had dragged himself from bed.
Perhaps a dozen murders of citizens took place in Alexandria in a given year, typically triggered by lovers’ quarrels, retribution for various misdeeds, drunken brawls that went too far, disputes between the various collegia or citizens of warring nations that had been carried over here. Countless other murders occurred as well of course, of slaves or other members of the city’s teeming underclass of freedmen, actors, pimps and pornes, but those were usually of little concern unless a respected citizen or official happened to be involved somehow. The possibility of the dead woman being Neaera was remote at best, but Aculeo could hardly ignore it. He hoped it wasn’t, of course – as long as Iovinus’ porne was alive, so was the chance she could lead Aculeo to her elusive patron.
Despite the early hour, the streets leading to the Sarapeion were already filling up with worshippers, young and old, healthy and invalid, Greek and fellahin, all moving up the steep slope to seek Sarapis’ renowned healing powers. A low wall lined the long, empty street leading to the great temple, topped with small, elegant sculptures of panthers, bees, peacocks and goats, with an occasional sphinx to break the decorative motif.
Aculeo looked with dismay up the hundred steps that led from the street to the temple, a vast compound encompassing most of the hilltop, then joined the dozen or so worshippers in the gruelling climb, grunting and cursing with the rest of them towards the summit. He paused halfway up to catch his breath, work out the kinks and look back over the city. Thick knots of dark cloud unspooled across the sea horizon, coupled with a throaty rumble of thunder, promising a heavy spring rain.
When at last he reached the top step of the temple, his legs and lungs were burning, his heart pounding in his chest. He leaned against a cool stone pillar to catch his breath. It had been years since he’d bothered to even come up here. The temple compound was enormous, fully two stades in length by one in width. An outer colonnade circuited the area with elegant porticoes leading to the living quarters for the priests along with a large and outstanding library. The compound itself housed a vast mazework of pillared corridors and shrines for the pantheon of Roman and Egyptian gods. The narrow stalls that lined the temple’s main promenade were manned by the merchants and moneylenders to deal with the worshippers.
He walked across the ceremonial dromos, the only sound the echoes of his own sandals scuffing along the marble tiles, until he reached the temple’s outer courtyard, then into the Hall of Appearance. An inner colonnade led from the hall across a walkway to a square red granite and porphyry sanctuary at the far end. Sarapis was enthroned within the sanctuary. A trick of the architects made him seem even larger and grander than he actually was, for the floor rose gradually as the ceiling lowered between the entrance and the sanctuary. Aculeo continued along the Path between Light and Twilight, across the Hall of Offering and
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