just beyond that into the Sanctuary itself. A thin morning drizzle started to spatter across the marble floor as a rumble of thunder rolled through the darkening sky.
The god sat on his throne in the centre of the room, his seated height taller than that of two men standing atop one another, his broad, handsome gold-leaf face framed with a flowing mane of ivory hair and thickly curled beard, a look of warm paternal concern on his face and on his head a sacred measuring basket symbolic of the fruits of harvest. A temple attendant poured morning libations into the golden bowl near the god’s great feet, while another whispered into his ivory ear to awaken him. Sarapis’ jewelled eyes sparkled in the morning light.
The story was three centuries ago Sarapis had visited the old emperor Ptolemy Soter in a dream and informed him that he would be the patron god of the new Egyptian Empire. Also that his cult statue, a creation of ivory, fragrant wood and precious metals, could be discovered in Sinope, a city on the distant shores of the Black Sea. So it was, and after a suitable compensation had been paid to the people of Sinope, the god had been freed from his temple there and resurrected in his new place of worship in Alexandria. Bought and delivered – the perfect object of worship for a city of merchants.
A handful of curious onlookers stood about near the entrance to the stoa, trying to get a peek within. Their view was blocked by several men dressed in the scarlet-edged tunics of city officials. The Office of Public Order dealt with the city’s most serious public issues, those being virtually anything that might somehow slow the wheels of trade. Typically that meant merely ensuring merchants in the Agora had paid their requisite bribes, that the street cleaners were clearing dung properly from the rutted city streets and so on. While the Sarapeion had no role in the city’s trade, contamination of Alexandria’s main temples with the blood of a dead woman would hardly be well received by the priests or city officials.
Aculeo spotted what looked like a pile of rags heaped behind Sarapis’ glittering throne. The murdered woman, he thought. Another onlooker trying to take too close a look was angrily shoved away by one of the officers. The unfortunate fellow tripped, knocking over a merchant’s barrow, spilling a load of charms and small replicas of Sarapis on the floor. There were cries of outrage as the merchant beat the poor fellow about the head and several of the man’s friends rushed to his aid. The remaining officers swarmed in, trying to break up the tussle.
Aculeo slipped past the scrum and into the stoa, stepping behind the throne. The body was partially covered with a red cloak, faded red, threadbare, patched and filthy. He took an edge of the cloak and lifted it. The woman was likely no more than twenty years old, with a plain, thin face, chestnut-brown skin, wide cheekbones and thick dark lips. One arm was bent awkwardly over her head, the other folded neatly across her chest. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were still open, unblinking, no spark of life behind them. Her dull black hair was cropped short and uneven, patches of skin on the scalp, neck and arms were mottled with pink bumps. Clearly not Neaera, he thought with relief. A fellahin perhaps.
Her tunic was torn and stained with blood under her right arm. A deep-looking cut ran from her wrist halfway down her forearm. Aculeo noticed a glint of something clutched in her fist and gently pried her stiff fingers open. It was an earring. A pretty thing, like a cluster of tiny gold grapes with leaves of what looked like jasper. It was fine work, and expensive. He glanced at her ears. No sign of its mate.
“Hey, what are you doing?” A pair of very large Public Order officers loomed over him, scowling.
“Apologies,” Aculeo said. “I meant no harm.”
One of the officers snorted and circled a thumb and forefinger against his lips, jabbing his tongue
The god sat on his throne in the centre of the room, his seated height taller than that of two men standing atop one another, his broad, handsome gold-leaf face framed with a flowing mane of ivory hair and thickly curled beard, a look of warm paternal concern on his face and on his head a sacred measuring basket symbolic of the fruits of harvest. A temple attendant poured morning libations into the golden bowl near the god’s great feet, while another whispered into his ivory ear to awaken him. Sarapis’ jewelled eyes sparkled in the morning light.
The story was three centuries ago Sarapis had visited the old emperor Ptolemy Soter in a dream and informed him that he would be the patron god of the new Egyptian Empire. Also that his cult statue, a creation of ivory, fragrant wood and precious metals, could be discovered in Sinope, a city on the distant shores of the Black Sea. So it was, and after a suitable compensation had been paid to the people of Sinope, the god had been freed from his temple there and resurrected in his new place of worship in Alexandria. Bought and delivered – the perfect object of worship for a city of merchants.
A handful of curious onlookers stood about near the entrance to the stoa, trying to get a peek within. Their view was blocked by several men dressed in the scarlet-edged tunics of city officials. The Office of Public Order dealt with the city’s most serious public issues, those being virtually anything that might somehow slow the wheels of trade. Typically that meant merely ensuring merchants in the Agora had paid their requisite bribes, that the street cleaners were clearing dung properly from the rutted city streets and so on. While the Sarapeion had no role in the city’s trade, contamination of Alexandria’s main temples with the blood of a dead woman would hardly be well received by the priests or city officials.
Aculeo spotted what looked like a pile of rags heaped behind Sarapis’ glittering throne. The murdered woman, he thought. Another onlooker trying to take too close a look was angrily shoved away by one of the officers. The unfortunate fellow tripped, knocking over a merchant’s barrow, spilling a load of charms and small replicas of Sarapis on the floor. There were cries of outrage as the merchant beat the poor fellow about the head and several of the man’s friends rushed to his aid. The remaining officers swarmed in, trying to break up the tussle.
Aculeo slipped past the scrum and into the stoa, stepping behind the throne. The body was partially covered with a red cloak, faded red, threadbare, patched and filthy. He took an edge of the cloak and lifted it. The woman was likely no more than twenty years old, with a plain, thin face, chestnut-brown skin, wide cheekbones and thick dark lips. One arm was bent awkwardly over her head, the other folded neatly across her chest. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were still open, unblinking, no spark of life behind them. Her dull black hair was cropped short and uneven, patches of skin on the scalp, neck and arms were mottled with pink bumps. Clearly not Neaera, he thought with relief. A fellahin perhaps.
Her tunic was torn and stained with blood under her right arm. A deep-looking cut ran from her wrist halfway down her forearm. Aculeo noticed a glint of something clutched in her fist and gently pried her stiff fingers open. It was an earring. A pretty thing, like a cluster of tiny gold grapes with leaves of what looked like jasper. It was fine work, and expensive. He glanced at her ears. No sign of its mate.
“Hey, what are you doing?” A pair of very large Public Order officers loomed over him, scowling.
“Apologies,” Aculeo said. “I meant no harm.”
One of the officers snorted and circled a thumb and forefinger against his lips, jabbing his tongue
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