As I strolled around Alexandria that day, I should have been in a good mood, for I was no longer a pauper but had some coins on my person, thanks to the funds from my father. With a bit of money, there were endless things to do in Alexandria.
Instead, I found myself walking in circles. That single utterance by Isidorus kept echoing in my head, nagging at me.
There would be a perfectly innocent explanation, I told myself. Antipater had come to trust Isidorus, and so had revealed to him his true identity. That was Antipater’s choice, and none of my business. But why, then, had Isidorus continued to address him at dinner as Zoticus?
Because the slave was present, I told myself. Yes, that was it. The woman serving dinner was not to know who Antipater was. But why hadn’t Antipater informed me of his decision to reveal himself to our host? Ah, well, he was an old fellow and he simply forgot. But even as this thought came to me, I knew it was a lie. Antipater’s mind was as keen as ever, and he never did anything without a purpose. Some sort of relationship existed between him and our host, and I was being kept in the dark about it.
Why?
I found myself in the Rhakotis district, the oldest part of the city. Rhakotis had been a settlement in Homer’s time; its narrow, winding streets predated the grid laid down by Alexander’s new city. With its shabby tenements, gambling dens, and seedy taverns, Rhakotis reminded me of the Subura in Rome.
Passing through a particularly tawdry part of Rhakotis, I passed a building that was clearly a brothel, to judge by the attitude of the women who stood at the upper-story windows, flaunting their naked breasts and looking bored. A man stepped out of the front door. He looked this way and that, but took no notice of me.
A lightning bolt of recognition struck me, followed by a quiver of doubt. Could the man possibly be who I thought he was?
He was burly and blond, with a neatly trimmed beard, and his clothing was Greek. In a teeming metropolis like Alexandria, there were countless specimens almost exactly like him—and yet, something about the arrogant tilt of his head and the truculent way he held himself as he turned and walked quickly away, clenching his fists, convinced me that he was none other than the murderer from Olympia.
I remembered everything about him in a flash: standing behind me at the Temple of Zeus he had loudly voiced anti-Roman sentiments; later that night I had overheard him speaking to an unknown conspirator—a fellow agent for Mithridates—in the tent of our host; and the next day he had used a snake to poison the Cynic, Simmius of Sidon, and then, in the ensuing confusion, had vanished into thin air, not to be seen again—until now.
They had a saying in Alexandria: “Stay here long enough, and every traveler in the world will cross your path.” Apparently it was true.
I quickened my stride to match his. Keeping what I hoped was a safe distance, I followed the murderer.
He apparently had several calls to make, for repeatedly I saw him disappear into a tenement or private dwelling, stay for a short while, and then reappear, always pausing to peer suspiciously up and down the street before proceeding. I had to call upon all the skills my father had taught me to shadow him without being spotted.
His itinerary at last took him to the waterfront, and onto a wharf that appeared to be an embarkation point for workers coming from and going to the Pharos; so I assumed from the uniform—a tight-fitting cap and a tunic of dark green—worn by the passengers who were disembarking from a ferry that had just landed at the wharf. They had the weary look of workers who had just ended a long shift, in contrast to the more energetic demeanor of the similarly dressed passengers who shuffled forward to take their place on the ferry.
There was a guard post at the entrance to the wharf, but the soldier who was supposed to be manning it stood some distance away, his back turned while he talked to a pretty girl passing by. The murderer walked right past him and onto the wharf. I quickly followed him.
He stepped through a narrow doorway and into a long, low structure. After some hesitation, I followed him. The interior was cluttered and dark, lit only by a few high windows. As my eyes adjusted, around me I saw various nautical items—coils of rope, bits of planking, patches for sails, and such. There was also a pile of what appeared to be discarded workers’ uniforms; perhaps the garments needed mending.
Suddenly, from nearby, I heard the murderer talking, and the sound of his voice—long unheard but never forgotten—chilled my blood. His voice drew closer. My heart pounded in my chest. I squatted down and hid as best I could behind a stack of coiled ropes. He strode directly in front of me and stopped only a few steps away. Above the ropes, I had a view of his face. Had he bothered to look in my direction, he might have seen me as well, among the shadows.
“Our ranks have grown corrupt and must be purified,” he was saying. “Like weeds among the barley, the unfaithful must be pulled up by the root!”
The man who accompanied him was very tall and had a narrow face. He was dressed in the same colors as the lighthouse workers, but his long green gown was elegantly embroidered with images of Tritons holding conches. He wore a high hat shaped like the Pharos and he carried a ceremonial flail to denote his authority.
“Yes, Nikanor, yes,” the man was saying, “any and all traitors among us must be eliminated, without mercy. But the reason I asked you to come today was so that you could tell me what progress has been made on the coded message system being devised by our friends at the Library. Their job is to anticipate all possible contingencies, military and otherwise, and my job is to figure out how the mirrors and the clarions can be used to send secret signals between us. But I can’t begin to work out the details until you give me the list of secure locations in the city to which such signals are to be directed.”
“Is it true, Anubion, that from the Pharos you can aim a beam of light at any house in the city?”
“Provided there is a clear sightline between that house and any of the mirrors located on the Pharos, yes. But the mechanics for doing so are quite complex, and must be worked out and tested in advance. That’s why I need the list as soon as possible—”
“Yes, yes, Anubion, you’ll get the list,” said Nikanor. “But I was wondering—can the mirrors be aimed at the royal palace, as well?”
“Of course they can be, and quite frequently they are; that’s how King Ptolemy and his agents send messages back and forth to one another. A message in code is flashed from a mirror in one part of the palace to the Pharos, and then the same message is sent from the Pharos back to a different part of the palace. Thus the king’s agents, even though distant from each other in the royal complex, can communicate almost instantaneously, and in secret,
