En route, Uri would have liked to inspect the edifices, the vast stadium and everything else that he could see, but he was troubled by a deep-seated disquiet: he had again become a victim of mistaken identity, and that was going to land him in big trouble one of these days.
Here he was liked for precisely the reason he had been loathed in Judaea. Or maybe not loathed, but all the same… Yet there was no foundation in reality for this identification, any more than there had been for the other. What was going to happen when they found out?
And anyway, how come they know about me at all?
They were passing by the rectangular structure of the massive fortress-like Serapeion, tall even though it was only one story high; it must have been near to a stadion long and almost half a stadion wide. Its entrance was set amid Ionic and Corinthian columns facing to the north, toward the sea, being built by Ptolemy III Euergetes, Hippolytos said, and Uri had just nodded, though he had no idea when that ruler had lived. On obelisks standing in front of the temple were a pair of red granite sphinxes and a black granite statue of Apis. This was on the hill of Rhakotis, Hippolytos said, and called Uri’s attention to the entrance to the cemetery next to the temple, where there was a statue of jackal-headed Anubis, the interesting feature of which was that the sculptor — whether in mockery or in an attempt to curry favor — had carved him wearing the dress of a Roman centurion. Inside there was also a shrine to Isis, Hippolytos noted, and a number of other smaller shrines such as one to Harpocrates, the Greek rendering of the Egyptian Har — pa — khered, meaning “Horus, the child.” Now Horus was regarded as being the son of Serapis and Isis, Isis being the wife of Serapis — if Uri was not clear on that point, because some of the characteristics of Osiris had been blended into this Serapis whom the first Ptolemies had dreamed up, yes, along with some of the characteristics of Asclepius, the god of healing, and of Hades as well, of course. There was no special cult of the son, Harpocrates, but Isis, Serapis’s consort, was considered to be a savior, who forgave sins, Serapis himself as well — a sacred family trinity of Father, Mother and Son, not that this had any particular religious outgrowth.
The new Great Library was also inside the temple, its stock having been transferred here from Pergamum by Mark Antony and a gift to Cleopatra in return for the volumes that Julius Caesar had committed to the flames.
In a big garden could be seen a statue of Serapis, this new state-proclaimed god who the subjects of the Ptolemies had hastened to worship, sedulously offering sacrifices to him in expression of absolute fidelity to the new Macedonian ruling house that had been planted on them. Nowadays this confected deity was more or less the only one to which the Greeks here offered sacrifices; the Egyptians too, when it comes to that. Ptolemy I Soter had the massive, bearded marble figure, sheaves of grain adorning the locks of his hair and seated on a marble throne, brought over from Sinope, where it was worshiped as Jupiter Dis; every year the Greeks celebrated the arrival of Serapis — in other words, the arrival of the statue — on the twenty-ninth day of August, which also marked the start of the Egyptian New Year. Seated on a smaller throne beside that was his assistant, Pluton, commander of the realm of the dead, with a marble snake coiled around the throne.
Sheets of gold, silver, bronze and marble were affixed all over the temple’s ancient exterior walls, and Uri stepped closer: former patients, not one of them still alive, Uri suspected, had carved words of gratitude to Serapis for curing them.
They then walked westward alongside the wall of the old Egyptian necropolis until they reached the city gates. Heading out into the fields, the guards handed each traveler a slip of parchment that they might return to the city without any problems.
“It’s easy to get out, hard to get back,” said Hippolytos. “That’s one thing the Hellenes and Hebrews can agree on.”
Uri looked at the city wall, at least eight feet high. It looked old, built of coarse stones, with the trees and shrubs growing out of the cracks locking the structure together rather than splitting it apart. Anyone who wanted to badly enough might climb over it.
The city wall, said Hippolytos, was raised by Ptolemy I Soter, thanks to whom Alexandria was founded as a city. He recounted the legend that as Alexander the Great had himself selected the site, cantering on horseback around a dozen fishing villages that had stood here, and because he had no other means he had dropped his army’s entire stores on the field to mark the place. The legend does not say, however, what the soldiers thought of this, but it shows how decent he was, because at that time barbarians were still in the habit of marking out a city’s walls in blood — the great warrior might just as easily have had the local people or their livestock slaughtered, using their blood to trace the walls of his city to be in the untouched ground.
That Soter himself must be one of the old kings, Uri thought, ashamed at not knowing anything about Alexandria’s history. Never mind: if he were allowed to stay, he would be able to bone up on it.
They moved past extensive, nicely kept gardens attached to the villas of wealthy citizens of the town, and at one place he even saw gravestones. He didn’t know what to make of that.
That was the Western Necropolis, one of the old burial grounds. In times gone by the rich of Alexandria were buried in ample, shaded parkland just beyond the city wall, but eventually the living begrudged the dead the fine space they were occupying, and pushed into it while they were still alive. Plots of land here were extremely expensive, whether intended for the living or the dead, Hippolytos explained admiringly. Some people were born here and also happily died here, but Jews were never established in these parts, alive or dead.
“Have you people been expecting me?” Uri finally asked, summoning all his resolve.
“We’ve heard talk about you,” Hippolytos averred respectfully.
“From who was that?”
“That I don’t know, but I’ve heard your name before, and more than once at that. We knew that you had been knocking about in Judaea for a fair time on a mission of some kind… I had also heard your father’s name mentioned — his perhaps more than your own. He must be a big wheel in Rome if Agrippa asked him for a loan.”
Uri “umm”ed and “aah”ed.
“Here Agrippa asked the alabarch himself for a loan the last time he paid a visit,” said Hippolytos. “As best we know, the alabarch also gave him a sizable amount, two hundred thousand drachmas, it’s said, or rather not him but his wife, Cypron, but only the first installment, a tenth of it…” Hippolytos snorted ironically. “He handed it over in installments, the latter of which were forwarded to Dikaiarchia for Agrippa to pick up once he got there, and even then only at intervals so that the whole lot could not be picked up in one go to blow on a single dinner… A wise man, Alabarch Alexander, otherwise he wouldn’t have the entire tax revenues of the Nile for himself… And your father must be wise man also, Gaius Theodorus.”
“On a mission of some kind.”
But what on Earth might my mission be?
Uri sensed that Hippolytos would like him to be more forthcoming, but nothing more occurred to Uri. He felt odd that a highly intelligent young man should speaking to him in the most fantastic city in the world; more than that, he had the feeling that Hippolytos wanted to present himself as being even more intelligent than he in fact was. He’s another who fancies I’m some potentate, and feels it necessary to sketch for me an entertaining potted history of the Jews of Alexandria. If I utter a word it will immediately show how much of a nonentity I am, but then again it won’t be possible for me to keep my trap shut permanently!