Ancient World 02 - Raiders of the Nile (2 page)

The wagon was wheeled into place alongside the dais. The top of the crate was lifted off. The inside was padded with blankets and straw.

A hoisting mechanism was deployed to remove the lid of the sarcophagus.

“Should we be opening the sarcophagus?” I said, feeling a prickle of superstitious dread.

“The lid and the sarcophagus are both very heavy,” said Artemon. “They’ll be easier to manipulate if we separate them and lift them one at a time.”

As the lid began to rise above the sarcophagus, a thought occurred to me.

“What will become of the body?” I asked.

Artemon looked at me sidelong but did not speak.

“You’re not going to hold it for ransom, are you?”

He laughed at the look on my face. “Of course not. The remains of Alexander will be handled with utmost respect, and will be left here where they belong, in his tomb.”

Robbing a mummified corpse of its sarcophagus hardly constituted respect, I thought. Artemon seemed to be amused by my misgivings.

“Here, Pecunius, let’s have a look at the mummy before we remove it from the sarcophagus. They say the state of preservation is quite remarkable.”

He took my arm and together we stepped onto the dais. As the lid was hoisted onto the wagon, the two of us peered over the edge of the sarcophagus.

So it came to pass that I, Gordianus of Rome, at the age of twenty-two, in the city of Alexandria and in the company of cutthroats and bandits, found myself face to face with the most famous mortal who ever lived.

For a man who had been dead over two hundred years, the conqueror’s features were remarkably well preserved. His eyes were closed, as if he slept, but his eyelashes were perfectly intact. I could almost imagine that he might suddenly blink and gaze back at me.

“Look out!” someone shouted.

I turned around to see that we had company—not royal soldiers, but a handful of regular citizens, no doubt outraged at the desecration of their city’s most sacred monument. A few had daggers. The rest were armed only with clubs and stones.

As Artemon’s men fell on the newcomers, cutting them down and driving them back, one of the angry citizens raised his arm and took aim at me. I saw the jagged rock hurtle toward me.

Artemon grabbed my arm and pulled me sharply to one side, but too late. I felt a sharp blow against my head. The world turned upside down as I fell from the dais onto the wagon, striking my head against one corner of the crate. Groggily, I drew back and saw blood—my blood—on the wood. Then everything went black.

How had I come to such a sorry pass?

Let me tell you the story.

II

It all started the day I turned twenty-two.

That was on the twenty-third day of the month we Romans call Martius; in Egypt it was the month of Phamenoth. Back in Rome, the weather was probably bitter and damp, or at best chilly and brisk, but in Alexandria my birthday dawned without a cloud in the sky. The warm breath of the desert filled the city, relieved by an occasional breeze from the sea.

I lived on the topmost floor of a five-story tenement in the Rhakotis district. My little room had a window that faced north, toward the sea, but any view I might have had of the harbor and the water beyond was blocked by the fronds of a tall palm tree outside the window. The breeze caused the foliage to perform a listless dance; the motions of the fronds as they slowly slid against one another produced a languorous, repetitious music. The shiny foliage reflected the rays of the rising sun, causing points of light to dance across my closed eyelids.

I woke, as I had fallen asleep, with Bethesda in my arms.

You may wonder why my slave was in bed with me. I might point out that the shabby little apartment in which I was living was so small there was hardly room for one person to turn around, let alone two. The bed, narrow as it was, took up most of the space. Yes, I could have made Bethesda sleep on the floor, but what if I rose in the night? I would likely have tripped over her, fallen, and cracked my skull.

Of course, it was not for considerations such as these that I had invited Bethesda to share my bed. Bethesda was more than merely my slave.

When I was a boy, and my father taught me the facts of life, he made clear what he thought about masters sharing their beds with slaves. “A bad idea, all around,” I could remember him saying. My mother had died when I was small, and the only slave in our household was an old fellow called Damon, so I was not sure if he spoke from experience.

“Why is that, father? Is it against the law for a master to sleep with a slave?”

I can remember my father smiling at such a naive question. “If a man were to sleep with another man’s slave, without permission—that would be against the law. But with his own property, a Roman citizen may do whatever he wishes. He may even kill a slave, just as he may kill a dog or a goat or any other animal he owns.”

“Is it adultery, then, if a married man has relations with a slave?”

“No, because for adultery to occur there must be the chance of freeborn offspring—such a birth might threaten the wife’s status and the status of her children, you see. But since a slave has no legal existence, and any child born to a slave is also a slave, no union with a slave can pose a threat to the marriage or to the heirs. That is why many wives make no objection if their husband cavorts as much as he wishes with his slaves, male or female. Better he should do so in the home, at no expense, and not with a freeborn woman or someone else’s wife.”

I frowned. “Then why do you say it’s a bad idea?”

My father sighed. “Because, in my experience, the act of sexual union invariably produces not just a physical reaction, but an emotional one as well—whether good or bad—and in both master and slave. And that leads to trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Oh, a Pandora’s box full of woe! Jealousy, blackmail, betrayal, trickery, deceit—even murder.” My father’s experience of the world was wider than that of most men. He called himself Finder, and he made his living by uncovering other people’s secrets, often of a scandalous or criminal nature. “Digging up the dirt,” he called it. He had seen the full range of human behavior, from the best to the worst—but mostly the worst. If his experience had led him to believe that carnal knowledge between a master and a slave was a bad thing, he probably knew what he was talking about.

“I can see that it might be unwise, but is it
wrong
for a master to sleep with a slave?” I asked.

“Certainly the law does not object. Nor does religion; such an act does not offend the gods. Nor do philosophers have much to say about how a man uses his slaves.”

“But what do
you
think, father?”

He gave me a penetrating look and lowered his voice, so that I knew he spoke from the heart. “I think that when any two people have carnal relations, the greater the difference in their status, the more likely it is that one of them is being forced to act against his or her will. When that occurs, the act is demeaning to both parties. Or the tables can be turned. I’ve seen so-called philosophers behave like fools, wealthy men bankrupted, powerful men humiliated—and all for the love of a slave. To be sure, not every union can be of equals. Not every pairing can be like the one that existed between me … and your mother.”

He fell silent and turned his face away.

That was the end of the conversation, but the words my father had spoken remained in my memory.

On my journey from Rome to Alexandria, I had done a number of things of which my father would be proud, or so I hoped. I had also done a few things of which my father would probably disapprove. Sleeping with Bethesda fell into the latter category.

Vague thoughts of my father must have been in my mind as I woke that morning—perhaps I had been dreaming about him—but what he might or might not think quickly became the furthest thing from my mind. My father was a long way off, in Rome, but Bethesda was very close. With her body pressed against mine and our limbs entwined, it was hard to think of anything else.

From those places where we touched emanated the most exquisite sensation imaginable—warm flesh against flesh. Those few areas of my body that were not touching hers experienced a kind of jealousy, and cried out to rectify the situation at once. Every part of me wanted to be pressed against every part of her, all at once. From the way she responded, I had no doubt she felt the same. Is it possible for two mortal bodies to meld into one? Bethesda and I frequently made every effort to do so, sometimes several times a day.

Our bodies became sheened with sweat. As we turned this way and that, the faint breeze from the window gently wafted the sweat from our skin. Our sighs and moans joined the music of the rustling palm fronds, then rose above it in pitch and volume until surely the vendors in the street below and the laborers on their way to work could hear us cry out.

At last—our union consummated, uttermost pleasure attained—we drew apart.

“Was that a good beginning to your birthday, Master?” said Bethesda.

The question was so unnecessary, I laughed out loud. Neither of us spoke for a long time. We lay side by side, barely touching. The morning sun reflected more brightly off the swaying palm fronds, scattering the room with bits of light. I heard the cry of seagulls, and the blaring of navigation horns from the distant Pharos Lighthouse. I closed my eyes and dozed for a while, then slowly woke again.

Bethesda walked her fingertips over my knee and up my thigh, then reached for a more intimate part of me.

“Perhaps we could make the day’s beginning twice as good,” she said.

And so we did, very slowly, taking our time. Her body was a landscape in which I became hopelessly lost—the forest of her long black hair, the maze of her smooth brown limbs, the ever-changing topography of her shoulders. Her hips and breasts became undulating sand dunes as she stretched, twisted, and turned. Her mouth was an oasis, the place between her thighs a delta.

When we were done, I felt wide awake. “I don’t think I could ever grow tired of that,” I said, mostly to myself, since I spoke the words in Latin. Though Bethesda knew Hebrew, Greek, and Egyptian, I had so far managed to teach her only a smattering of Latin. She raised an eyebrow, clearly not comprehending, so I repeated my comment in Greek, the language we had in common. “I don’t think I could ever grow tired of that.”

“Nor I,” said Bethesda.

“But sometimes…”

“We have to eat.”

So it was hunger that finally forced us out of bed. I dressed in my blue tunic—my best, despite a few stains and the fact that the threadbare linen fit me a bit tightly across the shoulders; just the night before Bethesda had stitched up a tear in the sleeve and repaired the frayed hem. I allowed her to dress in my second-best tunic, which was green, a color that suited her. On her much smaller frame the simple tunic made for a rather modest garment; it covered her elbows and knees and, cinched with a hemp belt, fitted snugly around breasts that had filled out considerably since the day I purchased her.

Bethesda stood by the window and ran an ebony comb through her hair, which had become tangled during our lovemaking. She grimaced and muttered a curse when the comb encountered a particularly stubborn tangle. I laughed.

“You could always shave your head, like the rich women do. They say it’s more comfortable in this climate. Keeps lice away.”

“Rich women have wigs to wear when they go out,” she said. “Very fancy wigs. A different one for every occasion.”

“True. But no wig could be as lovely as this.” I circled behind her and with my fingertips I gently smoothed the knot from her hair. I took the comb from her and ran it slowly through her long tresses. Her hair was thick and heavy and perfectly black, shimmering with rainbow highlights, like the wings of a dragonfly. Every part of her was beautiful, but her hair held a special fascination for me. Sated as I was, I felt a fresh stirring of desire.

I stepped away from her, put down the comb, and took a deep breath. I willed my excitement to subside—something my father had told me a man could and should be able to do. It was time to venture out to the world beyond my little room.

*   *   *

The Rhakotis district is said to be the oldest part of Alexandria, built over the little fishing settlement that existed even before Alexander founded his city. Most of Alexandria is laid out in an elegant grid of broad avenues and grand porticoes, but the Rhakotis retains its maze of winding alleys, as if the chaotic spirit of the old village could not be tamed and made to submit to the modern metropolis that grew around it. Rhakotis reminds me of the Subura in Rome, with its tall tenements, taverns, and gaming houses. Lines for drying laundry crisscross the space above one’s head, while ragged children run zigzags up and down the street. Around a corner, half-naked women solicit customers from upper-story windows; keep walking while you look up and you’re likely to trip over a cat napping in the middle of the street. Cats do whatever they wish in Alexandria. Despite the merging of Greek and Egyptian gods that began with Alexander’s conquest, the locals still worship animals and insects and strange divinities that are part man, part beast.

As was fitting for master and slave, I walked ahead and Bethesda followed a little distance behind. Had we walked side by side, what would people have thought? My first stop was a small tavern where the owner’s wife prepared my favorite breakfast—hot farina cooked with a little goat’s milk and mashed dates, served in a clay bowl. I ate a bit more than half the contents, scooping out mouthfuls with a bit of bread, then handed what remained of the bread to Bethesda and let her finish the bowl. She devoured it so quickly that I asked if she wanted more.

She smiled and shook her head. “Now that you’ve eaten, what else do you desire to do on your special day, Master?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I could find a good book in the great Library, and read it aloud to you. Or perhaps we could examine the collection of fabulous jewels in the Museum. Or climb to the top of the Pharos Lighthouse to take in the view.” I was joking, of course. The Library and Museum were open only to royal scholars and visitors with suitable credentials, not to a lowly Roman who made a living by his wits, and the island of Pharos was off-limits to all but lighthouse workers and the soldiers who guarded it.