Ancient World 02 - Raiders of the Nile (20 page)

From the crowd at the far end of the pier, I heard shouts and murmurs. One name was repeated over and over.

“Where is Artemon?”

“Go and tell Artemon!”

“Artemon needs to come!”

I turned my head and looked at Menkhep. “Who is this Artemon?”

“The Cuckoo’s Child, of course. Our leader. That must be him, coming now.”

The crowd parted. The shouts and murmurs died down. The little lagoon was suddenly so quiet that I heard only the croaking of a frog from the reeds nearby—and then another sound, which seemed to come from much farther away, the roar of some giant beast. It reminded me of sounds I had heard in Alexandria, coming from behind the high wall of the zoological garden attached to the royal palace, where King Ptolemy kept a private menagerie of exotic creatures. What sort of fearsome animal made such a deep, menacing roar? And why did no one in the crowd appear to be startled by it?

I had no more time to think about the strange sound, for at that moment a figure emerged from the crowd and stepped onto the pier. Like most of the men, he was dressed in dull colors, greens and browns that blended with the landscape, but unlike the others he wore a bright red scarf tied around his head. I remembered something my father had told me, that Roman generals were known to wear red capes so as to set themselves apart and make themselves conspicuous to their troops.

Gesturing for Djet and me to stay in the boat, Menkhep deftly stepped past us and onto the pier. He walked to the figure at the far end. The two conversed for a while in voices too low for me to hear. Then the man with the red headscarf began to walk toward us, with Menkhep following behind.

Artemon was tall and broad-shouldered. His footsteps on the pier sounded heavy and solid. Everything about his bearing conveyed confidence and an aura of command, but when he came close enough for me to see his face clearly, I was taken aback.

I had expected the leader of the bandits to be a scarred, grizzled veteran, a craggy-featured brute who could inspire terror with a look. Instead I saw a handsome youth with high cheekbones, a smooth forehead, bright blue eyes, and lips so red he might have colored them, as women do. The wispy shadow across his square jaw was more the suggestion of a beard than a beard itself. He had to be even younger than I, perhaps still a teenager.

Keeping his gaze fixed on me, he reached the end of the pier. “My name is Artemon. And who are you?”

Staying seated in the boat, I had to tilt my head up at a sharp angle. “My name is Marcus Pecunius,” I said, deciding to stay with the false name I had been using ever since our stay in Sais.

“Are you a Roman?” he asked—speaking, to my surprise, in Latin.

I answered in Latin. “I live in Alexandria now. But yes, I come from Rome.”

Artemon nodded. Menkhep stepped beside him, and he reverted to Greek. “My comrade here tells me that you have quite a reputation. He says the whole village came after you, led by some old coot from Sais. But he says you managed to outrun them all. Left them choking in the dust—if any survived the traps along the way.”

“We had an exciting morning,” I said.

Artemon smiled. “Menkhep says the city father from Sais made a rather shocking accusation against you—claimed that you murdered a band of travelers in Canopus single-handed, then ran off with a bag full of jewels.” He raised an eyebrow and peered down his nose at me. “You don’t look like a cold-blooded killer to me, Marcus Pecunius.”

“And you don’t look like the leader of a bandit gang.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “And how many leaders of bandit gangs have you met?”

I made no answer.

“As I thought,” he said. “Whereas I see cold-blooded killers every day.” He waved to indicate the crowd at the far end of the pier. “So in this instance, who’s the better judge of the other’s character, Pecunius, you or I?”

His unblinking stare caused me to shiver. Young he might be, and also pretty, but I could see that Artemon was not to be trifled with. I was also puzzled. A young Egyptian who spoke Latin, and who could frame his arguments in such elegant terms, must surely have received a formal education. How had such a youth come to be the leader of the Delta’s most notorious gang of bandits?

Artemon saw the consternation on my face and seemed to be amused. “Don’t worry, Pecunius, I’m not going to stand here and press you with awkward questions. If Menkhep vouches for you, that’s good enough—for now, at least. In this place, you’ll find that we don’t ask too many questions. Here, it’s what a man does that matters, and how he gets along with his comrades—not where he comes from, or what language he speaks, or who his parents were … or whether he did or did not kill some people. But I will want to have a look inside that bag you’ve brought. If it’s full of loot, as Menkhep seems to think, you’ll be allowed to keep a portion of it—by Isis, you’ve earned it, if you’ve run all the way here from Canopus with a mob breathing down your neck! But you’ll be expected to share. That’s the rule here: share and share alike. If you want to step foot on this pier, you must accept this.”

I shrugged. “I understand. If it weren’t for Menkhep, I’d be a dead man now. I’m grateful for your hospitality.”

Artemon nodded, then looked at Djet. “What about the boy? Is he your son?”

“No.”

“Your slave?”

“No.”

“What is he to you, then?”

“That’s … a bit complicated.”

Artemon pursed his lips and shrugged. “About that sort of thing, also, we don’t ask prying questions. Still, it’s not a good idea, bringing a boy into a place like this. For one thing, a boy can’t do the work of a man.”

“What he lacks in size and strength, the boy makes up in cleverness,” I said.

Djet nodded and grinned, but Artemon looked dubious. “Also, some of the men might be distracted by such a pretty face.”

No prettier than your face,
I thought. “His name is Djet. I’ll take full responsibility for him.”

“See that you do. Well, then, Pecunius—and Djet—welcome to the Cuckoo’s Nest. Step out of that boat. We’re about to eat. You’re welcome to join us, as my personal guests.”

Djet nimbly leaped onto the pier. As I rose to my feet, the boat rocked, and I swayed unsteadily. Artemon took hold of my arm and pulled me onto the pier beside him. He had a powerful grip and stood a full head taller than I.

As we approached the crowd at the end of the pier, I took a closer look at the faces staring back at me. Most of the men looked normal enough, but were these not the most dangerous criminals on earth, the scum of society, the lowest of the low? I felt a sudden thrill of panic.
What have you gotten yourself into?
I thought.
What in Hades are you doing in such a godsforsaken place?

Then I caught a glimpse of a figure who stood a little beyond the crowd, alone and apart. I couldn’t see her clearly, but from her hair and clothing and the way she carried herself I knew it must be a woman.

Could it be Bethesda?

My heart turned upside down in my chest. I wanted to push Artemon aside and run ahead of him, elbow my way through the crowd and stand before her. Instead, I caught my breath, clenched my fists, and walked as steadily as I could. Gazing beyond the crowd, I tried to get a better look.

The woman had vanished.

XIX

I followed Artemon—and my nose—to the roasting pit and clay ovens located in a clearing some distance from the huts, where the crowd lined up to be fed.

I had thought that Artemon would be served first, but there seemed to be no rule about this, except that the first to arrive were the first to be served. Fallen tree trunks provided places to sit. Since these were gathered in a circle around the periphery of the clearing, there was no place of honor, and everyone seemed to sit wherever he wanted. The spot Artemon chose did have the advantage of being upwind from the roasting pit, away from the smoke.

The meal was far better than I expected. There was freshly caught tilapia from the river cut into pieces and roasted on skewers, a porridge made from a bean unfamiliar to me, generous pieces of flatbread, and even a relish for the fish made from pickled hearts of palm, all served on smoothed sections of bark from a palm tree.

All the food was delicious, but I had little appetite. I was too excited at the possibility that Bethesda might be nearby. How and when was I to reveal my purpose in coming, without putting us both in even greater danger? For the moment, it seemed wise to keep my mouth shut.

“He eats like a grown man, I must say,” said Artemon, taking note of Djet’s hearty appetite.

“I don’t think either of us has enjoyed a meal this good since we left Alexandria,” I admitted.

“We happen to have some very good cooks among us.”

“Nor do I think I’ve ever eaten off a plate such as this. Rather ingenious.”

“We also have some very skilled craftsmen.”

“If these men are so skilled, then why…?”

“Why are they here, instead of living a normal, law-abiding life, plying their trade in a normal village? Is that what you’re wondering?”

I nodded.

“But you caught yourself before you finished the question, so I hope you understand: this is not the sort of thing you should ask any particular man. But I see you have an inquisitive mind, Pecunius, and curiosity, in moderation, is a virtue.” He paused to eat a bit of fish, then resumed. “You and I are young, Pecunius—younger than most of the men here. They’ve seen more of life than we have. Whether free or slave, the life of every man is full of perils—sickness, the death of loved ones, hardship, hunger. When a man falls on bad times, his best choice may be to leave his old life behind and see what a different sort of life might offer.”

This was as neat an excuse as I had ever heard for falling into a life of banditry. I was skeptical, but kept my mouth shut. Djet, on the other hand, suddenly squirmed with excitement.

“But what man
wouldn’t
be curious about the bandit life?” he blurted. I noticed the awestruck way he looked at Artemon.

“The boy’s head is full of stories,” I said.

“As is the head of every boy, eh?” Artemon tousled Djet’s hair. “But the boy is right. Not every man joins us because he’s run away from heartbreak or hardship. Some join us simply because they want to. They’ve had enough of the law-abiding life and thrown it off, the way you might discard a pair of shoes that pinch your feet. The life we lead wouldn’t suit every man, but for those it does suit, no other life will do.”

He was silent for a while, sitting upright on the trunk next to me and eating his food, taking small bites and chewing thoroughly before he swallowed. I looked around the clearing and saw that many of the men had manners no better than swine, but those of Artemon were quite elegant—almost ludicrously so, I thought, considering the circumstances.

“What about you, Pecunius? From what Menkhep told me, you didn’t exactly choose to come here, did you?”

I was reluctant to lie to him outright. “I arrived here by an odd chain of circumstances, to be sure. I think perhaps the goddess Fortuna guided me here.”

“Really? Most of the time the gods have nothing to do with us, or we with them—an arrangement suitable to all concerned.”

“You speak like a philosopher, Artemon.”

“And what do you know of philosophers, Pecunius?”

More than I do about bandit chiefs,
I thought. “A wise man tutored me from time to time when I was growing up in Rome. That’s how I came to know Greek. He was more a poet than a philosopher, if there’s a difference. What about you, Artemon? How is it that you speak Latin? Or is that a forbidden question?”

He made no answer. Instead, he put down his empty plate, rose to his feet, and looked north.

“That’s a storm,” he said.

The sky above our heads was blue, but dark clouds were heaped along the northern horizon.

“Those clouds weren’t there a moment ago,” I said.

“No. They’re over the open sea, beyond the mouths of the Delta. Storms can come up very suddenly at this time of year.”

I shrugged. “Your huts look sturdy enough to me. The wind and rain may not even reach this far.”

Artemon smiled. “I’m not
worried
about the storm, Pecunius. Quite the opposite.”

I noticed that several of the men had joined Artemon in gazing toward the north. Some nodded gravely. Some nudged their comrades, pointed at the sky, and grinned.

I shook my head, not understanding. “Is it an omen?”

“What do you think, Pecunius? Aren’t you Romans always reading the sky for signs and portents?”

“The men who do that are called augurs. They train for years.”

“So you have no skills at augury?”

I shook my head.

“Ah, well. Fortunately, we already have a reliable soothsayer among us.”

I looked around, dubious that any member of this motley band might possess even a sliver of divine insight. Hadn’t Artemon just admitted that his gang had nothing to do with the gods?

“You’ve eaten hardly anything, Pecunius. I thought you liked the food.”

I shrugged. “The excitement of the day…”

“Well, if you’re finished, don’t waste the food. Menkhep is over there, eating with friends. Give your portion to him. Djet, come with me. We’ll rinse our plates in the river and return them to the stack. Then I suggest we withdraw to my hut.”

From the outside, the hut of Artemon was indistinguishable from the rest. Inside, on a dirt floor, a raised pallet held a straw mattress. Next to this was a trunk with a lock on it, which for all I knew was crammed with stolen treasures.

The rest of the hut
was
different from the others, I suspected, for every bit of available space was crowded with what we Romans call
capsae,
portable leather drums for storing scrolls. On every flat surface I saw a scroll, unrolled and held open by little lead weights. Most of these scrolls were covered with Greek writing, but some appeared to be maps.

I stepped closer to one of the maps, which lay open on a low table beside the bed, and saw that it depicted Alexandria. I gazed at the symbols for familiar landmarks—the Moon Gate and the Sun Gate, the Temple of Serapis, the Tomb of Alexander—and felt a stab of homesickness.