Ancient World 02 - Raiders of the Nile (29 page)

How was I to continue? At first I thought I would have to climb down to the lower level of the wall, take a few steps, and then somehow climb back up to the higher level to finish the journey. Then I saw that the lower level of the wall was not topped with a palm trunk, or any other sort of rail. It was made of a series of sharpened stakes, impossible to walk upon.

Now I saw another thing I had not perceived when I set out. Directly below me, tied to the wall, were two lengths of rope. One went off at a diagonal to my right, the other to my left. In essence, these were tightropes, one pulled taut above the pit with the crocodile, the other strung above the pit with the monster.

The onlookers saw that I had finally realized my situation, and roared with laughter.

“What now, Pecunius?” From a distance that was still considerable, Artemon gazed at me with his arms crossed and a sardonic expression on his face. I had thought he circled around to the far side to welcome me, but now it seemed he had done so just to see the look on my face at this moment. Next to him stood Ismene. Her face was unreadable, but when our eyes met, she slowly nodded and moved her lips, as if to remind me of the words she had whispered in my ear.
Choose left, not right. Don’t flee, but fight.

Neither fleeing nor fighting seemed to be an option at the moment, but I did face a choice between stepping onto the tightrope to my right or to my left. Ismene had told me to choose the latter, but why? I didn’t particularly care for my chances with the crocodile, but I cared even less for the prospect of falling into the pit with the unnatural monstrosity on the other side. My inclination was to take the risk of walking across the pit with the crocodile—especially now that I spied something that looked like a cudgel amid the palm leaves strewn on the floor of the beast’s enclosure. It was probably only a piece of wood that had come undone from the wall, but it looked as if it might make a hefty weapon, useful for keeping the crocodile at bay. I could even imagine lodging it between the animal’s jaws, forcing them open and rendering them harmless.

I quickly scanned the other enclosure, but saw no similar cudgel or anything else I might use as a weapon against the monster. Even the human bones that littered the creature’s enclosure had been trampled or gnashed into useless shards.

Was I to follow my own instincts, and attempt to traverse the tightrope above the crocodile’s pit? Or was I to obey Ismene’s instructions, and walk above the monster’s lair? As if to make the choice even harder, both creatures suddenly became active. The crocodile thrashed about. The monster paced back and forth below me, threw back its head and released another bloodcurdling roar. The hot, foul stench of its breath rose up to envelop me like a noxious cloud.

Did it really make any difference which route I chose? I was no tightrope-walker, and either beast was surely vicious enough to rip me to pieces.

The strange detachment that had so far insulated me from fear suddenly evaporated. I was afraid—very afraid. My legs trembled. My chest grew so tight that I could hardly draw a breath.

“You can’t stop now!” yelled Artemon.

“Go on!” called Menkhep.

“Go! Go! Go!” The men chanted and clapped in unison.

Ismene stared at me and soundlessly moved her lips.

I placed one foot onto the rope to my left.

Almost imperceptibly, Ismene nodded.

The rope under my foot gave just a bit, but seemed secure enough to hold my weight. I judged the distance to the edge of the pit to be no more than ten or fifteen feet. How hard could it be to walk across a rope? It would best be done quickly, I told myself. I looked ahead and saw the men crowded along the edge of the pit draw back, so as to allow me space when I reached the other side. They clapped and chanted and stamped their feet to encourage me.

“Go! Go! Go!”

I glanced at Djet and saw a look of sheer terror on his face. He covered his eyes.

I did not walk across the rope. I ran. It was easier than I had anticipated. My balance was perfect.

Then, a few steps ahead of me, I saw a place where the rope was badly frayed. Even as I watched, the strands unraveled. It occurred to me that such a weak spot in the rope could hardly be there by accident. More likely, someone had deliberately cut the rope nearly through, so that it would give way if any fool tried to walk across it.

The rope snapped.

An instant later, I struck the ground. My ankles gave way and I landed hard on my backside. The stench of the monster filled my nostrils. The horrible roar rang in my ears. Above me, the men clapped and cheered and laughed harder than ever.

XXVII

I scrambled to my feet—no easy task, for the palm leaves were slippery underfoot and my legs had turned to jelly. The monster was so close I could have touched it. I frantically stepped back, slipped on more palm leaves, and fell on my backside again.

I braced myself, expecting the creature to leap atop me, but instead it bolted back. It seemed that monsters could be startled, too.

I took advantage of the creature’s momentary consternation to roll onto all fours, turn about, and race to the far end of the pit. I stood and turned and braced my back against the earthen wall. The monster stood at the opposite end of the pit, swishing its scorpion-like tail and baring its fangs.

Directly above the monster, looming at the edge of the pit, were Artemon and Ismene. The men who had been crowded along the right side of the pit, above the crocodile’s enclosure, now rushed to the other side, so as to have a better look. Some laughed so hard they were doubled over, barely able to stand. Artemon also laughed, but was more restrained and controlled than the rest. Ismene stood stiffly upright and expressionless, looking down her nose at me.

Above the raucous laughter, I heard the high, shrill voice of Djet.

I located his face amid the throng. He was frantically pointing at something very near me. I scanned the ground beneath my feet, then looked at the section of the ramshackle wooden wall directly to my right. I still couldn’t make out what Djet was saying, but I saw what he must be pointing at. Cut into the wall was a small door mounted on crude hinges with a simple latch to keep it shut.

The door would take me out of the monster’s enclosure—and into the adjoining enclosure with the crocodile.

I stared at the monster, which now faced me head-on so that I confronted the full splendor of its flaming red mane and the terrible threat of its fearsome tusk. Recovered from the surprise of my fall, the monster peered back at me with its catlike eyes. It snarled and took a deliberate step toward me, then another.

I put my hand on the door latch and crouched low, preparing to push it open and bolt through. Then I heard a rustling noise from the other side. Was the crocodile already waiting for me? Could I reach the cudgel in time to make use of it?

I remembered the second half of Ismene’s advice:
Don’t flee, but fight
.

I glanced up at her face. Again, I saw her move her lips, as if to remind me of her parting words.

I shook my head and clenched my teeth. I had just followed the witch’s instructions, going left instead of right, and where had that gotten me? What was I to think, except that Ismene was deliberately trying to get me killed? And yet, if that was her intention, and if my sorry plight was giving her pleasure, she had a strange way of showing it. I saw no satisfaction on her face, only a keen, unflagging insistence that I do as she had told me to do. Again I heard her words in my ear, not as one hears the echo of words in memory, but as if she were actually beside me, speaking aloud: “Don’t flee, but fight!” Was this an audible act of witchcraft, or was my mind playing tricks on me?

If I were not to flee, how was I to fight? With nothing more than my bare hands against a creature with claws and fangs, not to mention a tusk and a scorpion’s tail? With so many ways to kill me, perhaps the monster would at least give me a quick death, whereas a fight against the crocodile might be long, bloody, and horribly painful. Was that the purpose of Ismene’s advice, not to save me but to guide me to a more merciful end?

In that moment I made my choice. I would not seek to escape into the adjoining enclosure. I would stand my ground and confront the monster.

I stood upright. I drew back my shoulders. I clenched my fists.

The monster cocked its head, as if surprised at my arrogance, then took another step toward me. The swishing of its scorpion tail made a clacking noise that set my teeth on edge. When it opened its mouth to roar, the horrible odor that spilled forth was almost enough to bring me to my knees.

I decided there was no point in waiting for the monster to attack. As I had seen, the creature was capable of being startled. If I made the first move, perhaps I might at least have the advantage of surprise.

I rushed toward the monster. To my amazement, it took a step back.

The horn was my chief worry, and grabbing hold of it was my goal. A bite or a scratch I might survive, at least for a while; even the sting of its tail might be mild enough to allow me to keep fighting. But if the monster managed to gore my belly with that horn, all would be over for me.

Above me I heard a sudden uproar from the men. In the blink of an eye, cheering replaced laughter. I had never heard such cheering except in the gladiator games at Rome, when a fight reached its climax and the audience erupted with excitement.

Before the monster could react, I grabbed hold of its tusk with my right hand. At the same instant, because I realized it was just within reach, with my left hand I grabbed hold of its tail, near the stinger. If I had the strength to hold fast to these two deadly weapons, and the dexterity to avoid its claws, perhaps I could somehow swing myself atop the creature and ride or wrestle it to the ground.

That, in retrospect at least, was what I may have intended. Or perhaps I acted purely from instinct and impulse, with no plan whatsoever.

Whatever I may have hoped to accomplish, nothing of the sort transpired, for in the next moment I found myself tumbling head over heels past the monster and onto the palm-strewn ground, clutching in one hand the monster’s horn and in the other its segmented tail. Both had come loose from the creature with hardly any resistance.

Above me, the roar of cheering changed back to a roar of laughter.

One voice carried above the others. It was Menkhep: “This is our best initiation yet!”

He was shouting across the pit to Artemon, who was now directly above me, peering down with a serene smile and a sage nod of his head. Next to him stood Ismene, whose countenance at last betrayed the faintest trace of emotion, a look at once smug and satisfied and ever so slightly sympathetic to the confusion that overwhelmed me. When she stepped back from the precipice and vanished, somehow I knew that she was leaving the gathering, as if the drama—or comedy—had come to its conclusion.

I turned to look at the monster, which in the blink of an eye seemed to have transformed itself into a simple lion.

The unnatural colors—orange limbs, purple trunk, red mane—were exactly that, unnatural. Someone had dyed the creature’s fur, and had also trimmed and arranged its mane, stiffening it somehow so that it held its radiant shape. The segmented tail was nothing more than a prop fashioned from hollow gourds and attached to the lion’s real tail. The horn seemed real enough, but it had been hollowed out so that it weighed very little; what manner of beast it came from I didn’t know, but the lion certainly never grew it.

I was trapped in the pit not with some hideous creature of magic, but with a lion. That fact should have been terrifying in itself—but what sort of lion was this, that allowed itself to be dyed and coiffed and fitted with a false tail and horn?

As the laughter died down, Artemon addressed me from the edge of the pit. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Cheelba.”

The painted lion sat back on his haunches and gazed back at me with an air of offended dignity. I kept my eyes on the beast, not yet ready to let down my guard. I threw the false tail aside but kept hold of the horn, which might yet serve as a weapon.

“The lion has a name?” I said.

“Most certainly. Cheelba has been with us for well over a year now. He was among the booty we took from the caravan of a Nubian merchant. The merchant intended to give the beast as a present to King Ptolemy. A lion as tame as Cheelba is rare indeed—a worthy gift for a king.”

“But—the stench from its mouth!” I pinched my nose, for at that moment the lion gave a great yawn that sent a noxious breath in my direction.

Artemon sighed. “Cheelba seems to be suffering from a rotten tooth. It puts him in a cranky mood—thus that plaintive roar he utters from time to time, not at all like his usual roar. Tame Cheelba may be, but so far no man among us has displayed sufficient bravery—or foolishness—to reach into the lion’s mouth to pull that rotten tooth.”

The lion settled, retracting all four limbs. It continued to gaze at me with a quizzical expression.

“Those colors … that absurd mane … the false tail and the horn—”

Artemon laughed. “You’re wondering about Cheelba’s disguise? That idea came from one of our confederates, a man with considerable skill at creating such artifice, who works to a very high standard. Even under daylight, the illusion was quite convincing, wasn’t it? The artificer is no longer among us—he’s off in Alexandria—so be careful how you handle that horn. I fear you may already have damaged the scorpion tail, throwing it aside so carelessly.” He saw my peeved reaction. “Don’t feel foolish, Pecunius! Every man here who met Cheelba under the same circumstances was fooled by the lion’s … costume, if I may call it that. And most of those initiates made bigger fools of themselves than you did, I daresay.”

Looking up at the crowd, I noticed a few cracked smiles and red faces amid the general merriment.

The lion blinked. It gave another yawn, filling the air with stench, then rolled onto its side, rested its head on one paw, and shut its eyes. Only its tail moved, stirring the air and rustling the palm leaves.