"I don't think we have enough natron," Damon called back. He took shallow breaths through his mouth, but even so, the stench of death, death from a long sickness, overpowered him. Artemas would topple like a column at the temple of Karnak if he came into the room now.
When they had prepared the sleeping chamber, Artemas had kept up a constant babble. They'd brought a table from the medical school and jars for draining the bodily fluids and scalpels for removing the organs. Artemas had talked rapidly about nothing while Damon sharpened the blades—anything to keep his mind off the task at hand. It had wearied Damon. He'd wanted quiet.
There was enough natron to dry two corpses, but Damon needed to keep Artemas busy until he removed the brain through the nostrils with the picks he had hidden from Artemas in the folds of his kilt. Artemas would have gone down for sure if he had known the purpose of those tools.
"Another sack, I think, and some powder of myrrh as well," Damon shouted at the closed door. His eyes stung and watered, and he fought the urge to gag.
"I'll be back shortly"
Not too shortly, Damon thought. Powder of myrrh would be hard to come by this time of year. Ships were not traveling yet, though winter was nearly over.
"Damon?"
"Yes?" Damon struggled to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
"Are you all right?"
Would Artemas just leave? Damon didn't want to think about whether he was all right or not. "Just go. I'm going to be fine." He had no choice. He didn't want to be fine. But he had no choice.
FIVE
"We didn't need the natron after all," Damon said.
Artemas swung the amphora from his shoulder and positioned it near Damon, who sat on the bench overlooking the garden.
"She's surrounded with it," Damon said. "Now we must wait—the drying will take time."
"Was it difficult?"
What did Artemas think? Of course it was difficult. He shrugged.
The two sat staring into the garden. The bust of Caesar, a gift from Damon's father, seemed to look down on them from the pedestal rising out of the roses.
Damon felt irritable; even the statues annoyed him. "This courtyard looks just like Alexandria—less and less Egyptian."
"Since when has Alexandria been anything like the rest of Egypt?"
Damon grunted. How could he argue? Alexandria and Rome had more in common than Alexandria and the rest of her country. He, like most Alexandrians, had never felt the heat of the desert, nor seen the Nile overflow its banks during the inundation. But he felt like arguing. "Alexandria attracts nothing but pirates."
Artemas fingered Damon's silk tunic. "It seems their trade goods aren't beneath you."
"It wasn't the debtors and criminals who wove this fabric. They're all in your blessed army." Damon knew it rankled Artemas that Alexandria took in any outlaw at its gate who would enlist. Maybe now Artemas would fight with him. He felt like shouting at someone.
"It's a challenge to lead men unaccustomed to following orders. Cleopatra's officers must be true leaders."
"What is it with you today?" Damon threw up his hands. "Have you no fight in you?"
"I know what you're trying to do." Artemas sniffed. "It's not me that angers you. Why don't we talk about what really bothers you?"
"I miss the old days." Damon wanted to say, when my mother lived. But it was more than that. He missed boyhood, when his cares were few. "I miss the old market."
"When it was safe for crawling babies to explore and, if the gods smiled, maybe even find a friend?"
Damon felt his anger dissolve. He could never stay angry with Artemas. With his bare foot he covered the design of the spider woven into the thick Persian carpet his father had sent from Zela. The battle there had been so swift and crushing that Caesar had announced to the world, "Veni, vidi, via." Everyone knew what those words meant. Even Damon, who knew no Latin, could translate them: I came, I saw, I conquered. Damon had felt proud that his father had been there with Caesar, but he would not admit it to anyone. Not even to Artemas, who had carved the words into a crocodile hide and stretched it across a frame to hang his sleeping pallet.
Damon smoothed the fringed edge of the carpet. The pride had dwindled over time, like everything else—the anticipation of his father's return, even the love for his father. He felt nothing.
Pivoting on his heel, he brushed the carpet with the ball of his foot. The silk threads glittered in the sun. "I must send word to my father."
"You're going to tell him in a letter that your mother died?"
Damon shrugged. Why did Artemas make it sound so terrible? "What else can I do?"
"You can go to him. Tell him face to face."
"What for?"
"Because he's your father, and he deserves to hear it from you."
"He doesn't care about me."
"You don't know that."
"Do you see my father anywhere? If he cared, he'd be here. With us."
"I see your father everywhere." Artemas looked around the courtyard at the gifts Damon's father had sent.
"These ... things," Damon said with disgust, "don't make up for his not being here. For his never being here."
"Your mother loved him."
"She was going to meet him in Italy after the sowing. He retires this year. He was to claim his legionnaire's pension, a farm."
"Then you'll go instead."
"I have my studies."
"When you get back, you can continue. It would be good for you to see him. Where is he now?"
"With Caesar, always with his Caesar." Damon picked a small stone from beneath the bench and pegged it at the bust.
Artemas grabbed his arm. "Would you show disrespect to your men of medicine? Would you toss a stone at Hippocrates? Don't dishonor a man I admire."
"I'm sorry," Damon said. "It's just..." He closed his eyes. "I've never even been out of Alexandria."
"It took great courage to do what you did for your mother. This trip will be nothing in comparison."
"It's a different kind of courage." Your kind, thought Damon.
"I'll go with you. Together we'll find your father."
"What about Cleopatra's navy? I thought you were going to enlist."
"The timbers are still not here from Byblos. It will be two years before her navy is seaworthy."
"You would go all the way across the sea with me?" Why was he surprised? Artemas would go anywhere for no reason at all.
"It will be an adventure, wait and see," Artemas said.
"That's what I am afraid of."
SIX
Artemas strode along the docks, hopping over thick hemp lines and dodging merchants who shouldered rolled-up carpets. Damon picked his way behind, tripping on nets and bumping into tall red clay amphoras that lined the boardwalks. The first ships of the season, anchored in the harbor, lay low at their water lines with full cargo holds.
Men bartered in Greek. Damon heard very few speaking Egyptian, fewer still Latin. He would have to learn some Latin on the voyage—enough to travel the countryside at least. Enough to greet his father.
Artemas pointed to a ship anchored near the lighthouse. "The sailors say she's headed toward Spain."
"Spain?"
"Caesar's forces are gathered there. That's where your father must be."
"But Spain?" Damon was sure that must be near the edge of civilization. Caesar would not go so far west. What could possibly be gained?
"She's a Roman galley for sure," Artemas went on. "Look how awkward her bow is."
It looked like all the other ships to Damon, except a bit shabbier.
Artemas shook his head. "Probably suffering rot-worm, too."
Why was Artemas sounding so cheerful? "If the boat is so horrible, why are we considering it?" Damon didn't like the sound of rot-worm. He pointed to a cluster of solid-looking vessels pulling on their anchor lines. "What about one of those?"
Artemas smiled. "You have a good eye. Those are Greek. Now we know how to build a s
hip. How to sail, too. Not like the Romans. No offense intended."
"None taken. I'm sure I have no sea legs—I'll blame that on my Roman half." Along with all my other faults, Damon thought. "Must we take that one?"
"I'm afraid the Roman dog is the only one going our way."
Artemas called to a boy unloading a dinghy. "You, are you from that Roman vessel?"
The boy looked to where Artemas pointed, and nodded.
"Is your captain on board?"
The boy looked puzzled for a moment, then he pointed. Artemas and Damon followed his outstretched finger to a group of men bent over charts spread open across a block of granite. They walked over to the men, who were sharing news of the trade winds.
"Be careful," one man was saying. "The shoal has shifted here. We saw the skeleton of a ship run aground. It will have broken up by now, and there'll be no marker for you."
The other captains marked their charts—all except one, who was biting off chunks of lamb from a bone he grasped in his right hand. His left held a cup of wine.
The man across from Artemas looked up at him. Despite his height, Artemas stood on tiptoe, craning his neck at their charts.
"Move along. There's nothing for you to see here," one of the men ordered gruffly.
Damon turned to go, but Artemas grabbed him by the elbow. "My friend and I are waiting to speak with the captain of the Roman ship."
The man with the lamb bone pointed it at him. Grease shone from his chin. "And what if he does not want to speak with you?"
"Then he'll be missing an opportunity to take a ship's physician aboard." Artemas gestured toward Damon. Damon straightened up the best he could, although he didn't know why. What did he care how these scruffy seamen saw him?
Artemas went on like a merchant selling from his booth, only it was Damon he was trying to market. "He studies under Cleopatra's own physician. I hear that your oarsmen are suffering from disease."
Damon looked at Artemas. Where had he heard that? Probably playing a hunch—oarsmen were always suffering from something. The confines of the hold and the demands of the rowing bred illness.
Artemas stepped in front of Damon. "And I can organize your men for battle in case of a pirate attack."
The captains laughed. "You are a bit young to have much experience in warfare, aren't you?" said the man who had spoken first.
Artemas bristled. "Old enough."
Not old enough, Damon thought. He knew Artemas was sensitive about his inexperience. Many had served for years by the time they reached Artemas's age. But Egypt had been at peace all his and Artemas's lives. It was hard to gain experience in warfare without war.
"In Alexandria's library I have studied Alexander the Great's every move, studied maps, strategies, even the words of his generals." Artemas jammed his fists onto his hips and puffed out his chest. "Experience isn't everything. But if it's experience you are looking for, you'll have it with Damon as your ship's physician."
Damon pulled Artemas by the arm. "Come on, Artemas. There'll be other ships heading to Caesar's legions."
Artemas stood rooted. Damon glanced from Artemas to the Roman captain. He could see the captain calculating how many dead oarsmen he had been forced to toss over the side on the journey here. The captain was thinking perhaps it would not be such a bad idea to take a physician aboard, protect his investment. What had Artemas gotten him into?
The captain's expressions changed as he thought this through. It was rather a slow process. Damon knew that Artemas was growing impatient. Before Artemas could say more, Damon turned to leave, hoping his friend would follow.
The captain shouted after him, "You'll not see another vessel this way for months. If it's to Caesar's forces you are headed, it's my ship or none." He pointed to Damon. Til take you, if you wish."
Damon yanked on the immobile Artemas. "It's both of us or none." They'd find some way to get to his father. He didn't like the looks of this captain or his rot-wormed ship.
"I suppose I could use someone to keep the latrines empty."
Damon was horrified. He pulled harder on Artemas. But Artemas broke into a grin.
"We're headed for Caesar." Artemas pinned Damon's arms to his sides in a hug and quickly added, "And to your father, too!"
"You can't be serious, Artemas."
"I'd wade barefoot in fouled bilge water if I had to. What's emptying a few buckets? Think of it, Damon. Caesar!"
SEVEN
Damon and Artemas sat in the courtyard ripping linen sheets into narrow lengths. Mounds of strips coiled at their feet.
"I sold the last of the Venetian glass this morning," Damon said. "It didn't bring what I had hoped, but with the money we had saved for her embalming, we will have enough to last a year." Damon slit the linen with his knife and ripped another strip from the fabric.
Artemas reached for the end of a strip and began to roll. "My father borrowed a trunk for us from the retired merchant who lives next door. He had to sit through an afternoon of sea tales he'd heard a dozen times before to get it. He'll be walking the long way to market for weeks to avoid the fellow." Artemas grinned.
"How is your father taking your leaving?" Damon asked.
"I think he wishes he could come with us. Sometimes it must feel as though the vineyards have him shackled to the land."
"It must be nice to have a father who will miss you."
Artemas nodded and changed the subject. "Have you rented your house?"
"Not yet. You're sure your father doesn't mind keeping watch over my house?" The word my felt strange on Damon's tongue. His mother's house was now his own. He should sell it, he knew. It was much too big for one person—and the memories ... But he wasn't ready to give it up. Perhaps when he returned.
"I think he fancies playing landlord," Artemas said. "Don't worry about my father; this suits him."
"What's left to do, then?" Damon looked down at the linen. "Besides her funeral, I mean."
"The ship sails in four days. Can you be ready? I mean, will she..."
"I'll be ready. Last night I finished copying the spells I think she would have chosen from the Book of the Dead. I've written all thirty-six denials on the scroll."
"Denials?"
"Before the judges she must deny having sinned. The judges have names like Breaker of Bones and Eater of Blood."
"They sound charming." Artemas reached behind a bolt of linen. "I brought these for her." He handed the small wooden statues of a man and a woman to Damon.
"Why, these are shabti. What's a Greek like you doing with these? I thought you didn't believe in this stuff."
Artemas shrugged. "She did. 1 thought she should have someone to help her out—you know, where she's going."
Damon turned the shabti over in his hands. The wood felt waxy, it was so smooth. Did he believe? Would these wooden people become the answerers to the gods' requests? Servants to his mother in the afterworld? Artemas was right. It didn't matter what he believed. "I'm glad you thought of it. I'd hate to think of my mother toiling in the fields for the gods because I had forgotten to provide her with servants."
Artemas stacked another linen roll into the papyrus basket. "She was good to me when my mother died. She was like a second mother. If the afterlife is what she said, soon our mothers will be gossiping together once again." He picked up another strip and rolled. "This seems like a lot of linen."
Damon looked around him, at the basket stacked with rolls and the mounds at his feet yet to be rolled. "It does, doesn't it? I had no idea how much I'd need. I guess I should get started."
Artemas was quiet while Damon tucked linen into the basket until he could fit in no more. Why couldn't he babble on now as he had before? Why was it when Damon needed quiet, Artemas went on and on, and now, when Damon could use something to distract him, Artemas was as silent as the Sphinx? "Will you thank your father for me?"
Artemas looked puzzled.
"For watching over my house while we're gone."
Art
emas nodded.
There was nothing left to say. Damon looked one last time over his shoulder at Artemas and then entered his house, walking steadily toward the death chamber door.
Once inside, Damon put the basket beneath the table. He picked up the Book of the Dead papyrus and placed the scroll between his mother's ankles. It contained the spells to guide her and protect her on her journey through the underworld. Then he took a long strip of linen and began to wrap, binding her ankles, securing the scroll. When he came to the end of one linen roll, he took another from the basket.
He was surprised at how light she was. When the natron had dried her skin, he had removed the crystals from her body cavity and stuffed it with sawdust mixed with fragrant leaves, then sealed the incisions with beeswax. Over each cut he had stamped the Eye of Horus, the wadjet eye, in the beeswax to protect her. He thought of the stories she had told, remembered her voice, as he wrapped.
He felt the amulet that hung from his neck. It bore the image of Thoth, patron of the scribes. When all others were pushing him to begin work as a scribe, his mother had asked him why he wasn't happy. He had been chosen to practice the most noble of professions. He told her he wanted to study medicine instead. Wanted to study at the Museum. Would it anger the gods to want more when he had so much already? She had told him that it would anger the gods only if he failed to follow the path of his heart.
That night she gave him the amulet. A tiny figure of Thoth, the god of wisdom, who had given Egypt the gifts of medicine, writing, and mathematics. Damon wore it next to his heart always.
Now he lifted it over his head and placed it over her heart. "May he share your journey as he has mine, Mother."
Damon continued to wrap, round and round, until Thoth could no longer be seen.
When the body of his mother was completely covered with layers and layers of linen strips, he slid it into a linen bag, which he tied with the last few strips. In a bowl he mixed dirt from her garden with rainwater. When the mud was thick, he molded it into a ball and pressed it onto the last knot. He stamped the mud with the family seal.
The Wadjet Eye Page 2