Or maybe he was dead. Maybe he had drowned, and this was the otherworld, where commoners and gods mingled.
Cleopatra settled onto a couch supported by four carved lions, tucking her bare feet under her. She seemed so at ease, as if every day she sat with two lowly subjects. Damon casually slid his hand under his leg and pinched it. Not dreaming.
"It is lucky for you that I found it necessary to escape the weariness of Rome for a few days, refreshing myself on the open sea."
"It is indeed our good fortune. We owe you our lives." Artemas swept an arm across his waist and bowed over it. No, it's real, Damon thought. In the otherworld Artemas wouldn't act like such an ass.
Artemas's brow furrowed. "Is Rome so dull you need escape?"
Cleopatra laughed. The music of it delighted Damon. She sounded like the wind chimes in his mother's garden. "My weariness comes not from boredom, but from having to be on guard against my enemies. It grows tedious."
"Your enemies are my enemies." Artemas bowed his head this time. Damon rolled his eyes.
"Then we had best find you a sharp sword. You will be defending me on all sides. To the Romans I am a pagan temptress, casting spells on their beloved Caesar."
Damon had heard the Roman slander. Imagine—Caesar, who stole the wives and even the daughters of his own friends, beguiled by the innocent Cleopatra! It was she who should be careful. But Damon held his tongue.
Cleopatra rose and trimmed the wick of a wax incense cone, then lit it with the flame from another candle. "Winter is not long past. What brings you from Egypt so early in the season?"
"How did you know we sailed from Egypt?" Damon asked.
Cleopatra merely smiled, clapped her hands, and spoke in Nubian to a servant nearby. She must have requested refreshment, for the girl returned shortly bearing a tray with three cups.
Cleopatra reclined, her cup in hand, and switched from Greek to Egyptian to speak to Damon. "You must tell me news from home."
When Cleopatra mentioned home, Damon could think of nothing but the loss of his mother. He knew Cleopatra must want news of her country. The fate of one old woman could not be of interest, but he found himself telling her of his mother anyhow.
She listened intently, rising up and sitting near him when he faltered. She put a hand on his. "I shall send word to my priests to pray for her."
Damon knew that she would.
She asked Artemas in Greek, "Where are you headed?"
"To Caesar. Damon's father serves his legion. A centurion." Artemas spoke with such pride, it sounded as if he were talking about his own father. "We must bring him news of his wife's journey to the other bank."
With the mention of Caesar, Cleopatra stood, setting down her cup. She clasped her hands, squeezing and releasing her fingers. "We have heard little from Spain. He camps through the cold winter on his enemy's doorstep at Munda. They outnumber him, thirteen legions to his eight."
Artemas stood. "Eight of Caesar's legions are like twenty of any other. Mere numbers are not enough to defeat him."
Behind a row of trunks chained to the deck a curtain was strung from the rigging. The breeze billowed the sheer fabric, and Damon saw a woman waiting. Cleopatra missed nothing. She followed Damon's stare. "Charmion, come." Charmion stroked Cleopatra's arm and whispered to her.
Cleopatra squeezed Charmion's hand, then turned to Artemas and Damon. "My brother, Ptolemy, is not well. You will have to excuse me."
"May I help?" Damon pulled off the blanket draped over his shoulders. "I studied in your Museum, under Olympus."
"Olympus?" Cleopatra smiled. "I do miss him. So does Ptolemy. Yes, come. Perhaps the gods had designs when they took your ship."
Damon followed Cleopatra and Charmion through a maze of billowing fabric to where Ptolemy was stretched out across several floor pillows. Ptolemy's face was ashen, the color drained from it. Damon felt the boy's brow and, holding his wrist, found a weak pulse. "You must stop the bloodletting," he told Cleopatra. "It is weakening him." Damon knew that many believed in bleeding, but he had found no evidence that it made a patient stronger.
Ptolemy coughed. The spasms drained what little strength he had. He collapsed onto the bed when the fit passed.
"If we could get some dried fenugreek, we could burn it," Damon said. "The smoke has a soothing effect on the lungs."
Cleopatra spoke to a servant in Latin. Damon raised his eyebrows. It was said that she spoke a dozen languages. She had been in Rome but six months and already spoke Latin. Damon's father was Roman, and Damon could barely put six words together. He shook his head.
Cleopatra sat next to her brother, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. "My servant will see what can be done. We are limited here on the ship, but whatever you need can be had as soon as we reach shore."
"I can make a poultice of dried figs."
"That we have, I am sure." Cleopatra nodded to Charmion, who sped away.
"He has a fever." Damon began to pull off the blanket that covered Ptolemy. Cleopatra seized his arm to stop him. Damon was surprised by her strength. He hadn't expected it. She was so small and slight.
"Will the chill not make him worse?" Cleopatra asked.
"Feel him. He is hot. Does it make sense to trap the heat inside?"
She didn't answer him. He knew that many physicians wrapped their patients like mummies when they suffered the burning sickness. But Damon knew Olympus would not.
Damon was aware that Cleopatra didn't trust him. What must it be like to trust no one? To be always on guard? He folded the blanket back. She didn't stop him this time, but he felt her eyes on him. She would watch him closely, he knew. He began the healing chants. He didn't believe they helped, but they would do no harm, and he needed something to take his mind off the Pharaoh, Cleopatra, so close beside him.
SIXTEEN
By the time the port of Ostia came into view, Ptolemy's fever had broken and his lungs had cleared a bit. His color had returned to normal, and he was able to sit up.
Damon joined Artemas on deck, staying close to the rail, out of the way of the sailors racing to bring down the sail. The silver-tipped oars dipped into the water, and soon a steady pull moved the ship forward. Damon timed his footing to the rhythmic swoosh of the oars, bracing himself with each lunge, gripping the rail for balance. The breeze on his face felt good, and his stomach was only mildly distressed.
The lighthouse rose up from a narrow strip of land to their left.
Cleopatra stood as sure-footed as Artemas on the heaving deck. She pointed to the lighthouse. "I prefer her sister in Alexandria."
Artemas shaded his eyes against the sun's glare off the water. "And the land, all red clay," he said. "Alexandria's brilliant white seems so clean."
Damon watched the wind lift Cleopatra's hair off her shoulders and away from her face. She was beautiful. How could he have not seen it before? He looked away.
"Ptolemy has improved. It seems that you have paid your debt to me."
"We can never repay you for saving us," Damon said.
Cleopatra hesitated. "There is one thing."
Damon could see the indecision in her gray eyes and the turn of her lips.
"There is a man. His name is Cicero. He speaks out against Caesar. He is very clever, and many get lost in the twisted labyrinths of his speeches."
Artemas folded his arms across his chest, oblivious to the lurching of the ship. Damon knew Artemas did not like this man Cicero, even though he had never met him. Woe to the man who spoke ill of Caesar to Artemas! Damon kept his eyes on the horizon, his stomach beginning to lurch with the ship.
"I have sent many spies." She looked out over the water, speaking softly. "They can find nothing useful."
"What is it you hope to find?" Damon swallowed hard. His stomach contents were beginning to rise to meet his tonsils.
"Proof that he is a traitor. I fear for Caesar."
"If the spies couldn't help you, how can we?" Damon asked.
"Cicero
is a lawyer. My informants tell me he hires boys off the street as witnesses for his trials. Perhaps if he were to hire you, you might learn something useful. Something I might use to convince Caesar that he is dangerous."
"But we must waste no time leaving for Spain. It will take us two months over land." Damon spoke quickly, before Artemas could answer. His good-hearted friend would get them into this plot for sure.
"I will find you passage on a ship headed your way if you do this."
"I was getting accustomed to the idea of land travel." Damon struggled with his stomach. He did not want to vomit in front of Cleopatra. Wasn't it just moments ago he was beginning to enjoy the ship?
"Then I will provide you with swift horses. By horse, you could be to Caesar in a month, sooner if you travel hard."
Damon knew she could command them. Or she could find others. Cleopatra trusted them. How could they refuse their Pharaoh? He sighed. "Tell us what you want us to do."
Artemas clapped him on the back so hard he thought he would throw up all over Cleopatra's feet.
Cleopatra smiled slightly and turned to the water. "This canal leads to the Tiber."
The movement of the ship slowed and leveled out. Land was a stone's throw on either side of them. For the first time since they'd been rescued, Damon thought about his father. What if Damon didn't recognize Litigus? It had been almost six years. Without his mother to bring them together, they would be nothing more than strangers. As Damon watched the city walls slip by and listened to Artemas and Cleopatra plan their espionage, he felt a sudden longing to be back in the Museum, safely lulled by one of his professor's lectures. Artemas might thrive on adventure, but he did not.
SEVENTEEN
Damon and Artemas turned right off the Via Sacra. Artemas walked backward in front of Damon saying, "But we have hours before court goes into session, and the Circus Maximus is not far. The gladiators—think of it, the fiercest fighters in all the world! When will we ever have the chance again?"
Damon supposed he would want to see the hospital on Tiber Island if there was time, so why did he feel so annoyed that Artemas wanted to see his foolish warriors? "Oh, all right. But we have to get to the courthouse early. The sooner we have something to report on Cicero—anything to report on Cicero—the sooner we can leave for Munda and my father."
Artemas bumped into a street vendor, who cursed him. Artemas just laughed and patted the man's shoulder, not the least bit upset when the man slapped his hand away.
The noise of the city made it difficult to talk. The clatter of wagon wheels on the roadways competed with the cries of vendors hawking their wares. A curtained litter shouldered by four slaves plowed through the middle of the via, forcing Artemas and Damon to one side. Behind it a flock of sheep scattered, only to be regrouped by a small dog nipping at heels and barking while darting around the rim of the closing circle. The sheep seemed alarmed by the city noises, making the dog's job that much harder. Damon and Artemas backed up against a storefront until the flock passed, then wove, single file, through the crowds that thickened as they got closer to the Circus Maximus.
The sun was hot, even this early in spring, so Artemas and Damon looked for seats under tarpaulin. They found some on the edge. The smell of caged animals and sweat bloomed in the heat. The performance had begun at sunrise, the brilliant hour, and already dozens of animal carcasses were heaped in a pile on the far side of the arena. Damon was glad they had chosen seats above the caged animals rather than above the dead ones. Even from here, when the wind was right, he could smell the rotting flesh. A cloud of flies swarmed the mound. He could see the spectators over the dead animals swatting at stray flies. Why had he allowed Artemas to talk him into coming here?
Artemas leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers locked together.
From an arched doorway a man appeared.
"Damon, look. The retiarius, the fisherman—a gladiator."
Damon only knew what Artemas was saying by watching his lips. He couldn't hear anything over the noise of the spectators, who were whistling, yelling, and stamping their feet on the wooden flooring.
The gladiator strode out into the middle of the arena, his arms raised to the cheering crowd. He appeared to be nearly unarmed. His left arm was covered with what looked like a sleeve made of metal strips that went all the way to his shoulder. He carried a long trident and a net. Perhaps this would not be so bad, after all.
Artemas leaned over and yelled into Damon's ear, "Combat between fish and fisherman!"
From an archway across the arena a murmillon stepped out—the fish. A fish carved from bone was attached to his metal helmet. He carried a sword, a javelin, and two knives at his belt. How could this be fair?
The crowd hushed as the two circled each other. The retiarius swung his net over his head, but before he could release it, the murmillon thrust his sword. The retiarius dodged, but the sword slit his leather breastplate. A thin line of blood leaked. The crowd cheered wildly. They sounded frenzied, as if they had gone mad.
Clutching his side, the fisherman warded off the attacks of the fish with his other arm. Even wounded, his skill was great. He pinned his opponent's sword with his trident and flicked it out of reach. Artemas clapped his hands and whistled. Damon felt sick. What was he doing here?
The fisherman was growing weaker, and slower. The fish had lost his sword, but he just switched to the longer javelin and pulled a knife from his belt. With the javelin, the fish twisted the trident up and back and moved in close to the defenseless fisherman. He plunged his knife into the fisherman's side. The fisherman fell forward onto his knees, his face in the dirt. The murmillon stood over him. The crowd's crazed cheers formed a chant. Although Damon heard one or two weak shouts of "Mitte" to save the life of the wounded retiarius, the crowd's chant grew into a crescendo of "lugula" and the fish, bowing to the crowd's demands, slit the fisherman's throat. How could Artemas consider this entertainment? Damon glared at him. Artemas stared straight ahead.
Damon looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd. They all clapped and whistled, many jumping from their seats to watch the dead gladiator being dragged out of the arena. This was supposed to be the center of the civilized world?
Artemas still leaned forward. But his shoulders sagged, and he no longer cheered. He rubbed his hands together, over and over.
Damon punched his shoulder. "Is this what you wanted to see?"
Artemas didn't turn.
Damon hit him again. "Brave warriors! Illustrious combat! Is this what you want to be? Take a good look. This is what it looks like for one man to kill another."
Through clenched teeth Artemas said, "This isn't what I want to be."
Damon had had enough. But before he could suggest they leave, a lone juggler walked to the center of the arena, tossing five flaming clubs high in the air. Her head was tipped back to follow the clubs, so from where they sat, Damon and Artemas could see her young face locked in concentration. Her hair was loose and flowed down over her shoulders in spirals. Damon released a deep breath. They would watch the juggler. He would take deep breaths and get rid of his anger. Then they would leave.
The crowd laughed when the juggler had to reach out far to catch a club that strayed from its normal path. She struggled to regain the steady flow of clubs. After a moment or two of teetering, she had them back under control and spun around, catching them behind her back. A flickering of applause scattered through the audience.
Damon was so mesmerized by the tilt of her chin and the flow of the torches that until Artemas tensed he noticed nothing in the ring but the juggler. The rhinoceros seemed to come out of nowhere, as if it rose from the floor itself. It shook its head, adjusting to the bright light. Damon remembered reading that the rhinoceros is almost completely blind. But even with such poor sight, how could it miss the torches whisking in front of it? The juggler had her back to the rhinoceros, and Damon, watching the upturned face, realized with a sudden wave of nausea that the gi
rl knew her fate. Her jaw was set as if preparing for the impact.
The rhinoceros pawed the ground with one hoof, snorting. The crowd was again frenzied. Damon rose to leave, tugging at Artemas, but Artemas pulled away. The rhinoceros dropped its head, its horn scraping the floor, and, to the increasing roar of the crowd, began to charge. Damon watched the girl close her eyes and the torches fall one by one to her feet. The horn of the rhinoceros pierced her back. The beast raised its head, and the girl, run through by the horn, was lifted off her feet. The rhinoceros trotted around in circles, tossing its head back and forth, trying to free itself of the burden. The girl, lifeless, hung from the horn, her arms and legs flopping up and down with each jerk of the beast's head.
Damon turned his back to the arena. A group behind him stood, waving him to sit so they could see. They yelled, but he stared over their heads. Damon looked from Artemas to the crowd to the arena. He pressed his palms to his ears, hard. But the mad roar of the crowd penetrated. Penetrated everything.
Artemas spit on the ground of the Circus and half ran out, leaving Damon to follow as best he could. The crowd didn't part when they saw Damon coming, and he had trouble wedging himself between the spectators.
The cheering reached another pitch, and Damon, unable to help himself, looked back. The girl lay contorted in the dirt, a leg buckled under her body. And the beast was being slaughtered by a dozen armed guards whose spears had difficulty piercing its tough hide. The crowd was cheering the trampling of one guard.
Damon let Artemas get far ahead. His friend needed time alone. This wasn't what Artemas had expected. Rome was not what either of them had expected. Damon longed for the gentleness of the Egyptian people—the peace of Alexandria. He studied the contorted faces of those in the crowd. Was his father like these men? A chill passed through him, and he hurried to catch up with Artemas.
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