Cleopatra's Heir

by Gillian Bradshaw

  The man who’d spoken up before, sniggered. He was a local shopkeeper, not—like many of the others present—a dependent of Aristodemos. “You think your ship’s captain is still waiting patiently for you to come back?” he asked.

  Aristodemos turned the half-asleep sneer on him, and the shopkeeper sobered. “Everyone’s waited for the end of the war,” he said. “—Everyone except the son of Petesuchos. Yes, I think my partner will be pleased to see me again. Ani could have sold me his goods, instead of losing them, as I fear he must have done, to barbarians or fugitives. But he was always greedy.”

  “No!” Melanthe protested, too indignant to be cautious. “He isn’t greedy at all. He’s good and generous and kind. He’s brave, too, and he went to Berenike when you were too afraid even to keep the bargain you’d made with your partner.”

  Aristodemos’ lazy expression disappeared, and in its place was something far darker and more savage than the indignation she’d anticipated. He hates my father, Melanthe realized in alarm. It’s not just that he thinks Papa’s an upstart: he hates him.

  “You insolent little bitch!” snarled Aristodemos. “Your father is a stinking peasant without even the intelligence to understand where his own place is. He tried to set himself up as a gentleman—to run a caravan—and if he’s lying dead on the road to Berenike, it’s his own fault. I had more sense than to try the trade routes with a war on. It’s his own pride—and his insatiable greed!—which have left him to rot in the sun on a road even the vultures avoid!”

  Little Thermuthion began to cry. Aristodemos’ eyes brightened with triumph. “You may well cry,” he told her. “What’s your house going to do now, without its master?”

  “You’re saying he’s dead because you hope he is!” Melanthe objected, though her legs had started to tremble at the thought that Aristodemos might be right. “He’s not really even late yet!”

  Aristodemos raised his hand warningly. “He got the fate he deserved!”

  One of his dependents applauded. Another grinned. Melanthe, not knowing what else to do, turned on her heel and walked proudly away. Thermuthion followed her, still crying over the thought of kind Master Ani lying dead. That thought was pressing on Melanthe’s mind, too, making her shake, but she made herself keep walking. She would not, she decided, give Aristodemos the satisfaction of seeing her afraid. She would not, she would not, she would …

  There were camels in the road on the other side of the square.

  She stopped dead. Thermuthion bumped into her and stopped as well, rubbing her face, her mouth round with surprise. The lead camel swung out of the shadowy road into the sunlit marketplace, and it was Menches riding it, with a long string of camels after him, all carrying packs …

  “Papa!” shrieked Melanthe, and went racing across the square toward them.

  A donkey came galloping up alongside the camel train before she reached it, with a dear, wonderful, infinitely familiar figure bouncing on its back. Papa leapt off and ran over to hug her. He was dirty and smelly and unshaven, but he was alive, solid, whole. “Well, Melanthion!” he said, and held her out at arm’s length to look at her. “My pretty sunbird, I didn’t think I’d see you till I got home!” “Sunbird” had been his pet name for her ever since she was tiny, because, he said, sunbirds were quick, pretty, colorful, and loved sweet things.

  She laughed and held on to him tightly. He was home, safe, alive! “I came in to see if there was news.” Then she remembered, and said urgently, “Aristodemos is here, Papa—just there, by the customs house, and there’s a proclamation from the Romans and he wants to trade, after all. He’s going to be very angry if you got the cargo!”

  “Then he’s going to have to be very angry,” Papa told her complacently. He caught the donkey’s reins and her hand, and began strolling on toward the customs house. “I need to pay the duties on my caravan.” He nodded to Thermuthion and switched to Demotic. “Little one, can you run home and tell your mistress that I’ll be back shortly, with guests, and we all want a bath?”

  Thermuthion, who’d gone from tears to beaming smiles, nodded happily and skipped off toward the house.

  “Guests?” asked Melanthe, glancing up at the line of camels. Menches on the lead; Imouthes leading the second string; and there did seem to be another figure in an orange cloak riding further back, with a couple more at the end.

  “Two sailors sent by my new partner,” said Papa, switching back to Greek, “and … a kind of secretary, though don’t, by the immortal gods, call him that to his face or he’ll be offended.”

  “Your partner?” repeated Melanthe, apprehension quivering through her new happiness. Tiathres, she knew, had been hoping that Papa would fail to get the partnership he craved. She’d wanted him to obtain the cargo, make a profit on the trip, and finish the venture. A partnership, she thought, would make him enemies among the Greeks of Coptos—particularly Aristodemos.

  “My partner, Kleon,” Papa announced, with immense satisfaction. “My girl, I got everything I wanted, and we’re going to be rich … Good health!”

  This last was to Aristodemos. They had almost reached the customs house, and the landowner had moved forward to stand directly in their path. He was scowling, his fists clenched at the side of his blue-and-white robe. One of his slaves and a couple of his dependents stood behind him, blocking the way completely. The crowd was still there; in fact, it had grown, and Parmenion, the customs officer, had come out onto the steps of the building and was surveying the scene apprehensively.

  “What’s this?” demanded Aristodemos, his eyes on the camel train behind them.

  “A caravan, Lord Aristodemos,” said Papa, in a matter-offact voice. “If you will excuse me, sir, the law requires me to pay duty on the goods.” He gestured toward the customs house steps. Aristodemos didn’t move.

  One of the ridden camels came trotting around the rest of the animals, which had piled into a milling mass behind Papa, kicking at one another and grunting. It stopped, jerking its head irritably. The rider was a youth not much older than Melanthe, still beardless. He was dressed in the Greek fashion, in a wide-brimmed hat and a short orange cloak, and he sat very straight, one knee hooked over the front of the camel saddle. He had a proud, disdainful face, with a strong, hooked nose and fierce dark eyes like a hawk. “The documents are in the left-hand saddlebag,” he told Papa. He had the most beautiful, most educated voice Melanthe had ever heard. He sat motionless on the camel while Papa went over and opened the saddlebag, making no move either to dismount or to get the documents himself.

  Papa took a sheaf of papyrus out of the saddlebag, glanced at it, then handed it up to the young Greek. The Greek sorted through the papers and handed one back. “That’s the schedule of goods,” he informed Papa. “And this,” another paper, “is the power of attorney for you to act on Kleon’s behalf. The officer will want to see both. He should keep the schedule, and return the other to you.”

  Papa nodded.

  “Power of attorney,” repeated Aristodemos, in a grinding tone.

  “I am presently acting as agent for Kleon, son of Kallias,” agreed Papa calmly. “I am taking his cargo to Alexandria and selling it, on commission. Two of his men are here, and can vouch for it.” He jerked his head at the two strangers who’d brought up the rear of the caravan, who were now both busy trying to prevent the camels from biting one another.

  Aristodemos’ face had gone pinched and pale. “And the partnership?”

  “Kleon and I,” said Papa, still frighteningly calm and matter-of-fact, “have agreed to a partnership for his next voyage.”

  “You had no right!”

  Papa shrugged and spread his hands apologetically. “Lord Aristodemos, Kleon has a right to make a contract with anyone he pleases.”

  “Is this Aristodemos?” asked the young Greek, from his height on the camel. “I thought you said he was a gentleman.”

  For a moment there was no sound in the square but the oblivious grunting of the camels.
Everyone in the small crowd stared, stunned, at the young man who’d just questioned whether the richest man in the district was a gentleman.

  “Umm,” said Papa, now—finally—worried. “This is Arion, of Alexandria. He was a Friend of King Ptolemy Caesar. He was wounded when the Romans attacked the king’s camp near the waystation of Kabalsi, and I, uh, helped him. He’s agreed to, umm, assist me, until we reach Alexandria.”

  There was a perceptible relaxation, from shock into uncertainty. An Alexandrian, a Friend of the king, might indeed find fault even in Aristodemos. Coptos was a rich market-town, hub of the caravan routes, but it was far from the manners, the grace, the Hellenism of the capital. Even Aristodemos’ blank outrage eased. “A gentleman has agreed to assist you?” he demanded indignantly.

  Arion’s lip curled slightly. “Ani saved my life,” he stated. “I am indebted to him. Sir, I am sorry if I offended you just now, but I assumed that a gentleman would use a horse when the roads are muddy.” He looked disdainfully at Aristodemos’ muddy cloak and dirty feet—and the most important man in the district flushed brick-red.

  “If you’re questioning the validity of Ani’s contract,” Arion continued loftily, “I suggest you go to a magistrate. In the meantime, there are customs fees which must be paid for these goods before they can be warehoused, and you are standing in the way. Do you mean to prevent the government from receiving its due?”

  Aristodemos was still red. “Th-this is … !” he stuttered, couldn’t find the word for it, gathered himself up and tried again. “Young man, this greedy Egyptian is trying to cheat me out of a valuable partnership!”

  “Cheat?” repeated Arion in surprise. “How? You broke off your partnership with the son of Kallias. He’s still very indignant about it—and you cannot reasonably have expected him to be otherwise. Kleon would never have dealt with you again even if Ani had never left Coptos, or so he himself asserts. He found another partner, and you’re free to do the same. There are plenty of ships. Sir, I must ask again: are you trying to prevent us from paying the tariff on these goods?”

  Aristodemos bit his lip, trapped. The new administration of the province would undoubtedly collect its dues as zealously as had the old administration of the kingdom: it was never a good idea to come between a government and its tax. Slowly, he stood aside, and motioned his cronies to do the same. Papa, looking both anxious and amused, edged past him and onto the customs-house steps. Parmenion, with a worried glance at Aristodemos, took the two papers, and they went inside.

  “I will not allow this,” Aristodemos said in a low voice. “I will not submit to being robbed by an Egyptian.” He looked up at the young man on the camel. “You fought against the Romans, did you?”

  Arion nodded. “But I am not a fugitive. A centurion by the name of Gaius Paterculus spoke to me in Berenike, and was satisfied that I was of no interest to the Roman state.”

  Aristodemos’ jaw clenched with anger. “I will not endure this!” he exclaimed. He tugged his cloak straight and marched off. His followers hurried after him, casting nervous glances over their shoulders.

  Arion watched them go. His look of disdain faded, and he pulled a small bag of something out from underneath his tunic and pressed it against his face. Melanthe wondered if he was ill—then remembered that Papa had said he’d been wounded. She wondered if she ought to offer to fetch him some water from the fountain—but she didn’t have a cup.

  He noticed her staring at him. His cheeks flushed angrily—he had, she realized, very fair skin, that showed the color readily—and he looked pointedly away. Melanthe looked down, ashamed because she’d offended him and she hadn’t even spoken to him yet.

  Magnificent, she thought, almost at random. That was the word she wanted. The way you dismissed Aristodemos was magnificent! she wanted to say.

  He himself looked magnificent, too, sitting up there on the camel in that fire-colored cloak, gazing proudly into the distance. She itched to speak to him, and didn’t dare.

  Papa came back out of the customs office and down the steps. He went over to Arion’s camel and put the legal document back in the bag with the other papers. Then he paused, looking up at the young Greek. “It’s about another mile,” he said in a low voice. “Are you going to last?”

  Arion nodded without looking at him.

  “You can lie down then,” Papa told him. “On a bed, out of the sun, with a cold drink.”

  Arion nodded again. Papa gave him a hard look, slapped the camel, then turned back to catch the donkey. He smiled at Melanthe.

  “You want to ride, Sunbird?”

  “I’ll walk with you, Papa,” she said, and he grinned. They started across the square together, leading the donkey, and the caravan rearranged itself behind them.

  Melanthe looked back: Arion was falling into place in the middle of the camel train. “Is he very ill, Papa?” she asked anxiously.

  Papa blew out his cheeks. “Arion? He has a wound in the side. It was infected, but it’s mostly healed now. That road to the coast is a bitter hard one, though, and it’s been hot as a furnace. The boy swore at Berenike that he was fit to travel, but he plainly wasn’t. He has the sacred disease, and heat, hunger, thirst, and pain make it worse: he’s been having two or three fits every day—mostly in the mornings, when he’s tired. Sweet Lady Isis, it’s good to be back at the river!”

  “He has the sacred disease?” Melanthe exclaimed, with another backward glance.

  Papa grinned. “Wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you? That boy makes Aristodemos look humble.” He laughed. “O gods! ‘I assumed that a gentleman would use a horse when the roads are muddy’—and Aristodemos stood there blushing and trying to hide his feet!” He laughed again.

  Melanthe did not laugh. “Papa, Aristodemos went off saying that he wouldn’t endure this.”

  “Nothing he can do,” Papa replied cheerfully. “It’s legal. Oh, he may think of sending some of his tenants to smash up the boat or the cargo, but he won’t do it if he’s got any sense. I’m on good terms with my neighbors, and he’s not. His tenants would come back bloody-nosed.”

  “But what if he goes to the magistrates? They’re Greek, they’ll favor him …”

  “Kleon’s Greek, too,” Papa pointed out. “The cargo’s Kleon’s property, Sunbird, not mine—and I’ve got Arion to speak for me. Doesn’t he have a beautiful voice?”

  “Yes,” agreed Melanthe fervently. “But Papa …”

  “That boy was a find, for all the trouble he’s been.”

  “Did you really save his life?”

  “By the immortal gods, I did, too! Found him lying unconscious in the road, and picked him up. Had no idea what he was, until he started talking. He’s very cagey—still hasn’t even told me his father’s name—but it’s clear he’s a gentleman the moment he opens his mouth. Aristodemos knew at once, didn’t he? He’s agreed to write letters and advise me until we get to Alexandria.” He looked at her, suddenly very serious. “My sweet bird, you’re to keep your distance from him. I think he’s a good-enough boy at heart, but he’s proud—he thinks I’m a dirty camel-driver-and you’re pretty, and he wouldn’t respect you. I don’t think he’d mean to hurt you, but he could. So you just make sure you don’t let him.”

  She rolled her eyes. Papa had been telling her to keep her distance from boys since she was thirteen and first got interested in them. It was annoying, because the boys didn’t want to keep their distance from her, and some of them were very sweet. Still, it was good advice, well meant, and she ought to listen to it. She wanted to marry a boy who was kind and clever and good-looking-someone with a little education, someone she could talk to—and for that she had to be a respectable virgin.

  Then her heart sped up: it sounded as though Papa was expecting her to see quite a lot of this Arion, and that implied … “Papa, does that mean I can come to Alexandria?” she asked breathlessly. They’d discussed it before he left for Berenike: whether the whole family could boat down the Nile
to the capital with the cargo. They had the boat—a heavy barge normally used to move flax and farm equipment—and there was space on it; the only question had been whether the journey would be safe for women and children.

  “The war’s over, and the Romans seem inclined to keep everything peaceful,” Papa said reasonably. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t come along.”

  Alexandria! The most glorious city in the entire world! She gave a little scream of joy. Papa laughed and tousled her hair.

  They’d reached the road out of town. Papa walked directly into the first puddle he came to and stamped, splashing mud and water up to his knees. He drew a deep breath of the scent of sunlit mud, and tossed back his head. “Isis and Serapis, it’s good to be back in a living world!” he exclaimed joyfully. “That desert’s a terrible place.” His eyes meeting hers were bright and happy and wise—her father, back from the desert, with a cargo of spices and a contract and a Friend of the king to speak for him. Had she really woken this morning, afraid she’d never see him again?

  “I’m so, so glad that you’re home,” she told him, from the bottom of her heart.

  The house, when they reached it, was buzzing like a wasp’s nest. Thermuthion had arrived with her message, and house-hold slaves and farmworkers were clearing out the storerooms, fetching water from the well, and sweeping everything in sight. Papa led the donkey past the drying sheds and up to the front door, and Tiathres burst out and threw herself into his arms, followed rapidly by Serapion, who was six and embraced his father’s hips, and Isisdoros, who was two and hugged his knees. Everyone was talking and laughing at once, and Melanthe almost lost track of the caravan. When she next looked, half the camels had been unloaded, and their packs were being carried into the storeroom. Two strangers—Kleon’s sailors, she realized—had come up and were waiting to be welcomed to the house. Papa introduced them as Apollonios—a wiry, middle-aged Greek—and Ezana, a tall and ferocious-looking black man from the port of Adulis, at the other end of the Red Sea. Melanthe looked around for Arion, and saw him sitting tall and aloof on his camel, the little bag still pressed against his face. She glanced at Papa: he was busy with Kleon’s men. She walked over to Arion, thinking that he ought to come in with the others.