Cleopatra's Heir

by Gillian Bradshaw

  CHAPTER X

  All her life Melanthe had wanted to see Alexandria. Now she was here, and had no interest in it.

  Part of the problem was that Arion had told her about it, and now every sight reminded her of him. The wonderful mechanical toys in the temple of Serapis; the view from the terrace of the Paneion; the light of the Pharos; even the sea anemones in the harbor—they all reminded her of Arion. She found herself wondering, again and again, whether he’d found someone to help him, or whether his second cousin had found him first. She discovered that she had a clear picture of the second cousin in her mind—a small, twisted, sour-faced shrillvoiced man in magnificent crimson clothing—and she kept seeing Arion dragged in before him by thuggish cronies. The second cousin would gloat, then order his slaves to cut Arion’s throat and dispose of his body secretly. Sometimes she imagined Arion’s little brother—the rightful heir to the estate, of course—weeping at a barred window while the slaves carried the bloodied corpse away.

  Of course Arion had been bound to try to help his little brother. She could never have abandoned Serapion without even learning what had become of him. But where she would proceed with reasoned caution, she was sickly certain that Arion would be reckless. He did not value his own life. She did, but he would throw it away as though it were worthless, even though she wanted, more than anything in the world, to cherish it within her own.

  She tried to tell herself that there had never been any possibility of that, that he would never have married her. It made no difference to the hot misery inside her, and she found it only too easy to convince herself that he might have married her. After all, his family were dead and wouldn’t be arranging a grand marriage for him. An orphaned bastard, even one from a very great house, would be content to marry the daughter of a well-off merchant—wouldn’t he? And he had liked her. She was sure he had.

  There had been boys she’d liked in Coptos. They all seemed so shallow and silly now, compared to Arion. He was so … everything. Brave, brilliant, cultured, noble … even the thought of his staring fits didn’t bother her anymore. What had once seemed pitiable now seemed only another example of courage and strength: not even illness could subdue him. She wanted, desperately, what she had had for one shining instant and could never have again: his mouth against her own and his body warm and secure within her arms.

  Tiathres and Papa spoke to her very seriously, saying that they understood how she felt, but that the world was full of sorrows, and she must set this one behind her and make the most of the joy at hand. She did not see, though, how they could possibly understand how she felt. Tiathres had married Papa when she was seventeen, a marriage arranged by her family, and she had never been in love with anyone else. As for Papa—he was a man, and men never understood how women felt, everyone knew that. How could they expect her to enjoy Alexandria when her heart was dead?

  So she declined to go on most of Tiathres’ sightseeing excursions, and instead stayed with Papa and tried to help with the paperwork. That reminded her of Arion as well—she heard his beautiful voice in every long vowel of the sample letters—but at least it provided her with something to do which she didn’t have to pretend to enjoy.

  The business part of the expedition was having mixed success. The glass manufacturers Aristodemos had dealt with were happy to deal with Papa instead, but the tin importer wouldn’t even grant an interview. Papa thought Aristodemos must have sent him letters full of lies. The market for incense, ivory, and tortoiseshell, however, was buoyant—apparently all the Roman soldiers in the army of occupation wanted exotic goods to take home—and at first Papa was too busy disposing of the cargo at a huge profit to search for another supplier for the tin.

  After five days in the city, however, Kleon’s cargo was all sold, and Papa turned his attention to tin. He asked the glassworkers who might supply it. The glassworkers didn’t know, but referred him to a bronzesmith who would. Papa took the bronzesmith out to dinner. The bronzesmith referred him to his own supplier. Melanthe copied over one of Arion’s letters, filling in the blank with the supplier’s name. The supplier wrote back very cordially, saying that he had no tin to spare, but referring them to another supplier who might. Melanthe copied over another letter. The second supplier responded at once, inviting Ani out to a lunch to discuss the matter.

  Papa set off to meet the supplier at about noon on the seventh day after they’d arrived in Alexandria, looking, Melanthe felt, very distinguished in a long cloak draped like a gentleman’s—another trick of Arion’s. She kissed him good-bye, then sat down in the stern cabin to copy over the accounts from the sale of the cargo.

  Soteria was quiet. Tiathres and the nurse had taken Serapion and Isisdoros to see if the gates to the palace quarter were open and they could visit the menagerie; Apollonios and Ezana were off at some sailor’s tavern, together with Pasis and Petosiris, the free helpers from Coptos. Of the four slaves, Achoapis had gone with Papa, and Mys was off seeing the city on his own. Only Harmias and Pamonthes remained on board with her. Harmias was sleeping off a hangover, and old Pamonthes sat playing the flute, producing little rills and ripples of melody that hung in the heavy air. It was a breezeless late-September day, and the cabin was hot and close. The columns of figures were very dull, and after a while Melanthe found herself chewing the pen, staring out the open door, and wondering if Tiathres and Serapion and the others had succeeded in seeing the snake. Was it really as big around as a man’s waist? And would it really lick its keeper’s ear?

  Perhaps Papa and Tiathres had a point, after all. When they got the tin they would go back to Coptos, and when they got back to Coptos she would be very sorry that she hadn’t seen the snake—or the Gymnasium, or the Temple of Isis, or the famous Museum …

  Nobody had been to see the Library yet. She did want to see the Library. Arion had said that it contained more than three hundred thousand books. The library at the gymnasium in Coptos wasn’t supposed to have more than a hundred. Three hundred thousand books! Who could imagine such a thing? Three hundred thousand books must contain an answer to every question anyone could think to ask. Books like stars in the sky, a vast and uncharted ocean of knowledge!

  And Arion said there were statues there of all the famous poets and philosophers. The different philosophical sects, he said, kept interfering with the statues of the founders of rival sects, so that one day Zeno was holding a sausage instead of a scroll; and another, Epicurus wore a wig. It would be fun to see that.

  Maybe she could suggest that they go to the Library tomorrow. Papa would like to see the Library, too, and if they got the tin, he’d be free.

  She remembered for the first time that Papa had loved and lost her own mother. He had known her far better and loved her far more profoundly than she had known or loved Arion. He still felt the loss—you could see from his face when he was thinking of her. But he was a happy and affectionate husband to Tiathres. The heart, she realized, can heal, though the scars may ache in bad weather. She would not forget Arion, but …

  There was an enormous crash from somewhere just outside. Melanthe dropped the pen and ran to the cabin door to see what was going on.

  A gangplank had been thrown across onto Soteria’s deck, and a group of half a dozen rough-looking men were running aboard. They were carrying cudgels and knives. Pamonthes, who’d been sitting in the bows, was staring at them with his mouth open.

  Melanthe ran back into the cabin, slammed the door, and bolted it. She looked back at the pile of papyri littering the table. If the legal documents were lost, they could not be replaced. She crammed them hastily into the strongbox, jammed the lid shut. From outside on the deck came the sound of shouting, then a splash. She locked the strongbox and looked around wildly for somewhere to hide it. Somebody tried to open the door.

  Robbers? she wondered. Or thugs hired by Aristodemos? That would be worse: robbers would merely steal valuables, but thugs would destroy everything they could.

  There was more shouting from ou
tside, and the sound of hatches being flung open. Nothing to worry about there: Kleon’s cargo was all gone, and the glass hadn’t been loaded yet. Most of the money from the sale was on deposit in a bank: Papa hadn’t wanted to keep such a large sum aboard Soteria. There was some silver in the box, though, under the papers. Where, where, where to hide it?

  She darted across to the corner of the cabin, plonked the strongbox down on top of a sleeping-mat, and rolled it up. She stood it in the corner, went over to the next mat, rolled that up, and stood it next to the first. She treated the third mat the same way, then tossed the sheets and headrests on top of them.

  There was another burst of shouting from on deck—Har—mias, she thought, aroused from his hangover and trying to fight. Somebody rattled again at the door, then struck it with some force. The bolt bent visibly. Melanthe grabbed the table, tipped it over against the door, and sat down with her back to it.

  Papers and silver weren’t the only valuables in the room, she realized. There was also herself. Pretty young girls sold for a high price, and they, too, could be stolen by thieves or destroyed by thugs. She pressed her palms against the underside of the table, trying to stifle the sick terror.

  There were other boats moored next to Soteria. There was a city watch in Alexandria. There were guards on the city gate. Surely somebody would soon come to help?

  A series of heavy blows landed on the door, and the table jumped against her back. She braced her heels against the floor and pushed hard. Another blow, and she heard the bolt crack. Outside, somebody gave a yell of triumph. A thud, and a man’s weight hitting the door: the table skidded forward, and she scrabbled frantically and managed to force the door shut again. Another thud, another …

  The table was forced along the floor as the door opened until its legs were touching the cabin wall. Melanthe cowered behind it as three men rushed in. They glanced round, saw her. One of them yelled and dived forward to grab her wrist.

  She screamed, slapped him with her free hand, screamed again. He leaned over the tabletop, got both her hands, hauled her to her feet. She kept screaming. Another man slapped her, and she screamed harder. He swore. The man who was holding her hands shoved her back against the wall, hurting her. She found that she was crying. The man who’d slapped her put his hand over her mouth. Her nose was blocked from crying, and she couldn’t breathe. She stopped trying to scream and fought instead for air.

  The man took his hand off her mouth, holding it ready to put back again. “Where does your master keep his silver?” he demanded.

  “In the bank,” said Melanthe, swallowing. “He put all of it in the bank.”

  “He must keep some here! What about spending-money?”

  “He took most of that with him,” she replied, choking. “He went to see a man about tin. He gave some to Tiathres, too, but she’s taken the little ones to see the menagerie.”

  “What happened to the cargo? There was supposed to be a rich cargo!”

  “It’s all sold.”

  The man swore again. The third man was prowling around the room, looking for valuables. He pulled some of the sheets and headrests off the heap in the corner, kicked at the rolled-up mats.

  “Papers,” said the first man. “Where are the ship’s papers?”

  Melanthe began to cry in earnest. “In the b-bank! They t-told us it w-wasn’t safe to k-keep valuables on a b-boat!” In fact, keeping the papers anywhere else would have been impracticable—but the robbers didn’t need to know that.

  There was a shout from on deck. The first man hurried out the door. From the furious exclamations it sounded as though a lookout had spotted someone running to fetch help. The first man stuck his head back into the cabin. “Take the girl, anyway!” he ordered, and vanished again.

  The man who was holding Melanthe’s wrists pulled at her. She screamed shrilly and sat down, where she was, behind the upturned table. He swore, tried to pull her up. She braced her feet against the table and wouldn’t budge. He cursed, let go of her wrists to pull the table out of the way. She kicked at him, caught him in the eye as he bent over. He roared and lashed out at her with his feet. She rolled out of the way.

  Then the third man came over and grabbed her ankles, and the other stormed through her wild flailing and got her arms again. The two of them hefted her into the air between them and carried her out of the cabin. She screamed with all her strength and struggled madly.

  The deck of Soteria was littered with smashed jars of oil and spilled lentils, while sleeping mats and a sack of flour bobbed in the surrounding water. Harmias was lying on the deck next to one of the open hatches, his head covered with blood. She couldn’t see Pamonthes, and hoped that the first splash she’d heard had been him jumping overboard to swim for help. The four other men were standing impatiently on the quay with a chest she recognized as Tiathres’, waiting for the last two to join them.

  She saw in a flash that they still had to maneuver her off the boat, and decided that if she could make herself too difficult to carry they would have to leave her. She rolled wildly in the men’s hands, got a foot free, kicked. They cursed, set her down, slapped her. She kicked some more, rolled, scratched, tried to bite. The larger man picked her up, despite all she could do, threw her over his shoulder, and got her across the gangplank in a staggering run. She saw a woman on the next boat staring at her, and she stretched an arm out pleadingly and shouted, “Help me!”

  Nobody helped. She had a hand clapped over her mouth again, fought, couldn’t get air, fainted. She woke up across a man’s shoulder, limp, aching, and dizzy. She gathered her strength, tried once more to get away, and found a beefy hand clamped against her neck, choking her.

  There followed a confused nightmare of being carried, dragged, and pushed along dark alleys which stank of stale urine and cats, of buffeting and curses. It seemed to go on for a long, long time. Eventually, though, there was a narrow tenement, and stairs, and finally a dark, dirty room full of boxes where an old woman sat spinning.

  Melanthe’s captors shoved her forward into the room. She stumbled, caught herself, and turned to see that all six robbers had filed in after her. One of them was dragging Tiathres’ traveling-chest. She backed against a wall and stood braced there, sick and shaking.

  “What’s she?” asked the old woman, staring at her.

  “Almost the entire proceeds!” replied the man who’d questioned her on the boat, who appeared to be the leader. “No cargo, no money, and one of them swam off and fetched the watch from the Mareotis Gate. We had to run. The slut’s a she-wolf, too. She kicked Zeuxis in the eye. She wants to be tied up.”

  They spoke in Greek, which Melanthe found peculiarly shocking. In Coptos, crude dirty bandits would have been Egyptian: only the upper class spoke Greek all the time. Things were different in Alexandria.

  The old woman got to her feet and came over to inspect Melanthe. “Pretty, though,” she remarked, and pinched her cheek.

  Melanthe raised her hands defensively, but did not quite dare hit the old woman. She felt instinctively that she would be brutally punished if she did. “Please,” she said breathlessly. “Please let me go! My father will pay to have me back.”

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Will he? And who is he?”

  “His name’s Ani,” gasped Melanthe. “It was his boat.”

  At this there were grunts, a sigh, and a collection of angry, reassessing glares. They had, she realized, assumed that she was a slave.

  “Freeborn!” said the leader in disgust. “That’s all of a piece with everything else about the job, that is.” He went over to the wall, picked up a large jug, and drank thirstily.

  “Perhaps the man will pay for her,” suggested the largest of the robbers, going over and catching the jug as it was lowered.

  The leader shook his head. “He won’t dare keep anything to connect him with what happened. No, we’ll have to sell her to Kinesias.” He sat down heavily on the floor. “We’ll be lucky if we get two hundred!”
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  The old woman had gone over to Tiathres’ chest and was looking through it. It contained only items of spare clothing which had belonged to various crew members, and one pair of earrings. The old women examined Serapion’s dirty tunic, then tossed it back in the chest. “Hundred, maximum!” she said in disgust. “What happened to the cargo of spices?”

  “Already sold, according to her,” said the leader, with a wave of the arm at Melanthe. “It wasn’t on the boat, that’s certain. And the money from it was banked. The whole job’s going to be worth less than four hundred, and the watch are buzzing like hornets. What a disaster!”

  “My father would pay more than two hundred to have me back,” Melanthe ventured.

  The robber leader looked at her thoughtfully and picked his nose. “How much are you worth to him? Five hundred?”

  “He … he might not have that much right here,” she quavered. “The money from the sale of the cargo belongs to his partner.” She was quite certain that Papa would spend every last obol of it to redeem her, and worry about how to repay it later—but there was no sense in letting the robbers know that. “But he’d give you everything he could. He’s a merchant, and he loves me.” The final words caught in her throat unexpectedly. He did love her. All her family loved her. What would they feel when they found that she’d been dragged off to slavery and rape?

  She had to get away. She could not, could not, end up that way.

  “That’s no good,” a snaggle-toothed robber objected impatiently. “Who’s going to go tell him we’re willing to sell? I won’t!”

  The leader scratched his bristly chin. “I don’t suppose you can write?” he asked Melanthe.

  “Yes,” she said, her breath catching. Was it possible that she might yet escape from this nightmare?

  “So you could write a note telling your father to meet us somewhere, and exchange you for, say, four hundred?”

  “It’s still too risky!” protested the big man. “You know the guard are looking for us. That fellow on the boat called them in, and it makes them look bad if boats get looted in harbor in broad daylight. They need to impress the Romans or they’ll be disbanded. They’ll be watching that merchant whether he wants them to or not.”