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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraph
Map of Alexandria
Map of the Delta
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chronology
Author’s Note
Also by Steven Saylor
About the Author
Copyright
It irks me that Eurypyle, so glamorous,
For boorish Artemon has cravings amorous.
He used to go out shabby and threadbare
With wooden earrings poking from his hair.
Wrapped in a smelly oxhide cloak
Repurposed from a shield, he was a joke,
A good-for-nothing crook and a bore,
Seen now with cook, now with whore,
Making a criminal living.
Often I saw him in the stocks, giving
A yelp as he was slapped about
And had his hair and beard plucked out.
But now the son of Kyke appears
In a chariot, with gold rings in his ears,
Carrying an ivory sunshade—
Worthy of a pretty maid?
—ANACREON, C. 500 B.C.
POETAE MELICI GRAECI 43
I
Like any young Roman who found himself living in the most exciting city on earth—Alexandria, capital of Egypt—I had a long list of things I wanted to do, but taking part in a raid to steal the golden sarcophagus of Alexander the Great had never been among them.
And yet, there I found myself, on a morning in the month we Romans call Maius, doing just that.
The tomb of the city’s founder is located in a massive, ornate building in the heart of the city. A towering frieze along one side depicts the exploits of the world conqueror. The moment of inspiration that gave birth to the city itself, some 240 years ago, is vividly depicted on the frieze: Alexander stands atop a sand dune, staring at the shore and the sea beyond while his architects, surveyors, and engineers gaze up at him in wonder, clutching their various instruments.
So realistically sculpted and painted was this massive frieze that I almost expected the giant image of the conqueror to suddenly turn his head and peer down at us as we scurried below him, heading toward the building’s entrance. I would not have been surprised to see him raise an eyebrow and inquire in a booming, godlike voice, “Where in Hades do you fellows think you’re going? Why are some of you brandishing swords? And what is that the rest of you carry—a battering ram?”
But Alexander remained immobile and mute as my companions and I rushed past him and surged into the colonnaded entranceway.
On this day the tomb was closed to visitors. An iron gate barred entry to the vestibule. I was among those who carried the battering ram. We pivoted into formation, perpendicular to the gate. As Artemon, our leader, counted to three, we heaved the ram forward, then back, then forward again with all our might. The gate shuddered and buckled at the impact.
“Again!” shouted Artemon. “On my count! One—two—three!”
Each time the ram butted against it, the gate moaned and shrieked, as if it were a living thing. On our fourth heave, the gate flew open. Those of us carrying the battering ram retreated back into the street and tossed it aside while the vanguard of our party, led by Artemon, rushed through the sundered gate. I drew my sword and followed them into the vestibule. Dazzling mosaics celebrating the life of Alexander decorated every surface from the floor to the domed ceiling high above, where an opening admitted sunlight to shimmer across the millions of pieces of colored glass and stone.
Ahead of me, I saw that only a handful of armed men offered resistance. These guardians of the tomb looked surprised, frightened, and ready to run—and who could blame them? We greatly outnumbered them. They also looked rather old to be bearing arms, with weathered, wrinkled faces and gray eyebrows.
Why were there so few guards, and why were they of such a low grade? Artemon had told us that the city was in chaos, wracked by daily riots. All the most able-bodied soldiers had been summoned by King Ptolemy to protect the royal palace, leaving only this feeble handful to defend the Tomb of Alexander. Perhaps the king thought that even the most violent mob would never dare to violate such a sacred place, especially in broad daylight. But Artemon had outfoxed him. “Our greatest advantage will be the element of surprise,” he had told us, and it appeared that he was correct.
I heard a clash of swords, followed by screams. I had deliberately volunteered to man the battering ram, so as to avoid being on the front line of whatever battle might take place. I wanted no blood on my hands, if I could possibly avoid it. But was I really less guilty than my comrades ahead of me, who were gleefully hacking away with their swords?
You may wonder why I was taking part in such a criminal act. I had been compelled to join these bandits against my will. Still, might I not have slipped away at some point and escaped? Why did I stay with them? Why did I continue to follow Artemon’s orders? Did I do so out of fear, or misplaced loyalty, or simple greed for the share of gold we had all been promised?
No. I did what I did for her—for the sake of that crazy slave girl who had somehow got herself kidnapped by these bandits.
What sort of Roman would stoop to such criminal behavior for the sake of a girl, and a mere slave at that? The blinding Egyptian sun must have driven me mad, that I should find myself in such a spot!
As I rushed through the vestibule, toward the wide corridor that led to the sarcophagus, I realized I was whispering her name: “Bethesda!” Was she still well, and unharmed? Would I ever see her again?
I slipped on a pool of blood. As I spun my arms to balance myself, I looked down and saw the pale face of a fallen guard. His lifeless eyes were wide open and his mouth was set in a grimace. The poor old fellow might have been someone’s grandfather!
One of my companions helped to steady me. Careless fool! I thought. You might have broken your neck! You might have fallen on your own sword! What would have become of Bethesda then?
I heard the sounds of another battle ahead of us, but its duration was brief. By the time I stepped into the chamber, only one guard remained standing, and even as I watched, Artemon stabbed him in the belly. The poor fellow crumpled lifeless to the hard granite floor. His sword fell beside him with a cla
tter, and then a hush fell over the crowded room.
Lamps set in niches in the walls provided the only illumination. Though it was bright daylight outside, here all was dim light and shadow. Before us, raised upon a low dais, was a massive sarcophagus. In form and style it was partly Egyptian, like the angular mummy cases of the ancient pharaohs, and partly Greek, with carvings along the sides that depicted the exploits of Alexander—the taming of the steed Bucephalus, the triumphal entry into the Gates of Babylon, the terrifying battle with the elephant cavalry of the Indus. The gleaming sarcophagus, made of solid gold, was encrusted with precious stones, including the dazzling green gem called the emerald mined from the mountains of southernmost Egypt. The sarcophagus glittered in the flickering light of the lamps, an object of breathtaking splendor and of value beyond calculation.
“Well, what do you make of that?”
I shivered, as if startled from a dream. Artemon stood beside me. His bright eyes sparkled and his handsome features seemed to glow in the ruddy light.
“It’s magnificent,” I whispered. “More magnificent than I ever imagined.”
He grinned, flashing perfect white teeth, then raised his voice. “Did you hear that, men? Even our Roman comrade is impressed! And Pecunius”—that was the name by which he knew me—“is not easily impressed, for has he not seen the Seven Wonders of the World, as he never tires of telling us? What do you say, Pecunius—is this sarcophagus the equal of those Wonders?”
“Can it really be made of solid gold?” I whispered. “The weight must be enormous!”
“Yet we have the means to move it.”
Even as Artemon spoke, some of the men brought forth winches, pulleys, lengths of rope, and wooden shims. Another group appeared from the vestibule wheeling a sturdy wagon down the wide corridor. The wagon was loaded with a lidded wooden crate made especially for our cargo. Artemon had thought of everything. Suddenly he looked to me like the young Alexander as depicted on the frieze of the building, a visionary surrounded by adoring architects and engineers. Artemon knew what he wanted and had a plan to achieve it. He inspired fear in his enemies and confidence in his followers. He knew how to bend others to his will. Certainly he had succeeded at making me do as he wanted, against all my better judgment.
The wagon was wheeled into place alongside the dais. The top of the crate was lifted off. The inside was padded with blankets and straw.
A hoisting mechanism was deployed to remove the lid of the sarcophagus.
“Should we be opening the sarcophagus?” I said, feeling a prickle of superstitious dread.
“The lid and the sarcophagus are both very heavy,” said Artemon. “They’ll be easier to manipulate if we separate them and lift them one at a time.”
As the lid began to rise above the sarcophagus, a thought occurred to me.
“What will become of the body?” I asked.
Artemon looked at me sidelong but did not speak.
“You’re not going to hold it for ransom, are you?”
He laughed at the look on my face. “Of course not. The remains of Alexander will be handled with utmost respect, and will be left here where they belong, in his tomb.”
Robbing a mummified corpse of its sarcophagus hardly constituted respect, I thought. Artemon seemed to be amused by my misgivings.
“Here, Pecunius, let’s have a look at the mummy before we remove it from the sarcophagus. They say the state of preservation is quite remarkable.”
He took my arm and together we stepped onto the dais. As the lid was hoisted onto the wagon, the two of us peered over the edge of the sarcophagus.
So it came to pass that I, Gordianus of Rome, at the age of twenty-two, in the city of Alexandria and in the company of cutthroats and bandits, found myself face to face with the most famous mortal who ever lived.
For a man who had been dead over two hundred years, the conqueror’s features were remarkably well preserved. His eyes were closed, as if he slept, but his eyelashes were perfectly intact. I could almost imagine that he might suddenly blink and gaze back at me.
“Look out!” someone shouted.
I turned around to see that we had company—not royal soldiers, but a handful of regular citizens, no doubt outraged at the desecration of their city’s most sacred monument. A few had daggers. The rest were armed only with clubs and stones.
As Artemon’s men fell on the newcomers, cutting them down and driving them back, one of the angry citizens raised his arm and took aim at me. I saw the jagged rock hurtle toward me.
Artemon grabbed my arm and pulled me sharply to one side, but too late. I felt a sharp blow against my head. The world turned upside down as I fell from the dais onto the wagon, striking my head against one corner of the crate. Groggily, I drew back and saw blood—my blood—on the wood. Then everything went black.
How had I come to such a sorry pass?
Let me tell you the story.
II
It all started the day I turned twenty-two.
That was on the twenty-third day of the month we Romans call Martius; in Egypt it was the month of Phamenoth. Back in Rome, the weather was probably bitter and damp, or at best chilly and brisk, but in Alexandria my birthday dawned without a cloud in the sky. The warm breath of the desert filled the city, relieved by an occasional breeze from the sea.
I lived on the topmost floor of a five-story tenement in the Rhakotis district. My little room had a window that faced north, toward the sea, but any view I might have had of the harbor and the water beyond was blocked by the fronds of a tall palm tree outside the window. The breeze caused the foliage to perform a listless dance; the motions of the fronds as they slowly slid against one another produced a languorous, repetitious music. The shiny foliage reflected the rays of the rising sun, causing points of light to dance across my closed eyelids.
I woke, as I had fallen asleep, with Bethesda in my arms.
You may wonder why my slave was in bed with me. I might point out that the shabby little apartment in which I was living was so small there was hardly room for one person to turn around, let alone two. The bed, narrow as it was, took up most of the space. Yes, I could have made Bethesda sleep on the floor, but what if I rose in the night? I would likely have tripped over her, fallen, and cracked my skull.
Of course, it was not for considerations such as these that I had invited Bethesda to share my bed. Bethesda was more than merely my slave.
When I was a boy, and my father taught me the facts of life, he made clear what he thought about masters sharing their beds with slaves. “A bad idea, all around,” I could remember him saying. My mother had died when I was small, and the only slave in our household was an old fellow called Damon, so I was not sure if he spoke from experience.
“Why is that, father? Is it against the law for a master to sleep with a slave?”
I can remember my father smiling at such a naive question. “If a man were to sleep with another man’s slave, without permission—that would be against the law. But with his own property, a Roman citizen may do whatever he wishes. He may even kill a slave, just as he may kill a dog or a goat or any other animal he owns.”
“Is it adultery, then, if a married man has relations with a slave?”
“No, because for adultery to occur there must be the chance of freeborn offspring—such a birth might threaten the wife’s status and the status of her children, you see. But since a slave has no legal existence, and any child born to a slave is also a slave, no union with a slave can pose a threat to the marriage or to the heirs. That is why many wives make no objection if their husband cavorts as much as he wishes with his slaves, male or female. Better he should do so in the home, at no expense, and not with a freeborn woman or someone else’s wife.”
I frowned. “Then why do you say it’s a bad idea?”
My father sighed. “Because, in my experience, the act of sexual union invariably produces not just a physical reaction, but an emotional one as well—whether good or bad—a
nd in both master and slave. And that leads to trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Oh, a Pandora’s box full of woe! Jealousy, blackmail, betrayal, trickery, deceit—even murder.” My father’s experience of the world was wider than that of most men. He called himself Finder, and he made his living by uncovering other people’s secrets, often of a scandalous or criminal nature. “Digging up the dirt,” he called it. He had seen the full range of human behavior, from the best to the worst—but mostly the worst. If his experience had led him to believe that carnal knowledge between a master and a slave was a bad thing, he probably knew what he was talking about.
“I can see that it might be unwise, but is it wrong for a master to sleep with a slave?” I asked.
“Certainly the law does not object. Nor does religion; such an act does not offend the gods. Nor do philosophers have much to say about how a man uses his slaves.”
“But what do you think, father?”
He gave me a penetrating look and lowered his voice, so that I knew he spoke from the heart. “I think that when any two people have carnal relations, the greater the difference in their status, the more likely it is that one of them is being forced to act against his or her will. When that occurs, the act is demeaning to both parties. Or the tables can be turned. I’ve seen so-called philosophers behave like fools, wealthy men bankrupted, powerful men humiliated—and all for the love of a slave. To be sure, not every union can be of equals. Not every pairing can be like the one that existed between me … and your mother.”
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