Ancient World 02 - Raiders of the Nile

by Steven Saylor

  “So now you’re comparing Artemon to Moses?”

  “Except that Artemon’s story would be the opposite. A prince raised among paupers.”

  “Are you saying that Artemon has royal blood?”

  “Many of the men think so.”

  “Then how on earth did he end up here?”

  “Have we not all arrived here by strange paths—even you, Pecunius?”

  I thought about this. “What sort of royal blood? Are you saying Artemon comes from King Ptolemy’s family?”

  “Not his immediate family. Do you know the situation in Cyrene?”

  I remembered the mime performed by Melmak and his troupe, in which the fat merchant meant to represent King Ptolemy had expelled one precious item after another from his backside, all of Cyrenaic manufacture. The point had been to remind people that during King Ptolemy’s reign Egypt had lost the city of Cyrene to the Romans, thanks to a will left by the late regent.

  “I know that Cyrene used to be administered by Apion, who was the king’s bastard brother, and when Apion died he left all of Cyrenaica to Rome.”

  “And why did he do that?”

  “Because he owed a lot of money to Roman bankers and a lot of favors to Roman senators.” In recent years, Roman politicians had made an art of such bloodless conquests, inducing foreign rulers to bequeath their territory to the Roman people.

  “Even so, most men favor their children in their wills.”

  “But Apion died childless.”

  “Ah, but did he?”

  “What are you saying, Menkhep?”

  “Apion himself was a bastard, sired by the father of King Ptolemy with one of his concubines. For a long time Apion had no place in the Ptolemy household, but by hook or by crook he got his hands on Cyrenaica and ruled it as if it were his own. Then, on his deathbed, he gave it away so that no other Ptolemy could rule there.”

  “There’s no love lost between members of your royal family,” I said. “Mother and sons, brothers and bastards—all at each other’s throats.”

  “And they say we bandits are the savages!” Menkhep laughed. “But what if the bastard Apion sired a bastard of his own—and refused to recognize him? And what if that son, of Ptolemy blood, was raised as a commoner? We might say such a son was a cuckoo’s child twice over, in both meanings of the phrase—a bastard, yes, but also, like Moses, a man born to one status but raised by people of another.”

  “And this cuckoo’s child would be Artemon?”

  “If that were so, Artemon’s birthright would be Cyrenaica—and perhaps more even than Cyrenaica, much more, given the chaos that’s brewing in Alexandria.”

  I shook my head. “This is all rather fantastic, Menkhep.”

  “If King Ptolemy is forced to flee Alexandria, perhaps even a bastard nephew of the king might stand a chance at the throne.”

  “Not unless he has an army behind him! I think the hot Egyptian sun has made you delusional, my friend. Artemon as the bastard son of Apion—where did you get such an idea? From Artemon himself?”

  “No. Artemon never speaks of his origins. We know he must be Egyptian, because he speaks the language perfectly, and we know he spent some time in Syria before he came to the Delta. But he never speaks of his family.”

  “Who says he’s a bastard Ptolemy, then? How did such a rumor get started?”

  Menkhep lowered his voice. “Some say that Metrodora had a vision and saw the truth about Artemon. She never revealed it directly, but from utterances here and there, some of us put together the story.”

  “These ‘utterances’ from Metrodora—are they always correct?”

  “If you know how to interpret them.”

  “That’s the problem with soothsayers and oracles, isn’t it? Misinterpret a single word and you’re likely to get the opposite of what you hoped for.”

  It was our turn to row again, and that put a stop to our conversation.

  Menkhep had been right about one thing: the more I rowed, the more the stiffness in my shoulders and arms subsided. There was something exhilarating about being outside, on the water, in the company of other men, all of us bending our efforts toward a common purpose. Little by little I began to feel part of the group.

  The snatches of conversation I overheard from the others were less serious than my exchange with Menkhep. These consisted of rude comments, good-natured ribbing, and some of the filthiest jokes I had ever heard. I thought I had grown quite jaded in my travels, and that nothing could shock me, but the coarse vulgarity of these men could have made Melmak and his mime troupe blush.

  One of the men was even more vulgar than the rest, and louder. Even though he was seated at the very front of the boat, I could hear everything he said. He was a boaster, endlessly talking about all the men he had killed, all the women he had bedded, and the prodigious size of his member. Seeing me wince at the man’s foul language, Menkhep whispered in my ear that his name was Osor and that he came from Memphis.

  “A newcomer,” said Menkhep. “Something of a show-off. Not especially popular with the others.”

  “They all seem to laugh at his jokes.”

  “But not as loudly as he does. Behind his back they call him Hairy Shoulders, for obvious reasons.”

  The man had stripped off his tunic, and though I saw only glimpses of his bearded face in profile, I could clearly see his bare shoulders, which were covered with the same thick, wiry growth that covered his jaw.

  When it was our turn to rest again, I asked about something Menkhep had said. “Is it true that the men vote for their leader?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the men selected Artemon to lead them?”

  “That’s right. It wasn’t long after he joined us, about two years ago.”

  “He must have looked even younger then!”

  “Even so, from his first day among us he proved himself with one act of daring after another. When our old leader was killed during a raid, the choice of Artemon to replace him was unanimous.”

  “You actually held a vote, as we hold votes for magistrates in Rome?”

  “I suppose. Except the vote of each man here is equal, whereas in Rome, I’m told, the vote of a rich man counts for more than that of a poor man.”

  I did not dispute the point. “What if a man should wish to take Artemon’s place?”

  “Why do you ask? Do you have ambitions in that regard, Roman?” Menkhep seemed to find the idea amusing.

  “Of course not. But what if it happened?”

  “It did happen once. A Sidonian named Ephron challenged Artemon to single combat. Ephron was a hulking brute of a fellow, loud and mean-tempered, and even bigger than Artemon. The two fought hand to hand. That was something to watch! When it was over, nothing remained of Ephron but a mangled lump of flesh. The sight of him made my blood run cold. No one has challenged Artemon since.”

  “But it could happen?”

  “Any man can challenge the leader any time he wishes. One would survive and one would die.”

  “But I thought you said you elected your leader?”

  “If a challenger managed to kill Artemon, then we’d hold a vote to see if he should be the leader. But the men love Artemon so much, I think they’d vote to banish the challenger instead.”

  “Might the men vote to put him to death?”

  “A man is never put to death by vote, only on orders of the leader, and only when he’s broken a rule with such impunity that only his death can put things right.”

  “Who makes these rules?”

  “The leader, with the men’s consent.”

  I shook my head. “It all sounds a bit arbitrary.”

  “Does it? In the outside world, these men have no say at all about what laws they live by or what man rules over them. Here, every man is equal to every other, and any man can be the leader, if he has what it takes. Is the Roman way any better?”

  I had no ready answer.

  Had Artemon really killed a man using his bare han
ds? Artemon, the love-struck boy I had seen last night? No wonder Ismene had been so insistent that I mustn’t assert my claim on Bethesda.

  There was more to the so-called Cuckoo’s Child than met the eye, that was clear. But could Menkhep’s far-fetched ideas about Artemon’s royal origins possibly be true?

  Menkhep had compared his beloved leader to Alexander and to Moses, but another comparison struck me: Romulus, the first king of Rome. My first glimpse of the huts around the lagoon had reminded me of the Hut of Romulus, that venerated landmark in the heart of Rome, lovingly maintained through countless generations so that Romans would never forget their humble origins. Rome had begun as a village of such huts—indeed, as a village of bandits, for in the beginning the twin brothers Romulus and Remus were outlaws who gained ever greater wealth and power as they attracted more and more outlaws to their following, until there were so many men in Rome that they stole the Sabine women—a final act of banditry—then settled down to become respectable followers of a respectable king. Or perhaps not so respectable, since King Romulus’s first act was to kill his twin. The murderous rivalries within the Egyptian royal family were appalling, but had it not been the same when Rome had kings?

  The origins of Rome were steeped in fratricide and banditry. Was it so implausible, after all, that Artemon, the Cuckoo’s Child, might be the descendant of kings, or that a future king of Egypt might come from a bandit’s lair in the Delta?

  The sun rose to its zenith, bore down upon us, and then began its descent. I fell into the rhythm of the day, rowing and resting, rowing and resting, bemused by the vulgar banter of the bandits and the wild ideas that Menkhep had put in my head.

  At last, late in the afternoon, we drew near to our destination.

  XXIII

  To the ubiquitous smell of the Delta was added another: the tangy, salty odor of the sea.

  “Are we drawing near to the coast?” I asked Menkhep. By imperceptible degrees, the landscape around us had changed. The vast mudflats with their scrubby vegetation and the inland lagoons with their floating lotus gardens were behind us. Now sandy banks rose on either side to form low, undulating dunes, pierced here and there by outcroppings of stone and scattered with gray, wind-swept grasses and bunches of flowering succulents.

  “We won’t actually reach the coast, but we’ll see it in the distance,” said Menkhep. “Our destination is an inlet where ships are known to take shelter when there’s a storm. The inlet is safer than the open sea, but still dangerous, because of sharp rocks hidden just below the waterline at the southern shore. If the wind comes from the north, as it did last night, it can blow a ship right onto the rocks. Even captains who know the hazard can’t always avoid it.”

  “And you think a ship was wrecked there during the storm last night?”

  “It’s not what I think. Metrodora saw it happen.”

  “What if we get there, and there’s no wreck to be seen?”

  “That’s not impossible, I suppose. Metrodora could have misinterpreted her vision; perhaps she saw a shipwreck somewhere else. But we’ll find out soon enough. Care to make a wager? My trading post against that ruby of yours?”

  I stiffened, not caring to reveal to him where the ruby had gone.

  “Look at your face!” Menkhep laughed. “Don’t worry, Roman, I’m only joking. I’m not a gambling man.”

  Moments later, the boat leading the convoy rounded a bend and disappeared beyond the high, sandy bank to our right. The boat passed out of sight but not out of hearing, for a moment later I heard the sound of cheering. A ripple of excitement passed down the convoy. As each boat rounded the bend, the men aboard joined the cheering. In due course it was our turn, and I saw the reason for the celebration.

  We had entered the inlet of which Menkhep had spoken. The vast circle of water was surrounded by low dunes on all sides except for the narrow channel through which we had entered and another, wider opening to the north, beyond which I could glimpse the sunlit expanse of the sea. On the southern shore of the inlet, immediately to our right, I saw the wrecked vessel. The ship lay on its side, half in the water and half on the beach, its broken mast trailing a tattered sail. The exposed hull was pierced by a gaping hole.

  Debris from the ship was scattered up and down the beach, as were several bodies. The bodies showed no signs of life. It was all too easy to imagine how these doomed sailors had been swept overboard, sucked under the storm-churned waters, and cast onto the beach.

  Artemon directed the lead boat to make landfall near the foundered ship. As the men jumped into the surf and pulled the long boat onto the beach, a figure emerged from the nearby wreck. At first, I took him to be a survivor, but his long, dark robes and cloth headdress were more suited for riding a camel than sailing a ship. The man gave a start, turned back toward the wreck, and cried out. Several more men, similarly dressed, emerged from the ruin of the ship. Seeing the approach of our little flotilla, they turned and ran toward a nearby sand dune, where a number of camels had been tethered. Stacked near the camels were various items that had been scavenged from the ship.

  “It appears that someone’s arrived ahead of us,” I said to Menkhep.

  “Fools! Everyone knows this inlet is the territory of the Cuckoo’s Gang. Any ship that founders here is ours to plunder and no one else’s.”

  “These fellows seem not to have gotten the message.”

  “They will, soon enough. Rowers, be quick! Double-time!”

  The men from Artemon’s boat were already in pursuit, knives drawn. The quickest of the scavengers managed to jump onto a camel and head off at a gallop, but his slower, less agile companions were not so lucky. They were still fumbling to mount their camels when Artemon’s men fell upon them in a frenzy. Blades flashed. Crimson streamers of blood rose from the melee. For a few moments I heard screams and cries for mercy, then silence.

  Menkhep steered our boat alongside the others that had already been drawn onto the beach. “Damn! We’ve missed the battle!”

  “It was over before it started,” I said. “But one of them got away. No one seems to be going after him.”

  “Artemon always lets one man escape, to tell others what happened. Worthless scavengers like him will think twice before they try to steal the plunder of the Cuckoo’s Gang! As it is, these stupid fellows have simply done some of the work for us, sorting through the valuables and stacking them neatly on the beach.”

  Once all the men had beached their boats, we assembled in a group near the wreck. Artemon stood before us. His red scarf had been tied to conceal his face, and those of us who had not yet done so followed his example.

  “It’s just as the soothsayer told us,” he said. “Last night’s storm brought death and disaster to some, but their loss is our gain. For sending us here, we can thank Metrodora.”

  The men around me nodded. Some made superstitious signs with their hands, averting the jealous power of the Evil Eye that robs men of good fortune.

  “We hide our faces because some survivor may yet be alive within that wreckage, or wandering the beach. It seems unlikely. Anyone who saw those scavengers, or us, will have fled into the dunes. And if anyone on the ship was still alive, I suspect those scavengers put an end to them. So I think it’s unlikely that we’ll encounter any survivors. But if we do…”

  He paused to run his eyes over the men assembled before him, fixing his gaze on each of us in turn. With the lower half of his face hidden by the scarf, his eyes took on a peculiar intensity. When his gaze met mine, I shivered. What was this power Artemon projected over other men, and where did it come from?

  “If we do encounter any survivors, they are not to be harmed. Nor is any woman to be molested. We are bandits—not assassins, not soldiers, not rapists. Does every man here understand? Does every man agree?”

  I nodded, thinking this would suffice, but every man around me said the word “yes” out loud. Some noticed my silence and turned to look at me, until I, too, said it. This was apparently a
ritual among them, in which all had to take part.

  “If any man here does not agree, if he thinks he knows a better way, if he thinks he would make a better leader and make better rules, then let him step forward now and challenge me.” Artemon strode from one end of the group to the other, looking from face to face. No one moved.

  “Very well. I remind you of another rule. When a storm strikes at sea, some men aboard ship prepare for their fate by tying to their persons whatever valuables they possess. They do this as a signal to whoever should find their bodies: take these worldly goods in return for the favor of disposing of these remains in a decent fashion. This is a sacred bond between the dead and the living, between the victim of the storm and the scavenger. We honor and observe that bond. Using whatever dry wood we can collect from the beach and from the ship, we shall build a pyre. Any body we find, upon which the dead man’s wealth has been attached as an offering, will be stripped of valuables and then laid upon the pyre and burned, so that neither fish nor vultures can devour it. Does every man here understand? Does every man agree?”

  “Yes,” I said, along with the others.

  Artemon stared at us for a long moment. By the crinkling of his eyes, I could see that he smiled. “Then let’s begin!”

  Following Artemon’s instructions, the men fell to various tasks. Some fetched the booty already collected by the scavengers and began loading it into the boats. Some ventured into the wrecked ship, carrying long axes to break through any obstacles; later they emerged carrying trunks and bundles of fabric and even a few amphorae of wine that had survived the wreck intact. Some began collecting wood and building the funeral pyre.

  Others headed up and down the beach to comb through the debris and search the dead bodies. Among this last group I saw Hairy Shoulders, who apparently had left both his tunic and his loincloth in the boat, for he was going about the task completely naked. I had never seen a man with so much hair on his body.