Ancient World 02 - Raiders of the Nile

by Steven Saylor

  I looked up and saw vultures circling overhead. Their wheeling flights converged above the little dune where the scavengers had been slain. While I watched, one vulture after another dared to land and pick at the corpses.

  “Menkhep!” said Artemon, walking toward us. “You and Pecunius go and tend to those bodies.”

  “You don’t expect us to drag them to the funeral pyre, do you?” said Menkhep.

  “Of course not.” Artemon drew closer and lowered his voice. “But someone needs to scare off those vultures and search the bodies, to retrieve any valuables. I can trust you to do that without defiling the remains. Some of the men—they’re hardly better than animals, as you well know.”

  “Come on, Pecunius.” Menkhep was clearly not pleased with our assignment.

  The skittish vultures were easily dispersed. First we looked through the trappings of the camels, but found little of value. They had been hitched in a circle, their reins tied to a scrubby bush. Menkhep set about untying them, and indicated that I should do likewise.

  “Are you sure we should let them go?” I said.

  “We can hardly take them with us. Would you have them stand here in the hot sun and starve?”

  Finally we turned to the task of searching the corpses.

  I had as yet seen few dead men in my life, and touched even fewer with my own hands. The bodies were still warm and the wounds still wet with blood. From the similarity of their features and the range of ages—the eldest had a white beard, and the youngest was hardly bigger than Djet—I realized that the scavengers might all be members of a single family. If that were the case, the lone survivor would be returning to a household of women soon to be wracked with grief.

  Some of the men wore rings and necklaces, none of any great value. Between them we retrieved only a handful of coins. Upon several of these the serene profile of King Ptolemy had been smeared with blood. Menkhep wiped the coins clean before dropping them in the bag tied at his waist.

  Menkhep paused and tilted one ear upward. “Do you hear that?”

  I listened. Above the quiet surf, the creaking of the wrecked ship, and the sound of the men shouting back and forth, I heard a noise like the whimper of an animal, very faint but from somewhere nearby. The noise faded, then I heard it again, louder and more plaintive than before.

  “That’s a woman,” said Menkhep, lowering his voice.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come!” He gestured for me to be silent and follow.

  We trudged through the sand to the top of the dune. In the shallow depression below us, atop a bed of succulents, glistening with beads of sweat under the hot sun, I saw the heaving, hirsute backside of Hairy Shoulders. What he was doing was obvious, but the body beneath his was so much smaller that I could hardly see her. At last Hairy Shoulders pulled back, and I saw the bloodless face of a young girl framed by a nimbus of curly chestnut hair. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was frozen in a grimace. It was hard to tell whether she was conscious or not, but she was clearly in pain.

  Beside me, Menkhep put two fingers in his mouth and produced a shrieking whistle.

  A moment later, Artemon came running up the little hill, followed by several others. Interrupted by the whistle, Hairy Shoulders had withdrawn from his victim and rolled to one side. He looked up at us dumbly. His hairy chest was matted with blood, and for a moment I thought he must be wounded. Then I realized the blood had come from a deep gash across the girl’s breasts. The tattered remains of her clothing were pasted with sweat and blood to her motionless body.

  “It wasn’t me who stabbed her!” shouted Hairy Shoulders. “It must have been the scavengers. They must have had their way with her before they started ransacking the boat, then they left her here to die.” There was a note of panic in his voice. When I saw the look on Artemon’s face, I understood the man’s fear. Artemon’s gaze was like that of a basilisk: furious, implacable, without mercy.

  “Did you not hear what I said, before we began, Osor?” Artemon’s low, chilling tone was more frightening than if he had shouted.

  “Of course I heard. But it’s not like I harmed the girl myself. I told you, this is how I found her. I ask you, what man wouldn’t take advantage of such a situation, eh?” He managed a crooked grin. While he talked, his manhood, which appeared to be just as prodigious as he claimed, had withered until it almost vanished amid the forest of hair between his legs.

  “You must see that you leave me no choice,” said Artemon.

  “What? Why do you say that?” Hairy Shoulders’s voice broke. “It’s not what you think, I tell you! She was enjoying it. Don’t you see?” He turned to the girl, but when he touched her, he pulled back his hand and gave a stifled cry.

  The girl was dead.

  “Bring him to the beach, where everyone can see,” said Artemon. The others descended on Hairy Shoulders and carried him, twisting and shouting, up and over the crest of the dune and toward the beach.

  Artemon looked at Menkhep. “You and Pecunius, carry the girl to the funeral pyre.”

  It was a strange and loathsome duty, having to touch a body so recently alive. As we moved her, a warm breath issued from the girl’s mouth so that she seemed almost to sigh, but the reedy, hollow sound was not like anything I had ever heard from the lips of a living mortal. Her body was limp and weighed very little. I could easily have carried her by myself, had I cared to pick her up in my arms, as occasionally I had picked up Bethesda for the simple joy of holding her and carrying her about. Instead, Menkhep and I shared the burden, carrying her like a sack or some other object, and our progress across the sand was slow and painfully awkward. Menkhep, who had searched the slain scavengers with no sign of squeamishness, appeared quite unnerved by this task. We both sighed with relief when at last, slowly and gently, we laid the girl’s body atop the makeshift pyre of debris and driftwood.

  In the meantime, Hairy Shoulders’s ankles had been bound and his wrists tied behind his back. He had been lain over a crate taken from the wreckage, so that his head hung over the edge. He was quietly weeping.

  From up and down the beach the men reassembled before the wreck. Their high spirits faded as they drew closer and realized what was happening.

  Artemon stood before the prisoner. In one hand, like a chamberlain’s staff or a military standard, he held an axe with a long handle. “You were caught in the act of raping one of the ship’s survivors, Osor. Do you deny it?”

  Hairy Shoulders strained to lift his head, and managed to look Artemon in the eye. “Any other man would have done the same! The girl was going to die, anyway, so what difference does it make?”

  “I saw what you did. So did the men who carried you here. Does any man here wish to speak in defense of Osor?” Artemon ran his eyes over the crowd. No one spoke.

  “Then I pronounce you guilty and declare that the punishment shall be carried out at once. Does any man here challenge my judgment?”

  “This is madness!” shouted Hairy Shoulders. “Why does no one speak up? What a bunch of cowards you all are, taking orders from this high-born whelp!”

  “The punishment is death,” said Artemon. There followed a long moment of silence broken only by the quiet surf and the cries of the seagulls.

  “By the laws of the outside world—the world ruled by King Ptolemy—you’d be made to suffer a terrible death, Osor. You might be crucified, or hanged, or stoned to death. But because you’re one of us, you shall be given the death that the rest of the world reserves for men of rank and honor, the swiftest and most merciful means of execution. You shall be beheaded, Osor.”

  Hairy Shoulders averted his face and began to sob.

  “Who will carry out the sentence? It should be done swiftly and surely, with a single blow. The task calls for an experienced killer of men.” Artemon looked from face to face, until his eyes settled on me. “There’s a newcomer among us, a man who’s said to have done his share of killing. And because he’s new, he can have no personal grudge aga
inst Osor.” He stepped toward me and held forth the axe. “This is a chance to show us what you’re made of, Roman.”

  I looked at Hairy Shoulders, bound and sobbing on the makeshift chopping block. I looked at the axe. The sharp blade gleamed in the sunlight. I looked at Artemon’s face. He had the stern, determined look of a leader of men, but in his eyes I saw a strangely boyish glitter of excitement.

  With trembling fingers, I reached for the axe.

  XXIV

  I had killed men before.

  The first time had been in Ephesus, under very different circumstances. There, I had done what had to be done, but even so I had felt a tremor of doubt. Something similar had happened in Rhodes, though in that instance the man’s death was the result of a struggle—more the choice of the gods than my own.

  Artemon thought I was a cold-blooded killer, a man capable of murdering others in their sleep—or did he? Had he seen through my pretense? Was this a test, to see if I would falter and give myself away?

  Hairy Shoulders was surely a despicable creature, but I was not at all certain he deserved to die. If I refused to carry out the sentence, would that refusal constitute a challenge to Artemon’s authority? Would I be required to fight him, man to man?

  For a crazy moment, I imagined what would happen if I actually won such a contest. Gordianus of Rome—leader of the most dangerous gang of bandits in the Delta! That would be one way of securing Bethesda’s release.

  But another outcome seemed far more likely: Artemon would kill me with his bare hands. I swallowed hard and felt lightheaded. Whatever happened, at least Fortuna had allowed me to enjoy one final night of bliss with Bethesda!

  To chop off Hairy Shoulders’s head was easier than challenging Artemon, surely. Or was it? To kill a man I hardly knew, before a crowd of onlookers, in cold blood—the idea sent a wave of revulsion through me.

  I reached for the axe, but my hand stopped short. My open fingers trembled, frozen in place. I felt the eyes of Artemon and all the others on me.

  “Let me do it!” said Menkhep. He stepped forward and gripped the handle of the axe.

  Artemon kept his grip on the axe and gave Menkhep a questioning look.

  “Hairy Shoulders arrived in my boat. It should be my responsibility.”

  “You know it doesn’t work that way among us,” said Artemon. “We aren’t King Ptolemy’s army, with everyone sorted into ranks and some men lording it over others.”

  “Even so, I’m willing and ready to do it.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Besides, the Roman isn’t yet one of us, not fully. The men haven’t yet voted to accept him. He hasn’t undergone the ritual of initiation.”

  Several of the men muttered and nodded to show their agreement with Menkhep. Seeing my chance, I lowered my hand and stepped back. Artemon relinquished his hold on the axe and allowed Menkhep to take it.

  “Menkhep speaks wisely,” he said. “Do it quickly, then.”

  I had been spared the gruesome task, but to avert my eyes would show too much weakness. I forced myself to watch as Menkhep took a firm stance, secured his grip on the axe, raised it above his head, and brought it down.

  There followed a series of sounds I would never forget: the whoosh of the axe, a sharp thud as it struck flesh, the crackling shriek of severed bone and flesh, the thump of the head striking the soft sand, the squish of spurting blood, the chorus of men groaning and gasping despite themselves.

  Another man might have botched the job, failing to sever the neck or missing the target completely, but Menkhep’s aim was true and his strength sufficient. The amount of blood that gushed onto the sand was ghastly, but the cut was cleanly made. The life of Hairy Shoulders ended as quickly as any man could wish. I decided then and there, if I should ever face a similar fate—and as long as I remained among the Cuckoo’s Gang, that possibility would be ever-present—I would ask for Menkhep to carry out the task.

  Once the flow of blood had subsided, some of the men carried the body to the funeral pyre and laid it beside that of the dead girl. Artemon himself picked up the head, gazed for a long moment at the lifeless features, then carried it to the pyre and positioned it above the body, reuniting the severed parts.

  The men resumed the task of scavenging the ship and stripping the corpses scattered up and down the beach.

  The sun was still up, with perhaps an hour of light remaining, when Artemon declared that our day’s work was done. The boats were loaded and ready to embark. The funeral pyre was stacked with the bodies of Hairy Shoulders and the girl and several of the dead passengers and crew who had paid for the privilege by securing their valuables to their bodies before they died.

  Artemon struck a fire. The men watched in silence as he set the pyre alight. No prayers for the dead or propitiations to the gods were offered. As Artemon had said, the men of the Cuckoo’s Gang were not soldiers. There were no officers or priests among us to perform such rites.

  The boats were so stuffed with valuables that the men could barely fit, and we rode so low in the water that great care was required of the rowers. We left the inlet just as the sun was sinking, and my last glimpse of the desolate beach was of the wrecked ship and the pyre, from which the flames now shot high into the air. Then we rounded the bend and headed back the way we had come.

  Even as the twilight faded and the water turned black, we continued to row. The men in charge of each boat were so familiar with the route that they could navigate in the dark.

  But the men were too weary to row for long. As the moon began to rise, we came to a secluded spot, pulled the boats ashore, and made camp for the night. The men ate cold rations while they talked and joked about the events of the day, then spread blankets in whatever spots they could find and fell asleep.

  I dozed for a while, but only fitfully. I woke from a vague dream of fire and blood and found myself wide awake.

  I stood and stretched, feeling stiffer in every limb than I had ever felt before. I followed the sound of croaking frogs to the water’s edge, where I came upon Menkhep. He sat on the trunk of a fallen palm tree, gazing at the moon and stars reflected on the water.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” I said.

  He gestured to a spot beside him on the log.

  “Can’t sleep?” I said.

  “Killing a man always has that effect on me.” He looked at me sidelong. In the uncertain moonlight, the two points of light that marked his eyes looked as distant as the stars.

  “I can’t sleep, either. I thought I might volunteer for sentry duty,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You won’t be asked to do that until you’re truly one of us.”

  “When will that be?”

  “After Artemon puts it to a vote, and you’ve undergone the initiation.”

  This was the second time that day he had spoken of such a thing. I didn’t like the sound of it. “What sort of initiation?”

  “You’ll find out, in due time.” He stared at the water. “After what I did today, I think you owe me another favor, Roman.”

  “Do I?”

  “I saw the squeamish look on your face when Artemon offered you the axe. You, the killer of all those men in Canopus! I asked myself: what sort of killer is this Pecunius, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps the cowardly kind, who prefers his victims to be asleep.”

  “Is that it, Roman? Or did something else make you hesitate? I thought I saw something like pity on your face—pity for that wretch Hairy Shoulders! For a moment there, I thought you were going to refuse to carry out Artemon’s order. I thought you were about to challenge him. I believe he thought so, too. You weren’t the only one who looked relieved when I took hold of the axe.”

  “Artemon was relieved?”

  “I could see it on his face.”

  “Artemon, relieved, because he was afraid to fight me?” I felt flattered for a moment, until Menkhep let out a harsh laugh.

  “No, stupid! Because he didn’t want to have to kill you. Not yet, an
yway. I think he likes you.”

  Menkhep had been tense and moody when I joined him. He now seemed more relaxed. I decided to venture a question.

  “When we went to see Metrodora yesterday, I got the idea that there was another woman sharing the hut with her.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  I shrugged. “Something Metrodora said.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, there’s a young woman there. Now some of the men call that hut ‘the women’s quarters’—as if such a thing could exist in the Cuckoo’s Nest! I remember a time before Metrodora came, a time when no woman of any sort would have been allowed to reside among us, not even a witch.”

  “Metrodora has made a place for herself among you, but surely the young woman isn’t here of her own free will.”

  “She’s a captive, being held for ransom. Artemon says there’s a rich man in Alexandria who’ll pay a fortune to get the girl back, but so far, the rich man hasn’t even bothered to reply to Artemon’s messages.”

  “Is this girl the rich man’s daughter?” I asked, making a show of my ignorance.

  Menkhep shook his head. “His mistress, they say. An actress with a mime troupe.”

  “A rich man’s mistress? She must be quite beautiful.”

  “She certainly is.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Only a couple of times, and then only for a moment. From the first day she arrived in the Cuckoo’s Nest, Artemon has kept her hidden from the rest of us. He says it’s better that the men don’t see her at all, lest they be tempted.”

  “Tempted to do what?”

  “What do you think? Hairy Shoulders wasn’t the only randy goat among us, though I’d like to think he was stupider than most.” Menkhep shook his head. “A girl that pretty could cause all sorts of trouble, even if no one lays a finger on her.”

  “How so?”

  “Bat her eyelashes, flirt a bit, act all helpless—imagine the fights that might break out if she decided to play one man against another. Soon enough she’d talk some starry-eyed fool into helping her escape.” He sighed, then lowered his voice. “I only wish that Artemon had followed his own rules, about not seeing the girl. I wish he’d never laid eyes on her!”