The Blood of Alexandria a-3

by Richard Blake

  ‘You’ll not be dying out here, or any other place soon,’ I snapped back at him. ‘I promise you, we’ll be back in Alexandria soon enough, drinking beer made in the German style. I’ve no doubt before then Sveta will have made you wish you had died. But you’ll live to tell this escape to your grandchildren.

  ‘Now, since we are still north of the equator, and the sun still rises in the east, I do say the Nile must be over there.’

  ‘It was God, I tell you, Aelric,’ Martin said as I shook my tunic again to get the sand out of it. I was having little success. Even without the sand that had settled on the great blood smear from that cut throat and that had now set like church brocade, the cloth was permeated with the stuff.

  ‘God made them go right past without seeing us,’ he added with a pious expression.

  ‘Then let us give thanks in the appropriate place,’ I said evenly. ‘However, you will have seen that they didn’t have that camel with them. This being so, they weren’t looking for two men on foot.’

  Burying ourselves in the sand had also helped. It was a stroke of luck we’d paused before reaching the peak of the dune we were climbing. We’d heard the recriminations in plenty of time as they rode slowly up the other side towards us. I’d allowed myself one look at them. Lucas was almost jumping up and down as he’d screamed at his men. Most of them had looked half-inclined to jump on him. One had even shouted back at him. We’d waited until the shouting died away before digging ourselves out. Now, relief was mingled with discomfort. I’ll not mention the bastard flies that had been hopping all over me and biting.

  ‘I grant it would have been best not to have seen them at all,’ I continued, giving up on rubbing at myself. I was brushing as much sand on as off, and just a few moments in the sun were making my back feel tight. ‘But it does show we’re on the right course. It’s plain they were trying to cut us off before we could get back to the water.’

  Martin began one of his edifying lectures on the Grace of God. Since I didn’t fancy skulking here until dark, I thought I’d put his claims to the test by carrying on through that burning waste – even if every step in it was beginning to feel an effort. Though I’d made sure we had good sandals on before we were taken, you need special boots for walking in the desert. Our lower legs had soon turned an alarming shade of red, and the soles of our feet were hurting as if we’d been dancing on crumbled pumice.

  ‘What I want to know,’ I said as we rested just below the peak of another dune, ‘is how the Brotherhood knew we were going to Letopolis. I know it has its agents in the government. But the orders I issued gave less than a day’s notice, and our voyage to Bolbitine was as fast as can be imagined. I can’t see how notice could have outrun us – certainly not to produce the level of organisation we met there, nor so far up river.’

  ‘Do you suppose those documents were left with Leontius in the knowledge that you’d feel drawn out of Alexandria?’ Martin asked.

  I took the tiniest sip of water and moved it about with my tongue. I had been wondering that myself for a day and more. But to get all this arranged, the Brotherhood must have worked faster than the wind. The natives had never struck me as good for anything beyond whining and a bit of casual violence. Macarius had always seemed more than a cut above the rest of them.

  Yes – Macarius. What had become of him? If he hadn’t chosen to vanish when he did, he’d have been there on the journey. With him in tow, we’d never have been suckered into that trap set by Lucas. It wasn’t worth setting Martin off again – not here, at least – about the worthiness of any native to receive my trust. Even so, I went grimly over the piece of my mind I’d make sure to give Macarius when he eventually did turn up again.

  It beat reflecting on my own catastrophic want of common sense. If I’d been less eaten up with worry about those documents, we’d never have left Alexandria.

  Chapter 22

  It was as we climbed over the third – or perhaps it was the fourth – dune after our shock about how much water we had left that we saw the monument. It was one of those granite things you see all over Egypt, of a man sitting stiffly in a chair, a false beard stuck to his chin, some elaborate crown making his head almost as long as the body. It was leaning over pronouncedly in the sands, and might have been there since the beginning of time.

  Size and distance just aren’t things you can gauge in the desert. With nothing comparable around them, things stand purely in their own terms. It seemed an age to get to the monument, and it was huge. It may have been half the height of the Royal Palace in Alexandria. There was no sign of any buildings around it. Perhaps they were buried in the shifting sands.

  ‘Never mind the picture writing,’ I said to Martin, fighting to keep the eagerness out of my voice. ‘It’s probably the same flatulence you see on the bilingual inscriptions in Alexandria. Look at this!’ I pointed down near the base. It was carved so low that it was half buried in the sands. It was a patch about the size of a large paving stone, where those endlessly varied bugs and crudely depicted plants within their ovals had been smoothed out and overlaid with Greek.

  I brushed some sand out of the letters and read the opening of the inscription, which was in hexameters:

  They died like rats confined, the men

  Who crawled away from Assinaros,

  No roof they found to hold the autumn sun:

  Nor straw to keep the winter frost

  From off their shrivelled, naked bodies.

  And the quarry choked with corpses,

  All among the stinking shit unburied.

  And, brought to see what poets mean by Nemesis,

  Children came to see the living suffer,

  And, while its glowing embers long shall remain

  To dazzle generations with their brightness,

  O proud City crowned with violets,

  Your flame of glory died that day with those

  Who crawled away from Assinaros.

  ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ I asked. I scrubbed more sand away from the bottom of the inscription. If I’d seen the Latin version of the Creed there, it wouldn’t have surprised me more.

  ‘It’s a lament on the failure of the Sicilian Expedition during the Peloponnesian War,’ Martin said. ‘It’s taken from the Theseus of Sophocles.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘I know that play very well. There’s nothing there about the Sicilian Expedition.’

  ‘You’ve read the standard edition,’ Martin said with his first smile in months. ‘This is in the version that he rewrote for a revival towards the end of his life. He was in pessimistic mood at the time, and thought the defeat in Sicily marked the beginning of the end for Greece as a whole.’

  I deferred to Martin’s greater learning. He’d read through some very obscure stuff when he was still helping his father run that school they’d had in Constantinople. I stood back from my scrubbing and read the attestation right at the bottom of the smoothed area.

  ‘Well, whoever wrote it in the first place,’ I said, ‘it was put here by Hadrian.’ I pointed at the attestation. Hadrian it had been. He’d passed by on one of his Imperial tours not far off five hundred years before. The blown sands had smoothed out nearly everything but the hexameters. But Martin stood beside me to see it as well as he could, and read what he could.

  ‘… caused to be placed here among the lone and level sands. ..’ was the last line of the attestation we could read. After this, the words came to an end.

  ‘A pity it’s the Greek that has worn away,’ I said. ‘All that horrid Egyptian stuff has survived well enough.’

  ‘Your friend Lucas might wish to comment on that,’ Martin quipped.

  I looked at him and reached for the water sack. He was still smiling, and this was the first joke I’d heard him make since Christmas – and then he’d been drunk. Perhaps the sun was getting to him.

  You might ask what on earth we thought we were about. We were still lost in the desert, still running out of wate
r and, for all we knew, ready to dry up like slugs in the sun. We were still being hunted down by the agents of what we had no reason to deny was an implacable and highly effective conspiracy. And we were dancing before some wog monument that had taken an Emperor’s fancy half a millennium before. I suppose it was because anything bearing a human mark was welcome after so much wandering in that sandy void. It also suggested the possibility that we weren’t so far from the Nile. Or perhaps the stress of everything had got to both of us.

  It was as we were arguing over reconstructions of the missing words – and, more importantly, over what could have led Hadrian to put up something so utterly incongruous – that I heard the jingling. It came from the other side of a dune that rose above the height of the monument. We fell silent and looked at each other.

  ‘If we bury ourselves in the sand again,’ Martin said with shaking voice – his piety wearing as thin for the moment as the inscription – ‘they might not see us.’

  ‘That’s not the sound they were making on their camels,’ I said hesitantly. We both listened hard. It was more a jingling of bells than of harness. It was the sort of thing you heard in the more sedate religious processions.

  ‘Let me look over,’ I said. ‘My hair is almost the same colour as the sand. It saved us once.’

  We pulled back below the peak of the dune and looked at each other.

  ‘What the…?’ Martin asked in a whisper.

  We looked over again. There are many things you expect to come across in a desert. There are bandits, of course, and soldiers. There are merchants, with their trains of camels or of slaves. There are the natives as they shuffle from one water hole to another. The last thing you expect is a carrying chair with white silken curtains. Carried by four strong blacks, it moved briskly along with two camels behind to carry some rather light baggage. Around the chair four maidservants walked, their bodies swathed in white robes. It was the sort of thing you didn’t give a second look back in Alexandria. How else do fine ladies get to church? But out here, and in the middle of the desert?

  ‘We can’t be far at all from the Nile,’ I said, with a doubtful look to the still unvaried horizon. ‘I wonder where the other attendants could be? Come on,’ I said, getting up. ‘We might beg a bite to eat, along with a few directions.’

  The bearers saw us waving as we hurried down the dune towards them. They looked briefly at us and then back down, not once breaking their pace. The four women responded with a shrill twittering in a language I hadn’t before heard. They pointed to us and looked back at each other – again, though, not breaking pace. I couldn’t see their faces. But their hands were as black as the bearers.

  ‘Hello,’ I cried in a voice that trailed off to a croak. I stepped clumsily and the sand gave way. I fell flat on my back, before rolling forward and then sideways. I came to a stop at the foot of the dune. Martin got there shortly after and helped me up.

  ‘Hello,’ I cried again, trying to ignore the loss of what little skin the camels had left on my bottom. ‘Do any of you know Greek?’

  About six yards from me, the front curtains of the chair fluttered. Holding a little gold stick, a white and decidedly female arm stretched out briefly to tap one of the bearers. The procession stopped. The bells that were dangling around the top frame of the chair suddenly stopped their jingling. There was another movement of the curtains.

  ‘Greek is a language I have not heard in many years,’ a voice said from within. ‘I think, nevertheless, I may still be able to understand it.’ It was a deep, though again a decidedly female voice. The Greek wasn’t that of the natives, nor of the Alexandrians, nor of any other city dwellers I’d heard so far. It had a finely judged fluency, and was in the odd, lilting accent I’d once heard in Constantinople from an old man who’d studied in Athens before the universities there had been fully dispersed.

  ‘Come closer, young man,’ the voice said again from within the curtains. ‘Say what you would ask of me.’

  ‘I, er…’ I’d not expected that question. I glanced at the tiny and almost festive party around the chair. ‘Madam,’ I said, trying to sound more composed than I felt, ‘I must ask you to consider the danger of your situation. You are lost in a desert that is filled with bandits. If you would care to accept my protection-’

  The curtains shook with the peal of laughter that came from behind them.

  ‘Young man,’ the voice said again, now mocking, ‘I have travelled without want or molestation from beyond the limits of Abyssinia. I am now accosted by two beggars evidently lacking both arms and supplies, and warned to look for my safety. You might consider speaking again.’

  Martin clutched suddenly at my arm. I turned and looked back up the dune. Silent, mounted on their camels, Lucas and his men looked steadily down.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ I said. I reached to my belt for the knife I’d taken from the murdered man. It was hardly worth the effort of pulling it out. I looked at the four bearers. Their black muscles rippled hugely in the sun. But they were, so far as I could tell, unarmed. I looked uncertainly back at the curtains.

  ‘Madam,’ I said, ‘these men surely mean you no harm. If you would only start again on your journey-’

  Cutting off my words, the voice gave curt orders in that unknown language. Two of the attendants drew the curtains aside. Another produced a little sunshade and positioned herself.

  Covered from head to toe in white silk, her face covered with a white veil, the owner of the chair stepped delicately on to the sand. I heard it crunch beneath the fine leather of her sandal. From habit, and exactly as if we were outside one of the Constantinopolitan churches, Martin and I bowed as she stepped past us. The robe of the maidservant who carried the sunshade brushed against my bowed head.

  The owner of the chair stopped at the foot of the dune. From her general manner behind the curtains, I’d expected someone at least of middle years. Yet what I could see of her trim figure, and her firm tread on the sand, showed a woman barely older than me. She looked up, her veil fluttering in the gentle breeze that had come on suddenly. There was a long silence. Lucas stared back at her and then at me. There was an odd look on his face. Then one of the camels beside him made a spitting noise as its rider wheeled it round. From further along the line of silent riders, there was another movement. I heard the rustle of hastily disturbed sand on the other side. In an instant, Lucas alone was looking down at us.

  The owner of the chair raised her arms towards him. It might have been in supplication or in mockery – when you can see neither face nor body, motions are hard things to gauge. Lucas stared back a moment longer. Then, with a snort of his own camel, he too had wheeled round and was gone.

  The afternoon was pressing on. The sun was no longer so high above us. There was now a soft moan of the rising desert winds. In the midst of all this, we stood alone.

  There were further orders to the maidservants, who now began fussing with one of the camels. The owner of the chair turned to me. I’ll swear I felt the long look she gave me through her veil. I felt Martin’s hand reaching nervously from beside me. I took it in my own. I suddenly noticed how cold my hand had become.

  ‘It is, you will agree, a universal custom,’ the owner of the chair said with slightly suppressed amusement, ‘that those who rescue strays take on further duties for their welfare. You will not, therefore, refuse my offer of dinner, nor of safe conduct tomorrow morning to the nearest town.’ She pointed over to some dead trees in the middle distance. The water hole that had once sustained them was long since dried up. But the shelter would be useful.

  ‘Your name, madam, would be most welcome,’ I said, remembering my manners.

  ‘My name is not important,’ came the reply. ‘Most who have reason to address me, though, call me the Mistress.’ Without another word, she turned and began walking towards the two nearest of those dead palm trees.

  Chapter 23

  I finished stirring at the cold ashes. A slave took the charred stick from me and wipe
d my hand with a piece of clean linen.

  ‘It was still smouldering when I arrived,’ Macarius said. ‘The locals identified some of the household. The others were too badly burned even to show if they had also been tortured.’

  All told, it hadn’t been a very productive trip up river. The Brotherhood had been ahead of us at every step. I bent again and took up a scrap of charred papyrus. I thought at first it was in Greek. A closer look showed it was in Egyptian. I let it fall and stood back on to a less cluttered part of what had been the dining-room floor.

  ‘Then I suppose we’d better start back for Alexandria,’ I said bleakly. Whatever documents Leontius had kept here were now either one with the general wreckage of his house or irretrievably in the wrong hands.

  ‘If the past few days are any guide to how fast the Brotherhood moves,’ I said after a pause, ‘I imagine word of our escape will be in Alexandria long before we arrive. Even so, I can order an investigation as to who grassed me to these people. We might at the least be able to save on a few salaries and pensions.’

  A voice broke in.

  ‘If you are using an official transport, I will accompany you. I have business of my own in Alexandria.’

  I kept myself from frowning. It was the Mistress who’d spoken. Though I was curious to see more of what lay under those white robes, I was decreasingly pleased by her determined and thoroughly masculine way with those around her. Wherever she came from, it seemed that women there had little notion of how to conduct themselves in public.

  I’m not saying I wasn’t grateful. Somehow, she’d scared off Lucas and his friends. She’d then got us directly to Letopolis, where I’d discovered Macarius hard at work on making sense of the devastation of nearly all that Leontius had once owned and that the receivers of his bankruptcy would never now be able to touch.

  The Mistress had joined in my enquiries, Macarius answering her pointed questions as if they were from me. Now, one of her maids holding up a sunshade, she stood on the cleanest part of the floor. Her right foot was slightly forward, and I could see the large emerald that adorned the ring on one of her toes. It was, bearing in mind what I’d read about the heat of Abyssinia – never mind what lay beyond – an astonishingly white foot. Again, I wondered how and why she could have made her home in so strange and distant a place.