“Can you feel it?” Joseph asked anxiously.
Jivaka shook his head. “No. Have you seen any sign of life?”
“I cannot be sure. Her lips seem warmer, but it may be from my own.”
“Wait!” Jivaka said. “I may be able to tell.” Quickly he took from his pocket the green stone he had used to bring on the trance. Polishing it on his sleeve until it shone in the faint moonlight, he held it in front of Mary’s mouth and nostrils for a few moments, then lifted it and studied the gem closely. “I believe I can make out a film,” he said. “But we must get her to a place where we can warm her body.”
“The Rhakotis is out of the question,” Joseph said.
“Or anywhere else in the city,” Jivaka agreed. “With so many people on the streets, we would certainly be seen.”
“And there is no boat to take her to her own villa by water,” Hadja added hopelessly.
“The catacombs!” Joseph cried. “Why didn’t I think of them before?”
“Catacombs?”
“Achillas and his band live there. They are under an obligation to me.”
“But could you find a thief’s hiding place in the darkness?” Jivaka asked doubtfully.
“I am sure I remember the burial society whose name is on the entrance to the crypt,” Joseph explained. “We will go there at once and look for it.”
“What of the Roman?” Hadja asked. “He will give the alarm.”
“The soldier will not know we have removed the body,” Joseph pointed out. “That was the most important part of my plan. And he certainly will not tell that he was absent from his post.”
Through the sepulchral City of the Dead the three of them carried Mary’s unconscious body. The thieves would be busy tonight, Joseph knew, for there was much drunkenness in the city and purses could be lifted easily. But he did not believe Achillas himself would be out, for the old man had not completely recovered his strength from the long illness. He was counting on Achillas or someone to be at the underground headquarters.
Joseph’s memory did not betray him, and without any difficulty he found the entrance to the catacombs where he had been taken to treat the old thief’s empyema. But as he continued to knock on the inner door without receiving an answer, his hopes of finding someone there began to fade. Then a light shone inside and a face appeared at the small barred window. It was Achillas, and Joseph held up his own torch, taken from the rack just inside the outer door, so that the old thief could see his face.
“It is Joseph of Galilee,” he said. “We need help.”
The door was unbarred at once. “By Serapis!” the old man cried when he saw the burden they bore. “What is this, a corpse?”
“It is the dancer called Flamen,” Joseph explained. “She is in a deep trance, and we must work to save her life.”
Achillas did not waste their time with questions. He showed them where to place Mary, upon his own sleeping couch, and while Joseph started again to breathe into her body, he scurried about getting warm covers in which to wrap her and setting stones to heat on the always burning brazier. Bana Jivaka worked beside Joseph, chafing Mary’s hands and feet to restore the flagging circulation.
Long minutes passed without any evidence of success. The stones and the covers brought some warmth to Mary’s body, but it seemed that she was past generating any sign of life within herself. Then suddenly, as he pressed his lips to hers and breathed gently into her lungs, Joseph felt a convulsive movement of her breast, as if she were trying to breathe against him. And when he felt for her pulse with trembling fingers, hardly daring to hope even yet that his senses had not deceived him, he detected a faint, swift flutter beneath his touch.
“She lives, Jivaka!” he cried exultantly. “Thanks be to the Most High, she lives!”
“It is a miracle!” The Indian physician’s eyes were wet. “A miracle of faith, Joseph. Because you would not believe that she was dead, your God has brought her back to you.”
Inspired by this promise of success, they renewed their efforts to strengthen the life now beginning to stir once again within Mary’s body. Soon she began to breathe shallowly and rapidly, then more slowly as her body began to come alive again. “What about the trance?” Joseph asked. “Should we do something to bring her out of it?”
“I fear the shock of a sudden awakening,” Jivaka said. “It is better to let her regain consciousness slowly and of her own accord.”
Morning had come outside and the members of Achillas’s band had long since returned from their night’s adventures when Mary opened her eyes. “Where am I?” she whispered. “I don’t remember this place.”
“You are in the catacombs of the Necropolis,” Joseph told her. “Some friends of mine who live here gave us shelter.”
“I—I seem to remember having a bad dream. As if I were in a dark place like a—like a grave.”
“Don’t think of it now,” he urged. “You have been very close to death, but we were able to bring you back. That is all that matters. We will be safe here until we can escape from Alexandria.”
“Did I kill Gaius Flaccus?”
“No. It was a flesh wound. The dagger did not go true.”
“My hand would not obey my will,” she said slowly. “Something held it back.”
“It was the power of the Most High. He would not let the devil that possessed you drive you to murder.”
Her eyes moved around the room, to Bana Jivaka standing by the couch, the tall smiling Nabatean, and Achillas blowing upon the coals of the brazier to heat more stones. The other members of the band hovered around the second brazier in the corner, upon which the usual pot of stew bubbled.
Everyone was happy at the return to life of such a beautiful woman, everyone, that is, except the son Manetho, who seemed constitutionally surly. When Joseph’s eyes occasionally met those of the young thief, he was shocked by the hatred in Manetho’s gaze. For a moment he could think of no reason for it, and then the truth suddenly came to him. After his father, Manetho would be the leader of the band. Achillas had come very near to dying several months before, only to be saved by Joseph’s skill. And to a hate-distorted mind, the hand that had kept Manetho from becoming leader of the band, even though it saved his father’s life, was lifted against him. Watching the glowering thief in the corner, Joseph felt a shiver of dread sweep over him.
“Achillas is the father of Albina, who dances in the theater,” he told Mary. “These are his sons and the men who work for him.”
Mary smiled. “Your daughter is a fine dancer. She will be the leader now.”
The old thief bowed his head and lifted her pale fingers to his forehead. “No one will ever equal Flamen. I have said a prayer of thanks to Isis that you have been spared.” None of them held the attempted death of a Roman against her; in a way it made her akin to them through a common enemy.
By midmorning Mary had recovered enough to drink a bowl of broth. While she had been unconscious, Joseph had dressed the shallow wound in her breast where the dagger had almost found its mark. Now, wearing one of Albina’s robes, she looked little the worse for her narrow escape from death.
Early in the afternoon, Hadja was sent into the city with a note to Matthat, asking him to give the money Joseph had left in his care to the Nabatean. With a part of it Hadja was to hire a swift galley which would wait for them at the mouth of the Agathadaemon Canal that very night. Tomorrow would find them far up the Nile on the way to where the canal from the Red Sea opened into the river. Once safely away from Alexandria, the way would be clear to freedom. Hadja was also instructed to stop at Mary’s villa for her clothes and her jewels and to dismiss her servants.
Joseph had not expected Hadja to return much before nightfall, but the musician was back in three hours. His face was grave and, noting that Mary was asleep on the couch, he drew Joseph o
ut into the passageway leading to the underground refuge of Achillas and his band of thieves. “I have bad news, Joseph,” he said at once. “Plotinus is using Mary’s attempt to kill Gaius Flaccus as an excuse to persecute the Jews of Alexandria.”
“But why? They are respected here.”
“In the city they say Flamen has bankrupted the gymnasiarch. He owes much money to Jewish moneylenders and hopes to kill them in the riot so he will not have to pay.”
“Did you find Matthat?”
Hadja shook his head. “A great crowd was going through the streets, breaking open the shops of the Jews. I saw them smash the door to Matthat’s shop, but he was not there and I could get no money.”
This was disquieting news indeed, for Joseph had deposited a substantial sum with the jewel merchant, and he had counted upon that money to pay their expenses until a transfer of funds from his bankers in Jerusalem could be made to whatever city they settled in after escaping from Alexandria.
“I have only a few coins,” Hadja added, “but they are yours.”
Joseph squeezed the tall Nabatean’s arm gratefully. “There may be another way,” he said. “Perhaps Achillas will make me a loan in return for a draft upon my bankers in Jerusalem.”
Just then they heard the outer door creak open. With a muttered oath Hadja drew the long dagger he carried always beneath his robe, and they flattened themselves against the wall of the tunnel. In a moment a torch flared up, lessening the darkness of the tunnel, and began to move toward them. Joseph started to call to the visitors, but Hadja put his fingers to his lips and tightened his grip upon the dagger.
Soon two people appeared, a woman and a man. When Joseph recognized Albina and Matthat, he drew a long sigh of relief. He had been fairly certain that Plotinus would have no way of knowing about the stratagem, but they still could not afford to be surprised by the enemy. When he stepped out into the corridor, in the full light of the torch, Matthat gave a cry of fear and dropped the torch, but Albina cried, “Thank the blessed Isis you are safe, Joseph. What of Flamen?”
“She is here,” Joseph told them. “But what happened to you?” Their clothing was torn and mud-spattered, and Matthat’s face was bruised and battered. He swayed there in the corridor, and Joseph took his arm to support him.
“Evil days have come to Alexandria,” Matthat moaned. “Curses be upon all Romans.” Supported by Joseph and Hadja, he managed to stumble into the room and collapsed upon a pile of rugs in one corner. “Speak softly,” Joseph warned. “Mary is asleep.”
Matthat could still only groan, and it was Albina who told them the story of what was happening in Alexandria. “I went to Matthat’s shop this morning,” she said, “trying to learn something about what happened after you left the stadium with Flamen’s body. The crowd was already breaking into it, but I saw Hadja on the street and he told me the story.”
She stopped for breath before going on. “I thought I might find out more about what Plotinus is going to do at the theater, so I went there.” She stopped for a moment, as if reluctant to go on. “Manetho has gone to Gaius Flaccus and Plotinus with the story that Flamen did not die, Joseph.”
“My son a traitor!” Achillas cried angrily. “I will kill him with my own hands.”
“Fortunately Manetho did not tell where Mary is hidden,” Albina continued. “He pretended not to know. Plotinus is wild with anger and has arrested Philo and the other Jewish leaders. He threatens to kill every Jew in Jerusalem unless Flamen is found.”
Matthat had found his voice now. “He is taking them to the theater, where a mob has gathered,” he managed to gasp. “The Forum would not hold the crowd. They had me, too, but I managed to slip away. Albina found me hiding and brought me here.”
“Plotinus was already inflaming the crowd against the Jews before I got away from the theater,” Albina added. “When the people are aroused, he will turn them loose upon Philo and the others. Then they will start through the city.”
Joseph looked at Mary, still sleeping on the couch. He had thought their troubles would be over when he rescued her from the living death of a criminal’s grave. But now innocent people were suffering because of what they had both done, and more would lose their lives unless someone intervened. It was unthinkable to turn Mary over to Plotinus as a sop to his anger. Nor did he believe that would necessarily guarantee the safety of Philo and the other Jewish leaders, since it was to the gymnasiarch’s interest to insure that the men to whom he owed large sums of money were killed by mob violence.
There was one other possibility, however. If Joseph insisted that the guilt was all his own, Plotinus might be forced to accept him as a hostage for the safety of Philo and the other Jews. With the letter he carried from Pontius Pilate to the governor of Alexandria, he could be certain of a fair trial in the courts. Roman justice was slow but fair, and once he was allowed to present the case against Gaius Flaccus and Plotinus in an open court, there was a chance that it might be decided in his favor. In any event, the proceedings would take a long time; enough, certainly, for Mary to be taken to a safe place. But first he must find money to hire a galley to take her safely away from Alexandria.
“Can you lend me five thousand denarii on a letter to my bankers in Jerusalem?” he asked Achillas.
“You can have it without any security,” the old man said promptly. “After all, did you not save my life?”
“I had better give you the letter,” Joseph insisted. “In case . . .” He did not finish the sentence, but they knew well enough what he meant. There were wax tablets on a table in the corner and, searing the surface of one of them quickly in the flame of a candle to smooth the wax of a former writing, he scribbled on it with the metal stylus, blowing the wax shavings away when he had finished. “When the riots are over,” he told Achillas, “take this to a banker here. He will send it to Jerusalem and give you the money when it arrives.”
Achillas went to a chest in the corner of the underground room to count out the five thousand denarii. While he was doing so, Joseph drew Hadja aside. “Listen closely, my friend,” he said. “I am entrusting all that I love to you. Take the money Achillas will give you and hire a galley—the fastest one you can find. Tonight you must carry Mary aboard with Bana Jivaka and leave Alexandria at once. Take them both by way of the canal to Arsinoe at the head of the Egyptian Sea. I will meet you there when I am free.”
“But you—” the Nabatean started to protest.
“Swear that you will do as I tell you,” Joseph insisted.
“I swear by Ahura-Mazda, the god of the sun itself, that I will do as you have bid me,” Hadja said gravely. “But the Living Flame will not want to go.”
“Tell her I will join you at Arsinoe, then,” Joseph said impatiently. “But take her with you, if you have to bind her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to the theater and try to save Philo and the others.”
Albina overheard them. “They will kill you, Joseph,” she protested. “Any Jew found on the streets is liable to be torn to pieces by the mob.”
“I must take the risk,” Joseph insisted. “If I can reach Plotinus and Gaius Flaccus, perhaps I can persuade them that I alone was responsible for Mary’s escape.”
“You are sacrificing yourself for her,” she protested. “She would not let you do it if she knew.”
Joseph shook his head. “Mary is safe, since Manetho did not reveal where she is. But I cannot let the Romans throw Philo and the others to the mob when the fault is mine, not theirs. Plotinus will have to arrest me, and since I carry a letter from Pontius Pilate to the governor of Alexandria, they will have to give me a fair trial. Philo will defend me, and there is no more respected authority on both Jewish and Roman law anywhere than he.”
“I have felt the temper of the crowd,” Matthat objected. “They will kill you, Joseph, a
s Albina says.”
But Joseph knew what he had to do. It was better to risk death than for innocent men to be killed because of what he had done.
“Let me go with you,” Bana Jivaka begged as he was leaving the catacombs, but Joseph shook his head firmly. “This is none of your affair, my friend,” he said embracing him. “You know the canal route to the Egyptian Sea. Go with Hadja and Mary and see that she gets safely away. You can help me better thus than in any other way.”
XV
Joseph had never seen the Rhakotis in such an uproar. There was a natural antagonism between the inhabitants of this polyglot area and the larger Jewish Quarter, whose residents were usually wealthier than the inhabitants of the Rhakotis, and now a rabble of every nationality surged through the streets, seizing any Jew who was unlucky enough to get in their path. Joseph was forced to dodge from house to house to escape them. He had not gone far before he realized the utter impossibility of making his way across the city to the theater without being seized by one of these mobs and bludgeoned to death before he could even speak. There was only one possible way to reach the theater—by water.
Dodging from the shadow of one house to the next, Joseph managed to make his way back to the bridge where the Street of Canopus crossed the Agathadaemon Canal near the Necropolis Gate. The slow-moving oily waters of the canal swirled lazily almost at his feet, as he hid in the shadows under the bridge, hoping one of the boats for hire would pass.
From the Rhakotis the angry shouts of a Jew-hunting mob were plainly audible as they ranged through the quarter. Looking down at the water, Joseph wondered how many Jews would be found floating in it tomorrow, their bodies bruised, beaten, and torn beyond identification. His own might well be one of them, he knew, and with the thought came a chill of fear.
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