“I could charge you 10 drachmas just for touching those elephant tusks!” a wiry black man yelled at him. “They are worth 100 drachmas each and I don’t want your grubby hands lowering their value. Get away!”
Archimedes backed away.
“Look out idiot!” Archimedes was knocked aside by a large Roman balancing a heavy ceramic jug on his shoulder. He no sooner turned to look at the man when another man came and bashed him in the back.
“Watch where you’re going, dung beetle!”
It apparently was accepted practice in Alexandria to get where you’re going by shoving someone else out of the way. Archimedes decided he wasn’t going to get anywhere until he got a bit more aggressive and pushy. He picked up his belongings and shoved his way to find a porter.
Chapter 7
Only one person got mad at Archimedes as he shoved through the crowd and that was an idle lady with a mouth employing too much rouge and too many curse words. He finally located one of the porters who hauled baggage for tourists.
After loading Archimedes’ crates on his cart, the large Egyptian moved through the throng easier than the slender boy. He had a sturdy build and used his wooden cart like a wedge driving the crowds apart.
“Please be careful with this box,” Archimedes touched the alchemy kit, “it has fragile items inside.”
The only reply was a vague grunt that sounded like one of the curse words the idle lady threw at him. Archimedes figured it might be helpful to learn some of those.
“How far is it to the school?” Archimedes asked, trying to make a connection with the only person he knew in Egypt.
The man ignored him and kept plowing through the throng. He must not speak Greek, Archimedes thought.
The farther Archimedes and the porter moved away from the docks, the fewer people there were. After walking a couple blocks, the man stopped his cart. Archimedes feared the man was going to dash off and keep the five obols Archimedes paid him. The porter put his hands on his lower back and pushed forward while tilting his head back, groaning and stretching.
“There is no time for idle chatter back there,” the man tipped his head back toward the ant hill. He spoke in passable Greek. “The school is only a few blocks ahead.”
“Thank you,” Archimedes said. “You speak Greek?”
The man scoffed. “This is Alexandria, named after the Macedonian conqueror. I learn enough to get by with our Greek rulers.” He seemed slightly bitter about the arrangement.
When Alexander the Great brought his army to Egypt 55 years ago, he defeated the Persian satrap and his army. The teachers back in Syracuse talked about how happy the Egyptians were to have the Greeks free them. Perhaps not all Egyptians shared that sentiment.
“Greek rulers. You mean Pharaoh Ptolemy?” Archimedes asked.
The man looked down at him before answering. “King Ptolemy, yes. That is his project invading the heavens.” He nodded in the direction of the lighthouse. “I was working on it, but it is cursed. Do not look at me so skeptical, boy. I knew a sculptor who worked on the lighthouse. He was young and healthy. The next morning when we came to work, his body was laid out like it was waiting for Anubis, the jackal-headed god. Our god of the dead. There was no wound, no blood. He was killed by the gods. Anubis is enacting revenge on any Egyptian who helps erect a structure that would eclipse the great mers of past kings. I walked off the job that same day and now haul baggage for Greeks.” The last words came out contemptuously.
Archimedes only nodded. He wasn’t about to argue architecture, employment, or certainly not religion with a large man who he needed to transport his baggage. He noted the man conspicuously used the Egyptian term mer instead of the Greek term pyramid. When Greek historians first wrote about the massive stone structures, they thought they looked like wheat cakes. Pyramid is the Greek name for wheat cake and the term offended many Egyptians.
The man bent over and lifted the cart again. Archimedes noticed the cart and how awkward the man had to bend to push it. It was a common wooden cart with the axel in the middle, making it like a table with two wheels. Having wheels in the center of the cart was good for moving heavy stones, but made the cart slow and unwieldy. Archimedes quickened his pace to walk alongside the stooped porter.
“If we moved the wheels toward the front, your cart could move faster and you wouldn’t have to bend over so much,” Archimedes said.
The man was breathing heavy and looked over with a quizzical scorn. “What? Move what wheels?”
Archimedes pointed at the cart. “The wheels on your cart. If we move them forward, it would make your work easier.”
The man stopped abruptly and dropped the cart in question. “So, young Greek, you know more than a man who worked on the lighthouse? This cart was built to haul large stones for Ptolemy’s great project. It can certainly move your few possessions.”
“I wasn’t questioning the quality of the cart, sir,” Archimedes said. “But I do know about building things. The placement of the wheels is correct for a heavy load, like stones. But for speed and lighter loads, we should change the leverage by moving the wheels forward.” Archimedes gestured forward with the back of his hand.
“My name is Ankhef, not sir. My people were building temples to our gods and mers for our eternal kings while you Greeks were still trying to put one stone on top of another. This cart will do.” Ankhef picked up the handles of the cart and stalked off.
Now Archimedes was like a moth to a flame. He could get burned, but the cumbersome cart was a candle pleading him to provide the solution. Archimedes ran past Ankhef this time and stopped in front of the cart. Ankhef, astonished, stopped the cart again.
“I’ll buy the cart from you for 10 drachmas,” Archimedes said. He knew that was nearly three weeks wages and more than the cart was worth. “I’ll buy the cart from you right now, fix it, and if you like what I do, you can buy it back for the same price. If you don’t like it, you walk away with more than it’s worth and I’ll haul my baggage to the school on my own.”
Before the astonished Ankhef could reply, Archimedes pulled out his leather pouch, untied it, and counted out 10 drachmas. He then lugged his alchemy kit off the cart and unpacked some tools. Out came a wooden mallet, an awl, and a bow and dowel for his drill. By now a small crowd began to gather around the boy and the cart.
“What’s he doing?” a man asked Ankhef.
“Making my cart better,” Ankhef answered, throwing his arm toward Archimedes in disgust.
In quick succession, Archimedes hammered off the large wheels, chiseled a starting hole with the awl in the front side of the cart, and then began drilling with the bow drill. The string of the bow wrapped around the a wide disk on the dowel. With a sawing motion, the string spun the metal-tipped dowel into the cart. Pressure was applied to the top of the dowel by pushing on a copper cap lubricated with animal fat. The flat bronze tip of the whirring dowel began chewing a hole into the cart. Archimedes stopped, dug out the shavings with the awl, and began drilling again. Ankhef watched in quiet acquiescence at the boy who bought his six-drachma cart for 10.
The sun was three-quarters across the sky and a wide shadow began to creep from a nearby temple. Ankhef walked over to the shade and sat down. The crowd whispered occasional questions to other onlookers, but only guesses and conjecture were given. A merchant from Carthage added to the energy by yelling, “I’ll bet 5 obols the boy fixes the cart!”
“I’ll take the bet,” a Jewish scribe answered. More betting ensued, both for and against Archimedes. More wagers were placed as more people joined in to watch the young Greek toiling in the sun in the middle of the street.
Finally, Archimedes took the wheels and hammered them onto the axel that now intersected the front of the cart. Archimedes got up, dusted off his tunic, and inspected his work.
All eyes in the crowd watched Archimedes. The cart was tipped upright on its front end rather than level with the ground. Someone finally broke the silence. “It’s broken
! The boy doesn’t even know how a cart works!” Some people laughed, others waited for Archimedes.
Archimedes looked from the cart to the crowd. “I need someone heavy to stand on the end,” he said.
After a few moments, a large Greek sailor pushed through the crowd. “I’ve got a drachma on you and your cart, boy. Let’s see what in the name of Poseidon it does.”
The sailor backed into the cart and Archimedes grabbed the handles. Ankhef came running over. “What are you doing? You won’t be able to move him.”
“Someone take that scrawny boy into the shade. He’s lost his wits!”
The Greek sailor leaned forward. “Shut up! Everyone! Give him the chance to show what he’s done. He’s endured your stares and insults long enough.” He turned to Archimedes. “Let’s go, boy.”
Archimedes grabbed the two handles, put his foot behind the wheels, and carefully levered the man back. After only a few degrees of tilt, the sailor was off the ground. “Out of the way. I’m moving forward.”
The mob of onlookers parted. Archimedes juggled the cart back and forth until he found the cart’s center of gravity. Then, tentatively, he moved forward. As he got used to the equilibrium of the cart, he went faster. The sailor, standing upright, was laughing and hanging on to either side of the cart.
“Here let me try,” Ankhef walked over to Archimedes, who gripped the handles until Ankhef held the weight. Ankhef tilted it; it teetered, and then he stabilized it. With the added strength of a muscled porter, the cart moved effortlessly. The crowd broke into a cheer.
Ankhef set the cart on its end and the sailor, with a huge grin, stepped off. Ankhef turned to Archimedes. “I am an obstinate man, Isis knows, but I am honest. Here is the 10 drachmas back, plus one more for making me a better cart.”
The assembly of people cheered even louder. Archimedes modestly thanked the large Greek sailor and he patted Archimedes on the shoulder. Wagers were paid, money exchanged, and people gathered around to look at the new cart the industrious boy made.
“What in the name of the gods is going on here?”
A furious priest appeared from the shrouded entrance of the temple and marched toward the crowd. Following were four imposing guards armed with spears. The middle-aged priest, in an immaculate white tunic and broad gold necklace, radiated authority and power. Shadowing him was a smaller man in a kilt and holding a sheaf of papyrus.
The crowd parted like dry leaves in a strong gust of wind, leaving Archimedes, Ankhef, and a new cart standing deserted in the shade of the temple of Horus.
Chapter 8
Ankhef dropped to his knees and put his face in the road, stirring up reddish dust. Archimedes looked from the infuriated priest to the subservient porter and back to the priest. The priest’s eyes were outlined in kohl and he was bare-chested, like the dock workers, but his white linen kilt extended down to his ankles. The gleaming golden necklace, on closer inspection, was adorned with rubies and translucent blue agate. In the center was a polished silver head of Horus, the falcon-headed god. The most distinguishing characteristic, however, was a string of dark blue hieroglyphs tattooed down his forehead, across his left eye, and down his cheek.
The four guards stood rigid just behind and to either side of the priest. Sunlight glinted off the bronze spear tips. The guards could have been brothers, for all Archimedes knew. They were the same height and build, same metal skull caps, same annoyed look.
Partially hidden among this imposing group was the smaller man, a quill and papyrus in his hands. He may have been a scribe; he wore only a kilt and thin necklace. The priest quickly sized up Archimedes, from hair to tunic to sandals.
“This is not the Olympics, Greek,” the priest said scornfully. “Do you dare to place wages in front of the Temple of Horus?” The priest flung his arm disdainfully toward the now evident temple. “Causing an unruly gathering, gambling, insolence, all in front of the sacred Temple of Horus?” The smaller man began to scribble furiously.
Archimedes was not really listening to the interrogation. He was looking over at the Temple of Horus. At first glance it reminded him of the Greek letter M, with two wide walls angling down to meet over the door. Rays of sun stabbed through spaces between the pillars, speckling the marble floor with harsh yellow light against the dark blue shadows.
It was Ankhef who finally answered, speaking respectfully into the dirt.
“We are truly sorry, Blessed Ptahhotep, First Prophet of the God. We were caught up in the excitement of this young man from Greece,” he barely indicated Archimedes with his hand, “fixing my cart.” Ankhef’s eyes did not stray from the ground.
Without moving his head, the priest’s eyes darted from the now cowed Ankhef to the still stunned Archimedes. “Look at me boy! You intended to fill your empty purse with coins duped from curious onlookers. Do you incite gambling in front of the holy sites of Greece? Did you place wages on what the Oracle would say?” He had a flair for mixing disdain and ridicule.
Archimedes wasn’t sure if those were rhetorical questions or, witnessing how the priest humbled the once proud Ankhef, that the questions required answers.
A silver arm band extended from the priest’s elbow and snaked around his forearm, ending between his middle fingers in another falcon head. The sun flashed off the winding ribbon of silver.
“I had no intention of provoking a crowd or gambling,” Archimedes said. “I only wanted to help this man with his cart. At that, I succeeded.” The scribe looked with contempt at Archimedes before frantically writing again.
“You have only succeeded in stirring the anger of Horus, impudent Greek. I don’t care what you did with the cart. The gods demand something be done about the sacrilege of gathering a crowd for the purpose of gambling in front of the sacred temple. I can have you taken and lashed until your back seeps scarlet!”
Archimedes’ head was spinning. One moment he was being cheered, next he was being threatened with a public flogging. He always showed respect to the Greek gods, especially his patron, Athena. He automatically took out his owl amulet and rubbed it, hoping for some intervention from Mount Olympus.
Sweat dripped down his back and he hazarded a quick glance at the still cowering Ankhef, who now had his face on his outstretched arms. Archimedes resolved that humility would work best, but kneeling in the Alexandrian dirt was not part of it. He answered to Olympian gods, not this priest’s gods or rules. The priest may be insulted, but it was not intentional. “I am sorry, priest of the Egyptian gods,” he barely nodded his head out of respect for Egyptian culture.
“Ptahhotep,” Ankhef murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Ptahhotep.”
“I am sorry Ptahhotep,” Archimedes personalized the apology.
“Blessed Ptahhotep!” Ankhef whispered louder, with a hiss.
Archimedes sighed. “I am sorry, blessed Ptahhotep.” Again a slight nod.
Ptahhotep stepped toward Archimedes without acknowledging the apology. Guards following, he strode confidently up and took the owl amulet from Archimedes’ fingers. “You are devout to the Greek gods then?” He looked from the amulet into Archimedes’ eyes, then yanked down the owl and snapped the leather cord from Archimedes’ neck. “I will add worshiping false Greek gods in front of the temple to your list of offenses.” He pointed to the sheet of papyrus and the scribe quickly scribbled. “What brings you to Alexandria, cart builder?” He let the amulet drop in the dust beneath his feet. “Did you run out of wagons to fix in Greece?”
That was enough for Archimedes. “Athena is not a false goddess. Alexander the Great often prayed for her counsel when he was busy freeing Egypt from the oppressive rule of Persian tyrants. Myself, I was invited to attend the School of Alexandria.” Archimedes breathed deeply to keep his composure before a final jab.
“Fixing poorly-made Egyptian wagons,” Archimedes indicated the cart, “or building magnificent Greek-designed structures,” he looked toward the lighthouse, “are the gifts Athena bestowed on me.” He heard
a barely audible groan from Ankhef that was quickly drowned out by a snarl from the priest.
Ptahhotep’s hand with the silver falcon flew up and across Archimedes’ face with a smack. The falcon’s beak gouged Archimedes’ cheek. He quickly put his hand on his bleeding cheek as tears formed in his eyes.
“Guards, take this whelp and let a whip teach him to respect Egyptian gods!” Ptahhotep barked. “Then leave his carcass for the crows.”
Just then a glint of metal from the shadowed entrance of the temple caused the scribe to immediately extend his arms to either side, stopping the advancing guards. Ptahhotep looked at the scribe, who looked toward the dark of the temple. Ptahhotep followed the scribe’s gaze, and then scrutinized the shadows for several moments. Ptahhotep turned back toward the scribe with a quizzical look.
“Perhaps we should take the outlaw to the school first and let them know he will be punished. There are too many snooping loafers gathered for the boy to go missing,” the scribe shrewdly advised.
Archimedes was also inspecting the mysterious movement while gently touching his bleeding cheek. For a moment, the shape moved from the shadows into the light, where the sun glinted off blonde hair and a silver breast plate before the silhouette quickly ducked into the temple.
Ptahhotep grabbed Archimedes’ chin and forcibly turned his face toward him. “Perhaps your tongue is capable of telling the truth. It can certainly spit out heresy.” He looked over to the scribe. “Ipuwer, take the guards and escort this schoolboy to the school and see if he is telling the truth. My time is better spent tending the great gods than bantering about with ill-bred urchins.”
Before striding back to the temple, Ptahhotep met with Ipuwer, who pointed toward the concealed entrance to the temple. Ptahhotep scowled, turned on his heel, and strode back to the temple. The crowd parted and began to disperse.
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