Ancient World 02 - Raiders of the Nile (3 page)

I shrugged. “On such a fine day, before it gets too hot, I propose that we take a long walk and see where it leads us. Surely some grand adventure awaits me on my birthday.” I smiled, having no idea what lay in store for us.

To be sure, there was always the chance of encountering some sort of violence when one was out and about in Alexandria. It had not always been so. When I first arrived in the city, I was able to go anywhere, at any time of the day or night, without concern for my safety. But in the two years and eight months since my arrival, Alexandria had become increasingly dangerous and disorderly. The people were unhappy, and they blamed their discontent on King Ptolemy. Every so often, there would be a riot. The riot would lead to a bit of looting and perhaps a fire or two, then the appearance of royal soldiers, and then, inevitably, bloodshed. You might think the Alexandrians would dread these outbreaks of chaos, and flee from them. Instead they seemed to relish them. Whenever a riot broke out, hundreds or even thousands would converge on the scene, like moths to a flame.

Why did the people hate their king so bitterly? Some years ago he had risen to power by driving his older brother from the throne; as far as I could tell, he had done so with the support of the Alexandrian mob. Then, as if to patch things up, he married his deposed brother’s daughter. (These Egyptian rulers were always marrying family members, even siblings.) Then he killed his mother, who apparently thought that she should be the true power behind the throne. Now the people were restless, and to show their desire for a change, they rioted. This was what passed for politics in Egypt!

To a Roman who had grown up with yearly elections and magistrates and written laws, trying to make sense of Egyptian politics and history could induce a terrible headache. All the kings and queens seemed to have been brothers and sisters, or mothers and sons, or uncles and nieces, and they were forever marrying each other, then killing each other, then sending the survivors into exile, whereupon the ones in exile plotted a way to return and kill those who exiled them, perpetuating the cycle.

The first King Ptolemy, the founder of the dynasty, had been one of Alexander’s generals. When the Great One died, Ptolemy made himself king of Egypt, and his descendants had ruled the country ever since, becoming the longest reigning dynasty in the world. To those who loved royal romance and intrigue (which seemed to be everyone in Egypt), the Ptolemies provided a source of endless fascination, like characters on a stage. The personal and public drama of their lives amused, enthralled, and enraged the populace. In taverns and shops, outside temples and courts—anywhere you went in Alexandria—people talked of little else.

Like a typical Alexandrian, Bethesda could name every one of the Ptolemies in chronological order, the good and the bad, the dead and the living, going all the way back to Ptolemy I. Listening to her, I would become hopelessly confused, since the same names recurred in every generation: Berenice, Arsinoë, Cleopatra (the name of the king’s late mother), and of course, Ptolemy—sometimes several of them living at once, and in every branch of the family. With all the enthusiasm of a Roman recounting famous battles, or a Greek swooning over Olympic athletes, Bethesda had tried to explain to me who had done what to whom and when and where, and why it mattered so much, but I could never keep the players straight. One Ptolemy was the same as any other to me.

I only knew that every so often, if one dared to venture out, there was likely to be a bit of screaming and trampling, and perhaps some smoke and cinders, and probably a bit of slaughter. And all because the people hated King Ptolemy.

But on such a splendid day, even the threat of a riot was not going to keep me indoors. At the age of twenty-two, one feels invulnerable. I was quick-witted and fleet of foot. What had I to fear? If anything, the increasing disorder in the city had been a boon to me. When public order fails, private misconduct increases; and when people no longer trust the authorities, to uncover the truth they turn to people like me. Finder my father called himself, and the skills he taught me had proved quite useful. I could pick any lock, I could follow a man without being seen, I could tell by a woman’s eyebrows if she was lying to me, and I knew when to speak and when to keep my mouth shut. The fact that I was an outsider only enhanced my usefulness; I was a free agent, with no ties to any particular family or faction. I was not getting rich by plying my father’s trade on foreign soil, but I was managing to make ends meet.

I happened to have a few extra coins on my person that morning, with which I planned to buy something special.

“Shall we play tourist today?” I suggested. “I’ve been so busy lately, grubbing about in lowly taverns and disreputable gaming houses, I’ve forgotten how beautiful the city can be. Let’s take in the sights.”

So we set out. We made our way out of the Rhakotis district and headed up a broad boulevard lined with palm trees, fountains, obelisks, and statues. Our route took us to the sacred tomb precinct in the center of the city, where magnificent buildings set in lush gardens housed the mummified remains of the Ptolemies.

At a very broad intersection, we came upon a towering structure that dominated the skyline—the Tomb of Alexander. Its walls were decorated with extraordinary relief sculptures that depicted the career of the conqueror. Though not quite as grand, the structure reminded me of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. But whereas the burial chamber of King Mausolus was sealed, the room that held the remains of the mummified Alexander was open for paying visitors. On this morning, even though the tomb was not yet open, the line to enter wound all the way around the building and out of sight. From their costumes, the visitors appeared to come from all over the world—Persian astrologers wearing ziggurat hats and pointed shoes, Ethiopians the color of ebony, Nabataeans in flowing robes, and even a few Romans in togas. All had come to file past the famous golden sarcophagus of Alexander and pay their respects—something I myself, in all the months I had lived in the city, had not yet done.

Bethesda made bold to draw alongside me. “Perhaps, Master, on your special day, you would like to visit the tomb of the Great One.”

“And stand in that line under the hot sun all morning? I think not. No matter how large and elaborately decorated, a mere golden sarcophagus is unlikely to impress a traveler who has seen the Seven Wonders of the World.”

“You would prefer to go on one of the days when visitors can gaze upon the face of Alexander himself?”

“Now that might be more interesting,” I admitted. The sarcophagus was opened and the mummy displayed to the public on only two days each year, Alexander’s birthday and the anniversary of the founding of the city. On those occasions, the admission price would be doubled and the lines would be ten times as long.

Taking my eyes from the line of tourists waiting for the tomb to open, I was struck by the great number of royal guards around us, even more than was usual in the precinct of the royal tombs. Holding their spears aloft, a contingent of soldiers made a show of marching up and down the broad boulevard. More soldiers formed a virtual cordon along the line of visitors queuing to see Alexander’s sarcophagus. Looking up, I saw yet more soldiers stationed on balconies and along parapets and on the rooftops of the tombs of the Ptolemies. Soldiers almost outnumbered the ordinary people thronging the street. No doubt they were there to protect the tourists and keep order in one of the city’s most prominent public areas, but the sight of so many royal guards made me uneasy. Knowing the Alexandrians, I thought such a show of strength would as likely spark a riot as prevent one.

We moved on, into a neighborhood of grand houses and elegant apartment buildings. Here lived many of the minor officials and bureaucrats who served in the huge royal palace complex, including the Library and the Museum, but who were not important enough to have quarters within the palace itself. Some of Alexandria’s best and most expensive shops were in this area. On previous walks I had noticed Bethesda’s fascination with the luxury items displayed outside the shops, as she stole glances at a necklace strung with lapis and ebony, or at a silver bracelet set with tiny rubies. Such items were far beyond my means, as anyone could tell by looking at me; the brawny servants posted as guards outside each shop gave me nasty looks if I so much as slowed my pace.

Nevertheless, in front of one of the shops, I dared to come to a complete halt.

“Why are we stopping here, Master?” said Bethesda.

“Because it’s my birthday, and I intend to spend a bit of money.” I hefted the coin purse I carried in a fold of my tunic.

“Here, Master?” Bethesda wrinkled her brow, for we stood before a shop that sold nothing but women’s garments. Hung on pegs outside the storefront, linen gowns fluttered in the breeze. Some were so simple and sheer they looked hardly more substantial than bits of gossamer. Others were cut in a variety of styles, dyed in brilliant shades, and decorated with embroidery along the hems and necklines. Several days ago, as we passed this shop, I had noticed Bethesda slow her stride and steal a lingering glance at a particular gown. It was dark green with yellow embroidery, and longer than most, with pleated, fan-shaped sleeves.

I studied the garments hung on display, then smiled when I spotted what I was looking for. As I stepped toward the shop, a brawny servant crossed his arms and glowered at me, then relented when I hefted my moneybag and made the coins jingle.

The shop owner appeared. She was a stooped old woman who gazed up at me from a wizened face. “Do you see something you like, young man?”

“Perhaps.” I dared to touch the green gown with my fingertips. The linen was of a much higher quality than I was used to. Even on the hottest day, such a fabric would feel soft and cool against the wearer’s skin.

Bethesda whispered in my ear. “Master, what are you thinking of?”

I turned to her and smiled. “I’m thinking it’s my birthday, and I should buy something that pleases me.”

“But—”

“And what could please me more than the sight of you wearing this gown?”

*   *   *

A little later, I stepped out of the shop with a coin purse that was considerably lighter.

Bethesda followed me. The green linen shimmered in the sunlight. The yellow embroidery had an almost metallic sheen, like the luster of gold. The dress transformed her, elegantly clinging to the supple lines of her arms and legs and accentuating rather than hiding the fullness of her hips and breasts. When she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun, the long, pleated sleeve opened like a fan and undulated in the breeze. With her face obscured, I might not have recognized her. She could have been the privileged daughter of a fine Alexandrian household, the sort of young woman who shopped in such a place on a regular basis, buying whatever she desired.

Even the wizened old shopkeeper had been impressed. When Bethesda withdrew to the dressing room, I tried to wrangle a lower price, but the woman had refused to budge—until Bethesda emerged. At the sight of her, the old woman softened. Her eyes glimmered. She clapped her hands and sighed, and named a price that was half of what she might have demanded.

Even Bethesda’s posture was transformed. She seemed to stand taller than before, with her shoulders back. Staring at her, I decided that the green gown was the best purchase I had made in a long time.

A flash of movement caught my eye. Someone was running toward us, shouting and laughing.

As the figure drew closer, I noticed several things in quick succession.

It was a young woman.

She was not exactly running, but rather skipping, whirling, and dancing as she hurtled forward, giggling and crying out.

Also, she appeared to be completely naked.

And, if Bethesda had not been standing next to me, I would have sworn that the naked, laughing woman was—Bethesda!

III

“Follow me! Follow me!” shouted the girl.

As she passed the dress shop, she looked me in the eye and gave me a playful tap on the chin, then performed a somersault right in front of me, never breaking stride, and continued on her way, waving her hands in the air. Had she truly been naked, the somersault would have given me quite an eyeful, but instead I perceived that she was wrapped in some sort of close-fitting, very sheer garment that matched the shade of her tawny skin. Exactly where the girl ended and the garment began was a mystery, which could be solved only by taking a closer look.

I began to follow her up the street.

“Master!”

I turned to see that Bethesda remained where she was. She gave me a blank, catlike stare.

“Come on,” I said. “You heard the girl. She wants us to follow her!”

“She wants
everyone
to follow her,” muttered Bethesda—and to be sure, a considerable crowd was coming up the street. “She must be rounding up a crowd to watch a mime show.”

“A mime show? Wonderful! A mime show would be just the thing.” I laughed and waved to Bethesda to follow. When she continued to hesitate, I hurried back, took her by the hand, and pulled her after me.

“Besides,” I said, “did you not notice her face?”

“Was it her
face
you were looking at, Master?” Bethesda sounded skeptical.

“Among other things! But seriously, did you not notice whom she looked like?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“She looks like
you,
Bethesda. The resemblance is uncanny.”

“I hardly think so.”

“Nonsense. You’re alike enough to be sisters. Twins, even.”

“I do not have a sister,” she said, rather firmly. Though she had been born a slave, and though both her parents died young—her father first and then her mother—Bethesda had known them both, or so she had told me. She would have known if she had any siblings.

“I don’t mean to suggest that she’s literally your sister,” I said, then shrugged and gave up the argument. Nothing made me feel more absurd than to realize I was struggling to explain myself to Bethesda, who was, after all, my possession, and by every law and custom was supposed to accept everything I said without question.