Athena's Son (5 page)

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.

Ankhef got up out of the dirt of the street. While warily watching the scribe and guards, he whispered to Archimedes, “You don’t know how lucky you are. That was Ptahhotep,” he emphasized the name.
“He is the
hem netjer,
the high priest of the temple. He could have you killed and no one would question him. You are clever, but a fox does not quarrel with a crocodile. He is not some cart you can hammer on.”

Archimedes touched his cheek again and looked at his fingers, sticky with blood. He reached down and picked up the wooden owl. The four guards formed a square around Archimedes and, with the scribe Ipuwer leading the way, ushered him to the School of Alexandria.

Chapter 9

Archimedes remembered back in Syracuse when he widened the small hole at the bottom of his teacher’s water clock. The water dripped out inconspicuously quicker, letting the boys get out of class early. It took the old teacher a week before he discovered it and when he did he took a willow branch to Archimedes’ backside. Archimedes never held a grudge against the teacher because he deserved the punishment.

But this was different. He did not gamble in front of the temple and did not intend anyone else to. Slapping a man’s face was an insult; it is what a hysterical girl does. A whipping would have been better. The pain of the slap was gone, but the humiliation and anger still burned in him.

For five years Archimedes had anticipated the day he would walk in triumph up the steps of the School of Alexandria. New students were handed a ceremonial scroll that symbolized the world’s accumulated knowledge inside the library. For one week on a heaving ship, the thought of earning that scroll kept him sane. Now he was being escorted in humiliation by temple guards and was going to start his schooling in disgrace.

Seven shadows glided across the white dirt road in silence, except for the crunch of sand grinding under the wheels of the new cart. In the hot, arid winds of Egypt, Archimedes’ cut dried quickly. Palm trees offered only sporadic relief from the relentless sun. Occasionally a stray dog would wander close but Ankhef would send it away with a kick. They passed a bakery with the warm, heady smell of yeast and barley heavy in the air. A woman was bartering down the price of several loaves, contending that they were a couple of days old.

It was near mid-day, and most people sought shelter in their homes or under awnings. Two women and a girl were talking in the street, but stopped and stared as Ipuwer and his guards walked by. The little girl pointed at Archimedes and asked her mom, “Is he dangerous?” The mom shushed the girl and pulled her aside.

Archimedes looked dissolutely at the dust his sandals kicked up while his insides churned like he was back on the ship. He actually wished he was back on the ship, where the nausea was caused by powerful waves. That sick feeling was natural and temporary. Now he walked in shame and his queasy insides were caused by a violent priest. This feeling could prove eternal if the school rejected him. Would the teachers accept him once they found out he insulted a priest? Could he really end up fodder for the crows? He couldn’t imagine how disappointed his father would be.

When Archimedes lifted his head again everyone had stopped at the front lawn of the school. He was finally here. And he wished he wasn’t.

The entrance to the school was faced with large Corinthian columns. The marble building was rectangular with a large dome in the center. Leading up to the entrance were marble steps. Surrounding the grounds was a park with statues of famous Greeks situated in it. Everything was finely manicured, with rounded bushes, stone walkways, and beautiful fountains. The only sounds came from the song birds darting in the trees.

Archimedes was like a sapling surrounded by four stout trees, one guard at each corner. Behind was Ankhef and in front of the small assembly was Ipuwer.

Ipuwer scanned the exterior and finally noticed a tall, slender man standing alone on the street examining the school. The man had wavy black hair and was dressed in a full Greek tunic. His hands were clasped behind his back and the heat did not seem to bother him. A small, spotted cat was coiling around the man’s leg but not getting any attention. Ipuwer strode over to him.

“
Get someone out here I can talk to,” Ipuwer said. He learned to be abrupt from Ptahhotep. But the man did not reply, except to walk a few steps away to get a better view of the school.

“
Do you teach the mute?! I represent Ptahhotep, First Prophet of the God Horus. Get someone out here…now!”

The cat darted away and the man turned to Ipuwer. He looked at Ipuwer as a man would look at a bug about to be swatted. He leaned sideways to look past him and scanned the four guards and then his eyes settled, and stayed, on Archimedes.

The man extended his arm to push Ipuwer aside so he could walk a straight path to the mortified Greek student. The affront left Ipuwer momentarily stunned, but he regained his senses and tramped after the bold man.

“
You do not…”

The man turned and now squashed the bug.

“
Do not presume to tell me to do—anything.” He did not yell; he only spoke with the confidence of a man who knew exactly who he was and what he could do. The man’s eyes were burning embers and chilling water at the same time. Ipuwer’s poise vanished like a stone in a muddy pond. The tall man turned back to Archimedes.

He examined the scab on Archimedes’ cheek; he noticed the broken amulet that hung limply in his fingers. “Are you Archimedes from Syracuse?” he spoke as if no one else were around.

“
Yes.”

“
Come here.”

The two guards in front of Archimedes dropped their spears to stop him. The muddy pond spit back Ipuwer’s confidence at the intervention of the guards. Ipuwer came up beside the guards and scrawled something on his papyrus.

“
These soldiers, and I, represent Ptahhotep, First Prophet…” Ipuwer was talking and writing at the same time.

“
Come here, Archimedes,” the man again spoke as if Archimedes was alone in the road. Archimedes walked around the guards and stood alongside the man. He turned to Archimedes.

“
I am Callimachus. I am the epistates and lead scholar of Pharaoh Ptolemy’s School of Alexandria. Whatever difficulties you had in arriving here, they are now ended.” He looked over to Ankhef. “Have you been paid?” Ankhef nodded. “Leave the crates there. I will see that they are taken care of.”

Ipuwer looked at the guards, and then pointed at Archimedes. “This delinquent is going back to Ptahhotep for further questioning.”

Callimachus turned back to Ipuwer. “Leave.” That was all he said. Archimedes looked at Callimachus and wondered what teacher had that kind of self-confidence to stand up to the whole temple of Horus.

Ipuwer took a step forward. “These soldiers are under the authority of Ptahhotep.”

The embers in Callimachus’ eyes began to evaporate the water. “I know who Ptahhotep is and I know what a soldier is. Ptahhotep spends his time inflicting wounds on the cheeks of schoolboys.” Callimachus cast his eyes at the four guards, “And these guards are not soldiers. This,” he pointed with his hand back toward the school, “is a soldier. Ajax!”

Everyone, except Callimachus, turned to look up the steps. For a moment there was nothing. Then came the echoing clang of hobnailed sandals from inside the school. The footsteps rang louder on the marble floor as they approached. The sunlight gradually pealed back the shadow emerging from the lobby to reveal a colossal frame clad in muscle, scars and bronze.