Raiders of the Nile

XVIII

We had come to the end of the road. When I turned my back on the pit with its deadly stakes, and rose as high as I could on my camel, I saw before us what appeared to be an impenetrable thicket.

Menkhep tied his own mount to a tree some distance away, and indicated that I should dismount and do likewise. “Gather your things and carry them with you,” he said. “And don’t forget that ruby!” He flashed a crooked smile. “From here we proceed on foot.”

“How much farther?” I peered into the thicket and listened to the silence. It seemed impossible that any sort of camp or settlement could be nearby.

Menkhep ignored my question. “Have you got everything?”

I nodded.

“Then follow me.”

He seemed to disappear into the thickest part of the foliage, but when I arrived at the same spot, I saw an opening amid the leaves. The winding path, such as it was, grew so narrow in places that I had to step sideways. Djet had an easier time, though at one point he tripped and fell over a tangle of roots.

We headed gradually downhill, until the pathway ended on the banks of a small, heavily shaded lagoon. Our arrival startled a pair of long-beaked ibises. The birds flapped their broad white wings and took flight.

Pulled up on the muddy bank and tied to posts were several boats. Menkhep pulled one of these long, slender vessels into the shallow water and held it in place while Djet and I climbed aboard. The boat was so narrow that we had to sit in single file. I was in the middle, with Djet in front and Menkhep behind.

“Know how to row?” he asked.

“Well enough,” I said.

Menkhep laughed. “A shopkeeper learns to tell when people are lying. You’ve never held an oar in your life, have you?”

“Well…”

“Dip your paddle in one side, then the other, like this.” He demonstrated while I craned my neck to observe. “I’ll steer. The stronger and faster you stroke, the sooner we’ll get there and have something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

With Menkhep observing my strokes and giving me pointers, we traveled from one lagoon to another, threading our way through floating lotus gardens and tall stands of reeds that swayed in the breeze, shaded now and again by miniature forests of papyrus along the marshy banks. Dragonflies flitted around us. Gnats and midges and multitudes of other winged insects danced in swarms above the water. Everywhere I looked, the world seemed to buzz and sigh and throb with life. I fell into the rhythm of rowing and beheld the teeming spectacle with detached bemusement-until the gnats began to buzz in my ears and the midges landed on my lips and eyelashes and flew up my nose. I blinked and snorted and batted at them helplessly, almost losing my paddle.

Laughing at my torment, Menkhep instructed Djet to turn around and dispatch the insects by blowing at them and waving them away.

I resumed rowing, and eventually fell into a steady rhythm, feeling the pull of the sparkling green water against my oar, matching my strength against the river. The routine at length gave way to monotony, and the monotony to boredom, and then to fatigue, and at some point it seemed to me that we must be going in circles, passing through the same lagoon over and over, traversing a watery vista with no discernible landmarks. Perhaps Menkhep actually did trick me into crossing the same stretch of waterway more than once, so as to confuse me and make it harder for me to find my way in or out.

At last we turned up a narrow inlet with grassy marshes on either side. Menkhep told me to stop rowing. The boat came to a stop, and for a few moments we floated in place, watching sparkles of sunlight on the water and listening to the buzzing of insects. Then, from the tall grass to our right, I heard a series of whistles that did not sound like any bird I had heard in the Delta. Putting his fingers in his mouth, Menkhep replied with a similar series of whistles. After a pause, we heard yet more whistling.

“That’s the go-ahead signal,” said Menkhep. “Start rowing again, while I steer us around that little bend. Then you’ll see it.”

“See what?” I started to say, but a moment later my question was answered. At the far end of the narrow lagoon I saw a little village of huts. The huts were made of dried mud and wattle, with thatched roofs. They looked like the Hut of Romulus on the Palatine Hill, which my father had shown me when I was little. Rome itself had begun as a settlement of huts such as this.

Projecting into the lagoon was a long, low pier, to which were tied a great many boats. These vessels were twice as wide as the one in which I sat and much longer, large enough to accommodate perhaps twenty men or more. From the direction we had come, a young man went running along the bank of the lagoon ahead of us, holding a whistle to his mouth and blowing a series of notes. This was the lookout who had given us the go-ahead, who was now alerting his comrades to our arrival.

Men began to emerge from the huts and the surrounding greenery. What had I expected the members of the Cuckoo’s Gang to look like? Wild-eyed savages, I suppose. In fact, they were a motley group. Most were in their late twenties or thirties, but some were my age or even younger. There were no old men among them, and the few who had gray in their beards looked exceptionally fit.

Some were unshaven and shaggy-headed, but others were well groomed. Some wore ragged tunics or loincloths, but others were well dressed, and all were adorned with jewelry-flaunting the finery they had robbed from their victims, no doubt. A few, except for their jewelry, were completely naked. This startled me, for where I came from, outside the baths, only slaves and children were ever seen naked in public. Of course, this was not a public place, but quite the opposite; we had arrived in one of the most secluded and secret spots on earth. The members of the gang were all male-with one curious and surprising exception, as I was soon to discover-and whether a man went dressed or undressed mattered not at all to them. Those who preferred to walk about naked did so.

A few scowled at the sight of us, but others regarded us with blank expressions or even smiled. Several of the men gave a friendly wave to Menkhep.

More and more men gathered. From where I sat it was hard to estimate their numbers, but there must have been well over a hundred, perhaps as many as two hundred.

As we approached the pier, Menkhep called for me to stop rowing. He steered us into place, turning the boat so that we came to a stop perpendicular to the end of the pier. My legs were stiff from sitting, and my arms ached from rowing. I was eager to step out of the boat. So, apparently, was Djet, who sprang up at once.

“Sit down!” snapped Menkhep.

Djet gave him a puzzled look.

“Do as he says,” I whispered. “Wait until we’re invited.”

Red-faced, Djet settled back into the prow of the boat.

From the crowd at the far end of the pier, I heard shouts and murmurs. One name was repeated over and over.

“Where is Artemon?”

“Go and tell Artemon!”

“Artemon needs to come!”

I turned my head and looked at Menkhep. “Who is this Artemon?”

“The Cuckoo’s Child, of course. Our leader. That must be him, coming now.”

The crowd parted. The shouts and murmurs died down. The little lagoon was suddenly so quiet that I heard only the croaking of a frog from the reeds nearby-and then another sound, which seemed to come from much farther away, the roar of some giant beast. It reminded me of sounds I had heard in Alexandria, coming from behind the high wall of the zoological garden attached to the royal palace, where King Ptolemy kept a private menagerie of exotic creatures. What sort of fearsome animal made such a deep, menacing roar? And why did no one in the crowd appear to be startled by it?

I had no more time to think about the strange sound, for at that moment a figure emerged from the crowd and stepped onto the pier. Like most of the men, he was dressed in dull colors, greens and browns that blended with the landscape, but unlike the others he wore a bright red scarf tied around his head. I remembered something my father had told me, that Roman generals were known to wear red capes so as to set themselves apart and make themselves conspicuous to their troops.

Gesturing for Djet and me to stay in the boat, Menkhep deftly stepped past us and onto the pier. He walked to the figure at the far end. The two conversed for a while in voices too low for me to hear. Then the man with the red headscarf began to walk toward us, with Menkhep following behind.

Artemon was tall and broad-shouldered. His footsteps on the pier sounded heavy and solid. Everything about his bearing conveyed confidence and an aura of command, but when he came close enough for me to see his face clearly, I was taken aback.

I had expected the leader of the bandits to be a scarred, grizzled veteran, a craggy-featured brute who could inspire terror with a look. Instead I saw a handsome youth with high cheekbones, a smooth forehead, bright blue eyes, and lips so red he might have colored them, as women do. The wispy shadow across his square jaw was more the suggestion of a beard than a beard itself. He had to be even younger than I, perhaps still a teenager.

Keeping his gaze fixed on me, he reached the end of the pier. “My name is Artemon. And who are you?”

Staying seated in the boat, I had to tilt my head up at a sharp angle. “My name is Marcus Pecunius,” I said, deciding to stay with the false name I had been using ever since our stay in Sais.

“Are you a Roman?” he asked-speaking, to my surprise, in Latin.

I answered in Latin. “I live in Alexandria now. But yes, I come from Rome.”

Artemon nodded. Menkhep stepped beside him, and he reverted to Greek. “My comrade here tells me that you have quite a reputation. He says the whole village came after you, led by some old coot from Sais. But he says you managed to outrun them all. Left them choking in the dust-if any survived the traps along the way.”

“We had an exciting morning,” I said.

Artemon smiled. “Menkhep says the city father from Sais made a rather shocking accusation against you-claimed that you murdered a band of travelers in Canopus single-handed, then ran off with a bag full of jewels.” He raised an eyebrow and peered down his nose at me. “You don’t look like a cold-blooded killer to me, Marcus Pecunius.”

“And you don’t look like the leader of a bandit gang.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “And how many leaders of bandit gangs have you met?”

I made no answer.

“As I thought,” he said. “Whereas I see cold-blooded killers every day.” He waved to indicate the crowd at the far end of the pier. “So in this instance, who’s the better judge of the other’s character, Pecunius, you or I?”

His unblinking stare caused me to shiver. Young he might be, and also pretty, but I could see that Artemon was not to be trifled with. I was also puzzled. A young Egyptian who spoke Latin, and who could frame his arguments in such elegant terms, must surely have received a formal education. How had such a youth come to be the leader of the Delta’s most notorious gang of bandits?

Artemon saw the consternation on my face and seemed to be amused. “Don’t worry, Pecunius, I’m not going to stand here and press you with awkward questions. If Menkhep vouches for you, that’s good enough-for now, at least. In this place, you’ll find that we don’t ask too many questions. Here, it’s what a man does that matters, and how he gets along with his comrades-not where he comes from, or what language he speaks, or who his parents were … or whether he did or did not kill some people. But I will want to have a look inside that bag you’ve brought. If it’s full of loot, as Menkhep seems to think, you’ll be allowed to keep a portion of it-by Isis, you’ve earned it, if you’ve run all the way here from Canopus with a mob breathing down your neck! But you’ll be expected to share. That’s the rule here: share and share alike. If you want to step foot on this pier, you must accept this.”

I shrugged. “I understand. If it weren’t for Menkhep, I’d be a dead man now. I’m grateful for your hospitality.”

Artemon nodded, then looked at Djet. “What about the boy? Is he your son?”

“No.”

“Your slave?”

“No.”

“What is he to you, then?”

“That’s … a bit complicated.”

Artemon pursed his lips and shrugged. “About that sort of thing, also, we don’t ask prying questions. Still, it’s not a good idea, bringing a boy into a place like this. For one thing, a boy can’t do the work of a man.”

“What he lacks in size and strength, the boy makes up in cleverness,” I said.

Djet nodded and grinned, but Artemon looked dubious. “Also, some of the men might be distracted by such a pretty face.”

No prettier than your face, I thought. “His name is Djet. I’ll take full responsibility for him.”

“See that you do. Well, then, Pecunius-and Djet-welcome to the Cuckoo’s Nest. Step out of that boat. We’re about to eat. You’re welcome to join us, as my personal guests.”

Djet nimbly leaped onto the pier. As I rose to my feet, the boat rocked, and I swayed unsteadily. Artemon took hold of my arm and pulled me onto the pier beside him. He had a powerful grip and stood a full head taller than I.

As we approached the crowd at the end of the pier, I took a closer look at the faces staring back at me. Most of the men looked normal enough, but were these not the most dangerous criminals on earth, the scum of society, the lowest of the low? I felt a sudden thrill of panic. What have you gotten yourself into? I thought. What in Hades are you doing in such a godsforsaken place?

Then I caught a glimpse of a figure who stood a little beyond the crowd, alone and apart. I couldn’t see her clearly, but from her hair and clothing and the way she carried herself I knew it must be a woman.

Could it be Bethesda?

My heart turned upside down in my chest. I wanted to push Artemon aside and run ahead of him, elbow my way through the crowd and stand before her. Instead, I caught my breath, clenched my fists, and walked as steadily as I could. Gazing beyond the crowd, I tried to get a better look.

The woman had vanished.