Raiders of the Nile

XXII

“Where have you been?” said Djet when I returned to our hut. The storm had relented a bit, but the world was still dark. “You’ve been gone half the night.”

“Never mind.” I fell onto my bed, utterly exhausted. I fell asleep at once.

“Wake up!” said Djet.

It seemed to me that only a moment had passed, but now bright sunlight entered around the curtained doorway.

“Wake up,” Djet repeated, poking me in various places with his forefinger in a most irritating way. “Menkhep says you have to come at once.”

My head was so muddled with sleep, for a moment I wondered if the events of the night before had been only a dream.

I sat up. No, it had not been a dream. No dream could have been so strange, so perfect-so dreamlike.

“What are you smiling at?” said Djet. “And where did you disappear to last night?”

“That is none of your business.” I reached out and mussed his hair.

He drew back and frowned. “You’re in a very strange mood.”

“Am I? I’ll tell you what I am: hungry. There’d better be some food out there.”

“You’ll have to hurry if you want any. The rest have already eaten. They’re all busy getting ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“How should I know? That’s why Menkhep says you have to come, and quickly.”

I wiped the sleep from my eyes and stood up. My arms and shoulders were stiff from rowing the previous day, and my back was stiff from certain other exertions, but no amount of physical discomfort could spoil my mood. I dressed myself and followed Djet into the bright sunshine. The cool, moist world around us seemed to have been scrubbed clean by the rain. The beads of water that clung to the tips of a nearby papyrus plant were turned into scintillating crescents by the slanting sunlight. Steam rose from the earth, and a veil of mist hovered above the lagoon.

“There you are!” Menkhep appeared and slapped me on the back. He was in high spirits. “Here, I saved you a bit of flatbread. Eat up! We’ll take some food with us of course, but we won’t break for a meal until-”

“Who are ‘we’ and where are we going?”

“Ah, you weren’t awake to hear Artemon’s announcement. As you know, Metrodora saw the storm coming yesterday…”

“Didn’t we all?” I muttered under my breath.

“… and last night, amid all the thunder and lightning, a vision came to her. It’s what we hoped for. The wreck should be waiting for us when we get there.”

“What wreck? And where?”

He shook his head and laughed. “It’s a good thing you won’t have to do much thinking today-just lots of rowing. Don’t worry, you’ll be in my boat. I’ll look after you.”

Some of the men had already boarded the long, slender boats tied at the pier. Others were pulling more boats from the foliage along the bank of the lagoon.

“Is everyone going?”

“Almost everyone. Artemon will leave sentries, of course, but those men will also be given a share of the booty.”

“Is it a raid?” said Djet. “Will there be a lot of bloodshed? Do I need to carry a weapon?”

Menkhep smiled. “I’m afraid you won’t be coming, young fellow. This is work for men.”

Djet crossed his arms and stuck out his chin. “But I-”

“Quiet, Djet!” I frowned. “Will he be safe here, on his own?”

“Don’t worry. Artemon has instructed everyone to leave the boy alone. No one disobeys Artemon. Now eat that flatbread and come along. Don’t forget to bring a hat with you-and a knife. And a scarf.”

“A scarf?”

“To cover your face, like this.” He demonstrated by pulling the cloth tied loosely around his neck up to his nose. “So that no one will recognize you. It’s for their own good. Otherwise, you’ll have to kill them.” He pulled the scarf down.

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Never mind, I have a spare I can give you. Now come along.”

Moments later, I joined twenty other men in one of the boats on the lagoon, seated at the rear next to Menkhep, from whom the others took orders. Some of the men were to row while others rested, and for the moment I was among the latter. With Artemon’s boat leading the way, one by one the vessels headed into the mist, leaving the Cuckoo’s Nest behind. I turned my head and saw Djet standing at the end of the pier, looking forlorn, and then the mist swallowed him up.

“How can anyone see where we’re headed in this mist?” I asked Menkhep.

“Don’t worry, there are men in each boat who know the way. We could take this route in the dark, and sometimes we have. The mist is actually a good thing. It hides us from anyone on the shore. It’s all right to talk, but keep your voice low.”

“Are we going far?”

“We’ll be traveling most of the day. Enjoy the rest while you can. Soon enough it’ll be your turn to row.”

“I’m already stiff from all that rowing yesterday.”

“Lucky you! The best way to work that loose is more rowing.”

We headed downriver. The boats glided almost silently through the water. The quiet splashing of frogs along the bank made more sound than we did. The mist was so thick, I could barely see the boat ahead of us, or the one behind. Occasionally instructions were conveyed from the front of the convoy to the rear, with the man in charge of each boat calling quietly to the boat behind.

A thought occurred to me. “Will you not be missed at the trading post, Menkhep?”

He shook his head. “My brother runs the place with me. We take turns.”

“He’s also a member of the gang?”

Menkhep nodded. “Happily for me, I get to go on the expedition today, while he stays behind and plays shopkeeper. He’ll have to look stupid and keep his mouth shut while everyone jabbers about the terrible fate of that old coot from Sais and his mob.”

The mist gradually cleared. The rays of the morning sun grew steadily warmer as it rose, but passing clouds provided shade. At times we passed through channels so narrow I could touch the foliage on either side. At other times we crossed open water, so far from land that the distant banks were mere smudges on the horizon.

We passed flocks of ibises and flamingos, small herds of hippopotami, dancing dragonflies and dozing crocodiles. When we weren’t busy rowing, Menkhep was happy to converse.

“I’m thinking of something you said this morning, about Artemon,” I said.

“Yes?”

“‘No one disobeys Artemon.’ Why is that? Why do the men fear and respect him so much? He’s so…”

“Young?”

“Yes. Even younger than I am.”

“Alexander was young, wasn’t he, when he led his men all the way to India and back?”

“Are you comparing Artemon to Alexander the Great?” I tried not to sound sarcastic.

“Some men have a certain quality. They were born to be leaders. Other men see that and respond to it. Age doesn’t matter.”

“But Alexander was born a prince and raised to be a king.”

“Do you think only those of royal blood can be leaders of men? I thought you Romans got rid of your kings a long time ago. Don’t you vote for the men who lead you? So do we bandits.” Menkhep hummed and nodded. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe that explains it.…”

“Explains what?”

“No one really knows where Artemon comes from. The same could be said of many of us, of course, but in Artemon’s case…”

“Yes? Go on.”

He shrugged. “As I say, none of us really knows the truth. Except perhaps Metrodora…”

“What are you talking about?”

“They call him the Cuckoo’s Child. There must be a reason.”

“You speak in riddles, Menkhep.”

“What does the cuckoo do? It lays its egg into the nest of another bird, so that when the egg hatches, the unsuspecting mother bird is fooled into raising the chick as her own.”

“Are you saying that Artemon was a bastard? Isn’t that what’s usually meant when a man is called a cuckoo’s child?”

“Sometimes. When a child never seems to fit with the family, people think an outsider must have fathered it. But ‘cuckoo’s child’ can mean something else. There’s an old story told by the Jews, about one of their leaders here in Egypt, back in the long-ago days of the pharaohs. He was called Moses.”

“I’ve heard of him,” I said, and almost added, from Bethesda. Her Jewish mother had taught her many stories about the old Hebrews, just as my father had told me stories of old Rome.

“Then you’ll know that Moses was born to a Hebrew mother, who set him adrift on the Nile when Pharaoh ordered that all Hebrew newborns should be killed. But Pharaoh’s daughter discovered the baby and raised him as her own. Moses was a cuckoo’s child-a slave raised to be a prince.”

“So now you’re comparing Artemon to Moses?”

“Except that Artemon’s story would be the opposite. A prince raised among paupers.”

“Are you saying that Artemon has royal blood?”

“Many of the men think so.”

“Then how on earth did he end up here?”

“Have we not all arrived here by strange paths-even you, Pecunius?”

I thought about this. “What sort of royal blood? Are you saying Artemon comes from King Ptolemy’s family?”

“Not his immediate family. Do you know the situation in Cyrene?”

I remembered the mime performed by Melmak and his troupe, in which the fat merchant meant to represent King Ptolemy had expelled one precious item after another from his backside, all of Cyrenaic manufacture. The point had been to remind people that during King Ptolemy’s reign Egypt had lost the city of Cyrene to the Romans, thanks to a will left by the late regent.

“I know that Cyrene used to be administered by Apion, who was the king’s bastard brother, and when Apion died he left all of Cyrenaica to Rome.”

“And why did he do that?”

“Because he owed a lot of money to Roman bankers and a lot of favors to Roman senators.” In recent years, Roman politicians had made an art of such bloodless conquests, inducing foreign rulers to bequeath their territory to the Roman people.

“Even so, most men favor their children in their wills.”

“But Apion died childless.”

“Ah, but did he?”

“What are you saying, Menkhep?”

“Apion himself was a bastard, sired by the father of King Ptolemy with one of his concubines. For a long time Apion had no place in the Ptolemy household, but by hook or by crook he got his hands on Cyrenaica and ruled it as if it were his own. Then, on his deathbed, he gave it away so that no other Ptolemy could rule there.”

“There’s no love lost between members of your royal family,” I said. “Mother and sons, brothers and bastards-all at each other’s throats.”

“And they say we bandits are the savages!” Menkhep laughed. “But what if the bastard Apion sired a bastard of his own-and refused to recognize him? And what if that son, of Ptolemy blood, was raised as a commoner? We might say such a son was a cuckoo’s child twice over, in both meanings of the phrase-a bastard, yes, but also, like Moses, a man born to one status but raised by people of another.”

“And this cuckoo’s child would be Artemon?”

“If that were so, Artemon’s birthright would be Cyrenaica-and perhaps more even than Cyrenaica, much more, given the chaos that’s brewing in Alexandria.”

I shook my head. “This is all rather fantastic, Menkhep.”

“If King Ptolemy is forced to flee Alexandria, perhaps even a bastard nephew of the king might stand a chance at the throne.”

“Not unless he has an army behind him! I think the hot Egyptian sun has made you delusional, my friend. Artemon as the bastard son of Apion-where did you get such an idea? From Artemon himself?”

“No. Artemon never speaks of his origins. We know he must be Egyptian, because he speaks the language perfectly, and we know he spent some time in Syria before he came to the Delta. But he never speaks of his family.”

“Who says he’s a bastard Ptolemy, then? How did such a rumor get started?”

Menkhep lowered his voice. “Some say that Metrodora had a vision and saw the truth about Artemon. She never revealed it directly, but from utterances here and there, some of us put together the story.”

“These ‘utterances’ from Metrodora-are they always correct?”

“If you know how to interpret them.”

“That’s the problem with soothsayers and oracles, isn’t it? Misinterpret a single word and you’re likely to get the opposite of what you hoped for.”

It was our turn to row again, and that put a stop to our conversation.

Menkhep had been right about one thing: the more I rowed, the more the stiffness in my shoulders and arms subsided. There was something exhilarating about being outside, on the water, in the company of other men, all of us bending our efforts toward a common purpose. Little by little I began to feel part of the group.

The snatches of conversation I overheard from the others were less serious than my exchange with Menkhep. These consisted of rude comments, good-natured ribbing, and some of the filthiest jokes I had ever heard. I thought I had grown quite jaded in my travels, and that nothing could shock me, but the coarse vulgarity of these men could have made Melmak and his mime troupe blush.

One of the men was even more vulgar than the rest, and louder. Even though he was seated at the very front of the boat, I could hear everything he said. He was a boaster, endlessly talking about all the men he had killed, all the women he had bedded, and the prodigious size of his member. Seeing me wince at the man’s foul language, Menkhep whispered in my ear that his name was Osor and that he came from Memphis.

“A newcomer,” said Menkhep. “Something of a show-off. Not especially popular with the others.”

“They all seem to laugh at his jokes.”

“But not as loudly as he does. Behind his back they call him Hairy Shoulders, for obvious reasons.”

The man had stripped off his tunic, and though I saw only glimpses of his bearded face in profile, I could clearly see his bare shoulders, which were covered with the same thick, wiry growth that covered his jaw.

When it was our turn to rest again, I asked about something Menkhep had said. “Is it true that the men vote for their leader?”

“Yes.”

“So the men selected Artemon to lead them?”

“That’s right. It wasn’t long after he joined us, about two years ago.”

“He must have looked even younger then!”

“Even so, from his first day among us he proved himself with one act of daring after another. When our old leader was killed during a raid, the choice of Artemon to replace him was unanimous.”

“You actually held a vote, as we hold votes for magistrates in Rome?”

“I suppose. Except the vote of each man here is equal, whereas in Rome, I’m told, the vote of a rich man counts for more than that of a poor man.”

I did not dispute the point. “What if a man should wish to take Artemon’s place?”

“Why do you ask? Do you have ambitions in that regard, Roman?” Menkhep seemed to find the idea amusing.

“Of course not. But what if it happened?”

“It did happen once. A Sidonian named Ephron challenged Artemon to single combat. Ephron was a hulking brute of a fellow, loud and mean-tempered, and even bigger than Artemon. The two fought hand to hand. That was something to watch! When it was over, nothing remained of Ephron but a mangled lump of flesh. The sight of him made my blood run cold. No one has challenged Artemon since.”

“But it could happen?”

“Any man can challenge the leader any time he wishes. One would survive and one would die.”

“But I thought you said you elected your leader?”

“If a challenger managed to kill Artemon, then we’d hold a vote to see if he should be the leader. But the men love Artemon so much, I think they’d vote to banish the challenger instead.”

“Might the men vote to put him to death?”

“A man is never put to death by vote, only on orders of the leader, and only when he’s broken a rule with such impunity that only his death can put things right.”

“Who makes these rules?”

“The leader, with the men’s consent.”

I shook my head. “It all sounds a bit arbitrary.”

“Does it? In the outside world, these men have no say at all about what laws they live by or what man rules over them. Here, every man is equal to every other, and any man can be the leader, if he has what it takes. Is the Roman way any better?”

I had no ready answer.

Had Artemon really killed a man using his bare hands? Artemon, the love-struck boy I had seen last night? No wonder Ismene had been so insistent that I mustn’t assert my claim on Bethesda.

There was more to the so-called Cuckoo’s Child than met the eye, that was clear. But could Menkhep’s far-fetched ideas about Artemon’s royal origins possibly be true?

Menkhep had compared his beloved leader to Alexander and to Moses, but another comparison struck me: Romulus, the first king of Rome. My first glimpse of the huts around the lagoon had reminded me of the Hut of Romulus, that venerated landmark in the heart of Rome, lovingly maintained through countless generations so that Romans would never forget their humble origins. Rome had begun as a village of such huts-indeed, as a village of bandits, for in the beginning the twin brothers Romulus and Remus were outlaws who gained ever greater wealth and power as they attracted more and more outlaws to their following, until there were so many men in Rome that they stole the Sabine women-a final act of banditry-then settled down to become respectable followers of a respectable king. Or perhaps not so respectable, since King Romulus’s first act was to kill his twin. The murderous rivalries within the Egyptian royal family were appalling, but had it not been the same when Rome had kings?

The origins of Rome were steeped in fratricide and banditry. Was it so implausible, after all, that Artemon, the Cuckoo’s Child, might be the descendant of kings, or that a future king of Egypt might come from a bandit’s lair in the Delta?

The sun rose to its zenith, bore down upon us, and then began its descent. I fell into the rhythm of the day, rowing and resting, rowing and resting, bemused by the vulgar banter of the bandits and the wild ideas that Menkhep had put in my head.

At last, late in the afternoon, we drew near to our destination.