Raiders of the Nile

XXIII

To the ubiquitous smell of the Delta was added another: the tangy, salty odor of the sea.

“Are we drawing near to the coast?” I asked Menkhep. By imperceptible degrees, the landscape around us had changed. The vast mudflats with their scrubby vegetation and the inland lagoons with their floating lotus gardens were behind us. Now sandy banks rose on either side to form low, undulating dunes, pierced here and there by outcroppings of stone and scattered with gray, wind-swept grasses and bunches of flowering succulents.

“We won’t actually reach the coast, but we’ll see it in the distance,” said Menkhep. “Our destination is an inlet where ships are known to take shelter when there’s a storm. The inlet is safer than the open sea, but still dangerous, because of sharp rocks hidden just below the waterline at the southern shore. If the wind comes from the north, as it did last night, it can blow a ship right onto the rocks. Even captains who know the hazard can’t always avoid it.”

“And you think a ship was wrecked there during the storm last night?”

“It’s not what I think. Metrodora saw it happen.”

“What if we get there, and there’s no wreck to be seen?”

“That’s not impossible, I suppose. Metrodora could have misinterpreted her vision; perhaps she saw a shipwreck somewhere else. But we’ll find out soon enough. Care to make a wager? My trading post against that ruby of yours?”

I stiffened, not caring to reveal to him where the ruby had gone.

“Look at your face!” Menkhep laughed. “Don’t worry, Roman, I’m only joking. I’m not a gambling man.”

Moments later, the boat leading the convoy rounded a bend and disappeared beyond the high, sandy bank to our right. The boat passed out of sight but not out of hearing, for a moment later I heard the sound of cheering. A ripple of excitement passed down the convoy. As each boat rounded the bend, the men aboard joined the cheering. In due course it was our turn, and I saw the reason for the celebration.

We had entered the inlet of which Menkhep had spoken. The vast circle of water was surrounded by low dunes on all sides except for the narrow channel through which we had entered and another, wider opening to the north, beyond which I could glimpse the sunlit expanse of the sea. On the southern shore of the inlet, immediately to our right, I saw the wrecked vessel. The ship lay on its side, half in the water and half on the beach, its broken mast trailing a tattered sail. The exposed hull was pierced by a gaping hole.

Debris from the ship was scattered up and down the beach, as were several bodies. The bodies showed no signs of life. It was all too easy to imagine how these doomed sailors had been swept overboard, sucked under the storm-churned waters, and cast onto the beach.

Artemon directed the lead boat to make landfall near the foundered ship. As the men jumped into the surf and pulled the long boat onto the beach, a figure emerged from the nearby wreck. At first, I took him to be a survivor, but his long, dark robes and cloth headdress were more suited for riding a camel than sailing a ship. The man gave a start, turned back toward the wreck, and cried out. Several more men, similarly dressed, emerged from the ruin of the ship. Seeing the approach of our little flotilla, they turned and ran toward a nearby sand dune, where a number of camels had been tethered. Stacked near the camels were various items that had been scavenged from the ship.

“It appears that someone’s arrived ahead of us,” I said to Menkhep.

“Fools! Everyone knows this inlet is the territory of the Cuckoo’s Gang. Any ship that founders here is ours to plunder and no one else’s.”

“These fellows seem not to have gotten the message.”

“They will, soon enough. Rowers, be quick! Double-time!”

The men from Artemon’s boat were already in pursuit, knives drawn. The quickest of the scavengers managed to jump onto a camel and head off at a gallop, but his slower, less agile companions were not so lucky. They were still fumbling to mount their camels when Artemon’s men fell upon them in a frenzy. Blades flashed. Crimson streamers of blood rose from the melee. For a few moments I heard screams and cries for mercy, then silence.

Menkhep steered our boat alongside the others that had already been drawn onto the beach. “Damn! We’ve missed the battle!”

“It was over before it started,” I said. “But one of them got away. No one seems to be going after him.”

“Artemon always lets one man escape, to tell others what happened. Worthless scavengers like him will think twice before they try to steal the plunder of the Cuckoo’s Gang! As it is, these stupid fellows have simply done some of the work for us, sorting through the valuables and stacking them neatly on the beach.”

Once all the men had beached their boats, we assembled in a group near the wreck. Artemon stood before us. His red scarf had been tied to conceal his face, and those of us who had not yet done so followed his example.

“It’s just as the soothsayer told us,” he said. “Last night’s storm brought death and disaster to some, but their loss is our gain. For sending us here, we can thank Metrodora.”

The men around me nodded. Some made superstitious signs with their hands, averting the jealous power of the Evil Eye that robs men of good fortune.

“We hide our faces because some survivor may yet be alive within that wreckage, or wandering the beach. It seems unlikely. Anyone who saw those scavengers, or us, will have fled into the dunes. And if anyone on the ship was still alive, I suspect those scavengers put an end to them. So I think it’s unlikely that we’ll encounter any survivors. But if we do…”

He paused to run his eyes over the men assembled before him, fixing his gaze on each of us in turn. With the lower half of his face hidden by the scarf, his eyes took on a peculiar intensity. When his gaze met mine, I shivered. What was this power Artemon projected over other men, and where did it come from?

“If we do encounter any survivors, they are not to be harmed. Nor is any woman to be molested. We are bandits-not assassins, not soldiers, not rapists. Does every man here understand? Does every man agree?”

I nodded, thinking this would suffice, but every man around me said the word “yes” out loud. Some noticed my silence and turned to look at me, until I, too, said it. This was apparently a ritual among them, in which all had to take part.

“If any man here does not agree, if he thinks he knows a better way, if he thinks he would make a better leader and make better rules, then let him step forward now and challenge me.” Artemon strode from one end of the group to the other, looking from face to face. No one moved.

“Very well. I remind you of another rule. When a storm strikes at sea, some men aboard ship prepare for their fate by tying to their persons whatever valuables they possess. They do this as a signal to whoever should find their bodies: take these worldly goods in return for the favor of disposing of these remains in a decent fashion. This is a sacred bond between the dead and the living, between the victim of the storm and the scavenger. We honor and observe that bond. Using whatever dry wood we can collect from the beach and from the ship, we shall build a pyre. Any body we find, upon which the dead man’s wealth has been attached as an offering, will be stripped of valuables and then laid upon the pyre and burned, so that neither fish nor vultures can devour it. Does every man here understand? Does every man agree?”

“Yes,” I said, along with the others.

Artemon stared at us for a long moment. By the crinkling of his eyes, I could see that he smiled. “Then let’s begin!”

Following Artemon’s instructions, the men fell to various tasks. Some fetched the booty already collected by the scavengers and began loading it into the boats. Some ventured into the wrecked ship, carrying long axes to break through any obstacles; later they emerged carrying trunks and bundles of fabric and even a few amphorae of wine that had survived the wreck intact. Some began collecting wood and building the funeral pyre.

Others headed up and down the beach to comb through the debris and search the dead bodies. Among this last group I saw Hairy Shoulders, who apparently had left both his tunic and his loincloth in the boat, for he was going about the task completely naked. I had never seen a man with so much hair on his body.

I looked up and saw vultures circling overhead. Their wheeling flights converged above the little dune where the scavengers had been slain. While I watched, one vulture after another dared to land and pick at the corpses.

“Menkhep!” said Artemon, walking toward us. “You and Pecunius go and tend to those bodies.”

“You don’t expect us to drag them to the funeral pyre, do you?” said Menkhep.

“Of course not.” Artemon drew closer and lowered his voice. “But someone needs to scare off those vultures and search the bodies, to retrieve any valuables. I can trust you to do that without defiling the remains. Some of the men-they’re hardly better than animals, as you well know.”

“Come on, Pecunius.” Menkhep was clearly not pleased with our assignment.

The skittish vultures were easily dispersed. First we looked through the trappings of the camels, but found little of value. They had been hitched in a circle, their reins tied to a scrubby bush. Menkhep set about untying them, and indicated that I should do likewise.

“Are you sure we should let them go?” I said.

“We can hardly take them with us. Would you have them stand here in the hot sun and starve?”

Finally we turned to the task of searching the corpses.

I had as yet seen few dead men in my life, and touched even fewer with my own hands. The bodies were still warm and the wounds still wet with blood. From the similarity of their features and the range of ages-the eldest had a white beard, and the youngest was hardly bigger than Djet-I realized that the scavengers might all be members of a single family. If that were the case, the lone survivor would be returning to a household of women soon to be wracked with grief.

Some of the men wore rings and necklaces, none of any great value. Between them we retrieved only a handful of coins. Upon several of these the serene profile of King Ptolemy had been smeared with blood. Menkhep wiped the coins clean before dropping them in the bag tied at his waist.

Menkhep paused and tilted one ear upward. “Do you hear that?”

I listened. Above the quiet surf, the creaking of the wrecked ship, and the sound of the men shouting back and forth, I heard a noise like the whimper of an animal, very faint but from somewhere nearby. The noise faded, then I heard it again, louder and more plaintive than before.

“That’s a woman,” said Menkhep, lowering his voice.

“Are you sure?”

“Come!” He gestured for me to be silent and follow.

We trudged through the sand to the top of the dune. In the shallow depression below us, atop a bed of succulents, glistening with beads of sweat under the hot sun, I saw the heaving, hirsute backside of Hairy Shoulders. What he was doing was obvious, but the body beneath his was so much smaller that I could hardly see her. At last Hairy Shoulders pulled back, and I saw the bloodless face of a young girl framed by a nimbus of curly chestnut hair. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was frozen in a grimace. It was hard to tell whether she was conscious or not, but she was clearly in pain.

Beside me, Menkhep put two fingers in his mouth and produced a shrieking whistle.

A moment later, Artemon came running up the little hill, followed by several others. Interrupted by the whistle, Hairy Shoulders had withdrawn from his victim and rolled to one side. He looked up at us dumbly. His hairy chest was matted with blood, and for a moment I thought he must be wounded. Then I realized the blood had come from a deep gash across the girl’s breasts. The tattered remains of her clothing were pasted with sweat and blood to her motionless body.

“It wasn’t me who stabbed her!” shouted Hairy Shoulders. “It must have been the scavengers. They must have had their way with her before they started ransacking the boat, then they left her here to die.” There was a note of panic in his voice. When I saw the look on Artemon’s face, I understood the man’s fear. Artemon’s gaze was like that of a basilisk: furious, implacable, without mercy.

“Did you not hear what I said, before we began, Osor?” Artemon’s low, chilling tone was more frightening than if he had shouted.

“Of course I heard. But it’s not like I harmed the girl myself. I told you, this is how I found her. I ask you, what man wouldn’t take advantage of such a situation, eh?” He managed a crooked grin. While he talked, his manhood, which appeared to be just as prodigious as he claimed, had withered until it almost vanished amid the forest of hair between his legs.

“You must see that you leave me no choice,” said Artemon.

“What? Why do you say that?” Hairy Shoulders’s voice broke. “It’s not what you think, I tell you! She was enjoying it. Don’t you see?” He turned to the girl, but when he touched her, he pulled back his hand and gave a stifled cry.

The girl was dead.

“Bring him to the beach, where everyone can see,” said Artemon. The others descended on Hairy Shoulders and carried him, twisting and shouting, up and over the crest of the dune and toward the beach.

Artemon looked at Menkhep. “You and Pecunius, carry the girl to the funeral pyre.”

It was a strange and loathsome duty, having to touch a body so recently alive. As we moved her, a warm breath issued from the girl’s mouth so that she seemed almost to sigh, but the reedy, hollow sound was not like anything I had ever heard from the lips of a living mortal. Her body was limp and weighed very little. I could easily have carried her by myself, had I cared to pick her up in my arms, as occasionally I had picked up Bethesda for the simple joy of holding her and carrying her about. Instead, Menkhep and I shared the burden, carrying her like a sack or some other object, and our progress across the sand was slow and painfully awkward. Menkhep, who had searched the slain scavengers with no sign of squeamishness, appeared quite unnerved by this task. We both sighed with relief when at last, slowly and gently, we laid the girl’s body atop the makeshift pyre of debris and driftwood.

In the meantime, Hairy Shoulders’s ankles had been bound and his wrists tied behind his back. He had been lain over a crate taken from the wreckage, so that his head hung over the edge. He was quietly weeping.

From up and down the beach the men reassembled before the wreck. Their high spirits faded as they drew closer and realized what was happening.

Artemon stood before the prisoner. In one hand, like a chamberlain’s staff or a military standard, he held an axe with a long handle. “You were caught in the act of raping one of the ship’s survivors, Osor. Do you deny it?”

Hairy Shoulders strained to lift his head, and managed to look Artemon in the eye. “Any other man would have done the same! The girl was going to die, anyway, so what difference does it make?”

“I saw what you did. So did the men who carried you here. Does any man here wish to speak in defense of Osor?” Artemon ran his eyes over the crowd. No one spoke.

“Then I pronounce you guilty and declare that the punishment shall be carried out at once. Does any man here challenge my judgment?”

“This is madness!” shouted Hairy Shoulders. “Why does no one speak up? What a bunch of cowards you all are, taking orders from this high-born whelp!”

“The punishment is death,” said Artemon. There followed a long moment of silence broken only by the quiet surf and the cries of the seagulls.

“By the laws of the outside world-the world ruled by King Ptolemy-you’d be made to suffer a terrible death, Osor. You might be crucified, or hanged, or stoned to death. But because you’re one of us, you shall be given the death that the rest of the world reserves for men of rank and honor, the swiftest and most merciful means of execution. You shall be beheaded, Osor.”

Hairy Shoulders averted his face and began to sob.

“Who will carry out the sentence? It should be done swiftly and surely, with a single blow. The task calls for an experienced killer of men.” Artemon looked from face to face, until his eyes settled on me. “There’s a newcomer among us, a man who’s said to have done his share of killing. And because he’s new, he can have no personal grudge against Osor.” He stepped toward me and held forth the axe. “This is a chance to show us what you’re made of, Roman.”

I looked at Hairy Shoulders, bound and sobbing on the makeshift chopping block. I looked at the axe. The sharp blade gleamed in the sunlight. I looked at Artemon’s face. He had the stern, determined look of a leader of men, but in his eyes I saw a strangely boyish glitter of excitement.

With trembling fingers, I reached for the axe.