Raiders of the Nile

XXXVI

“I thought you could swim. You call yourself a daughter of the Nile!”

Next to me, Bethesda sputtered and flailed her arms, desperate to keep her head above water. As terrible a swimmer as I might be, she was even worse.

Somehow I had managed to find the proper rhythm for treading water, kicking my legs and flapping my arms to stay afloat, but Bethesda was having a harder time. A measure of the peril she faced was her silence in response to my grousing. Normally she would have thrown my words back at me, but bantering was beyond her now. She was in dire straits.

I circled behind her and looped one arm around her. “Lie back against me. Relax and stop struggling! I can hold you up,” I promised, though I was by no means certain that I could do so.

I peered around us. The waves were so high that at times I couldn’t see the shoreline in any direction. The only point of orientation was the towering Pharos Lighthouse, which for all its immensity seemed very far away. The waves seemed to slap against each other at random, traveling in all directions at once. Were we being swept back toward the wharf, or out to sea? I had no idea, and lacked the skill to take us in any particular direction.

Worst of all, my stamina was rapidly dwindling. The excitement of the fight with Artemon had stirred the last of my strength, but that burst of energy was long spent. The water, colder than I had expected, was sapping whatever spark remained in me.

For the second time that day, I prepared to meet my ancestors. At least mine would not be a bloody, horrific death at the hands of another man. Neptune would take me, as he had taken so many men in the past. Fish would devour me, and no tomb would hold my remains except the vast sarcophagus of the sea.

Bethesda stopped her flailing and lay back against me, as I had told her to do. I had a goal now: to keep her head above water as long as I could. I struggled against the waves to maintain a steady rhythm, kicking with my legs and using my free arm as a rudder. So far, so good-but I could almost count the number of strokes left in me. I was cold, and exhausted, and ready for sleep.

Bethesda whispered something. I turned my ear toward her, but her words were not directed to me.

“I call upon you, Moira,” she murmured. “I call upon you, Ananke. Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name, help us!”

Magic! The poor girl, in her extremity, was calling upon the same dark forces that Ismene had called upon. What incantations and bits of sorcery had Ismene taught Bethesda during their long, idle days together in that hut on the outskirts of the Cuckoo’s Nest? What good was such witchery to two mortals who could not swim, yet who found themselves in the midst of a vast harbor? What a simple, foolish girl Bethesda was, and how I longed to kiss her and hold her at that moment, but it was all I could do to keep one arm around her as I desperately struggled to stay afloat. The end was very near.

“Bethesda,” I whispered, for I lacked sufficient breath to speak more loudly. “Bethesda, leave off your incantations and listen to me.” Before we both died, I wanted to speak to her openly and honestly, to express to her a certain emotion that no self-respecting Roman should ever feel for a slave, let alone utter aloud, but about which I could no longer be silent.

She seemed not to hear me, for she continued to murmur. “Moira … Ananke … Ufer of the Mighty Name…”

“Bethesda!” Could she hear me or not? “Bethesda, I love-”

“Use the hook, you fool!” someone shouted.

The boat seemed to materialize from nowhere. Suddenly it loomed behind me, so close I thought the hull would strike my head. Then something took hold of my tunic and lifted me upward. I held fast to Bethesda, then saw that a second hook had been slipped inside the neckline of her gown and was lifting her alongside me. Hands gripped us and pulled us upward and over the rail and onto the deck of the ship.

For a moment, lying on my back, I was completely disoriented, for it seemed we were not on a ship at all but had somehow been transported to another world-a world where all surfaces were of shimmering gold and silver or brightly colored paint or inlays of lapis and ivory, and every image was more beautiful and exquisite than the last … a world of gorgeous lotus blossoms and white-robed suppliants, of sparkling blue water and golden rushes, of iridescent peacocks and dazzling flamingos. Overhead, gauzy curtains wafted gently in the breeze and the first star of evening shone in the darkling sky.

“You’re sure these two jumped off the pirate ship?” someone asked.

“Certain of it.”

“But this can’t be the Cuckoo’s Child. He doesn’t fit the description at all. And there was no mention of a girl.”

“Even so, I saw them jump from the ship.”

Suddenly an unfriendly face loomed above me, surmounted by an elaborate headdress such as a royal official might wear. “You, there! Who are you and why did you jump from the ship? And where is the Cuckoo’s Child?”

I peered into the man’s unblinking eyes. By the white robes he wore, and the elaborate jewelry at his neck and wrist, and the markings of kohl and other cosmetics on his long, dour face, I knew he must be some high-ranking chamberlain of the king’s government.

“Where am I?” I said.

“Answer the question!”

I caught my breath. “If you mean Artemon-”

“Yes, yes, the Cuckoo’s Child! We were to pick him out of the water.”

I drew a sharp breath, startled by what he had just said. “We left Artemon back on the wharf. Cheelba the lion attacked him. Then the king’s soldiers captured him-”

“What?” The chamberlain curled his lip. “That’s not what was supposed to happen. Holy Isis, what sort of mess have you bandits made of things?”

I managed to sit up. Bethesda did likewise. I looked to see that she was all right, and then put my hand on hers.

“I am not a bandit,” I said. “I am a Roman citizen named Gordianus.”

“Is that so? You were seen jumping off that ship, which is full of bandits.”

Yes, and I was their king! I wanted to say, but restrained myself. “It’s true that I was on the ship, but only because I was captured by those bandits and forced to travel with them.”

The chamberlain peered down his nose. “And the girl? Who is she?”

“Her name is Bethesda. She’s my slave. She, too, was captured by the bandits.”

Another voice, male but high-pitched and with an elegant accent, entered the conversation. “A lovely young couple captured by bandits! Oh, dear, it’s like something out of one of those sordid mime shows! How delicious!”

The chamberlain turned about in alarm. “Your Majesty, you mustn’t be seen on deck. Please return to the cabin-”

“Oh, do be quiet, Zenon! And get on with your interrogation of this attractive young couple. Even soaking wet, I find them quite beguiling. Especially soaking wet!”

The chamberlain rolled his eyes.

I blinked, and blinked again. Surely I was dead, or dreaming, or transported to another realm of existence. Any explanation seemed more likely than the impossible reality that I found myself aboard a royal barque in the presence of the king of Egypt.

Before me stood one of the fattest human beings I had ever seen. He was also by far the most elaborately dressed mortal I had ever laid eyes on. On his head, rising like a stem from a gourd, was a ridiculously tall atef crown. He had many chins, and each chin seemed to be festooned with its own fabulous necklace. His sheer bulk demanded many bolts of linen for its adornment, and these vast garments were so richly spangled with jewels and precious stones and golden accouterments, all lit by the lowering red sun, that I had to shield my eyes to look at him.

To rest my eyes from so much brilliance, I looked around me. The ship was a match for its owner, for never had I seen anything made by men that could rival it for sheer magnificence. Every surface was decorated with the costliest materials and the most exquisite craftsmanship. The result was so beautiful and so ornate that the vessel hardly seemed to be a ship at all, but rather a floating temple or palace. Thus would a god take to the water, if gods had need of ships.

Despite my weakness and light-headedness, I started to get to my feet, but the chamberlain indicated with a poke of his bejeweled staff that I should stay where I was.

“The Cuckoo’s Child is on the wharf, you say?”

“Yes. And I think that’s not the only part of your scheme that’s taken an unexpected turn,” I added. As befuddled as I was, I was beginning to sniff the truth.

“What do you mean?”

“The fake sarcophagus is on the wharf. The real sarcophagus is on the pirate ship.”

Zenon turned stark white, as if every drop of blood had been drained from him in an instant-and been infused into King Ptolemy, whose round, fleshy face turned ruby red. The king’s lips began to blubber. A variety of sounds issued forth, but none that resembled speech.

The chamberlain also spewed and stuttered before finding his voice. “Your Majesty, we know nothing about this man. Why should we believe him?”

“Why should you not?” I said quietly. “I have no reason to lie to the king of Egypt.”

“Head for the wharf!” the king shouted. “Immediately and at full speed. We’ll see if what the Roman says is true.”

The ship gave a lurch and swung about, propelled at astounding speed by unseen rowers. Behind us I saw the Pharos Lighthouse and the sail of the Medusa, not yet clear of the harbor. Ahead of us, the wharf loomed closer and closer. King Ptolemy stepped behind a screen of gauzy curtains, as if to shield himself from the gaze of unworthy mortals. I heard a chomping sound, and realized that the king was noisily eating something.

On the wharf, Artemon was lying on his back. Several soldiers knelt over him, as if treating his wounds. There was no sign of Cheelba. The wagon with the fake sarcophagus was nearby, where Artemon’s men had left it. As the royal barque came within earshot, the commanding officer on the wharf stepped forward and came to attention. He looked grim.

“Report!” shouted Zenon.

“The sarcophagus was taken,” said the officer. “We did our best to hold it, but the bandits outnumbered us-”

“Outfought you, you mean!” snapped Zenon. “There was never to be a battle at all. How did such a thing happen? Bring forth the artificer!”

From among the soldiers a figure stepped forward. I gave a start. By the stripe of white that split his beard and the hair on his head, I recognized the man known to some as Lykos, to others as the Jackal.

The chamberlain pointed his staff at the artificer. “This is your fault, I’ll wager. Your fakery failed to fool them!”

Lykos gestured to the wagon and the crate that held the forgery made of lead and gold foil. “My copy was perfectly adequate. You yourself saw and approved it, as did His Majesty. No, it was the Cuckoo’s Child who betrayed us. The substitution took place in the customs house, just as we planned. None of the bandits suspected a thing. They were about to load the fake, when suddenly Artemon changed his mind. He led his men back to the customs house. They fell on us, slaughtered the soldiers, and seized the wagon. By the time more soldiers arrived, the bandits had loaded the sarcophagus onto the ship and set sail. Somehow Artemon was left behind. The lion attacked him, then ran off. He fainted from his wounds before we could question him. Otherwise, I’d be able to tell you-”

“Never mind!” shouted Zenon. “Why and when and how don’t matter now. We must stop what’s about to happen, and we have very little time.”

Zenon yelled orders at the captain of the barque. As the boat turned about, Lykos spotted me sitting on the deck, and Bethesda next to me. I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, followed by a frown of puzzlement. I couldn’t resist giving him one of the secret signals of the Cuckoo’s Gang, poking my little finger into my ears, first on one side, then the other. Reflexively he reached up to give the response-three taps of his thumb to his chin-then stopped himself.

The royal barque quickly reversed course and went plunging through the waves. The wharf receded behind us. Before us, the towering lighthouse loomed larger and larger. At first I thought we were pursuing the Medusa, and indeed, as the pirates’ distant sail began to grow, I saw that the speed of the royal barque was more than a match for the bandit ship. Then I realized that our destination was not the open sea, but the Pharos Island.

We drew alongside a small but ornately decorated pier that was clearly reserved for royal use. The king, who had remained behind the gauzy curtains during our transit, reappeared on the deck, smacking his lips and holding in one hand the greasy remains of a roasted chicken.

“There is no need for Your Majesty to go ashore,” said Zenon. “I myself will-”

“You yourself have made a mess of things so far!” snapped the king. “Of course I’m going. Bring up the royal wagon!”

A few moments later, with a loud clattering of hooves, a magnificent vehicle drawn by gaily caparisoned horses arrived on the pier. Assisted by attendants on either side, the king waddled down the gangplank onto the pier, and then up a wide ramp and onto the plushly appointed wagon. The attendants had to get behind him and push the king up the last few steps. The awkward process was painful to watch, especially since the king kept barking at his attendants to hurry.

Beside me, I heard Bethesda suppress a giggle. Impulsively I covered her mouth with a kiss to silence her.

The king, who had just fallen back onto a mass of cushions, observed us. “Bring the young lovers, as well.”

“But Your Majesty, there’s no need-”

“How do you know? This Roman may know something you don’t. That seems quite likely, since there’s plenty you’ve failed to anticipate in this sorry affair! And bring along some food, as well. You know how hungry I get when I’m nervous. Now hurry, as quickly as you can! To the lighthouse!”

With a clattering of hooves, the king’s wagon sped off, heading toward the long ramp that led up to the lighthouse entrance. A moment later, a second wagon appeared, this one not quite as magnificent as the first. Several retainers quickly stepped on board, including one who carried a large silver vessel crammed with delicacies.

The chamberlain grabbed my arm, pulled me to my feet, and hurried toward the wagon. I held Bethesda’s hand and pulled her along behind me. As soon as we were in the wagon, the vehicle sped after the king.

Up the long ramp we flew, with the horses racing at a frenzied pace. In a matter of moments we arrived at the entrance.

I had visited the lighthouse once before, but that had been long ago. Even amid all the confusion and clamor, I gazed up in awe. No other building on earth is even nearly as tall. The tower rises in three distinct segments, each stepped back from the one below. At the top is a chamber where flames and mirrors produce the brightest light on earth, and atop that, a statue of Zeus welcomes all the world to Alexandria.

I had no time to gawk, for the wagon did not pause at the entrance. The huge doors stood wide open. The wagon sped inside.

The lower half of the lighthouse is four-sided, and hollow in the middle. A continuous ramp built against each of the four interior walls ascends from one story up to the next, and then to the next above that. Up this broad spiral ramp the king’s vehicle raced, with our wagon hurrying to catch up. As we went round and round, ascending from one level to another, terrified workers scattered before us. Mule carts bearing fuel for the beacon were overturned. The smells of naphtha and dung filled my nostrils.

Up and up we raced, past tall windows facing each of the four directions, affording a view of the sea, then the setting sun, then the city, and then the harbor, in that order, and then the same sequence again-sea, sun, city, harbor-over and over, higher and higher, until at last we reached a level more than midway up the tower, and the wagon came to a halt. The king was already going about the awkward business of alighting from his wagon, assisted by anxious attendants who appeared to fear in equal measure that they might drop the king or else be crushed by him.

With King Ptolemy leading the way, we stepped through a doorway onto a parapet that circled the outer walls. I drew in a lungful of fresh sea air. Before and below us, as far as the eye could see, sparkled a broad expanse of open water.

Amid the glitter of waves at sunset, the sea was hard to read. Only after searching for a while did I make out the sail of the Medusa, now well past the harbor entrance and headed north. At such a distance, the ship was the size of a toy on the palm of my hand.

Then I discerned, to the west of the Medusa, another, larger ship, and then another to her east. They were warships. Their bronze ramming beaks caught the sunlight. They appeared to be converging on the Medusa.

“Use the mirrors!” screamed the king, even as he reached into a silver bowl of delicacies held forth by an attendant and stuffed a fistful of dates into his mouth. What he said next was an indecipherable mumble.

Zenon spoke for the king. “Signal the ships that there’s a change of orders. They are not to ram the pirate ship! They are to capture the ship instead and bring it back to harbor, but by no means must they allow it to sink! Do you understand?”

He spoke to the captain of the crew that manned the huge signal mirror mounted against the wall, midway between the corners of the parapet. There were four such mirrors, one on each side of the tower. The captain looked fretful.

“Go ahead, you fool!” barked Zenon. “What are you waiting for? Is the message too complicated?”

“No, no, Your Excellency, we can give those signals readily enough. But the sunlight-”

“I can see the sun right there!” Zenon pointed to the half-circle of red that glowed above the western horizon.

“Yes, Your Excellency, but I fear the light’s not strong enough. And the angle-”

“Do what you can! Now! At once!!”

The crew manning the mirror flew into action, tilting the huge lens of polished metal this way and that, attempting to capture the rays of the sun and send them toward the nearest of the warships. Indeed, I could see a spot of red light flickering on the sail of the ship, which meant that the men aboard must have been able to see the mirror flashing.

The ship, which had been speeding toward the Medusa, suddenly relented. I could see the row of tiny oars reverse direction in unison and push against the waves.

“You’ve done it. You’ve done it!” screamed the king, spitting out a mouthful of masticated dates. “Now the other. Now the other!” He pointed at the second warship coming from the east, which continued to race toward the Medusa.

The crew swung the mirror about, but the position of the sinking sun made it impossible to capture and reflect a sunbeam.

“It can’t be done!” wailed the captain. He quaked before the fearsome gaze of the king, who was madly chomping a fresh mouthful of dates. “It simply can’t be done!”

Helpless to intercede, we watched as the warship drove relentlessly toward the Medusa. I felt a stab of empathy, imagining the panic that must have broken out amid the bandits. Captain Mavrogenis would be barking orders at his crew, but to no avail, for the Medusa was no match for an Egyptian warship. Did Ujeb quiver with terror, or was he facing his end with unexpected bravery? Poor Ujeb, who had saved me! Had Ujeb not proclaimed me the new leader, Bethesda and I would still be aboard the Medusa, locked inside the cabin and facing certain death.

And what of the sarcophagus? I realized why the king and his chamberlain were so desperate to stop the sinking of the pirate ship. Against their expectations, contrary to their plan, the sarcophagus-and not its worthless replica-had been loaded onto the Medusa. If the Medusa sank, the golden sarcophagus of Alexander would be lost forever.

So it came to pass. As we watched in horror, the ramming beak of the warship struck the Medusa. A heartbeat later I heard the tremendous crack. The pirate ship broke in two. The sail collapsed. The mast crashed into the water. With stunning swiftness, the two halves of the ship reeled and pitched in the waves and then vanished.

I gasped. Bethesda covered her face. The chamberlain bowed his head. The captain in charge of the mirror swayed as if he might fall. The king choked on the dates and began to hack like an Egyptian housecat with a hairball.

Attendants rushed to pound their fists against the king’s back, until at last a great wad of chewed dates shot from his mouth, flew beyond the parapet, and plummeted down to the blood-red sea.