Six for Gold

Chapter Thirteen

The crocodile nosed its way along a channel that sliced through the towering reeds stretching stiff fingers up from Lake Mareotis.

The boat for which the carved reptile served as a prow slid along behind. As the vessel glided through the water, it moved in and out of patches of shadow where smaller paths had been cleared for the benefit of those who lived on the lake’s islands.

The maze of passages reminded John of the hallways of the palace’s administrative buildings.

A startled heron flapped into the air.

Down a narrow corridor where the sky was a blue sliver glimpsed above marching ranks of reeds growing so thickly a wider boat than theirs could not have passed between them, John glimpsed a fisherman emptying a net filled with wriggling silver into his small craft.

Fortuna had smiled, John thought. He had found a captain willing to take Cornelia, Peter, and himself up river for the amount they had earned from a single, excruciating performance, and on a boat embarking within the hour.

The captain carried a full cargo of wine amphorae as well as a quantity of timber lashed to the deck Anything extra by way of payment from the half dozen or so passengers he was transporting was a gift from the gods, the more so since it would not need to be reported to the boat owner.

Soon the vessel left marshes and reeds behind and entered a network of canals that would eventually take them to the Nile. John and Cornelia sat on deck and watched men working the fields, laden donkeys plodding patiently along, and nut-brown children waving from muddy banks. Compared to the heat and noise of Alexandria, the boat was an oasis of calm.

After a while Peter approached. He was beaming.

“What an interesting country this is, master! It’s one thing to pour the wine, but quite another to see the grapes used to make it, being grown in such odd ways.”

He waved a hand at the vineyard past which they were sailing. Workers watering the vines waved back. “That one has vines growing up poles, but the one we saw after we left the lake had vines on a sort of trellis.”

“What a keen eye for detail you have, Peter,” Cornelia said.

“Thorikos pointed it out to me, mistress. He’s the stout fellow in brown robes.”

Cornelia nodded. “With the embroidered stripes down the sides.” She turned to John. “He has a rubicund face, or at least a rosy nose. His shape reminds me somewhat of a pear.”

“He was a deacon in Cilicia,” Peter put in, “and he kept a wine-importing business on the side. He’s very comfortably off. We got into a conversation about his travels. Since he’s getting on in years and has no family, he decided to spend his savings to see the world. He says that although he misses the comforts of home, so far it has been most interesting.”

“There are endless wonders to be seen in Egypt,” John said.

“That’s exactly what I said, master! Thorikos has never been to Constantinople either. I ventured to suggest he should make it his next destination, once the plague has gone. Lord willing that be soon.”

Peter waved his hands again. “And then Porphyrios chimed in and said he was of the same opinion-a traveler hasn’t seen a great city until he’d visited Constantinople. So of course I told them all about the palace and the court. I may say they were impressed.”

John exchanged concerned glances with Cornelia. Peter’s garrulous nature might turn out to be a cause for concern. It was part of the reason he did not care to reveal everything he knew concerning his mission. Not everyone had trained their tongue as well as he had. Still, it was always wise to know with whom they were travelling, especially when night fell.

“Who is Porphyrios?” John asked.

“A charioteer. He’s raced at the Hippodrome. A fascinating fellow. He said that dogs always run along the bank when they drink from the Nile, to avoid being dragged in by crocodiles! We must be careful, master!”

“I hope you aren’t developing a fear of those creatures before you ever see one,” Cornelia said. “What other stories was this character telling you?”

“He mentioned that auburn hair is considered ill-omened in Egypt. Thorikos was horrified and said he was glad his had long ago turned gray. Though he regretted that as it was also thinning, it did not protect his scalp from the glare of the sun very well.”

“Porphyrios sounds like quite the teller of tales,” John observed.

Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, master. He also told me the Blue racing team are superstitious about anything green.”

“I suppose that’s not surprising given their bitter rivalry with the Green faction,” Cornelia said. “What’s Porphyrios doing in Egypt?”

“It’s another remarkable story, mistress. It seems he’s been exiled.”

“Did he say why?” Cornelia asked.

Peter shook his head. “No, and he looks the sort of man who wouldn’t appreciate being pressed for details. Besides, no sooner had he told us than he launched into a detailed account of every race he’s been in, and what’s more, insisted on showing off that odd-looking belt of his. He had it woven from the team’s reins after his last winning race, hoping it will bring him good fortune.”

“What about that little man who’s as black as a Nubian? The beekeeper?” Cornelia wondered. “I notice he rarely leaves his hives unattended.”

“He was the first person I talked to after we came aboard. He speaks quite passable Greek. I didn’t realize those clay cylinders were hives until he told me. I asked him why he was traveling with his bees, and he said he followed the spring flowers every year. He sells a fair bit of honey. It’s used for everything from curing headaches to dressing wounds.”

“I expect he does a brisk trade,” Cornelia replied.

“He told me some terrible tales about crocodiles too, mistress. They leap up and drag people off the river bank or even boats and devour them before anyone realizes a companion has gone!”

“What’s this beekeeper’s name, Peter?” John asked, glancing toward the stern where, he noted, the disgraced charioteer and the itinerant beekeeper were now in deep conversation.

“Apollo.”

“The ancient sun god!” Cornelia said. “What an appropriate name for a beekeeper, when sunlight is so vital to the flowers from which bees take their sustenance.”

The unwelcome, unspoken thought came to John. To the ancients bees represented souls.

He hoped it was not a bad omen.