'Ah, what's this?' he said.
'A gift from a lady.'
'Perfume? Are Roman men scenting themselves like catamites these days?'
'Vials can contain things other than perfume,' I said.
He looked as me knowingly. 'Poison, I'll wager. Something spies often carry on their persons, in case they wish to make a fast, clean exit. Or were you plotting to use it on someone? On King Ptolemy himself, perhaps? Ha! Whatever's inside, it's a pretty little container,' he said, pocketing it along with the coins and the comb.
Soon, I began to hear, from the direction of Naucratis, the distant neighing of horses, shouted commands, the creaking of wagon wheels, the tattoo of military drums, and the tramp of many feet marching in unison. There are few sounds so distinctive, or so unnerving, as the approach of a great army. Birds take to the sky, a buzz throbs upon the air, and the earth itself trembles.
The spy gathered up the items of no use to him and stuffed them back into the trunk, then ordered soldiers to put the trunk back into the wagon. The boys yelped, drawing back their toes to avoid having them crushed, but it was Rupa, with his long legs, who was most inconvenienced.
From my cramped vantage point in the wagon-with my back to the road, facing Rupa opposite and the river beyond-I had to crane my neck to see the streaming pennants and plumed helmets of the approaching army. As they came nearer, the soldiers struck up a marching chant. The words were Egyptian, but hearing them repeated over and over, I was able eventually to make sense of them: He came to knock on Ptolemy's door, But never set foot on Egypt's shore. While he was yet inside the boat, Captain Achillas cut his throat. So now he's dead, The Roman's dead, As all will know When they see his head! Hurrah! Hurrah! As all will know When they see the head Of the so-called Great Who now is dead! So-called! So-called! Like Alexander, he was not; Pompey was cut, not the Gordian knot! Hurrah! Hurrah! This song is short, but the march is long, And so again we sing the song: Hurrah! Hurrah! He came to knock on Ptolemy's door, But never set foot on Egypt's shore…
Guards remained posted around the wagon, but the spy headed off to meet the advancing troops, and I lost sight of him. The stamp of marching feet grew louder and louder. Iron rings bolted along the top rim of the wagon began to rattle and dance against the wood, so great was the vibration. I would have covered my ears, had my hands been free. I looked at the boys and saw fear in their eyes. Rupa squirmed nervously, his legs bunched up against the trunk. They all looked to me for reassurance, so I struggled to keep my face impassive, despite the thrill of panic I felt. Cranes shot skyward from rushes along the Nile, flapping their wings and emitting shrill cries. I watched their flight, envious.
The army reached us and went rumbling by. The chant was deafening: Like Alexander, he was not; Pompey was cut, not the Gordian knot!
On and on it went, as thousands of men marched by. Next came the clatter of hooves from mounted cavalry. After the cavalry came the wagons carrying weapons and provisions. Amid the rumble of wheels, I thought I heard the spy's reedy voice nearby, conferring with someone. It seemed that a decision was reached, for the conversation ended, and a soldier mounted the wagon and drove the mules forward. As we joined the procession of King Ptolemy's army, the spy peeked into the wagon and gave me a sardonic look.
'We never did find any trace of your wife, Roman. She must be quite clever, to cover her tracks so completely. I don't like it when a spy gives me the slip. I'll track her down, sooner or later. And when I do…' He curled his lip in an expression that froze my blood, then disappeared.
CHAPTER VIII
As night fell, the army reached a fortress somewhere to the east of Alexandria.
Vaguely I sensed that the wagon had come to a halt. I dozed, not from physical weariness but from a kind of mental stupor; only by descending into half-formed dreams could my mind escape from an intolerable reality compounded of tedium and dread, physical discomfort and numbing grief.
The shackles on my ankles were loosened. Something sharp poked me into alertness.
'Up, Roman!' The spy, assisted by a few soldiers, rousted us out of the wagon. My bones ached from being jostled all day over a particularly rutted stretch of road. My legs were weak from having been cramped for hours. I staggered like a cripple, with a spear at my back to keep me moving forward.
Great walls with huge ramparts of packed earth surrounded us. In the vast enclosure of the fortress, the army went about the business of unloading provisions and preparing for the night. The buildings within the fortress walls were mostly plain and utilitarian, but one stood out on account of its opulence. Magnificent columns painted in bright colors supported a roof of gleaming copper. It was to this building that the spy drove us.
With Rupa and the boys, I waited outside, ringed by soldiers, while the spy stepped within. He was gone for a considerable time. Above us, the desert sky was ablaze. The sinking sun illuminated crimson and saffron clouds that glowed like molten metal, then faded to the dull blue of cooling iron, then darkened into ever-deeper shades of blue fretted by silver stars. I had forgotten the awesome beauty of an Egyptian sunset, but the splendor of the dying day brought me only misery. Bethesda was not there to share it with me.
At length the spy returned, looking pleased with himself. 'What a lucky day for you, Roman! You shall have the great honor of meeting Captain Achillas himself!'
The murderer? I very nearly said. It was hard to imagine how else the killing of Pompey could be characterized. Clearly, Achillas was a man from whom I could expect no mercy.
Serpent-headed lamps atop iron tripods lined a long hallway decorated with a riotous profusion of hieroglyphs. The spy led us into a high-ceilinged chamber decorated in a fashion more Greek than Egyptian, with geometric rugs underfoot and vast murals depicting battles painted on the walls. Scribes and other clerics scurried here and there across the large space. At the center of all this motion were two men of very different countenance, their heads close together as they engaged in a heated conversation.
I recognized Achillas at once, from having seen him on Pompey's galley. He was outfitted in the various regalia that marked him as Captain of the King's Guards, with a red horsetail plume adorning his pointed helmet. His tanned face looked very dark, and his brawny physique seemed positively bull-like next to the pale, slender figure who stood beside him. The slighter man had a long face and arresting green eyes. His yellow linen robes had a hem of gold embroidery, across his forehead he wore a band of solid gold, and a magnificent pectoral of gold filigree adorned his narrow chest. He was much too old to be King Ptolemy, yet he had the look of a man used to giving orders and being obeyed.
As we approached, the two of them looked our way and stopped conversing.
The spy bowed so low that his nose almost touched the ground. As a Roman, I was unused to seeing such displays of servility, which are part of the very fabric of Egyptian life, and indeed, of life in any state headed by an absolute ruler. 'Your Excellencies,' the spy hissed, keeping his eyes lowered, 'here is the man I spoke of, the Roman spy whom I apprehended this morning near the abandoned shrine of Osiris, downriver from Naucratis.'
The two men looked at me-though the term man was not entirely suited to the pale fellow, I thought, as I began to perceive that he was very likely a eunuch-another feature of court life in hereditary monarchies to which Romans are unaccustomed.
Achillas looked at me and scowled. 'What did you say he calls himself?'
'Gordanius, Your Excellency.'
'Gordianus,' I corrected him. The steady tone of my voice surprised even me. Used to hearing their underlings speak in hushed, toadying voices, Achillas and his companion appeared taken aback to hear a captive speak up for himself while daring to look them in the eye.
The Captain of the King's Guards furrowed his brow. His companion stared at me without blinking.
'Gordianus,' Achillas repeated, scowling. 'The name means nothing to me.'
'As I said, Excellency, he was seen on Pompey's galley, even while you yourself were departing with the so- called Great One on board the royal skiff.'
'I didn't notice him. Gordianus? Gordianus? Does it mean anything to you, Pothinus?'
The eunuch pressed his fingertips together and pursed his lips. 'Perhaps,' he said, and clapped his hands. A scribe appeared at once, to whom Pothinus spoke in low tones while staring at me thoughtfully. The scribe disappeared through a curtained doorway.
