“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?