Menkhep had compared his beloved leader to Alexander and to Moses, but another comparison struck me: Romulus, the first king of Rome. My first glimpse of the huts around the lagoon had reminded me of the Hut of Romulus, that venerated landmark in the heart of Rome, lovingly maintained through countless generations so that Romans would never forget their humble origins. Rome had begun as a village of such huts-indeed, as a village of bandits, for in the beginning the twin brothers Romulus and Remus were outlaws who gained ever greater wealth and power as they attracted more and more outlaws to their following, until there were so many men in Rome that they stole the Sabine women-a final act of banditry-then settled down to become respectable followers of a respectable king. Or perhaps not so respectable, since King Romulus’s first act was to kill his twin. The murderous rivalries within the Egyptian royal family were appalling, but had it not been the same when Rome had kings?
The origins of Rome were steeped in fratricide and banditry. Was it so implausible, after all, that Artemon, the Cuckoo’s Child, might be the descendant of kings, or that a future king of Egypt might come from a bandit’s lair in the Delta?
The sun rose to its zenith, bore down upon us, and then began its descent. I fell into the rhythm of the day, rowing and resting, rowing and resting, bemused by the vulgar banter of the bandits and the wild ideas that Menkhep had put in my head.
At last, late in the afternoon, we drew near to our destination.
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.