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Authors: Steven Saylor
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wanly. “So here I sat and waited all morning, listening to you snore while Rupa and the boys made a meal for us. Would you care for more?”
I saw that Rupa was approaching with another roasted fish. My mouth watered, and my stomach growled again.
“Why don’t you have it?” I said.
Bethesda shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
I tried to think of the last time I had seen her eat, and felt a prickle of anxiety. Was she not paler than before, and looking more frail than I had ever seen her? Or was she merely worn out by the events of the last few days, as any woman would be?
I sat up and took the fish from Rupa. I had devoured the first one without thinking, but this one I was able to savor. Bethesda smiled, taking pleasure in my appetite.
I licked my fingers and wiped my hand on my tunic, and felt something in the pouch: the poison Cornelia had given me. Vile stuff! What if I had swallowed it in a moment of weakness and despair? Was Cornelia regretting her gift to me now, wishing she had kept it for herself? I should pour the contents over Pompey’s ashes and throw the alabaster vial into the sea, I thought; but simple laziness prevented me. It was far more pleasurable to sit beside Bethesda, feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and watch the boys fish in the glinting surf.
That afternoon, Philip and I scouted the vicinity and discovered a small fishing village just around a spit of land to the east. Occupying a territory disputed between Ptolemy and his sister Cleopatra, the war-weary villagers were wary of strangers, but they had no aversion to the Roman sesterces I was able to offer. Times were hard in Egypt, and Roman silver went a long way. For a very reasonable price I was able to hire a wagon and two mules to pull it.
My Egyptian was very rusty, and the villagers spoke nothing else; Philip, fluent in many languages, negotiated the deal, and conveyed the wagon-owner’s assurance that the coastal road was well maintained all the way to Alexandria. I asked him how we were to cross the Nile, and he said that at every fording of the many branches of the Delta, there would be ferrymen competing to carry us across. The man had a cousin in the capital; when we arrived, I was to leave the wagon and the mules with him.
Philip stayed in the village, saying he intended to head east, not west, and so we parted company. I gave him some sesterces to see him on his way. He gave me a heartfelt embrace, still harboring the mistaken assumption that I was one of Pompey’s devoted veterans.
“Anytime one travels, one must be prepared for changes to the itinerary,” I said to the assembled company on the beach that night, over our dinner of warmed-over fish supplemented by flat-bread purchased from the villagers. “Granted, we’ve taken a bit of a detour, but now we shall press on to Alexandria just as planned, except that Bethesda will be able to bathe in the Nile sooner rather than later, since the river lies between us and the city.” And Rupa will be able to scatter the ashes of his sister, I thought, and silently gave thanks to Cassandra, for it was her legacy to me that was paying for this excursion—the journey by ship, the mules and the wagon, even the morsels of flat-bread that Androcles and Mopsus were stuffing into their mouths.
The villagers had told me that Alexandria lay about 150 miles distant—a journey of several days over flat terrain. Wherever the road crossed a branch of the Nile, there would be a village, or at the very least a tavern or an inn. The landscape would consist of flat marshland interspersed with cultivated fields where farmers and slaves would be busy tending to irrigation ditches and waterwheels; for the annual inundation of the river, upon which the life of the country depended, had begun. The trip might be monotonous, but should not be particularly dangerous, and we would be safe sleeping in the wagon alongside the road if we wished; banditry, the villagers maintained, was
I saw that Rupa was approaching with another roasted fish. My mouth watered, and my stomach growled again.
“Why don’t you have it?” I said.
Bethesda shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
I tried to think of the last time I had seen her eat, and felt a prickle of anxiety. Was she not paler than before, and looking more frail than I had ever seen her? Or was she merely worn out by the events of the last few days, as any woman would be?
I sat up and took the fish from Rupa. I had devoured the first one without thinking, but this one I was able to savor. Bethesda smiled, taking pleasure in my appetite.
I licked my fingers and wiped my hand on my tunic, and felt something in the pouch: the poison Cornelia had given me. Vile stuff! What if I had swallowed it in a moment of weakness and despair? Was Cornelia regretting her gift to me now, wishing she had kept it for herself? I should pour the contents over Pompey’s ashes and throw the alabaster vial into the sea, I thought; but simple laziness prevented me. It was far more pleasurable to sit beside Bethesda, feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and watch the boys fish in the glinting surf.
That afternoon, Philip and I scouted the vicinity and discovered a small fishing village just around a spit of land to the east. Occupying a territory disputed between Ptolemy and his sister Cleopatra, the war-weary villagers were wary of strangers, but they had no aversion to the Roman sesterces I was able to offer. Times were hard in Egypt, and Roman silver went a long way. For a very reasonable price I was able to hire a wagon and two mules to pull it.
My Egyptian was very rusty, and the villagers spoke nothing else; Philip, fluent in many languages, negotiated the deal, and conveyed the wagon-owner’s assurance that the coastal road was well maintained all the way to Alexandria. I asked him how we were to cross the Nile, and he said that at every fording of the many branches of the Delta, there would be ferrymen competing to carry us across. The man had a cousin in the capital; when we arrived, I was to leave the wagon and the mules with him.
Philip stayed in the village, saying he intended to head east, not west, and so we parted company. I gave him some sesterces to see him on his way. He gave me a heartfelt embrace, still harboring the mistaken assumption that I was one of Pompey’s devoted veterans.
“Anytime one travels, one must be prepared for changes to the itinerary,” I said to the assembled company on the beach that night, over our dinner of warmed-over fish supplemented by flat-bread purchased from the villagers. “Granted, we’ve taken a bit of a detour, but now we shall press on to Alexandria just as planned, except that Bethesda will be able to bathe in the Nile sooner rather than later, since the river lies between us and the city.” And Rupa will be able to scatter the ashes of his sister, I thought, and silently gave thanks to Cassandra, for it was her legacy to me that was paying for this excursion—the journey by ship, the mules and the wagon, even the morsels of flat-bread that Androcles and Mopsus were stuffing into their mouths.
The villagers had told me that Alexandria lay about 150 miles distant—a journey of several days over flat terrain. Wherever the road crossed a branch of the Nile, there would be a village, or at the very least a tavern or an inn. The landscape would consist of flat marshland interspersed with cultivated fields where farmers and slaves would be busy tending to irrigation ditches and waterwheels; for the annual inundation of the river, upon which the life of the country depended, had begun. The trip might be monotonous, but should not be particularly dangerous, and we would be safe sleeping in the wagon alongside the road if we wished; banditry, the villagers maintained, was
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