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
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
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