He fell silent and turned his face away.
That was the end of the conversation, but the words my father had spoken remained in my memory.
On my journey from Rome to Alexandria, I had done a number of things of which my father would be proud, or so I hoped. I had also done a few things of which my father would probably disapprove. Sleeping with Bethesda fell into the latter category.
Vague thoughts of my father must have been in my mind as I woke that morning-perhaps I had been dreaming about him-but what he might or might not think quickly became the furthest thing from my mind. My father was a long way off, in Rome, but Bethesda was very close. With her body pressed against mine and our limbs entwined, it was hard to think of anything else.
From those places where we touched emanated the most exquisite sensation imaginable-warm flesh against flesh. Those few areas of my body that were not touching hers experienced a kind of jealousy, and cried out to rectify the situation at once. Every part of me wanted to be pressed against every part of her, all at once. From the way she responded, I had no doubt she felt the same. Is it possible for two mortal bodies to meld into one? Bethesda and I frequently made every effort to do so, sometimes several times a day.
Our bodies became sheened with sweat. As we turned this way and that, the faint breeze from the window gently wafted the sweat from our skin. Our sighs and moans joined the music of the rustling palm fronds, then rose above it in pitch and volume until surely the vendors in the street below and the laborers on their way to work could hear us cry out.
At last-our union consummated, uttermost pleasure attained-we drew apart.
“Was that a good beginning to your birthday, Master?” said Bethesda.
The question was so unnecessary, I laughed out loud. Neither of us spoke for a long time. We lay side by side, barely touching. The morning sun reflected more brightly off the swaying palm fronds, scattering the room with bits of light. I heard the cry of seagulls, and the blaring of navigation horns from the distant Pharos Lighthouse. I closed my eyes and dozed for a while, then slowly woke again.
Bethesda walked her fingertips over my knee and up my thigh, then reached for a more intimate part of me.
“Perhaps we could make the day’s beginning twice as good,” she said.
And so we did, very slowly, taking our time. Her body was a landscape in which I became hopelessly lost-the forest of her long black hair, the maze of her smooth brown limbs, the ever-changing topography of her shoulders. Her hips and breasts became undulating sand dunes as she stretched, twisted, and turned. Her mouth was an oasis, the place between her thighs a delta.
When we were done, I felt wide awake. “I don’t think I could ever grow tired of that,” I said, mostly to myself, since I spoke the words in Latin. Though Bethesda knew Hebrew, Greek, and Egyptian, I had so far managed to teach her only a smattering of Latin. She raised an eyebrow, clearly not comprehending, so I repeated my comment in Greek, the language we had in common. “I don’t think I could ever grow tired of that.”
“Nor I,” said Bethesda.
“But sometimes…”
“We have to eat.”
So it was hunger that finally forced us out of bed. I dressed in my blue tunic-my best, despite a few stains and the fact that the threadbare linen fit me a bit tightly across the shoulders; just the night before Bethesda had stitched up a tear in the sleeve and repaired the frayed hem. I allowed her to dress in my second-best tunic, which was green, a color that suited her. On her much smaller frame the simple tunic made for a rather modest garment; it covered her elbows and knees and, cinched with a hemp belt, fitted snugly around breasts that had filled out considerably since the day I purchased her.
Bethesda stood by the window and ran an ebony comb through her hair, which had become tangled during our lovemaking. She grimaced and muttered a curse when the comb encountered a particularly stubborn tangle. I laughed.
“You could always shave your head, like the rich women do. They say it’s more comfortable in this climate. Keeps lice away.”
“Rich women have wigs to wear when they go out,” she said. “Very fancy wigs. A different one for every occasion.”
“True. But no wig could be as lovely as this.” I circled behind her and with my fingertips I gently smoothed the knot from her hair. I took the comb from her and ran it slowly through her long tresses. Her hair was thick and heavy and perfectly black, shimmering with rainbow highlights, like the wings of a dragonfly. Every part of her was beautiful, but her hair held a special fascination for me. Sated as I was, I felt a fresh stirring of desire.
I stepped away from her, put down the comb, and took a deep breath. I willed my excitement to subside-something my father had told me a man could and should be able to do. It was time to venture out to the world beyond my little room.
The Rhakotis district is said to be the oldest part of Alexandria, built over the little fishing settlement that existed even before Alexander founded his city. Most of Alexandria is laid out in an elegant grid of broad avenues and grand porticoes, but the Rhakotis retains its maze of winding alleys, as if the chaotic spirit of the old village could not be tamed and made to submit to the modern metropolis that grew around it. Rhakotis reminds me of the Subura in Rome, with its tall tenements, taverns, and gaming houses. Lines for drying laundry crisscross the space above one’s head, while ragged children run zigzags up and down the street. Around a corner, half-naked women solicit customers from upper-story windows; keep walking while you look up and you’re likely to trip over a cat napping in the middle of the street. Cats do whatever they wish in Alexandria. Despite the merging of Greek and Egyptian gods that began with Alexander’s conquest, the locals still worship animals and insects and strange divinities that are part man, part beast.
As was fitting for master and slave, I walked ahead and Bethesda followed a little distance behind. Had we walked side by side, what would people have thought? My first stop was a small tavern where the owner’s wife prepared my favorite breakfast-hot farina cooked with a little goat’s milk and mashed dates, served in a clay bowl. I ate a bit more than half the contents, scooping out mouthfuls with a bit of bread, then handed what remained of the bread to Bethesda and let her finish the bowl. She devoured it so quickly that I asked if she wanted more.
She smiled and shook her head. “Now that you’ve eaten, what else do you desire to do on your special day, Master?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I could find a good book in the great Library, and read it aloud to you. Or perhaps we could examine the collection of fabulous jewels in the Museum. Or climb to the top of the Pharos Lighthouse to take in the view.” I was joking, of course. The Library and Museum were open only to royal scholars and visitors with suitable credentials, not to a lowly Roman who made a living by his wits, and the island of Pharos was off-limits to all but lighthouse workers and the soldiers who guarded it.
I shrugged. “On such a fine day, before it gets too hot, I propose that we take a long walk and see where it leads us. Surely some grand adventure awaits me on my birthday.” I smiled, having no idea what lay in store for us.
To be sure, there was always the chance of encountering some sort of violence when one was out and about in Alexandria. It had not always been so. When I first arrived in the city, I was able to go anywhere, at any time of the day or night, without concern for my safety. But in the two years and eight months since my arrival, Alexandria had become increasingly dangerous and disorderly. The people were unhappy, and they blamed their discontent on King Ptolemy. Every so often, there would be a riot. The riot would lead to a bit of looting and perhaps a fire or two, then the appearance of royal soldiers, and then, inevitably, bloodshed. You might think the Alexandrians would dread these outbreaks of chaos, and flee from them. Instead they seemed to relish them. Whenever a riot broke out, hundreds or even thousands would converge on the scene, like moths to a flame.