From up and down the beach the men reassembled before the wreck. Their high spirits faded as they drew closer and realized what was happening.
Artemon stood before the prisoner. In one hand, like a chamberlain’s staff or a military standard, he held an axe with a long handle. “You were caught in the act of raping one of the ship’s survivors, Osor. Do you deny it?”
Hairy Shoulders strained to lift his head, and managed to look Artemon in the eye. “Any other man would have done the same! The girl was going to die, anyway, so what difference does it make?”
“I saw what you did. So did the men who carried you here. Does any man here wish to speak in defense of Osor?” Artemon ran his eyes over the crowd. No one spoke.
“Then I pronounce you guilty and declare that the punishment shall be carried out at once. Does any man here challenge my judgment?”
“This is madness!” shouted Hairy Shoulders. “Why does no one speak up? What a bunch of cowards you all are, taking orders from this high-born whelp!”
“The punishment is death,” said Artemon. There followed a long moment of silence broken only by the quiet surf and the cries of the seagulls.
“By the laws of the outside world-the world ruled by King Ptolemy-you’d be made to suffer a terrible death, Osor. You might be crucified, or hanged, or stoned to death. But because you’re one of us, you shall be given the death that the rest of the world reserves for men of rank and honor, the swiftest and most merciful means of execution. You shall be beheaded, Osor.”
Hairy Shoulders averted his face and began to sob.
“Who will carry out the sentence? It should be done swiftly and surely, with a single blow. The task calls for an experienced killer of men.” Artemon looked from face to face, until his eyes settled on me. “There’s a newcomer among us, a man who’s said to have done his share of killing. And because he’s new, he can have no personal grudge against Osor.” He stepped toward me and held forth the axe. “This is a chance to show us what you’re made of, Roman.”
I looked at Hairy Shoulders, bound and sobbing on the makeshift chopping block. I looked at the axe. The sharp blade gleamed in the sunlight. I looked at Artemon’s face. He had the stern, determined look of a leader of men, but in his eyes I saw a strangely boyish glitter of excitement.
With trembling fingers, I reached for the axe.
XXIV
I had killed men before.
The first time had been in Ephesus, under very different circumstances. There, I had done what had to be done, but even so I had felt a tremor of doubt. Something similar had happened in Rhodes, though in that instance the man’s death was the result of a struggle-more the choice of the gods than my own.
Artemon thought I was a cold-blooded killer, a man capable of murdering others in their sleep-or did he? Had he seen through my pretense? Was this a test, to see if I would falter and give myself away?
Hairy Shoulders was surely a despicable creature, but I was not at all certain he deserved to die. If I refused to carry out the sentence, would that refusal constitute a challenge to Artemon’s authority? Would I be required to fight him, man to man?
For a crazy moment, I imagined what would happen if I actually won such a contest. Gordianus of Rome-leader of the most dangerous gang of bandits in the Delta! That would be one way of securing Bethesda’s release.
But another outcome seemed far more likely: Artemon would kill me with his bare hands. I swallowed hard and felt light-headed. Whatever happened, at least Fortuna had allowed me to enjoy one final night of bliss with Bethesda!
To chop off Hairy Shoulders’s head was easier than challenging Artemon, surely. Or was it? To kill a man I hardly knew, before a crowd of onlookers, in cold blood-the idea sent a wave of revulsion through me.
I reached for the axe, but my hand stopped short. My open fingers trembled, frozen in place. I felt the eyes of Artemon and all the others on me.
“Let me do it!” said Menkhep. He stepped forward and gripped the handle of the axe.
Artemon kept his grip on the axe and gave Menkhep a questioning look.
“Hairy Shoulders arrived in my boat. It should be my responsibility.”
“You know it doesn’t work that way among us,” said Artemon. “We aren’t King Ptolemy’s army, with everyone sorted into ranks and some men lording it over others.”
“Even so, I’m willing and ready to do it.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Besides, the Roman isn’t yet one of us, not fully. The men haven’t yet voted to accept him. He hasn’t undergone the ritual of initiation.”
Several of the men muttered and nodded to show their agreement with Menkhep. Seeing my chance, I lowered my hand and stepped back. Artemon relinquished his hold on the axe and allowed Menkhep to take it.
“Menkhep speaks wisely,” he said. “Do it quickly, then.”
I had been spared the gruesome task, but to avert my eyes would show too much weakness. I forced myself to watch as Menkhep took a firm stance, secured his grip on the axe, raised it above his head, and brought it down.
There followed a series of sounds I would never forget: the whoosh of the axe, a sharp thud as it struck flesh, the crackling shriek of severed bone and flesh, the thump of the head striking the soft sand, the squish of spurting blood, the chorus of men groaning and gasping despite themselves.
Another man might have botched the job, failing to sever the neck or missing the target completely, but Menkhep’s aim was true and his strength sufficient. The amount of blood that gushed onto the sand was ghastly, but the cut was cleanly made. The life of Hairy Shoulders ended as quickly as any man could wish. I decided then and there, if I should ever face a similar fate-and as long as I remained among the Cuckoo’s Gang, that possibility would be ever-present-I would ask for Menkhep to carry out the task.
Once the flow of blood had subsided, some of the men carried the body to the funeral pyre and laid it beside that of the dead girl. Artemon himself picked up the head, gazed for a long moment at the lifeless features, then carried it to the pyre and positioned it above the body, reuniting the severed parts.
The men resumed the task of scavenging the ship and stripping the corpses scattered up and down the beach.
The sun was still up, with perhaps an hour of light remaining, when Artemon declared that our day’s work was done. The boats were loaded and ready to embark. The funeral pyre was stacked with the bodies of Hairy Shoulders and the girl and several of the dead passengers and crew who had paid for the privilege by securing their valuables to their bodies before they died.
Artemon struck a fire. The men watched in silence as he set the pyre alight. No prayers for the dead or propitiations to the gods were offered. As Artemon had said, the men of the Cuckoo’s Gang were not soldiers. There were no officers or priests among us to perform such rites.
The boats were so stuffed with valuables that the men could barely fit, and we rode so low in the water that great care was required of the rowers. We left the inlet just as the sun was sinking, and my last glimpse of the desolate beach was of the wrecked ship and the pyre, from which the flames now shot high into the air. Then we rounded the bend and headed back the way we had come.
Even as the twilight faded and the water turned black, we continued to row. The men in charge of each boat were so familiar with the route that they could navigate in the dark.
But the men were too weary to row for long. As the moon began to rise, we came to a secluded spot, pulled the boats ashore, and made camp for the night. The men ate cold rations while they talked and joked about the events of the day, then spread blankets in whatever spots they could find and fell asleep.