It struck me that when it came time to transport our stolen treasure through the customs house, the various baffles and detours would surely slow our progress. One of the passageways was so long and narrow that it would almost certainly pose a problem for any wagon large enough to carry a sarcophagus. But surely Artemon had taken all such factors into account, I told myself.
Once through the customs house we proceeded at a fast pace up the rest of the wharf to the shoreline. Above the rooftops of the city, far away to the southwest, I saw a pillar of black smoke. The riot near the Temple of Serapis was under way.
Following Artemon’s plan, we took the quickest and most direct route to the precinct of the royal tombs. Some of the men of the Cuckoo’s Gang had never been in Alexandria, and though scarves hid their faces, I could see by their eyes that they were agog at the magnificent buildings, statues, obelisks, and fountains.
We met no resistance. As the people we met scattered before us, I began to experience the particular exhilaration that comes from being part of a group of armed men before whom all others cower and flee. I saw the city in a whole new way, through the eyes of a conquering warrior. Whenever Cheelba roared, the rest of us mimicked the sound, making it into a sort of battle cry.
I have described already, at the outset of my story, how we approached the massive building that housed the tomb, dwarfed by the towering figure of Alexander on the frieze along one wall. There we were met by a small company of men pulling a wagon. In the wagon was the lidded wooden crate in which we would place the sarcophagus.
The wagon also contained winches, pulleys, rope, and other hoisting equipment, as well as a battering ram made from a single massive tree trunk. When Artemon called for volunteers to man the battering ram, I gladly sheathed my sword and grabbed one of the handles. Better to take part in the sacrilege of breaking open the tomb than to shed innocent blood, I thought.
Because all the royal tombs were closed to visitors due to the king’s shortage of soldiers, there were few citizens about, and even fewer tourists. Only a handful of people observed us, and no one dared to oppose us, as we battered down the gate and rushed into the tomb.
Gray-headed guards offered the only resistance. Artemon and his men ruthlessly cut them down. By the time I entered the inner chamber, the last remaining guard, stabbed by Artemon himself, crumpled lifeless to the floor.
The wagon was wheeled into place. A hoisting mechanism was deployed to remove the lid of the sarcophagus. Before the mummified body was removed and set aside, Artemon invited me onto the dais to gaze upon the face of Alexander.
So it came to pass that I, Gordianus of Rome, at the age of twenty-two, in the city of Alexandria and in the company of cutthroats and bandits, found myself face to face with the most famous mortal who ever lived.
But only briefly-because a moment later, a small mob of outraged citizens broke into the chamber. The bandits drove them back, but one of them managed to hurl a rock at me. Artemon pulled me to one side, but the rock struck my temple. I fell from the dais onto the wagon, striking my head against one corner of the wooden crate.
Groggily, I drew back and saw blood-my blood-on the wood.
Then everything went black.
Dreams of darkness and confusion, of being tossed this way and that, of men shouting, wheels creaking, swords clanging, the smell of blood, the odor of the sea, the cry of gulls …
Gradually, in fits and starts, I came to my senses. I opened my eyes and saw wooden rafters high above me.
I was lying on my back, wedged in a narrow space between the crate and one side of the wagon. The wagon had been moving, but had come to a halt.
“It’s not going to fit!” someone shouted.
“It has to!” said another.
Then I heard the voice of Ujeb: “I think the Roman’s awake. His eyes are open.”
“Good. I was beginning to think…” The face of Artemon suddenly appeared above me. “Welcome back to the living, Pecunius. Can you stand? The rest of us are tired of pulling your weight.”
Before I could answer, he pulled me by my hands into a sitting position and then forward, out of the wagon and onto my feet. We were inside a building-the customs house, I realized. That meant we had come all the way back to the wharf.
My head ached. I touched my temple and felt dried blood.
“A superficial wound,” said Artemon briskly. “Many of the men suffered far worse.”
I looked around me. The boisterous, invincible company that had set out from the Medusa had been transformed into a bloodied, knocked-about group of desperate-looking men. Many were missing.
Artemon saw my confusion. “Coming out of the tomb, we met more resistance than I expected. Accursed Alexandrians! Always so unpredictable.”
On the contrary, I thought, it was entirely predictable that an Alexandrian mob would take up arms-or rocks, sticks, and cudgels-against a group of brigands attempting to carry off their most sacred treasure.
“Menkhep?” I said, for I didn’t see him.
“They tore him to pieces!” Ujeb blurted. “He was the first to fall. They took away his sword and then fell on him in a frenzy, especially the women. It was horrible! But we took revenge on them, didn’t we? Not a one of that rabble was still alive when we left. We showed them what the men of the Cuckoo’s Gang are made of! No one will ever call Ujeb a coward again.” He raised his sword. It was covered with blood.
I thought of Menkhep, who had saved my life by guiding me safely to the Cuckoo’s Nest, and then had looked after me in large ways and small. Having kept so much hidden from him, I could hardly call myself his friend, but the thought that he had died a horrible death made my blood run cold.
I looked around and realized that another member of the raiding party was missing. “Where is Cheelba?”
“Somewhere here in the customs house,” said Artemon. “He bolted and ran a few moments ago. There’s no time to look for him. Right now, our problem is how to get this damned wagon through this narrow passage.” He sounded perplexed but determined.
“It’s so heavy!” complained Ujeb.
“That makes no difference,” said Artemon. “There are still enough of us to move the wagon. If we position it just so, it will fit in the doorway. We’ll push it into the passageway, until the back end is flush with the doorway. Then we’ll leave it where it is and circle around-that hallway over there will lead us to the far side.” He pointed to a doorway twenty feet to our right; it opened onto a hallway that ran parallel to the passageway through which the wagon needed to pass. “From the far side, we’ll be able to pull the wagon the rest of the way through. Yes, I’m sure that will work.”
“Some of us should stay here and keep pushing,” Ujeb suggested.
“No, pushing is useless. If the wagon goes even a little off-course, it’ll get stuck. If we pull, instead, we can correct the course as we go, and get the wagon all the way through in one go. To do that, we’ll need every man here. From the other side, we’ll tie ropes to the yoke of the wagon.”
“But wouldn’t it be better to-”
“Shut up, Ujeb! No more arguing! You must do as I say. Now let’s get to work.”
I moved to join in the effort. Then I saw the smear of blood-my blood-on the corner of the crate, and almost fainted. The sight of Ujeb’s bloody sword had hardly affected me, yet the sight of my own blood made me ill.
Artemon pushed me aside. “Go on ahead, Pecunius. You’ll only get in the way. Return to the ship.” He grunted as he put his shoulder to the wagon. “Tell Mavrogenis we’re on our way, and to have everything ready.”
My head pounded. The wharf seemed to sway beneath my feet. I made my way to the doorway he had indicated and walked down the long hall. How was it that Artemon, so boastful of planning ahead for every contingency, had failed to foresee the obvious complication of a passageway almost too narrow for the wagon?