The people of Alexandria had reacted violently to this turn of events. Armed force had been necessary to quell the riots. Though eight years had passed, their resentment still simmered, and their conviction that King Ptolemy had betrayed his birthright had only deepened. In their view, Cyrene had mattered no more to the king than his own feces mattered to the merchant.
Emptied at both ends, and assisted at every step by the two boys, the merchant gave a sigh of relief and waddled back to his chair. He began a conversation with his scribe having to do with two rivals who were engaged in a fierce competition. One was from Rome and the other was a distant relative from Pontus, and the merchant was in a quandary because he couldn’t decide which side to take.
If the mime in the fat-suit was meant to be King Ptolemy, then the rival merchants clearly represented Rome and King Mithridates of Pontus, who (by some genealogical twist I had never untangled) was a cousin of King Ptolemy’s. In the last year, Mithridates had overrun all of Asia, driving out Rome’s provincial magistrates and Roman businessmen. The impacts of this war were being felt all over the Mediterranean world, but Egypt had managed to remain neutral.
“If only I didn’t owe so much money to that filthy Roman,” the merchant whined, “I’d stab him in the back this minute!”
“Why don’t you simply pay him off, and be free of him?” asked the scribe.
“Pay him with what? My cousin from Pontus took the rest of my money. And took my little boy, to boot!”
This was a reference to King Mithridates’ recent seizure of the island of Cos, where Egypt kept a treasury and where King Ptolemy’s son, still a teenager, had been residing, presumably at a safe distance from the palace intrigues of Alexandria. (This was a son from the king’s first marriage, not his current marriage to his niece.) Mithridates had seized not just the island, but the Egyptian treasury and the Egyptian prince as well, ostensibly treating the boy as an honored guest but in fact holding him hostage.
“And don’t forget the cloak he took!” said the scribe.
“Piddle! What’s a moth-eaten old cloak to one who wears silk?” At this the crowd loudly booed the fat merchant. The reference was to one of the treasures seized by Mithridates, a cloak that had belonged to none other than Alexander the Great.
“They say your cousin goes about wearing it and putting on airs,” said the scribe. “Don’t you want it back?”
“I hardly think it would fit me!” said the merchant, shaking his bulbous arms and getting a laugh from the audience. “Oh, if only my mother were still here, to tell me what to do!”
“But she’s not,” said the scribe. “Don’t you remember?” He made a hacking sound and mimed the universal gesture of a finger drawn across the throat.
“What about my big brother? Where is he? He’d know what to do!”
The scribe rolled his eyes. “You and the old lady ran him off! Have you forgotten that, as well?” This was a reference to the king’s older brother, who had his own turn at the throne before being driven into exile some years ago.
“If only big brother could come home!”
“Really? Most husbands dread a visit from their father-in-law!”
“He was my brother before he was my father-in-law.”
“And master of the house before you kicked him out!”
“If only big brother would come, I’m sure he could sort things out.”
“Be careful what you wish for.” The scribe shook his head. “Two of your sort are two too many. And yet, I wish there were three of you.”
“Three?”
“Three hatchlings from your mother’s nest, so I could have another choice for a master. Are you sure you haven’t got a bastard brother hidden away somewhere?”
“A bastard?”
“You know, a cuckoo’s child, slipped into the nest when no one was looking?” The scribe mugged at the audience.
“Of course not. There’s only the two of us.”
“Ah well, then, I suppose your older brother will have to do. I’ve heard a rumor that he’s on his way here right now.”
“Right now?”
“Right now!” The scribe looked straight at the audience and enunciated in a slow, dramatic voice. “And he may … arrive … any … minute!”
The merchant clapped his hands to his cheeks with an expression of horror. The two boys took up their pipes and played shrill notes to mimic his alarm. Then the discordant music suddenly changed to a giddy tune, so infectious that the fat merchant forgot his worries and leaped to his feet. With various parts of his body jiggling in different directions at once, he performed an absurd dance, spinning, jumping, kicking his legs, and waving his arms. This was another jab at King Ptolemy. Despite his drunken laziness and his inability even to take a piss on his own, he was still known to break into wild dances in the midst of his orgies.
Beating drums and shaking rattles, other members of the mime troupe emerged from behind the tent to join the merchant in the dance. Among them I spotted Bethesda’s double, no longer made up to appear old but looking quite lovely in a green linen gown; the wooden bangles adorning her tawny arms made a clacking sound as she cavorted. Encouraged by the players, members of the audience joined in the dance. The music became louder and shriller, and the atmosphere grew raucous. Even the Nubian bearers of the elegant litter joined in, clapping their hands and stamping their feet.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the mood changed. I heard shouts and screams. A thrill of panic shot through the audience. Standing on tiptoes and looking over the crowd, I saw the flash of drawn swords at the far side of the square. A sea of terrified faces abruptly turned toward me.
Riot!
IV
“Time to get out of here!” I said, taking Bethesda by the hand.
Everyone else seemed to have the same thought at the same moment, for suddenly we were all rushing in the same direction, away from the armed troops. Even amid the panic, I saw a few men stoop down and pick up whatever stones or other debris happened to be lying about, as if arming themselves for a skirmish.
From the corner of my eye I saw the tent collapse. While the trained monkey screamed and hopped madly about, the mime troupe rolled up the tent and gathered their props. They moved so quickly and efficiently it was evident they had done this before.
With Bethesda and me leading the way, the crowd fled down a narrow street that led to the harbor. With a quiver of dread I wondered if this was what the king’s men intended-to drive the spectators to the waterfront, where we would be trapped and easy to slaughter-but looking back I saw they made no effort to follow us. It seemed that their intent was merely to break up the mime show and to clear the public square.
The crowd reached the waterfront. As people realized they were no longer pursued, the panic subsided. Some began to laugh and joke. Others debated whether to turn back and join the handful who had chosen to fight the soldiers. Their enthusiasm was dampened by the arrival of stragglers with broken heads and bleeding wounds. I drew to one side and kept my mouth shut. The squabbling between the Egyptian king and his people had nothing to do with me.
Little by little the crowd dispersed.
The day was warm and clear, with only a few thin clouds in the sky. The waterfront had an air of quiet calm, broken only by the rustling of palm trees in the breeze, the cries of seagulls, and the occasional blaring of a horn from the Pharos Lighthouse.
I sat at the top of a flight of steps leading down to the water and gazed across the harbor at the lighthouse, a magnificent sight that always seemed slightly unreal, no matter how many times I saw it. Bethesda sat beside me, ignoring the protocols of status, and I did not correct her. What man would object to being seen in the company of such a beautiful girl wearing such a lovely new dress?