So, despite the fortune-teller’s words and Bethesda’s objections, we set sail from Alexandria aboard the Phoenix, bound for Ephesus by way of Rhodes with a cargo of papyrus, grain, perfumes, and spices in the hold, and a handful of passengers on deck, almost all of them men. Fortunately, there had been no one on the waterfront that day, or among those who boarded the ship, who recognized me as Gordianus of Rome, so I successfully managed to depart from Egypt under the guise of Agathon of Alexandria, recently stricken mute, bound for Ephesus and attended by a single slave.
Bethesda had boarded the ship with trepidation. Her misgivings mounted when we set sail. She had been on board a ship only once in her life, and briefly, as a captive of the Nile bandits, but in that instance had been kept locked away; also, the bandits’ ship had hugged the coastline, never venturing out of sight of land. Standing on board the Phoenix, watching the skyline of Alexandria and the towering Pharos Lighthouse slowly dwindle and finally vanish from sight, she grew so agitated, pacing and biting her knuckles, that I feared she might burst into tears and say something to give me away.
Then, before my eyes, a transformation took place. She looked at a seagull overhead-a rather intrepid creature, to be venturing so far from shore. She breathed in the fresh, salt-scented air. She gazed at the endless expanse of the sea, an undulating blanket of lapis-blue spangled with sparkling points of golden sunlight. Far to the east we could see the red-and-white-striped sail of another ship, and far to the west was another sail, this one bright yellow. Aboard the Phoenix there was nowhere to go and very little to do, but with the sun shining and a steady breeze in our sail, what place on earth could be more beautiful? The detached languor of travel by sea settled over Bethesda, calming and soothing her. When I caught her chin and turned her face toward me so I could look in her eyes, I saw not trepidation but the placid, catlike contentment I had grown used to seeing there, and had come to love.
“Perhaps,” she said, “this trip will not be so awful after all.”
It was hard for me at that moment to remain mute, and merely nod. It was harder still not to kiss her, in full view of the sailors and the other passengers. Instead, remembering my roles as both mute and master, I allowed myself only to look into her eyes for a long, lingering moment before returning my gaze to the sea.
* * *
For the next four days the weather was mild and the sky mostly clear, with only occasional clouds affording welcome patches of shade. We quickly grew used to the tilting and rocking of the ship. At night we lay side by side on a blanket on the deck, letting the gentle motion rock us to sleep.
Passing as a mute presented challenges. My days on board the Phoenix would give me a chance to practice my role, so to speak, before I arrived in Ephesus. I soon discovered that having Bethesda serve as my mouthpiece afforded an advantage I had not anticipated: as long as she did the talking, no one seemed to take much notice of me. All eyes were drawn to the beautiful Bethesda, and mute Agathon faded into the background.
But having no way to speak my own mind, and having to rely on Bethesda to speak for me, did sometimes present problems.
Many of the passengers passed the time by playing games of various sorts, often with small wagers attached. One of the most popular of these games was Pharaoh’s Beard, played with dice and a wooden board upon which pegs were moved forward or back. When I was invited to play, I declined with a shake of my head, and thought that would be the end of the matter. But when the others badgered me to join with some good-natured jibes, and still I declined, Bethesda spoke up.
“My master does not play Pharaoh’s Beard,” she said, stepping forward to take a closer look at the playing board. “Nor does he ever gamble.”
“Why not?” asked a big, brusque Jew. The man had been conspicuous among the other passengers from the first day because of his striking features; he had shoulders like a bricklayer, shoulder-length hair, and a long, plaited beard. I didn’t know his real name. Bethesda had teasingly nicknamed him Samson, after some legendary strongman in the stories her mother told her, and nobody on the Phoenix called him anything else.
“Because,” Bethesda began, circling around to get a better look at the board, “it was not long ago, while playing Pharaoh’s Beard, that he gambled away everything he possessed, and then-”
“I think, young woman,” said Samson, “there must be some reason your master is scurrying this way, frantically shaking his head!” He grinned as I took hold of Bethesda’s arm and drew her aside. “Poor Agathon. Lost his voice, and apparently lost his fortune as well, by playing Pharaoh’s Beard. I wonder which he lost first.”
“And which he’ll get back first!” joked another of the passengers.
“Just as well he won’t play,” muttered another. “I don’t like to stand too close to a fellow who’s gotten on the wrong side of Fortuna.”
“Oh, really?” said Samson. “That’s just the sort of fellow I like to play against! Sure you won’t join us, Agathon?” he asked, raising his voice as I retreated to the far side of the deck. I shook my head and pulled Bethesda along with me.
The others laughed and commenced playing the game, while I silently vowed to keep a tighter rein on Bethesda.
Along with games, conversations filled the idle hours. Men talked about what they did for a living, where they had traveled or wanted to travel next, which cities had the most beautiful women, and that sort of thing. Having been to see all the Seven Wonders of the World, I could have regaled the others for hours, and I regretted my inability to correct some of the ill-informed ideas I heard about places I had seen with my own eyes, like Babylon. But when the conversation inevitably turned to war and politics, I was glad I had a reason to keep my mouth shut.
It quickly became evident that some of the travelers favored the cause of Mithridates, while others did not, and another small group (mostly Egyptians and Syrians, who lived beyond the sway of both Rome and Mithridates) claimed to favor neither side. Our first port of call would be the island of Rhodes, which was independent but had sided with Rome, and most of the passengers planning to disembark there were pro-Roman as well. They expressed anxiety that Rhodes might become the next theater of war, unless Mithridates intended to turn his attention instead to the Greek mainland, perhaps with an invasion of Athens.
After Rhodes, our next stop would be Ephesus, and the passengers who would disembark there mostly seemed to be partisans of Mithridates. They, too, wondered whether Mithridates would turn next to Rhodes or to Greece.
“Why not attack both at once?” quipped Samson, which sparked a heated debate. As an Alexandrian Jew without a drop of Greek or Roman blood, Samson claimed to be completely impartial. Still, it seemed to amuse him to stir up an argument.
For the most part these conversations remained civil, with no curses or threats uttered and only mild insults exchanged, no matter how controversial the topic. Men on board a ship tend naturally to keep cooler heads than men on land, sensing instinctively that, unlike a tavern or gymnasium, on board a ship there is no street outside-no “outside” at all-where one may go to cool off. Crew and passengers are stuck with one another for the duration of the voyage, and must strive to get along.
Some passengers spoke of the purpose of their journey, but some did not. I found myself wondering how many of them were not what they appeared to be, but a spy, or a war profiteer, or a mercenary, or set to go about some other business best left unspoken-just as my purpose was, literally, unspoken.