The Judgment of Caesar (6 page)

“Not here,” she told me. “Not yet. I’ll know the place when we come to it. Osiris will show me where to step into the river. The river will show me what to do.”

The farther we traveled, the more uneasy I found the villagers. Word of Pompey’s death invariably preceded us and formed the chief topic of conversation. It seemed that the Nile had failed to rise as high as in previous years. A year of low inundation meant fewer crops, with hunger and hardship to follow. To cause such a poor inundation, something must have displeased the god (for in Egypt, the Nile itself is a god). The civil strife between Ptolemy and his sister Cleopatra had previously been blamed, for they, too, were divine, and strife between a god and goddess caused repercussions throughout both the natural and the supernatural worlds. But now it was perceived that the Nile had been withholding its floods in anticipation of an even more cataclysmic event, the murder of the Great One, the only man to claim such a title since Alexander himself. The discord of civil war was everywhere upon the earth, bringing one disaster after another, and the people feared that some even more terrible event was yet to come.

So we passed from Pelusium to Tanis, and thence to Thmuis, and thence to Busiris, at the very center of the Delta. Each day the summer sun grew hotter and the air more stifling and humid. The rank smell of the muddy Nile seeped into my pores. Along the way, following Bethesda’s dictates, we made numerous excursions upriver and down-river, which came to nothing; she would arrive at a spot and declare it suitable, saying she would bathe there the next day, only to change her mind when the next day came. Beyond Busiris, we came to the particularly squalid little village of Sais; saying the sun had grown too bright, Bethesda remained in our private room at the town’s shabby little inn, refusing to come out. Rupa, Androcles, Mopsus, and I found little to do in Sais, and I passed several idle days drinking Egyptian beer, stifled by heat, boredom, and a growing sense of foreboding.

At last we pressed on from Sais and came to Naucratis, a village on the westernmost branch of the Nile. We had traversed the entire Delta, and still Bethesda had found no location suitable for the ritual of purification.

Each day, as our journey continued, Bethesda had given me greater cause for concern. She ate almost nothing. When I questioned her about this, she said that fasting was a part of the purification ritual. She sat motionless in the wagon for long hours, and when pressed to move, did so only very slowly and deliberately. She seemed less and less to fully occupy a place in this world, and more and more to reside in some other realm invisible to the rest of us. There were times when I glanced at her and for a startling instant thought I was looking right through her, as if she had become transparent. Then I would blink, and the illusion would pass, and I would tell myself it was merely a trick of the heat and the moisture-heavy air.

CHAPTER VI

Beyond Naucratis, the road turned north. The Nile and its Delta were to our right. The road ran parallel to the river, but eventually it would turn to the west and leave the Delta behind.

“Soon?” I asked Bethesda.

She stared at the river, the gleam on the surface lighting her face, her features so impassive that I thought she must not have heard me. But eventually she answered. “Soon,” she said, and shut her eyes, as if the simple utterance exhausted her.

At midmorning we came to a stretch of the river where palm trees and date trees grew in great profusion. The river narrowed and ran swiftly between its muddy banks, their exact demarcations obscured by tall reeds. Underground springs fed into the river, making the vegetation especially luxuriant. Low trees grew close together, strewn with vines in great profusion. Reeds encircled miniature lagoons where lotuses and lily pads spread like carpets across the water. Dragonflies flitted, and swarms of midges hovered above the water. The spot teemed with life; it seemed somehow timeless and ancient, a place set apart from the rest of the world.

“Here,” said Bethesda, sounding neither happy nor sad.

I stopped the mules. Mopsus and Androcles jumped from the wagon, eager to stretch their limbs. “You’re the Cyclops and I’m Ulysses! Catch me if you can!” shouted Androcles, slapping his brother’s forehead and racing off. Mopsus gave a yelp and raced after him. Rupa jumped out next, circled to the front of the wagon, and reached up to offer his hand to Bethesda. With my assistance from above and his from below, she alighted from the wagon.

From nearby, Androcles gave a shriek as his brother caught up with him and tackled him on a moss-covered stretch of riverbank. I would have shouted at them to behave, but my eyes were on Bethesda, who strode slowly, but steadily, downriver toward a particularly dense patch of reeds, low trees, and vines. I moved to jump from the wagon and follow her, but Rupa seized my ankle. I tried to shake his grip, but he tightened it. He pointed at the trunk in the wagon. From the plaintive look on his face, I knew what he wanted.

The key hung on a chain around my neck. I slipped the chain over my head and moved to unlock the trunk, but my fingers slipped. I tried to open the lock again, but fumbled. The key seemed determined to thwart me. At last I opened the lock and threw back the lid. It took some digging to reach the urn, which had worked its way to the very bottom of the trunk.

The bronze seemed cool to the touch. I had not held it since packing it away. I had forgotten how heavy it was. All that remained of Cassandra was inside it, the ashes and bits of bone and teeth salvaged from her funeral pyre. I gazed at the urn for a long moment, distracted by memories, then realized Rupa had circled the wagon and was standing just under me, reaching up with both hands. Reluctantly, I leaned over and handed him the urn, then jumped from the wagon.

“This is the place, then?” I asked him.

He nodded.

“Shall I come with you?”

He frowned. It was not unreasonable that he should wish to be alone with his sister’s remains while he scattered them in the Nile. From birth they had seldom been parted, and they had loved one another above all else in the world. However strong my passion for her, I had known Cassandra for only a few months before she died; the actual time I had spent with her, however special, had amounted to mere hours. It was right that Rupa, not I, should send her ashes on their final journey to the sea, and if he wished to do so in privacy, I had no right to object.

I put my hand on his shoulder to show him that I understood. He held the bronze urn to his chest and bowed his head over it, tears in his eyes, then turned and began to walk upriver. Afraid they might run after him and disturb him, I called to Androcles and Mopsus to come join me.

Bethesda, meanwhile, had reached the overgrown copse of trees downriver and had been searching for a means of entry. While I watched, she finally located a pathway. Not bothering to look back, she stepped into the foliage and disappeared from sight.

“Come along, boys!” I said, and followed after her.

I reached the copse, and stood baffled before the spot where I had last seen her. Was it possible a pathway had opened and then closed up behind her? Wherever I looked, reeds grew out of the muddy ground, and a tangle of vines hung down to meet them, without any perceptible break.

I called her name. She made no answer.

I searched the soft ground for her footprints. I finally found them, taken aback at how light were the tread marks she left, compared not merely with my footsteps, but also with those of the boys. Truly, in the last few days she had dwindled and faded, so that now she walked upon the earth as lightly as a child.

“She must have gone this way,” said Mopsus, staring at the ground.

“No, this way!” insisted Androcles.

“Both of you, step back, before you confuse the track any further,” I said, and then I followed her steps back and forth, retracing her faltering search for a way into the copse. I finally found it; a tangle of vines hung just so, obscuring the entrance completely unless one approached it from the correct angle.

“Bethesda!” I called, stepping into the copse.

The boys followed me and recommenced their bickering. “I told you it was this way,” said Mopsus.

“No, you didn’t! You said . . .” Androcles fell silent as the dappled shadows abruptly closed in around us. The boys sensed what I sensed: that we had entered a place that was not like other places. The gurgling of the river could be heard from nearby, along with the low buzzing of insects and the cries of birds in the treetops.

Ahead, through hanging vines, I glimpsed sunlight on stone. We came to a glade circled by vegetation but open to the sky. The little temple in its midst was lit by a shaft of sunlight; the shaft was so clouded with motes of dust that it seemed a solid thing, and I should not have been surprised to see dragonflies suspended motionless within its light, held fast like insects in amber. But the dragonflies hovered and flitted unimpeded, making way for Bethesda, who approached the temple, mounted the short flight of steps to the colonnaded porch, and disappeared inside.

The temple was of Egyptian design, with a flat roof, squat columns surmounted by capitals carved like lotus leaves, and worn hieroglyphs in riotous profusion on every surface. It betrayed no hint of Greek influence, and so almost certainly predated the conquest of Alexander and the reign of the Ptolemies. It was hundreds, possibly thousands of years old; older than Alexandria, older than Rome, perhaps as old as the Pyramids. Beside it, from a jumble of fern-covered stones, a spring trickled forth, forming a tiny pool.

The spring was life itself; the spring accounted for this lush oasis beside the variable banks of the Nile, and for the sacred spell exerted by the place, and for the temple erected beside it. I gazed at the hieroglyphs on the temple; I listened to the faint gurgle of the spring; I felt warm sunlight on my shoulders, but I shivered, for the place seemed uncannily familiar. I raised a finger to my lips, instructing the boys to maintain their silence, and walked across the clearing to the steps of the temple.

I smelled the perfume of burning myrrh. From within I heard the murmur of two voices. One of them belonged to Bethesda. The other voice might have been male or female; I could not tell. I mounted the steps to the porch, inclined my head toward the opening, and squinted at the gloom within. In brief, uncertain flashes, a flickering lamp illuminated brightly painted walls covered with strange images and glyphs. The grandest of these images was that of the god Osiris: the figure of a tall man swathed in white mummy wrapping, holding a flail and crook in his crossed arms and wearing on his head the
atef
crown, a tall white cone adorned with ostrich feathers on each side and with a small golden disk at the bulbous top.

I heard the voices from within more clearly, but the language they spoke was strange to me—not any version of Egyptian of which I had any knowledge. To hear Bethesda’s voice uttering such alien sounds sent a shiver up my spine; it was as if some other being had claimed her voice, some creature foreign to me. I made no move to enter the temple, but stayed where I was on the threshold.

From inside, the priestess of the place—for little by little I had decided the voice must be that of a woman—took up a chant. The chant grew louder, until I knew the boys must be able to hear it as well. I looked behind me and saw them at the edge of the glade, rooted to the spot, their eyes trained on the opening of the temple, their mouths shut.

How long the chanting lasted I had no way of knowing, for it cast a spell on all of us. Time stopped; even the motes of dust in the air ceased their slow, swirling dance, and the dragonflies, afraid of its magic, dispersed. I closed my eyes and tried to discern whether the chanting carried some message of healing and hope, for had Bethesda not come here to find a cure for her malady? But the words were strange to me, and the feeling the chant inspired in me was not of hope but of resignation. Resignation to what? Not to the Fates or Fortune, but to something even older than those; to whatever unseen force metes out our measure of life beneath the sun.

The gods of Egypt are older than the gods of Rome. A Roman who comes to Egypt finds himself far away from the gods he knows, at the mercy of forces older than life itself, powers that have no names because they existed before men could give them names. I felt stripped of all pretensions to wisdom and worldliness; I was naked before the universe, and I trembled.

The chanting ceased. There was movement within the temple. A silhouette emerged from its uncertain light, and in the next moment Bethesda stood before me.

“It’s time,” she said.

“Time?”

“For me to bathe in the Nile.”

“This temple—you’ve been here before?”

She nodded. “I know this place.”

“But how?”

“Perhaps my mother brought me here once, when I was child. I’m not sure. Perhaps I’ve only seen it before in dreams. But it’s just as I remember it—or dreamed it.”

“It seems to me that I must have been here before, too. But that’s impossible.”

“Perhaps this is a place everyone sees in dreams, whether they remember those dreams or not.” Bethesda seemed satisfied with this explanation, for she smiled very faintly. “I must bathe in the river now, Husband.”

I stepped aside to let her pass. “I’ll come with you,” I said.

“No. The wisewoman says that I should go alone.”

“The wisewoman?”

A figure stepped from the shadows from which Bethesda had emerged. It was an old woman wearing a simple linen gown with a ragged woolen mantle draped over her shoulders, despite the heat of the day. Her hair was white, pulled into a knot at the back of her head. Her skin was like ancient wood, burned dark by the sun and carved with deep wrinkles. She wore no jewelry. Her gnarled hands, clutching the woolen mantle, looked very small. So did her feet. Her sandals were ragged and worn. A cat, its sleek fur as black as night, followed the old woman out of the shadows and rubbed itself against her ankles.

“Did my wife make a sufficient offering?” I reached toward the coin purse in my pouch.

The woman held up her hand. “The god requires no offering to satisfy your wife’s request.”

“The god?”

“This place is sacred to Osiris. The spring is wedded to the Nile, and in this place the union of the waters is perpetually blessed by Osiris.”

I bowed my head, not understanding, but deferring to the woman’s authority. Bethesda walked down the steps. I moved to follow, but she raised with her hand. “No, Husband. Don’t follow. What I have to do, I’ll do alone.”

“Then at least take the boys with you, to stand by in case you need them. In case anyone else—”

“The place is sacred, Husband. No one will disturb me.”

I followed her as far as the little grotto formed by the spring. She stepped across the tiny pool and out of sight, following a narrow path that appeared to lead down to the river’s edge.

I would have followed her, but some power stopped me. Instead, I found myself staring at the little pool formed by the seeping spring. Patches of sunlight glinted on the surface. Tiny, translucent creatures wriggled under the water.

I heard a loud sigh and looked back at the priestess. She was stooping down, laboriously lowering herself to sit on the temple steps. I hurried back to assist her, then sat down beside her.

The black cat, purring loudly, insinuated itself between us and lifted its chin, inviting the woman to stroke its throat with her gnarled fore-finger. Cats were a rarity in Rome and little liked, but in Egypt the creatures were considered divine; once in Alexandria I had witnessed a furious mob tear a man limb from limb for the crime of killing one. The cat looked up at me and mewed loudly, as if commanding me to give it pleasure. I obliged by stroking its back.

The woman nodded toward the far side of the glade. “Those two must give you no end of trouble,” she said.

I followed her gaze and saw that Mopsus and Androcles had disappeared. I smiled and shrugged. “They’re no worse than other boys their age. Why, I remember when I first adopted Meto—” I caught myself, and fell silent.