The Singer from Memphis Page 7

  “I’ve got the idea,” I said.

  Diotima said, “I thought the Double Crown that people talk about was the insignia of the Pharaoh?”

  “That’s different again. The crook and flail symbolize the Pharaoh’s relationship with his people. The Double Crown is political. It symbolizes the unity of Upper and Lower Egypt, which we call the Two Lands.”

  Diotima shook her head. “That’s a lot of symbols.”

  “When you come to know this place, you will realize that Egypt is nothing but symbols. The crook and the flail are instantly recognizable by any true Egyptian. When the bureaucrats see that I hold the genuine articles, they will bow before me, the Persians will be bereft of their vital support, and the invader’s final stronghold in the land will fall to me. But none of this will happen unless I can prove that the crook and flail were passed down to me from the last Pharaoh.”

  I asked, “Where do we find this crook and flail?”

  “I have no idea,” said Inaros. “Because quite obviously the crook and the flail were not passed down to me.”

  “Then we don’t even know where to start!”

  “Begin in Memphis. The crook and flail were last seen there.”

  “How long ago was this?” I asked.

  “Sixty-eight years, when the last Pharaoh died and this land fell under the Persian yoke.”

  “Terrific.”

  Inaros thought about it for a moment. “I think you should see my agent, the one who negotiated this agreement. Her name is Djanet—”

  “Her name?”

  “She is a singer, from Memphis.”

  “Is that some sort of cover?” I asked.

  “No, that’s her day job.”

  I hadn’t known much about this rebellion before I took on the assignment, but one thing I was learning fast: it was being run by amateurs.

  “I will send with you one of my men, to smooth your path.”

  Inaros gestured. One of the bright red men stepped forward.

  “My future, and the future of all of Egypt, relies on you finding the crook and flail. Good luck.”

  The Red Man

  We didn’t see Herodotus until late next morning. When we did, he smelled of incense and had an enormous hangover. He sat at one end of the tavern room of the inn, hunched over with his head in his hands.

  Diotima was solicitous but didn’t recognize the source of the problem—she had never had a hangover in her life, and it never occurred to her that Herodotus might be guilty of riotous living. “Perhaps it was something you ate,” she suggested. She offered to bring him an enema.

  Herodotus turned green and had to run for a bucket.

  “That will do you good,” Diotima said cheerily to the sound of retching. She went to fetch him some wine. “Wine will make you feel better,” she said as she left.

  “Did you have a nice time?” I asked Herodotus once he’d emptied his stomach.

  “Enough material for a whole chapter,” he said with a weak smile.

  “You’re not going to put that night in your book!”

  “Perhaps I might omit certain details.”

  Diotima returned with the wine.

  “Who’s he?” Herodotus asked. He pointed at the escort Inaros had assigned, who stood behind us. He had accompanied us back to the inn, after dinner with the rebel leader. Diotima and I had left our escort downstairs when we went up to bed. He was still there when we came down next morning. I presumed that in between, he had slept somewhere. Up to now he hadn’t said a word.

  “Who?” I said. “Oh, you mean the big red guy with half his hair missing.”

  “Yes, that’s who I mean.” Herodotus looked the man up and down. “I don’t recall hiring him.”

  I suddenly realized we had some explaining to do.

  “Uh, well, Herodotus, it’s like this . . .”

  I told him the truth, except for a few bits that I distorted to avoid making myself look untrustworthy. I explained that since we were going to be in Egypt anyway, that Pericles had asked me to look in on our Athenian ally. And that since we happened to be there, that Inaros had offered us a commission to find the crook and flail. I didn’t mention that if Herodotus had proven to be a spy then I was under orders to kill him.

  This was a complex subject to be discussing over breakfast (which Herodotus felt he might now manage to hold down). The innkeeper’s daughter brought us cheese and bread and light beer.

  Herodotus was upset, but not in the way I expected.

  “You went to see the rebel leader, and you didn’t invite me?” he said, aggrieved.

  “You had . . . er . . . other plans for the evening,” I said, glancing at Diotima.

  “Oh. Yes, so I did,” Herodotus said, abashed. Then he rubbed his hands in glee. “This is the perfect opportunity to see more of Egypt and pick up who-knows-what exotic tales for my book, with an entrée from no less than the rebel leader himself. Where do we start?”

  “In Memphis,” I said. “Apparently this man”—I indicated our red-dyed escort—“can arrange our passage, but he’s obviously very primitive. I’m not sure how intelligent he is.”

  I turned to the barbarian.

  “Can—you—understand—me?” I spoke slowly and loudly. I figured the barbarian would be more likely to understand a civilized man if I spoke up.

  “I comprehend you quite adequately,” the barbarian said. He spoke in the most cultured baritone that I’d heard since I’d left Athens. “Though if I might beg you to speak more softly, that would be agreeable.”

  Herodotus, Diotima and I stared in shock. His Greek was so good that if I’d met him at a symposium I would not have blinked, as long as I was totally blind.

  “Your Greek is excellent,” Diotima said wonderingly, and Herodotus nodded. I could imagine Herodotus with his scroll and ink brush working overtime as he interrogated this man. “Who are you?”

  “You may call me Max,” the red man said.

  “That’s your name?”

  “My name is Maxyates. But all my friends call me Max. I choose to call you friends, despite the terrible war of aggression your people perpetrated against mine.”

  “Your people?” I said, perplexed. I couldn’t recall Athens attacking any bright red people with only half their hair.

  “My tribe are the descendants of Troy. After you Hellenes did your best to wipe out my ancestors, the few survivors made their way to Libya, where they started again. I am proud to call myself a child of Hector.”

  If this man was a Trojan then I was the King of Persia. But there was no doubting that he was civilized.

  “Where did you acquire your education?” Diotima asked.

  “My father is chieftain of one of the great tribes of Libya. As the third and youngest son, I had no future as leader, so he sent me to Egypt, to learn at the temple at Saïs, where I acquired the tongue, and to read and write, and studied the thoughts of the wise men. I discovered that I enjoyed this. I traveled on to the great center of learning at Ephesus.”

  “Why would you do that?” I asked.

  “I am a philosopher.”

  I groaned. There was no escaping them.

  “It was there that I learned your Hellene tongue, at which I hope I am not entirely inadequate.”

  He could have taught elocution to Pericles.

  “While I was in Ephesus I took the chance to search for Troy, the land of my forebears. My ancestry is very important to me.”

  “Did you find it?” Herodotus asked eagerly. “I could put that in my book.”

  “I learned the works of your Homer in search of hints. But alas, there was nothing. I traveled to Ilion—it’s a minor city up there, inland—from whence I scoured the coast in search of the fabled city. But every day I returned to Ilion empty-handed. In the end there was no choice but to abandon t
he search. So it was that I returned home, to assume my destiny as the least important man in my family.”

  “Then how did you end up here?”

  “My father owes his allegiance to the Prince. Thus when our Prince went to war, to conquer Egypt, Father sent me to serve him. I am ready to serve you in accordance with his wishes.”

  “We need to get to Memphis,” I said.

  “Yes, this is possible.”

  “To Memphis, by all means,” Herodotus said. “I have already . . . ah . . . experienced the most interesting parts of Naukratis.”

  The Singer from Memphis

  Max arranged our passage for the next morning. From this point on, his language skills would be essential, for everywhere south of Naukratis the common people would speak only their own Egyptian tongue, though Max assured us that the educated would be able to speak Greek.

  Max returned from his excursion with an unexpected visitor. It was the Nauarch, Admiral Charitimides, with ten officers in tow.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Fine so far, sir,” I said.

  “I’m actually here to see Inaros. It looks like there won’t be another fleet action any time soon. Scouts report no activity in any ports to the East. It’s even quiet up in Phoenicea, the traders tell me.”

  “That’s good news, sir.”

  “Only if you like being bored,” the Nauarch said. “I plan to lead our sailors onto land, to help our Egyptian allies in the next battle. The Persians have to hit us somewhere, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said politely.

  “Oh, I got a message from your boss, Pericles.”

  “A message for me?” I said, startled.

  “No, for me, but you might like to know. A Spartan army marched against Athens,” he said calmly.

  “What!”

  “Our lads met them at Tanagra. The battle was a draw.”

  “Dear Gods, why?” I said. “We were at peace when I left.”

  “That’s the interesting part,” Charitimides said. “We captured some of their auxiliary troops. From them Pericles learned that a Persian ambassador has been visiting Sparta. A Persian in Sparta—seems rather odd, don’t you think? They say this Megabazos fellow turned up with a boat load of gold and bribed the Spartans to hit us.”

  “That sounds bad.”

  “No, it’s good. It means the enemy is scared of us in Egypt. Pericles thinks it’s a strategic diversion.”

  “What does that mean, sir?”

  “Just as we are in Egypt to force the Persians to send their troops here, so the Persians are paying the Spartans to cause a ruckus back in Hellas, so that we have to return home.”

  “Are we going home, sir?” I asked.

  “Good Gods, boy, of course not!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh.”

  “The enemy wouldn’t spend that gold unless they feared my men. So my fleet is staying right here. Anyway, it appears our lads back home have seen off the Spartans. What’s your next move?” Charitimides switched from grand strategy to intelligence work in a single breath.

  “We depart for Memphis tomorrow, sir,” I said.

  “The place is crawling with enemy troops.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll probably get killed, but that’s the way it goes when you serve your country, eh?” He clapped me on the shoulder.

  Charitimides chuckled at my expression and took his leave. The Nauarch acted like everyone’s favorite uncle, but I’d never met a man more determined to fight.

  Despite the warning, we got a shock two days later, when our boat docked at Memphis, the capital of Egypt.

  Persian soldiers. They patrolled the docks and the wharves and no one seemed to take any notice. They wore their standard floor-length uniform of heavy cloth without any accommodation to the incredible heat. Some carried spears and shields upon their backs. The spearmen patrolled in squads. Other men were armed with bows and quivers full of arrows. The bowmen had taken up position on the roofs of the warehouses and the other high points.

  It was a stark reminder that we were in a country divided by war. It also drove home the extent to which Inaros had returned Egypt to the Egyptians. He might be Libyan, but the soldiers who fought for him so willingly were Egyptian. In the north, where Inaros had conquered all, you would never have guessed that this was a country occupied by a foreign power. Here in the capital, we were in a Persian province, no doubt about it.

  The Persians were obviously on the lookout for any advancing military, but they didn’t give us a second glance. I brushed past one as I came down the wharves. He smiled at me with perfect teeth and very sunburned skin.

  “What do they think we are?” I whispered after they had passed us by.

  “They think we are foreigners,” Maxyates replied calmly. “Do any of us look local?”

  We didn’t.

  Funnily enough, Herodotus was the least concerned of us.

  “I come from Halicarnassus,” he reminded me, when I asked. “I’m used to seeing Persian troops in the street.”

  I had managed to forget that Herodotus was, technically, a citizen of this empire. Diotima and I had also once lived in a place with Persian occupying troops in the street—in Asia Minor—but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

  I had expected Memphis to be a big city, but I never thought it would be so crowded. We had to push our way through from the docks to the center of the city. Athens had narrow streets, but in Memphis there were places where you had to walk single file to squeeze between the buildings. In Athens there is a law to ban people from building over the street—everyone ignores it, but at least there’s a law. In Memphis they didn’t bother with even the pretence to stop builders encroaching.

  It seemed half the women in Memphis wanted me to buy their chickens. We could barely take ten steps in any direction without a mass of squawking feathers being thrust in our faces and toothless women demanding we pay them money. Small children would take this opportunity to pickpocket. Herodotus found that out the hard way.

  “Hey, bring back my purse!”

  Fortunately I’d already taken his money bags from him—for a man who had traveled so much, he was astonishingly naïve. I had the money firmly tied against my chest. Those bags contained our only means of support, and all my wages.

  I asked Maxyates if Memphis was always like this. He shrugged. “So many people are willing to live like ants. I don’t understand it either.”

  I understood now the reluctance of Inaros’s political advisor to send troops into this labyrinth. Soldiers trying to force their way through these passages . . . the slaughter among the civilians would be fearful. Nervous men who had no idea where they were, surrounded on all sides by buildings from which a knife could emerge at any moment. Not knowing what they’d find around the next blind corner, but knowing the enemy was waiting for them somewhere, such men would be prone to kill anything that moved and then look to see what they’d hit. I could just imagine one of these small girl-pickpockets creeping up on a jumpy soldier with his sword in hand. No, it would never do. If finding the crook and flail would save the people in these streets then it had to be done.

  We somehow emerged into a large agora. Though they didn’t call it that. They called it something else but I didn’t catch the name. There was an inn that Inaros had recommended to us. We found it easily, with Max’s help. Then I choked at the inn’s prices. I should have realized that someone called Prince of Libya would work to a different budget than normal people.

  Herodotus took his money bag from me and paid without demur. The good news was, the rooms were the most comfortable I’d seen at any inn, anywhere. They had real beds made of wood, not merely a sack of hay on the floor. There was a cupboard for our clothes, two chairs, a basin, a chamber pot that was actually clean. A window looked over the agora and beyond that,
rising in the distance, a fine view of a magnificent building, surely a temple, though it looked nothing like the ones we had in Hellas. That was directly to the south.

  The innkeeper was used to tourists. He told us which road out of town would take us to the pyramids, then warned us that to see them properly we would need to leave at first light, and be prepared for a long day.

  Herodotus was desperate to see something at once. Our host recommended the Palace of Apries, built by a long-dead Pharaoh. The palace was close by and one of the smaller monuments. You know you’re in a place of monumental architecture when one of the smaller buildings is a king’s palace.

  “Allow a whole day for the Temple of Ptah,” the innkeeper warned us.

  “Is that the magnificent building I saw out our window?” I asked.

  He said it was, that the Priests of Ptah would welcome any donation, and that the Temple of the Apis Bull was situated immediately behind.

  Herodotus almost swooned at the thought of such tourist attractions.

  “Do not donate to one god and not the others,” the innkeeper warned us. “Lest the spurned god be offended and cast a curse upon you. Whatever you do, don’t return to the inn if you’ve been cursed by anyone. I don’t need this place burning down.”

  The innkeeper, his wife and his teenage daughter were all loaded down with charms, necklaces and bracelets. All three of them jangled every time they moved. Three or four charm necklaces each, more bracelets than I could count on each wrist—the wife explained that each bracelet had been magicked in a different way to ward against various curses—and rings on every finger to protect against the evil eye. Any evil curse that came through the door to this place wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I left Herodotus in the care of Diotima and Max. My wife was if anything a better bodyguard than I was—for some reason I’d had bad luck in the past with keeping people alive—and Max was available if muscle was required. Their plan was very simple: to see everything worth seeing in the city.

  “We’ll start from the north and work our way down,” Diotima said. She produced a wax tablet and started a list. “The Palace of Apries, then the Temple of Ptah, the Palace of Merenptah, the Temple of Ramses—”