by Albert Noyer
At first, these men mocked Josep with crude jokes about an oldster of some ninety years having a bride of fifteen. He slept apart from Miriam, which only exacerbated the jesting. On the evening of our fourth day, during which we crossed the Elusan wasteland of sand dunes, Malik admitted to me that he was puzzled that the journey thus far had gone so smoothly. Oasis wells and ponds were full; no pack animals had gone lame, and moderate winds had restricted sandstorms. Today, we sighted mounted men on the horizon, undoubtedly bandits, yet they moved off without bothering us. The only difference between this caravan and Malik’s others is the presence of an infant in a refugee Hebrew family, whom he has decided brings him good fortune. The superstitious Arab touches Yeshua each time he pauses to leave food offerings at strange-shaped stone formations along the way. Once in Egypt, I plan on learning more about the man’s primitive pan-theistic religion.
* * *
Dies VII. Rhinocolura on the Mediterranean Sea! I force myself to write again despite the burning in my eyes from a week’s daily exposure to sun, wind, and sand. Even though I swath my head and face each day in a thick cotton head dress, the sun has darkened my complexion to that approaching Malik’s. I noticed that the Bedouin with whom we trade commonly suffer from eye ailments that also affect my own vision. I show interest in my surroundings, which prompts the ordinarily gruff Malik to describe them for me and allows him an added sense of importance. According to local legends, Rhinocolura, which, of course, is “Cut-off noses” in Greek, was a penal colony founded by Actisanes, an Aethiopian king. Criminals had their noses mutilated to facilitate identification, should any manage to escape confinement. An alternate story is that captured Aethiopians, who failed in their attempt to invade Egypt, were punished by having their noses amputated. Of importance to us is that the town is at the boundary with Egypt. Herod’s custom agents and garrison officers warmly greeted Malik, as silver coin or silk cloth “friendship gratuities” exchanged hands in a jovial atmosphere. The Judean king’s edict ordering the murder of infants either had not reached the distant port or was ignored. Agents did not search for contraband goods or concealed humans. The child is safe!
I must relate an unusual happening on the day before we arrived, which an officer told to Malik. Much interest was shown in a wealthy Kushite prince and his attendants, who stopped at Rhinocolura to seek information about a newborn Hebrew king. When I inquired about the prince’s name, a guard told me it was ‘Kashat.’ The prince was still there when we came, but after Malik told him about the murderous order of Herod, Kashat wisely decided to abandon the search and join our caravan for his return to Egypt. He seemed particularly attracted to Miriam’s child.
* * *
Dies XI, evening. One day from Pelusium on the Nilus River. Our trek from Rhinocolura has averaged about XVIII miles a day, along a caravan trail that parallels the paved Via Maris. Cool breezes from the sea have tempered our daily discomfort, and even the camels’ demeanor is gentler. Assia seems to have accepted Miriam. The infant’s mother still keeps to herself, yet she and Josep are clearly freed of their initial concern for their son‘s safety. The Arab woman continues to treat the infant with her pomegranate rind, yet after collecting her half-shekel a day grudgingly allows me to alternate with my achillea ointment. Between the two of us, the infant’s humors again are in balance. Josep confided to me that he has been instructed to take the road south into Egypt at Pelusium. An angelos in a dream again? I shall continue westward toward Tanis, Thmuis, Busiris, Sais, and finally Alexandria.
Malik marvels daily that we have arrived this far without the least mishap and in what he claims is the shortest time he yet has experienced in leading these caravans. He requests to see the child each morning and mumbles what I presume are superstitious pagan blessings. And yet, regarding the infant, I must recount an inexplicable incident that happened to me. My eyes have continued to suffer the stinging redness common to desert Bedouin. Early this morning, while I bent over Yeshua to apply fresh ointment, one little fist of his flailed out and struck my face. By noon, my eye inflammation had lessened and my vision again seems normal. Was it the Hebrew infant’s touch or simply the restorative effects of cool sea air? I shiver to consider an implication of the former ―that Asklepios, the god of healing, may have returned to earth as a child!
* * *
Dies XII. This morning Malik told me that the caravan will break up at Pelusium. Most merchants will remain to sell their merchandise in the port, others go on to Tanis. I admit that the devotion of the aged Josep to his family touched me. The merchants’ jests ceased long ago and these intrinsically selfish tradesmen even began to share their food with the old man and his family. We shall not meet again, yet I imagine that these five people—father, wife, child, son, daughter—will be absorbed, nameless, into the population of the Roman Imperium. Like most humans, they will live and die in total anonymity.
It is late afternoon; in the shimmering glare of a yet-high sun, the tan walls and buildings of Pelusium appear. Praise Zeus! I have arrived at the easternmost delta of the Nilus River!
P E L U S I U M / A. D. 440
CHAPTER I
Late in the afternoon, Surgeon Getorius Asterius felt the coach stop. He pulled aside the window’s drenched canvas curtain and squinted out. In the near distance, the gray outlines of a town appeared, rather than the interminable sand wastes and empty sea of the past twelve days. Excited, he turned to his wife.
“Arcadia! Up ahead I see the walls and buildings of Pelusium across a river. We’ve finally arrived at the easternmost branch of the Nile delta.”
“And I’m chilled to my bone marrow!” His wife pulled a damp woolen cloak closer around her shoulders. “I’m not complaining but might we at least have a warm room for tonight?”
“I’ve read that Pelusium is the largest port this side of Alexandria. The city prefect or provincial governor must have guest quarters in his residence.”
His reply holds hope! Arcadia brightened and sat up. “A hot bath is also a possibility?”
“A definite surety…” Getorius pushed back a curtain that dripped cold water onto his tunic. A strong westerly had blown an early winter rain from the Mediterranean Sea onto land and soaked the carriage.
Arcadia reminded her husband, “We left Jerusalem twelve days ago. Our last decent lodgings were at Ascalon.”
He reached for her hand, which felt cold under her cloak. “I realize that, but you were quite insistent that we make this journey to Egypt.”
“You also agreed, remember? Just consider this the pilgrimage that it is, and paid for by Aelia Pulcheria.”
Aelia Augusta Pulcheria, sister of Eastern Emperor, Theodosius II, had offered the couple an opportunity to visit sites venerated by the Egyptian Church as stopovers on the Holy Family’s flight into Egypt. Since no galleys would sail to Italia from Palaestina until spring, it seemed foolish―almost immoral―not to take advantage of a holy journey that few from the Roman West could ever make. When Arcadia repeated the Roman fascination with the ancient land of pharaohs, Getorius reluctantly assented, despite concern that his medical practice at Ravenna had gone untended for over two months.
* * *
A few hours ago, through the blurring mist a long sandbar had materialized offshore and enclosed an immense lagoon of agitated seawater, dotted with small sand islands. Whitecaps rolled in with increased intensity, scattering long-legged sea birds on the hunt for marine creatures that favored the shallows. By early afternoon, the offshore shoals of bright-turquoise water had metamorphosed to a mottled gray. Flecked with white foam, the surface of the Mediterranean took on the dull patina of a galley’s lead anchor. Similar-hued clouds, scudding in from the west, swept along a cold rain, in the first of Egypt’s seasonal winter storms. They would continue until next April.
The couple had left Jerusalem on November third, in an imperial coach, accompanied by an escort of three Bedouin mercenaries armed with lances, bows, and swords. All three guards were m
ounted on magnificent Arabian stallions. Getorius discovered that none of the men spoke Latin: cautious as always, Pulcheria had made certain that while commissioning a journey to Egypt for the couple, there would be no exchange of sensitive information made between guards and the surgeon or his wife.
Two days earlier, the wisdom of hiring a Bedouin guard had been demonstrated on the Via Maris, east of Rhinocolura. At a stretch of desolate stone paving next to a small oasis, two recumbent pack camels were tethered in a way that blocked the road. After the coach driver halted, six men with faces concealed in headscarves and armed with curved swords, emerged from a palm tree grove.
Seeming friendly, the lead Bedouin guard made easy banter with the bandits’ chieftain, ostensibly to negotiate the amount of a bribe that would allow the group to pass. While this jovial exchange was underway, the other two Bedouin steadily maneuvered their horses behind the bandit negotiator’s five amused companions. Abruptly, at a knee signal from their riders, the Arabian steeds neighed, reared up and flailed their hooves at the brigands’ heads―as they were trained to do. At the same moment, in a deft motion the lead guard swung his lance at the distracted negotiator’s head. He sprawled to the ground, dead from a vicious blow. The other two guards skewered his companions in the sand with lances, but a last, uninjured man sprinted back toward the shelter of the oasis trees. One Bedouin strung a bow, preparing to drop him, then lowered it and grinned. The man would survive to tell other brigands about the deadly folly of attacking even a lone carriage on the coastal road.
White-faced with horror, Arcadia drew the curtain and sobbed after witnessing the massacre. Getorius, stunned into silence, held her close to him until they reached the next post station.
* * *
A moment after sighting Pelusium Getorius heard one guard urge his horse forward. “He’s probably going to announce our arrival to the city prefect.”
Arcadia asked, “What is the prefect’s name again? We should at least appear informed.”
He reached for the leather traveling case that was a gift of the Augusta. “I meant to look over Pulcheria’s vellum again before we arrived, but dozed off after our midday meal at that inn.”
“The proprietor was closing up for the winter and barely had enough food for us.”
“Not many travel the coastal road at this time of year. Ah, here…” Getorius read a name at the bottom of the authorization. “The prefect is Sergius Abinnaeus.”
“That doesn’t sound like a Latin surname.”
“Arcadia, we’re in the Eastern Empire, so Egyptians must have all manner of strange-sounding names. Still, I imagine this Abinnaeus will speak Latin since it’s the official language of the government at Constantiople.” Getorius moved the curtain aside again to glance outside the window. “We’re stopped at a stone bridge that spans this small section of a Nilus branch. I can see buildings, wharves, even a large temple on the opposite side. Beyond them is a good-sized fortress with defensive towers.”
“Is Pelusium larger than Jerusalem?”
“I imagine by far, Arcadia. Our guard still is talking to gate sentries.”
At a lance signal from the Bedouin, the coach driver clucked his mules across the bridge and through the main entrance. Even in gloomy afternoon light it was evident that the city’s plan was a Roman design, with two main avenues having a civic forum and the pretorium building at their intersection.
The carriage stopped in front of Abinnaeus’s residence. Four massive columns with curious flowered capitals supported an entrance porch.
Getorius said, “That’s our first look at Egyptian architecture. I’ve not seen capitals like that.’
Arcadia noted, “And the building has a flat roof with no windows in the front of that sloping wall,”
Rain sloshed off the porch roof as two sentries in leather capes came out to escort the couple into a marble vestibule. A fountain in center was not functioning. One sentry went to tell a passing slave of the couple’s arrival. Soon afterward, a young man wearing a heavy cloak came to greet them in Greek. When Getorius responded in Latin, he introduced himself in that language.
“I am Nepheros, secretary to his Excellency, Sergius Abinnaeus. You are Latins then?”
“From Ravenna,” Getorius told him, “but here under the sponsorship of Aelia Pulcheria at Constantinople.”
The secretary’s dark eyebrows rose slightly at the mention of the Augusta’s name, but his expression remained bland. “Gratus…welcome, then. Please, come with me.”
Getorius followed his wife. Nepheros is Greek, heavy brows arched over brown eyes. Untrimmed hair. Clean-shaven, but perhaps a day or two earlier.
A perpetual half-smile hovered at Nepheros’s lips―as if having seen and heard every petition made to the governor, written or verbal, he found most of them laughable in the naïve audacity of their request. What could these westerners want?
As they passed through a marble hallway toward an open atrium, where rainwater spilled into a central pool, Nepheros told Arcadia, “Domina, his Excellency is at the moment preoccupied, yet visitors from the West should interest him. We get so few.”
“We’re truly grateful to you.” As Arcadia expected, he flushed at her smile before confiding, “The Prefect is preparing to leave Pelusium for his winter villa.”
“Is he a provincial governor?” Getorius asked.
“You might use that tern in the West. As I said, His Excellency will spend the winter further south.
“Then it is fortunate that we arrived now.”
“Indeed…” Nepheros indicated the overflowing pool. “It is unfortunate that this frightful weather delays the Prefect’s departure. Ah. We are at His Excellency’s office.”
Standing with his back to the door, Sergius Abinnaeus sorted through manuscript shelves and placed the most important scrolls into round wicker baskets. The room felt chilly, warmed only by the heat of oil lamps that cast an orange light on the cluttered surroundings.
Nepheros paused at the doorway, reluctant to announce unexpected visitors when the prefect prepared to leave the city. After a moment, he cleared his throat and called out, “Excellency, you have Western guests. Latins sent by Aelia Pulcheria, the Augusta at Constantinople.”
“Visitors…Constantinople?” Aninnaeus kept his attention on books and scrolls engulfing all sides of his desk. He unrolled the top portion of a manuscript, glanced at its title, and then looked back.
By flickering lamplight, Getorius saw a stocky man, square-faced, with unkempt black hair, a beard silvered in strands, and a slightly bulbous nose. He looked to be some fifty years old, yet without deep creases in his brow and alongside his mouth, might have been five years younger.
Abinnaeus frowned. “Where in the Western Empire are you from, Rome?”
“Sir, my wife and I come from Ravenna.”
“Ah…your dying capital.” The governor eased the scroll into one of the baskets, then apologized. “Perhaps I should control my curtness, yet we hear only disastrous news from the West. Carthage now in the hands of Vandals, your immature emperor failing to properly secure his frontiers―”
“Excellency,” Nepheros interrupted to forestall unpleasantness. “Surgeon Getorius Asterius and his wife are in Egypt as guests of Aelia Augusta Pulcheria.”
“I heard you before, the emperor’s sister.” He turned to the title page of a book he picked up.
Arcadia, uneasy at the governor’s gruff manner and criticism of the West, ventured, “Sir, the Augusta told us that you would have further instructions for us.”
Seeming baffled, Abinnaeus looked over at her. “Instructions about what? Do I have them, Nepheros?”
“Excellency, a month ago a packet did arrive by courier from Constantinople.”
A month past? Getorius glanced at his wife. Then Pulcheria had this planned long before she told us we should come to Egypt. Now the governor says he knows nothing about her letter of introduction.
“I’ll never find wherever it
is in all this…” Abinnaeus laid the book down and spread his hands in helplessness at the disorder. “Ah…what sort of instructions, Surgeon?”
“A list of place names and quite possibly a map,” Getorius replied, annoyed at a failure in communication. “We’re to follow the route of the Holy Family as they fled to save the infant Jesus from King Herod’s men.”
Abinnaeus reddened and slapped a hand on his desk to demand, “Why would the Augusta involve me? That would be a matter for Eusebios, the Bishop of Pelusium. Am I correct, Nepheros?”
“Excellency, I…I should think both of you would be informed.”
“Both of us? Great Zeus! Why should I be—”
“Sergius, are you still in there?” a female voice called from beyond the office’s inner door.
When a beautiful woman, several years younger, appeared in the doorway, he explained, “My wife, Dorothea,” Lamplight reflected off skin the shade of pale alabaster. The humid weather had frizzled the woman’s black hair into short ringlets. Dorothea stroked a shorthaired gray kitten with black-tipped tufted ears and a small tail with similar dark markings.
