The Atlantis Papyrus

by Jay Penner

  “It is the type of visit you could have avoided, Krokinos, if you were a good human being,” I said.

  He laughs. A fake, dramatic laugh on a bony, ugly, beak-nosed face. He looks like a desiccated corpse in a nobleman’s attire.

  “Says the man who wanted to peddle in whores!” he cackles, and his men roar in approval. I doubt they know who I am, for I had arrived in surprise.

  “That was a mistake long ago, Krokinos. And while you were pimping, I was out conquering empires.”

  “Not you. Alexander. You were just a horse boy. Where is my money?”

  I would not let him bait me. “Where are my wife and daughter?”

  Silence descends on the room like a cool curtain. Krokinos’ henchmen realize that this dispute has bigger implications. One of them tries to speak, but Krokinos gestures him to be quiet. “First, the money. Then your wife and daughter.”

  “You mistreated them. That was not our agreement. I want to know that they are well.”

  Krokinos steps forward, but not close enough to be in my reach. He puts his palms forward. “The. Money. But I know you do not have it, Deon, otherwise you would not be here threatening me.”

  The scene is tense. No one makes a sound, and it is as if there are twenty lions in a room all hunched to spring. “What makes you think I have no money? I want to see my family to make sure they are unharmed,” I say. I am wary as well. For all I knew, what I did may have been the most foolish act in the world, leading to all our deaths.

  Now Krokinos’ wife, Diona, steps from behind. She is barely taller than a dwarf but has a tongue sharper than an executioner’s blade. “I told him,” she says, pointing to her husband, “that worthless scum like you would never repay. You think you can hide behind your service; no one cares!”

  “Be quiet!” he admonishes her.

  But she does not back down. “We have been too patient with you. I should have sold your wife to one of our whore houses long ago, and she’d fetch a decent price!” She bobs her head up and down. I feel an urge to watch it roll on the floor. I choose to ignore her.

  “Where do we go next, Krokinos? I need to see my wife and daughter first. Where are they?”

  Diona is relentless. “They can take quite a beating! Even your arrogant little daughter, she has quite a mouth!” she screams.

  My face feels like someone held a burning torch to it. I grip the handle of my kopis, and I hear someone else pull their sword out of the sheath. Suddenly every sword is out, and the threatening blades reflect light.

  “How dare you invade my house and make demands!” she screams. Her face is red, and even I am surprised at the anger. But I have seen enough hateful, immoral people to know the poison in their minds.

  “I am making no demand. I am only—”

  “We sold them to Phrygian slave traders!” she screams.

  “Diona—” Krokinos starts, but it is too late. My anger explodes, rising from deep within my belly and engulfing every fiber.

  I lunge forward, and my men spring to action. Krokinos’ men are surprised but scramble to a fighting position. Two men get in my way before I can reach Krokinos. I slam my shield to them. One of them falls and the other staggers. I thrust my kopis into the chest of the man on my right. He drops like a rock, without a sound.

  Then I attack the second man on the ground and strike his neck. Blood spurts from the severed vessels. It is chaos all around me, and I know from the initial attack that Krokinos’ men are just local thugs and we would slaughter them like pigs. I turn to see one of my men bleeding from a large gash on his shoulder, but his attacker is lying on the ground in his death throes. The swords clash all around me, and I look for Krokinos.

  He is cowering behind one of his henchmen. I take an attack stance and his guard, after some hesitation, lifts his hands and deserts his employer. I grab Krokinos by his and push him against the wall.

  “What did you—”

  “They’re here!” he croaks, “she was just—”

  “If you’re lying…”

  “I swear I’m not, I swear on the gods!”

  “Take me to them, and tell your men to stand down,” I say.

  We shout in unison for everyone to stop. After a few more metallic clangs the courtyard turns quiet. I survey the carnage—four of his men are dead, two more howl on the ground and the others have laid down their arms and kneel. One of my men is dead, and the rest stand with minor nicks.

  I chose my men well.

  As much as I want to go with Krokinos, I know I must ensure that this place is secure. I call one of my men, “No one goes out or comes in.”

  Then I look for Eurydice, where is she?

  She is behind a large pillar. In front of her is a terrified Diona, whimpering. Eurydice holds her dagger to the woman’s throat.

  “Don’t do anything,” I tell her. Eurydice nods.

  I head back to Krokinos and slap him on his head. “Take me to them.” One of my men comes with me for safety.

  Krokinos owns a large home, no doubt a result of his many ventures. Intricate paintings in red and green pigment dye adorn the walls. Dancers, gods, kings; all convey happiness, piety, and virtue. None that match Krokinos’ values.

  “Why are there no painting of snakes, hyenas, and vultures?” I ask.

  He looks at me confused, “what—”

  “Nothing. Take me to them.”

  We walk through two halls, another porch with a garden, a large room with a kitchen, and then finally a hallway that ends in stairs. I see a few servants and slaves, but the rest are either hiding or live elsewhere.

  We come to the steps, and Krokinos hesitates. I shove him forward. It is not a basement—there is a door just a few steps below.

  “Why don’t you wait here? I will bring them to you,” he says. I see his hands shake. He does not want me to go there with him, I realize.

  It must be bad.

  “I can slice your throat and go there myself, make your choice,” I tell him, and push him down.

  Someone has locked the door from outside. I feel anguish when I realize that this is like a dungeon. Krokinos has the keys to it. My heart beats faster as I wait to enter—the large wooden door creaks as Krokinos opens it. I push him forward, and my guard stays close behind me. The first thing that hits me is the smell—it like a foul wet blanket that falls on me. It is a hellish odor of piss, shit, puss, pain, tears, and misery.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness. There are some lamps, and a small opening on the back allows a little sunlight. There are many hunched figures in the room.

  I whisper to Krokinos, “Tell your servants to bring lamps, many lamps.” I hold the tip of my blade to his lower back, and he squirms. He shouts the orders.

  Soon, four housekeepers arrive, each holding two large lamps. I tell them to go inside and stand near each corner. The lamps fill the room and what I see takes my breath away. The place is no different from godless slave quarters I have seen in Persia and Egypt. The floor is dirty. There are bare straw mattresses all around, and the dwellers' meager belongings line up the wall—pots, clothes, small possession boxes. There are many people here—mostly women and children, and some old men.

  They look emaciated, scared, and dirty. Very dirty.

  I am terrified at what I will find. I do not recognize anyone. My wife and daughter could be in front of me, but I would not know them.

  They surely would not recognize me.

  “Apollonia?” I say, loudly. There is no response. “Apollonia?” I say again, and a woman comes forward slowly.

  It is not my wife. This woman is too old. I shake my head at her.

  “This is Deon. I am back!”

  I hear a gasp to my side, and I spin. There is a woman right beside me. A girl stands behind her.

  It is as if an angry demon ripped the heart out of my chest. It is my wife—but her lustrous hair is gone, her face is sunken, her eyes hide inside dark pits. She wears a torn, dirty gown that barely covers her upper
body.

  “Apo…?” I hesitatingly step forward, and she does not move. I no longer care. I step forward and hug her, holding her as tightly as I can. First, nothing happens and then she begins to sob uncontrollably. She shakes, and the vibrations travel through my arms and chest like the thundering hoofs of war horses. I cannot control myself, and all the years of sadness and guilt come over me, and I cry as well.

  It is a strange sensation… crying. But my tears fail to cleanse the dirt on her. We stay that way without words. Krokinos stands deathly quiet. Apollonia extricates herself, and then she delivers a stinging slap. She slaps me again, and again, and my ears ring. I hear the girl scream and try to pull my wife back. My face feels like hot embers—what man allows a woman to hit him? Instinctively my hands shoot up, and I grip her neck like a vice. Then I pull her forward. She does not flinch.

  My grip on her neck tightens. There is a conflagration in my mind.

  “Why did you do this to us?” She asks, her voice a hoarse whisper and yet it has the power of a Scythian’s arrow. It pierces me, and I feel the voice of a thousand angry gods cursing at me.

  Asking me what man I had become.

  I let go of my wife. She clutches her neck but says not a word. I hold her again. This time she does not pull back and instead pushes her head to my chest and sobs. There is only the sound of breath. She controls herself and pulls my daughter forward. She has been crying as well, seeing her mother. And maybe with fear.

  My daughter is skinny and dirty, like her mother—but to me, she is the most beautiful girl in the world. The daughter I had thought of so many times and held as a chubby baby. But now she reaches her mother’s shoulder. She looks like my wife, I think, and thank the gods.

  “Your father,” my wife says. Alexa does not move. I bend down and gently hold her to my chest.

  She freezes.

  It is understandable.

  I am a stranger.

  I am the man that took away her childhood.

  I am the man that put her mother in such pain.

  I am the man that grabbed the neck of her mother when I should be consoling her.

  But I intend to mend the distance. I let my daughter go and turn to my wife. “Shall we go?” I ask her.

  She nods.

  “Have you been held here?” She does not answer—Krokinos scares her. I address the people. “You are all free to go, no harm will come to you. Do you object, Krokinos?”

  He nods vigorously. But no one moves yet—I let them be. I will be back, but first, there are other issues to fix. I lead my family out, and my guard drags Krokinos along, and we come back to the courtyard. I walk to one of my men and borrow a thick wooden club. Krokinos’ eyes widen in terror as I brandish it in front of him.

  “You are going to tell me a few things, and you shall not lie,” I say.

  “What more do you want? You got your family!” Krokinos protests. His shifty eyes roam the courtyard.

  “Why were they in a dungeon?”

  “That was no dungeon, it was—”

  I smash the club on his foot and feel the bones of his toes separate. He howls. I never knew his voice could achieve such a pitch. Two of my men stand him up. Krokinos balances on one leg. He gasps. “I swear no one told me you were coming back. I was planning to release them—”

  I swing the club again, and his knee cracks like an eggshell. He bellows and screams until his voice is hoarse. I hear Diona pleading us not to kill him.

  My wife and daughter stand in one corner—my daughter’s face hidden behind her mother. I nod at her to take my daughter away from this ugly business. My wife disappears in the corridors and returns with another girl—the same age as my daughter—and has them both retreat to a room.

  Once Krokinos catches his breath, I ask him again. “Why were they in the dungeon?”

  He gasps and wipes the drool off his mouth. His head sways. I order one of my men to bring Diona. They drag her next to her husband—her eyes see the far nothing. That is the look of someone who is visited by the same violence that they once unleashed upon others.

  “Sale. I was preparing to sell them,” he finally says. His voice is dry like corn left open in a desert.

  “Why?”

  “The price for slaves is picking up! That’s why!” He nurses his knee with a trembling hand.

  “But Governor Eumenes paid part of my debt!” I shout at him.

  Krokinos says weakly, “I never believed you would return. Everyone is fighting everyone else around here,” his voice trails.

  My mind is a raging cauldron of emotions—Krokinos would have condemned my family to slavery, but then I had prevented it. I decide to threaten him and let go, but just then my wife speaks.

  Her voice carries gently, but it is strong as steel. “He lay his hands on me, and not just to beat.”

  Anger roars through my blood vessels like the Hydaspes through a gorge. Krokinos is about to say something, but I yank his head back and slice his neck open with my kopis. Blood spurts all over, drenching his robe and his wife’s face.

  She does not react but instead begins to rock, murmuring.

  Krokinos thrashes about clutching his neck, and I watch him. Air bubbles through the gash on his throat—his breathing slows and the light in his eyes fades, and his life seeps away. The floor is slick, and I step away from his contamination.

  Then I turn to Diona. At first, my reaction is to kill her, but then I stop. I have seen too often the gentle nature of women transformed by the beasts that they lay with. Instead, I slap her hard, bringing her back to her senses.

  She begins to wail, and I tell her to shut up. She finally listens.

  “Free those you planned to sell. You will personally clean them, mend their wounds, and pay them a year’s salary. If you try anything, you will die and so will your children. I will find them, and make you watch as I nail them to the posts.”

  She nods vigorously. And then she gets up and trudges towards the dungeon.

  I decide to hold Krokinos’ remaining goons. We disarm them and warn that any hostile action would lead to death. They say they have no conflict with us anymore now that Krokinos is dead, and only that Diona must pay them. I promise to take care of that. My heightened awareness and strength soon wear off, and after so many years my shoulders feel light. My chest no longer feels the constriction. I turn to Eurydice watching me—her green eyes quietly assessing the situation.

  We all wash, cleanse, have the freed servants cook some food for us. It is a strange experience. Sitting around a table and eating good food, surrounded by happy-looking people, with my wife and daughter by my side. They are finally smiling, even though I know it will take years to expel the demons that now live within them.

  Eurydice sits among my men, she does not talk, but I notice my wife and her trade glances several times.

  Once we eat, I summon Diona again. It is important to reiterate that she takes care of the household, and keep her attack dogs at bay. She comes back, looking nervous. The men and women around the table look on as I issue my commands to her, and she listens without a word. I cannot see her eyes as they are downcast and hidden by her disheveled hair. Her pudgy face is further puffed by crying and stress.

  “I want no disobedience, Diona. You will conduct—” I turn towards the table. That is when I feel an indescribable pain shoot through my lower abdomen; it is like a hot poker, and I scream. Through the shock and pain, I see several people shoot up from their chairs, and I see Eurydice move behind me.

  There are noises.

  There is screaming, and then there is a sensation of something sticky and wet on me.

  My world descends into a blur of moving objects and strange sensations.

  MACEDON

  ❅

  Eurydice eats quietly. There is levity in the room. Deon sits comfortably, with his wife and daughter by his side. They exchange glances, but not much is said. Deon’s wife looks at her time to time. She is a beautiful, dignified woman, and s
he has been through much. The daughter is shy, but Eurydice can see the relief and happiness.

  Deon summons Diona, the terrible wife of the dead lender. The woman radiates hate, and she listens quietly, head bowed, to what Deon is saying. Eurydice watches intently; she does not like Diona’s false modesty. Every snake catcher knows that the viper never mellows. Deon stands up, and as he talks to her, he turns towards the table as if to address the rest of the group. It is then that Diona, a foot shorter than Deon, suddenly pulls out a short iron spike and drives it into Deon’s side. He screams in surprise and turns, and Eurydice jumps up.

  Deon stumbles around, frantically attempting to make sense of what had happened, and Eurydice dashes behind Deon. She unsheathes her serrated dagger and in one swift motion grabs Diona’s hair, yanks her back, and stabs Diona in her chest. Blood springs like a fountain and drenches her, and Diona collapses in a heap. Deon staggers, and Eurydice steps back as several men rush forward to hold him.

  Eurydice watches as Deon’s wife scrambles to hold her husband and tends to him. There are orders to bring bandage and wine, and they lay him down to inspect the wounds. It seems that the spike did not drive deep into Deon but went through the corner of his side, sparing vital organs. Deon’s wife cradles his head and gently caresses him, and the daughter holds his hand. They patch his wound as he groans and shakes.

  She thinks of their journey.

  The first time he had defended her.

  His stupid jokes on the way to Alexandria.

  The time he kissed her.

  The frightening skirmish on the boat.

  How she had saved him from death in the second Atlantis.

  Their talk of a future together.

  Eurydice smiles sadly, and she takes a deep breath.

  He is home.

  MACEDON

  ❖

  It hurt immensely, and they would not allow me to get up. I lay where I was for what seemed like a long time. The radiating pain begins to dull and throb. I stand with the help of two of men and look around. There are many concerned faces—my men, who worry about their payments and bonuses, the Krokinos household who wonder what next, my daughter who looks at me with fear and perhaps a small hint of adoration, and my wife with a mix of relief, anger, and affection.