Chains of the Nile: The Conclusion
A Quintus Paulus Adventure
Paulus would have been better off if his throat had been slit and he had been fed to the crocodiles. He was bound hand and foot and then dropped through a hatch into the bilge: the water that seeped in through the wooden hull mixed with the fetid effluvium of the hundreds of men and beasts in the decks above. The darkness was almost complete. There was enough room to lie against the curving hull, but a part of him was always submerged. Exhausted, he would be overtaken by sleep only for something to startle him awake: a gnawing rat or a floating mass bumping into his leg, a previous prisoner no doubt.
They sailed on for what must have days. Paulus grew weak. He received no food and only on occasion was a jar or water lowered down to him on a slender cord. Antinous wanted him suffering but alive.
At long last, a rope dropped into the hold.
“It’s time, Roman,” said a voice from above.
Paulus tied the line around his chest and was hoisted up.
…
“Honored guests, we have before us no mere Roman soldier, but an officer. A captain! Hahaha!”
Dripping water that he had been doused with to make him smell less offensive after days in the reeking bilge, Paulus stood facing Antinous who addressed the crowd. The girl—with conspicuous bruises on her face—stood near the Egyptian. Antinous’ esteemed guests stood in a ring around the quarterdeck.
“Mere nights ago, in a failed attempt to escape, this Roman killed one of my men, with nothing but his chains. So, for our entertainment tonight we are going to give him another chance. We shall see how he does against my best man, Qar.”
The man who knocked Paulus to the ground earlier stepped forward, torchlight glinting on his polished armor and oiled ebony skin. He held in his hand a long razor sharp khopesh, the hooked sword of the Egyptians of old.
“The least you could do is unlock my shackles,” said Paulus. “My hands were free when I gutted your other man.”
The Egyptian looked at him with cold contempt.
“True, but you did not start that way. However, I won’t leave you at a complete disadvantage. Perhaps this will come in handy again.”
Antinous tossed something at Paulus’ feet: the golden pin with the griffin.
Paulus looked at the girl, her eyes were wide with the terror of recognition.
"Bind them together,” he said, as he shoved the girl down the stairs of the quarterdeck.
She tumbled hard, coming to rest at Paulus’ feet.
Paulus helped to her feet. She was hurt but able to stand. The guards unshackled Paulus’ right hand and attached the manacle to her right. She clutched her gold pin that she palmed from the deck.
“You see, now you have one free hand, and the hand of your benefactress as well. Music!”
Antinous clapped and the musicians played a rousing tune on their flutes and harps and drums.
“Lords and ladies, our Roman masters.” The crowd laughed and clapped.
“Qar, you may kill them now.”
The big Nubian grinned and approached, catlike. He stepped diagonally toward the girl, seemingly intent on dispatching her first. Paulus tugged on the chain and pulled her behind him. They turned as the black man circled.
The bulk of the deck was blocked off by a row of guards armed with shield and spear. The stairway leading to Antinous’ dais on the quarterdeck was similarly obstructed. The side rails of the ship were unguarded, but the water was crocodile infested; and when Paulus lost, his body and that of the girl would be pitched into the river to feed those scaly monsters.
“Stay close to me, but by the gods do not get in the way.”
Paulus knew this to be an impossible command. But he was used to giving such orders to his men. He only hoped that this woman was as quick on her feet as she was beautiful. One outspread hand rested on her hip, guiding her backwards in a wide circle. The other hand was up and ready for action.
Paulus cast his eyes about, looking for something—anything—that he could use as a weapon to defend himself. He considered trying to take a spear or sword from one of the guards, but he knew that were he to try, Qar would close and finish them off.
He spotted his best option. Steering the girl toward one of the masts at the center of the cleared deck, Paulus ripped a burning torch free from the bracket where it hung. It would not hold up to a direct blow from the Nubian’s sword, but he could parry with it and a well placed lunge from the burning brand could be debilitating.
With Paulus now armed, Qar did away with the prior pretense of toying with the condemned slaves. He attacked with the speed of an asp, his khopesh glinting like a fang. Paulus warded off the blows. A shower of sparks filled the air each time the torch connected with the sword. Glowing embers lay scattered on the deck, and they burned Paulus’ feet as he stepped nimbly.
The girl stumbled, gasping at the pain in her own feet. The taut chain pulled at Paulus’ arm as he attempted to parry the next blow from their killer. Qar’s sword took the torch full on, cleaving it in half.
In a fluid sweep, Paulus pulled the girl to her feet and then threw the stump of torch handle at the man’s face. The wood whirled through the air and caught Qar on his broad nose.
Looking back, Paulus could see that they had been driven all the way to the riverside rail. They were trapped. They climbed up onto the rail and stood there, balanced precariously. Qar, his broken nose streaming blood, approached in triumph. He held his sword out in front of his body and taunted with the gleaming tip. He feinted at the two captives. The girl flinched, losing her balance. Paulus steadied her.
The executioner raised his sword high in the air ready to strike the girl. He smiled, Paulus went wide eyed, the girl screamed. The sword came down.
On instinct, the girl jumped backwards to avoid the immediate danger of the blade. She seemed to hang in the air a moment before dropping and pulling Paulus down with her. As he fell, Paulus reached out for the railing.
His fingers found the carved wood, and his hand took hold with all the strength he could muster. With the full weight of the falling girl pulling on the iron cuff on his wrist, Paulus cried out, speeding her momentum as she passed the nadir of her arc.
The girl’s scream of terror turned to one of surprise as she swung up past the top of the railing. She traveled over Qar, whose head and sword arm stuck out over the water in completion of the thrust that had sent the girl over the edge. He was completely surprised as she passed above him, bringing the chain that joined her to Paulus down on his neck.
A look of shock flashed across the man’s face as he realized his fate. The chain went taut, and the two captives and their would be executioner went down into the dark river.
It was chaos in the water. It churned with thrashing limbs; a swirl of white and deepest green. Paulus was pummeled by fists and feet, elbows and knees. Both the Nubian and the girl struck him as if he were forcing himself into their lungs rather than the water. He withstood the barrage, holding his breath as he searched for the surface.
Paulus saw the glimmer of torchlight and then the cool glow of the moon, glinting from a polished blade.
He twisted in the water, but not enough to avoid the sharp edge of the blade, slicing along his ribs. Paulus winced in pain, a stream of bubbles poured up from his mouth. His hand lashed out and locked onto the dark fist holding the sword. The two men wrestled for control as Paulus blood tinted the water.
Paulus was shoved from behind. It was not his enemy or the girl. His vision was constricting as his lungs burned, but he glimpsed a scaled tail receding into the gloom. Still trying to control the sword, Paulus kicked for the surface with all his might.
He broke through, gasping for air, and was met by excited and confused shouts from the ship’s deck.
One of the river beasts brushed against Paulus’ legs. It must have touched the girl too, because she screamed and tried to climb up on Paulus, pushing his head underwater.
Eyes open, Paulus saw serpentine shadows circling below. The long figures morphed into ovals that rapidly grew in size. They were coming straight at him.
Just as the gaping, fang-studded maw of a giant crocodile came into focus, Paulus took Qar in a vice-like grip and wrenched him around between himself and the animal. Paulus did not see the massive jaws close around his enemy’s torso, but he felt the impact as it propelled him back to the surface and the waiting archers.
The girl was dead weight pulling against his wrist. But when the night air washed over his face, she resurfaced next to him, gasping. Without giving her time to catch her breath, Paulus shouted.
“Swim!”
He took off paddling and kicking and hoped that the girl would be able to find a way to keep up.
At first she struggled against him, but soon she fell in sync, matching him stroke for stroke.
Arrows followed them, but as they slipped away into the darkness, the close shots also disappeared.
Paulus and the girl reached the muddy shore, crowded with rushes. They pulled themselves out of the water, chests heaving and hungry for the dry desert air.
“Are you hurt?” Paulus managed to ask.
“No. I don’t think so. How are we still alive?”
“The gods of Rome watch over us. They are more powerful than the tired, animal-headed gods of these Egyptians.”
Paulus looked at her. She was still beautiful having just crawled from the Nile, face flushed even in the moonlight.
“What is your name?”
“Caecilia.”
“A noble name.”
“Of course. Who else would Antinous choose to degrade on his pleasure barge. We were captured, my father and I, and he was killed. I…”
Caecilia buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shook with her sobs. Paulus put a strong hand on her back. She looked up.
“Do you think they will follow us?”
“I believe so. Antinous’ pride is wounded; that will only fuel his hatred.”
Shouts carried across the water.
“They will be coming. We must go. If we can find a village, we can take horses or camels and ride to the safety of a Roman garrison.”
The voices grew louder, and torchlight shone through the papyrus reeds.
The two fugitives ran inland, the wet bank giving way to dry sand that slid beneath their feet.
The gash on Paulus’ side stung bitterly as he exerted himself. At last they reached the top of the dune. Paulus turned to look back just as an arrow cut through the night and whistled past his ear.
Without thought, Paulus jumped for the cover of the far side of the dune, pulling the girl after him.
At this place it was as if there were no river, the dunes seeming to surround them for miles. But there was a glow not far off, away from their pursuers. Paulus led them on.
They ran through the loose sand, struggling over the dunes until they saw the sources of the light. It was a massive temple, held up with stone pillars and ringed with burning braziers. Its entrance was toward the river and a path ran straight to it, disappearing in the dark.
“Temples mean sacrifices, sacrifices mean priests, and I never met a foreign priest who would rather walk than ride.” He looked at the manacle on his wrist that was worn bloody and glistened in the wan light.
“We shall have to do something about these as well.”
Caecilia reached up and pulled something from her hair. It was the griffen-headed gold pin.
“Perhaps this will work to free you yet again.”
Paulus took the pin and kissed her. Then he set to work removing her bonds and then his own.
…
Braziers burned in the temple. The light from the flickering flames painted the massive carved pillars, casting shadows that danced and twitched. The hieroglyphs filling the walls seemed to move.
Paulus and Caecilia crept along the edge of the central courtyard. Priests and slaves moved about, forcing them to hide in alcoves and behind columns as they made their way deeper into the complex.
“There has to be a way through.”
They explored the temple, but each chamber they entered was a dead end. Paulus had hoped to find an unassuming side door, but it became clear that the only likely exit was through the far passage of the courtyard through which someone seemed always to be passing.
“We may have to run for it. Who knows what it on the other side of that threshold.”
There was shouting at the far end of the atrium, at the entrance. Their pursuers had arrived.
“Stay close.”
Paulus slipped out of the shadows and strode confidently through into the next hall. The right demeanor could fool the enemy if they expect something else from you, but there were few excuses Paulus could make for his appearance: battered, bloody, and naked all but for the rags around his waist. Caecilia could have fit in, but that was before their escape. Her dress was damp and soiled and the makeup on her face ran down in streaks. She looked like a cat dragged from the river.
The hall was long and dim. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in carvings and paintings, depictions of strange animal-headed gods: standing in a boat, holding a set of scales. Men rode chariots and raised monuments. They walked quickly, and only when they had gone most of the way did a priest emerge from the far doorway and walk toward them. Paulus picked up the pace and puffed out his chest. He held the shackles wound around his hand, tucked behind his back. The priest looked at Paulus, confusion apparent on his face. The Roman met the man’s gaze and nodded gravely, never slowing. They moved on and Paulus did not look back, but he could feel the eyes of the priest glancing back again and again.
They were almost to the entrance to the next chamber when a venom-filled shout reverberated down the hall from behind. Paulus did not understand the language, but the meaning was clear enough.
“Run!”
The two Romans sprinted the final few paces of the hall and raced into the next room. Their footfalls slapped the floor loudly. In the center of the room stood a stone table, bathed in the light of the full moon that streamed in through a gap in the roof. On the table lay a body.
The dozen or so priests and attendants that had been bustling around the deceased, wrapping him in strips of cloth, stopped what they were doing and looked at the intruders. One of them began to chatter at them, ordering them to leave.
Paulus ignored him and cast his eyes about for an exit. He spotted a rustling white curtain covering a small opening in the far corner of the room. Pushing forward, Paulus was shoved by the priests, who took offense at the desecration of the funeral rite. He pushed back, knocking one to the ground.
The soldiers arrived in the room; so did Antinous.
He barked a command in the savage tongue and the priests surged to seize the escaped Romans. Caecilia screamed as she was grabbed roughly. Paulus let the chains unwind from his forearm; the heavy iron cuffs pulled them taut.
The forged links whistled through the air as Paulus lashed out with the improvised weapon. His first blow connected with the head of the man with a controlling grip on Caecilia’s arm. The priest’s head jerked to the side with inhuman speed, like a bird upon hearing an unfamiliar song, and he dropped to the ground limp.
Paulus whirled, and the manacles cracked skulls. The priests scattered, just as Antinous’ men attacked.
Paulus shoved Caecilia back between himself and the table. She climbed up, rolling over the half-wrapped corpse and knocking off polished bronze instruments that lay arrayed next to it.
A spear thrust shot at Paulus. He narrowly dodged it and watched the glinting tip just miss the retreating girl. He grasped the spear shaft, as the soldier tried to recover, then backhanded his chains into the man’s face. The soldier let go of his spear as he dropped to his knees, blood pouring through fingers that clutched his face.
Before Paulus could bring the spear to bear, a sword slashed down at him. He clumsily blocked with the spear haft, but the sword struck full on, cleaving the wood in two. The blow was deflected, but not enough to spare Paulus from a gash to his arm that welled with crimson blood. The Roman still held the bladed half of the spear. He swept it at the swordsman who leapt back, barely escaping a slash to the throat.
Paulus faced his attackers. Two squared off against him.
One lunged with a spear. Paulus parried with the broken haft then brought the chains cracking down on the soldier’s hand, causing him to drop his weapon.
Another spear point thrust at Paulus, biting into his already injured side but glancing off his ribs in a streak of blood and white-hot pain. Pinning the spear between his arm and body, Paulus roared with rage and smashed the man in the head with a vicious backhand. He dropped to the ground and kicked himself away from the fight, blood flowing out from under his bronze helmet.
Paulus turned and saw Caecilia standing tense on the other side of the embalming table. He forced a quick smile.
“Let’s go! Quickly!”
She nodded, then her face tightened in alarm.
Paulus spun around to see a long golden dagger stabbing down at him in a flashing arc. He lurched backward, falling onto the table. Antinous was on him in an instant. He struck again. Paulus held the blade hand at bay as Antinous pressed down.
Paulus panted; his arms trembled from exertion. The numerous wounds on his body burned white hot. Antinous spoke, spittle flying from his lips.
“When I take you back to the ship, I am going to tie you to the mast and make you watch as I cut off the feet of every Roman slave. Their blood will stain the deck crimson.”
Paulus strained, hatred burning in his eyes.
“Then you will watch what I do to her.”
Paulus could not see Caecilia, but he knew she was close as Antinous desperately lunged across the table with his free hand. There was a scream, but it was not a woman’s.
The dagger clattered to the table. Paulus pushed Antinous away to see him clutching his face where the bronze handle of an embalming hook protruded from his eye socket. Paulus scrambled over the table, picking up the dagger as he moved. Antinous grabbed at Paulus with a bloody hand. Paulus swung. The blade cleaved the incense-rich air and then deep into Antinous’ hand.
The Egyptian lord screamed and flailed, blood spraying. Paulus pulled Caecilia along and they dashed through the exit into the night.
—
The Egyptian sun rose red, warped and broken by the morning haze. The warmth of the sunshine on his bare legs woke Paulus from his slumber. He tried to sit up, but the pain from his wounds argued against it. He looked down. His wounds were dressed. A shade made from sticks and cloth covered him. Caecilia was nowhere to be seen.
Exiting the temple, they had stolen camels from a small paddock. They rode hard all night. At some point Paulus had lost consciousness. He must have stayed in the saddle because he did not feel as if he had fallen off. But he hurt enough that he was not sure whether he would know if he had.
There was a rustling noise behind him. Paulus snatched up his new bejeweled dagger.
“Be still. Your wounds will open.”
It was Caecilia. She wore a new dress, in the local fashion, and carried a heavy sack.
“You’ve slept for a full day.”
Paulus bristled. Caecilia sensed his concern.
“We were not followed. Or at least they were unable. Do you think that Antinous is dead?”
“Perhaps. I’ve known men to survive much worse. Do you know where we are?”
“A village. By an oasis. Anyway, I don’t think Antinous will come here. It seems they support the rival faction in whatever dynastic struggle is happening in Alexandria.”
“What have you got in the sack?”
“Clothes and sandals for you. Food for our journey. And this.”
She removed a short sword from the sack. It was a gladius, standard issue. Paulus took it in his hand and pulled the blade a hand’s width out of the scabbard. The oiled blade shone. The grip felt wonderfully familiar.
“How did you get all this? I hope you didn’t trade the camels because…”
Paulus paused. Caecilia sat beside him.
“I sold the pin,” she said. “It would only bring bad memories anyway.”
“Then you’ve used it to save my life once again. I feel I will be in your debt forever.”
She stroked his bruised face. He looked in her eyes that burned like green fire in the morning light. She kissed him softly.
“There is much yet that you can do for me,” she said, “but one thing first of all.”
He looked into her pure, beautiful eyes. He was fully under her spell.
“Anything.”
She smiled.
“Take me to Rome.”
…
Can’t get enough? Read about Quintus Paulus’ secret mission in darkest Gaul.