Summer Solstice Part 9

He turned away and hefted the strange ball Khor had thrown to him. No time now to study it in detail, but he knew intuitively what it was: a model of the Earth.

He raised his eyes. Ne-tiy was standing at the entrance-way, looking at him. The geometer walked toward her. "How it is on his world, I do not know. But in Greek lands, the man takes the woman, though she be exalted, and of the highest rank. And so I take thee, Ne-tiy."

She gave him a sweeping bow and a most marvelous smile.

16. The River

"I hope the Horus affair has taught you a lesson," said Ptolemy. "I think you must now be quite convinced."

The two couples rested under the rear canopy of the royal yacht, which was moving upriver with its great red sail stretched tightly by the north wind. Pauni and Ne-tiy were immersed in private murmurs while the men talked intermittently.

"I have learned much," admitted Eratosthenes.

"For myself," continued the Greek pharaoh, "I never had any doubt that the G.o.ds were real. It is a bit puzzling, though, that the G.o.d would take that priest. I never thought much of Hor-ent-yotf. Always considered him a dangerous fanatic. Shows how wrong even I can be."

"A memorable man," murmured Eratosthenes.

In silence they watched a riverside village pa.s.s. The river had now risen to the stage where the house-cl.u.s.ters were accessible only by causeways and moles. The brown people had drawn back into their reed and wattle cone-roofed huts to let father Hapi drop his bounty. In a couple of months the waters would recede. The farmers would sow their wheat and barley, and finally they would reap. Four months of flood and receding water, four months of sowing and growing, four of harvest and drying up. Then repeat. And repeat. They had been doing this for more than fifty centuries. From time to time conquerors had flowed in, then out again, like waves on the seash.o.r.e. Nubians... Hyksos... a.s.syrians... Persians. And now the Greeks. A million Greeks, up and down the river. How long would we last? Who throws us out? Rome? Carthage? "Majesty," said Eratosthenes, "what happened to those two amba.s.sadors?"

"Interesting, that. They both got word that Panormus, on Sicily, fell to the Roman besiegers. Barca was recalled to Sicily to organize the Carthaginian guerrillas. Pulcher will return to Rome to organize an army to fight Barca. It's all insane, isn't it? What will they do with Sicily? Who cares? But Sicily isn't really the point, is it?"

Eratosthenes shrugged. "No. Actually, there are two points: one is greed, the other conquest. If Carthage wins, her greedy s.h.i.+ps will sail west to c.i.p.angu... the Indies... perhaps in our generation. They sail for trade and profit. If Rome wins, we will not see the antipodes for a thousand years. They go nowhere they cannot conquer. And they move only on roads.''

"I fear I must agree," said Ptolemy. "We Greeks used to go out to colonize. But that spirit is dead. It died five hundred years ago." The pharaoh's nose twitched. He looked back toward the incense tripods on the stern of the yacht. "We cover the smell of death with other smells." The braziers burned balsam, carnation, anise, and the blossoms of a.s.sorted flowers.

Eratosthenes smiled. He didn't really care for the artificial smells either. Actually, he preferred the river odors: willows, reeds, orchards, palms, fish (living and dead), the dung of humans and beasts, all veneered by this ma.s.sive rising water and its suggestion of distant melting snows. He studied the beads of condensate on the chill sides of his silver goblet.

Ptolemy was watching him. "It's cooled with crushed ice. Improves the tang and fights the heat. The locals prefer their beer warm. Do you realize they have never seen ice? They don't even have a word for it in their language."

"Curious," said Eratosthenes absently. Ice... snow... he mused. I made a special map of the Nile, beyond the cataracts, south to the confluence of the Blue and White Nile. Melting snow... that's what starts the yearly flood. Snow on far, equatorial mountains. Vast mountain ranges, far to the south. And feeder lakes. Big ones, inland seas. Some day we'll find them.

Ptolemy squinted around toward the ladies. "The priests are putting on quite a show at Thebes, in the great temple of Karnak. We would all be honored if the Betrothed-of-Horus could open the ceremonies."

"So it is written," said Eratosthenes gravely.

"Good. Settled. Religion, true religion, keeps a country alive, don't you agree, dear Eratosthenes?"

"Oh, quite."

"You've read Herodotus, of course. You recall that the Greeks at Marathon called on the great G.o.d Pan to terrify the Persians, and he did, and we won."

(Not to mention, we had a very smart general, thought Eratosthenes.)

"And you know," continued Ptolemy, "that Athena herself saved our fleet at Salamis. She was actually seen to alight on the prow of Themistocles' flags.h.i.+p."

"So I recall."

"So then, quite aside from the appearance of Horus last night, it is plain that the G.o.ds exist, and have been with us from the beginning. Clearly, they control human affairs. We must yield to the G.o.ds in all things, Eratosthenes. When science and religion conflict, science must yield."

Ptolemy took the geometer's silence for a.s.sent. "Did I ever tell you of the great Alexander's journey to the shrine of Ammon, at Siwah?"

(Many times, thought Eratosthenes.) "I don't seem to recall..."

"Well then. My father, the first Ptolemy, told it to me. Storms had completely obliterated the desert roads. Nothing to be seen but a sandy waste. The priests wanted to turn back. 'No,' said Alexander. 'If I am truly a natural son of Ammon, the G.o.d will send a guide.' And no sooner than spoken, here were these two serpents, rising out of the hot sands. 'Follow us,' they said, and off they went..."

(Wasn't it two ravens last time? thought Eratosthenes.) "Amazing," he said.

"He said to her, 'Be fruitful; be merry.' "

The map-maker had to think a moment. "Yes, the G.o.d Horus, to Ne-tiy."

"Not to you, though, Eratosthenes. Nothing merry about geometry."

"No."

"My father knew Euclid, who wrote his Elements back there in Alexandria. Father tried to plow through the Elements. Tough going. Complained to the master, there should be an easier way. Euclid replied, 'My lord, there is no royal road to geometry.' Father was so impressed that he founded the chair of mathematics at the Library. We've had a world-renowned geometer there ever since. Including you, young fellow."

"I am honored. And grateful."

"Actually, things turned out rather well for you."

"Yes."

To their rear the young women were talking in low tones. He heard a strange tinkling sound, as of little silver bells. He started to turn, then stopped. He knew what it was. Ne-tiy had laughed. He had never heard her laugh before. He relaxed and looked out over the river, to the west. The sun was a glowing semicircle, growing smaller and smaller as it dropped below the darkening hills.

"Gizeh," said Ptolemy, shading his eyes as he pointed into the sunset. "Have you ever seen the pyramids?"

"Yes, sire. But perhaps the ladies..."

The two women were already at the rail, looking out over the distant sands. The men joined them. They were all thralled to silence by the three immense structures.

Egypt, O Egypt, thought Eratosthenes. Land of cyclopean architecture and b.e.s.t.i.a.l G.o.ds. Where does awe leave off and disgust begin?

Twilight was brief. The sailors were already lighting lamps along the s.h.i.+p's walkways. Upriver, along the sh.o.r.e, more lights were visible. Torches, thought the mathematician. A lot of them. And the sound of sistra and tambourines, with shouting and singing and much merriment. The whole city was turning out to greet the pharaoh.

"We're coming into Memphis," said Ptolemy. "I'll have to join in the temple ceremonies, and Pauni and I will sleep in the palace tonight. You can join us, or you can remain on board."

"If it please you, we'll stay."

"I thought you might. You and the priestess may have my quarters. Everything is prepared. Until tomorrow, then."

17, Khor's Globe

Ne-tiy watched with uneasy curiosity as Eratosthenes opened the chest and carefully removed the little statue of Atlas, his back and arms still bent to receive his as yet invisible burden.

"I see writing on the base. An inscription in Greek," she said. "What does it say?"

"It says, 'Tell my friends I have done nothing unworthy of philosophy.'-Hermius.''