Ancient World 02 - Raiders of the Nile Read Free

entwined, it was hard to think of anything else.
    From those places where we touched emanated the most exquisite sensation imaginable—warm flesh against flesh. Those few areas of my body that were not touching hers experienced a kind of jealousy, and cried out to rectify the situation at once. Every part of me wanted to be pressed against every part of her, all at once. From the way she responded, I had no doubt she felt the same. Is it possible for two mortal bodies to meld into one? Bethesda and I frequently made every effort to do so, sometimes several times a day.
    Our bodies became sheened with sweat. As we turned this way and that, the faint breeze from the window gently wafted the sweat from our skin. Our sighs and moans joined the music of the rustling palm fronds, then rose above it in pitch and volume until surely the vendors in the street below and the laborers on their way to work could hear us cry out.
    At last—our union consummated, uttermost pleasure attained—we drew apart.
    “Was that a good beginning to your birthday, Master?” said Bethesda.
    The question was so unnecessary, I laughed out loud. Neither of us spoke for a long time. We lay side by side, barely touching. The morning sun reflected more brightly off the swaying palm fronds, scattering the room with bits of light. I heard the cry of seagulls, and the blaring of navigation horns from the distant Pharos Lighthouse. I closed my eyes and dozed for a while, then slowly woke again.
    Bethesda walked her fingertips over my knee and up my thigh, then reached for a more intimate part of me.
    “Perhaps we could make the day’s beginning twice as good,” she said.
    And so we did, very slowly, taking our time. Her body was a landscape in which I became hopelessly lost—the forest of her long black hair, the maze of her smooth brown limbs, the ever-changing topography of her shoulders. Her hips and breasts became undulating sand dunes as she stretched, twisted, and turned. Her mouth was an oasis, the place between her thighs a delta.
    When we were done, I felt wide awake. “I don’t think I could ever grow tired of that,” I said, mostly to myself, since I spoke the words in Latin. Though Bethesda knew Hebrew, Greek, and Egyptian, I had so far managed to teach her only a smattering of Latin. She raised an eyebrow, clearly not comprehending, so I repeated my comment in Greek, the language we had in common. “I don’t think I could ever grow tired of that.”
    “Nor I,” said Bethesda.
    “But sometimes…”
    “We have to eat.”
    So it was hunger that finally forced us out of bed. I dressed in my blue tunic—my best, despite a few stains and the fact that the threadbare linen fit me a bit tightly across the shoulders; just the night before Bethesda had stitched up a tear in the sleeve and repaired the frayed hem. I allowed her to dress in my second-best tunic, which was green, a color that suited her. On her much smaller frame the simple tunic made for a rather modest garment; it covered her elbows and knees and, cinched with a hemp belt, fitted snugly around breasts that had filled out considerably since the day I purchased her.
    Bethesda stood by the window and ran an ebony comb through her hair, which had become tangled during our lovemaking. She grimaced and muttered a curse when the comb encountered a particularly stubborn tangle. I laughed.
    “You could always shave your head, like the rich women do. They say it’s more comfortable in this climate. Keeps lice away.”
    “Rich women have wigs to wear when they go out,” she said. “Very fancy wigs. A different one for every occasion.”
    “True. But no wig could be as lovely as this.” I circled behind her and with my fingertips I gently smoothed the knot from her hair. I took the comb from her and ran it slowly through her long tresses. Her hair was thick and heavy and perfectly black, shimmering with rainbow highlights, like the wings of a dragonfly. Every part of her was