Chapter XI
Serapis had opened the floodgates of the sky.
The first spring rains had already descended in heavy torrents; the water-gods had already poured the kindly streams from their urns into the swelling Nile; the river-surveyors, who had consulted the Nilometers[1] at every place, declared that the sacred stream was steadily rising and that the maximum gauge would be reached that summer.
The rains clattered down in white curtains of pouring waters.
The palm-garden of the diversorium was inundated. Master Ghizla made his slaves dig little canals to carry the water to cisterns.
There was much joy and gladness at all this water. The air was fresh; though mid-summer was approaching, an equable coolness tempered the atmosphere around Alexandria; no river-mist spread seeds of disease; and the great dampness brought relief even to this ground, which had dried up during the winter, and to the parched air.
The travellers remained indoors. After the night of dreams at Canopus, Lucius had come home in one of his impotent fits of fury, locking himself in his room in despair and refusing to see anybody whatever.
Uncle Catullus abandoned himself to long siestas; Thrasyllus studied books, maps and globes.
In the porch of the slaves’ quarters sat Cora. As she was forbidden to sing or play, she sat crouched with her arms around her knees, gazing mournfully at the rains. Their lord’s sickness spread melancholy among all his household.
Caleb squatted beside Cora. Like her he sat with his arms around his knees and he smiled with his flashing eyes and teeth and said: