In a small warehouse in the main city of Alexandria, Tahut-Nefer and several other priests shook inside their binding circle. One man had collapsed entirely, and didn’t seem to be breathing. The other six were bathed in sweat, holding their heads as grinding pain surged through them. “What happened?” one of them asked feebly.
“We lost it,” Tahut-Nefer snapped. “The beast has been killed, banished, or bound.” He picked up the cuneiform tablet, with its impenetrable scribblings, and the parchment scroll that contained a transcription of the demon’s name: Kusarikku, spirit of protection, and child of Tiamat.
It had taken all seven of them to bind the damnable creature and force it to their will. It hadn’t been summoned to this world in over a thousand years, and had been bewildered by their assertions that this city was really the Uruk that it remembered. And that a foreign king and queen were here to assert dominance over the land, and that it should kill them. First the queen, if possible. Then the king. It had refused outright at first, stating, Queens do not bear arms. It is dishonorable to attack them.
But they’d borne down on it with their combined wills. Bound it with their own blood, and refused to give to it of their own life-energy. And sent it forth to do their bidding, their reluctant—and very powerful—slave. They hadn’t dared get close enough to watch the attack themselves. Which would have been gratifying, but far too dangerous. Anyone could have wandered by them, tucked in some alcove of the Temple of Isis, and seen their ritual circle. Better by far, and safer, to use this warehouse near the water.
“If it’s bound by our enemies, it could be compelled to speak,” one of his fellow priests said, thoughtfully, looking down at the dead man in their ritual circle.
“Leave him,” Tahut-Nefer said, struck by the words. “We must make haste back to Thebes to consider our next effort. If the demon was in any way successful, we will hear of it shortly.”
They cleaned the lamb’s blood off the floor. Found their donkeys at the stable where they’d been left. And tried to get out of town—only to find that the Sixteenth Legion had been mobilized, and was working with the Urban Cohorts to block the streets, preventing people from leaving the city. Ships were being stopped in the port for the same reason. “What’s happened?” Tahut asked a legionnaire as the man and several of his fellows dragged a wagon across a busy street, barricading it.
“There was an attempt on the lives of the Emperor and Empress,” the legionnaire replied shortly. “They wish to see the perpetrators caught.”
Tahut raised his hands in feigned shock. “Were either of them injured?” he asked, eyes wide.
“Not a scratch,” the legionnaire answered. “Good thing, too. The Empress is with child.”
Seething, the priests tried to find another way out of town, before the entire city was blocked off. And Tahut wondered angrily, how it was possible that their mission had missed its mark so completely. A mission that not even the high priest of Thoth had known about. One intended to rid them of these arrogant Romans, who, in spite of their power, were not gods. Not pharaohs. Who had no respect for the ancient traditions of Egypt.
And once they were gone, replace them with their younger, more malleable siblings. Selene would make a tolerable queen, until young Gaius, taken from Cleopatra, could be raised by priests and nobles who understood tradition. And then, when he was thirteen or so, and Selene was twenty-five, they could be married, be worshipped as living gods, and could continue the line of the Ptolemies. As the gods clearly intended.
Of course, to effect any of these changes, they needed Caesarion, Eurydice, and preferably Alexander and Cleopatra herself, all to die. How could we have failed, with such a powerful spirit? Perhaps we should have gone with one of the filth spirits, instead. Infected them all with diseases that no medicine can cure. But once those diseases start, it’s hard to control them. We could lose the entirety of the lineage. Though . . . Tahut-Nefer teetered on the brink of an idea so vast, he almost couldn’t conceive of it. Dynasties have fallen before. And the gods have favored new pharaonic houses in the past. But . . . only with their direct blessing.
He considered that carefully. Though when Horemheb the general took power after the time of the Accursed Ones, he was followed first by Ramses, and then, at last, by Seti. Whose rule the gods blessed, as they did not bless the short reigns of Ramses or Horemheb. He contemplated that for a moment. Perhaps the gods would bestow their power on . . . worthy replacements. Some noble, not even of the line of Ptolemy. The grandness of it captured his imagination as he rode on his donkey’s stolid back. What a wonder it would be, to excise all that is Hellene and foul from our lands. To send Rome back to its stinking flocks. And all by simply eliminating their rulers.
It did not occur to him that Rome’s strength didn’t rest entirely in one family, but in many. And that the very heart of the original Republic’s military and social doctrine was that when one man fell, another man would step forward and take his place. His mind was entirely too full of dazzling images of the Hellene temples and buildings around him being torn to the ground, replaced by proper Egyptian ones. The tomb of Alexander torn down as well, and his body thrown into the sea from which he and his men had come. Pharaohs who were truly living gods once more, not the abased descendants of some Hellene horseman.
It passed the time, while they tried to find a road out of the city that had not yet been blocked by Roman troops in Roman armor carrying Roman swords, in the service of a Roman emperor who simply didn’t have the courtesy to die.
Chapter VII: Truths
The door of the storeroom slammed open, and Damkina jerked awake at its echoes, pulling her head away from Ehsan’s shoulder. They’d been held here for days now, and provided enough food and water to keep life in their bodies—though she was guarded while she ate, and her gag re-applied before the guards stepped back out into the hall outside. She couldn’t blame them for their caution, but it was infuriating, especially since she’d come to them in the best faith she could offer.
A week without bathing had left her miserably aware of her own smell, and her scalp itched, but her attendant spirits assured her constantly that this wasn’t the result of fleas, thankfully. Ehsan wasn’t in any better condition, but he helped her to stand, her back on fire from having slept sitting up against the wall for so long.
This time, however, when the two men she was accustomed to seeing entered, the younger of the two, the blond man, was bruised and battered. His gleaming Roman armor held scuff marks and traces of dried blood. The older man, with his sardonic dark eyes, appeared unscathed, but impatient. “Come along,” he told them, beckoning. “The Imperator wants to see you.”
There’s been an attack, she thought tiredly, and shuffled behind them as bidden, watching as a dozen other soldiers folded in around them, alertness in their eyes and stances.
Buzz of activity all through the palace, like a hive that had been hit with a stick, as servants and soldiers hastened this way and that. She and Ehsan were escorted into an anteroom, and the younger man removed her gag, though afterwards, he drew his sword and stood behind her, its point resting just between her shoulder blades. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance that I could get a drink of water?” Damkina croaked, her voice harsh in her dry throat.
To her surprise, the older man filled a cup and brought it to her. She took it in her chained hands, deeply bruised by the constant weight of the iron shackles, and slipped it under her veil to sip it gratefully, before giving the cup to Ehsan. The men around her blinked at this courtesy to someone whom they probably assumed was a slave, but permitted the gesture.
And that was when the others entered, and Damkina’s eyebrows rose. The soldiers wore armor, but the pair who entered wore less martial gear. The man wore only a long blue tunic and boots, and had dark hair, gold-tinged skin, and shockingly red eyes, all to go with a grim expression. A huge, hooked sword of verdigris green copper hung over his shoulder, suspended by a hastily-fashioned sling. A young woman walked at his s
ide, in the typical flowing garments of a Roman woman, and her eyes were as golden as those of a lioness.
They’ve been marked out by the gods or spirits, Damkina thought. She tilted her head to the side, and one of her spirits let her borrow its vision for a moment. She sucked in her breath in awe. The man seethed with power, glowing a brilliant crimson in a spirit’s vision. And the woman did, too, but there were ripples and distortions over her frame that took Damkina a moment to interpret. Her core glow, a brilliant golden flame, was overshadowed by an aura of red that moved when she did, but didn’t entirely overlap her frame. And at her heart, a pinprick of white light that was not of her, but part of her.
Damkina folded her hands together before her heart, bowing over them with the profound respect every Magi showed to those who had equivalent power.
“Imperator Ptolemy Julius Caesarion Philopator Philomator Aquilus,” the older man said, a string of names that meant absolutely nothing to Damkina, “and his wife and sister, Eurydice Julia Accipitra. This is our captive Magus, who’s given her name as Damkina Banit.”
“She could have had co-conspirators,” the younger man behind her said. “But on the whole, since she told us that silver might work . . . and it did. . . I’m not inclined to believe that.”
“The attack was a little too vigorous, and came too close to succeeding, for this to have been an effort to gain our trust, and bring her into our counsels,” the older man added, nodding.
Then there was an attack. And they survived it. Praise the dead gods. The Council won’t send assassins after me for having caused the death of an Emperor, destabilizing the whole region. Or send me any letters of congratulation, either, for that matter. Damkina sagged in relief for a moment.
The Imperator nodded, staring at her and Ehsan. Anger burned in his eyes, though his face never shifted expression. “The creature that attacked us,” he said abruptly. “Twice the height of a man. Legs of a bull, and the horns of one. What was it?”
She exhaled, eyeing the sword he carried. “I hesitate to speak its Name,” she said carefully. “To Name something can summon it.”
“I took its head off with its own sword,” the Imperator said coldly, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder at the huge blade. Beside her, Ehsan stiffened, making a noise that she knew was made of pure incredulity. “Then the body vanished, leaving only its sword behind. Unless it can stick its head back on, it’s not coming back.”
Damkina grimaced, impressed in spite of herself. “Very well. Generally, when a human has managed to fell the mortal vessel of a spirit, it results in the temporary banishment of that spirit—often for a hundred years, though not always. It depends greatly on the power of the spirit. If they can walk between the worlds at will, or if they need to be summoned. But with its own weapon? In the hands of one such as yourself?” She shook her head. “It may well be truly dead, and that would be a tragedy.”
“A tragedy?” the older man rapped out, his expression hardening. Damkina felt the sword dig into her shoulders more pointedly.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “Kusarikku, to give him his proper name, is . . . was . . . a protective spirit. The son of the goddess Tiamat. I’d hoped to be able to bargain with him—carefully—for his services in the future. He was summoned in the days of Uruk-that-was to protect children and households.” She met each set of eyes solidly. “He was never one for wanton destruction or attack.”
“Then explain why he killed four of my men, several foreign dignitaries, and, when given a choice between attacking me, and pursing my wife, started to follow her?” The man’s voice held ice.
Oh, by the dead gods. “I cannot say for certain,” Damkina replied carefully, “but spirits can be compelled, by those with enough will. Or, in some cases, by several people, working to overcome their will in tandem.” She swallowed, her throat again dry, this time with fear at the murder currently lurking in those red eyes. “If I may ask . . . did he take any other opportunities to pursue her, past the first?”
Frowns around the room, and then the Imperator shook his head. “We had him ringed. He fought us because we gave him no other choice—“
“Ah,” the older man interposed, grimacing. “Dominus, after you were rendered unconscious, the creature really didn’t have anyone else who was terribly hurting it. My son and Tiberius hit it with the silver brazier legs, and Malleolus here had that silver dagger that the Magus gave him. But those were . . . flea bites. It could have just walked through the Praetorians around it. It didn’t.” The man turned and looked at Damkina. “Why not?”
She shrugged slightly. “He is a protector. Was,” she corrected herself. “Also, at the moment, the Empress is . . . confusing to a spirit’s eyes.” Damkina raised her eyebrows. “My own spirits showed me how they perceive both the Imperator and his wife when they entered this room. My guess is, not only would Kusarikku be reluctant to attack a pregnant woman, but he had difficulty perceiving her as his target—“
She hadn’t expected how strong the reactions around her would be. Exclamations. The golden-eyed woman moved slightly closer to her husband. The sword at Damkina’s back dug in deeply enough that she could feel a trickle of blood run down her spine now. “How precisely do you know of my wife’s pregnancy?” the emperor asked through his teeth.
Damkina exhaled. “I said that my spirits shared their perceptions with me,” she replied patiently. “At the moment, there is her inner core, her own life-essence. The child’s essence overlaps with hers. And of course, there is, ah, your life-essence present within her as well,” she added delicately, hoping that she wouldn’t lose her own tongue for these words.
“My—?” The red eyes blinked, and she could see he’d been thrown off his stride for a moment.
“Through sexual relations,” she specified, as delicately as she could. “Malefic spirits, ones that hunt humans at the request of this summoner or that, often have difficulty perceiving pregnant women, because while they might be given a piece of hair or a drop of blood to identify their target’s life-essence, when so many overlap, the target becomes warped. Almost invisible. This is one of the reasons why female summoners are often more powerful than male ones. Or at least, safer.” She shrugged.
“Must make whores damned near undetectable,” the older man opined.
Damkina looked straight at him. “Yes,” she said, not lowering her eyes. “That is entirely correct. It is also the core of how many female Magi render themselves undetectable to spirit tracking, and the basis of much of the old sexual magic practiced by the priestess of Ishtar. Before, of course, Ishtar was killed, along with most of our gods.” She raised her bound hands uncomfortably, but no one took the hint to loosen her chains.
“So Tahut-Nefer—and I think it’s clear that it was him, and not some other priest, because any other priest would have specified me as the first target,” the emperor said now, clearly thinking out loud, “—targeted Eurydice, but the creature was either confused by the pregnancy. . . or fought the mission it had been given, because it . . . .”
“It conflicted with his basic nature,” Damkina supplied after a moment’s pause. “He was, as I said, a protector. Not a killer.”
The sword at her back eased, and she took her first full breath in several minutes. The golden-eyed woman lifted her head, her expression suddenly furious. “I should have killed him in Rome,” she said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was as chill as her husband’s had been.
“He hadn’t done anything worth killing him for at the time,” the emperor told his wife grimly. “That has changed, however.”
“I will do it myself,” she added now, her eyes narrowing. “No icicles here in the desert. I’ll end him in flame.”
Damkina’s eyes widened. And, very carefully, she raised one finger. “Ah, my lady? I do beg your pardon, but if you are all not entirely aware of the effect of pregnancy on a spirit’s sight, is it at all possible that you do not know about the effects of magic use during pregnancy?”
Every head in the room snapped towards her. And the young empress asked, “What effects?”
Damkina swallowed. “You tap into your own life-energy to start every spell, do you not? And the more powerful the spell, the more it drains you, correct? And if you’ve ever attempted a very great working—one that encompassed a space larger than this room, for example—you would be aware of tiredness. Overextend your will, and you might sleep for a day, or bleed from the nose.” She paused, watching as the woman nodded, recognition in her face. “If there is another life in your body, and you overextend your own will, where do you suppose you might take the energy from? Or, failing that, if you weaken yourself, where do you suppose your body will turn to restore the energy lost?”
The young woman’s mouth fell open, but no sound emerged. Blank terror in her eyes for a moment, and her husband took one of her hands in his. Tightly, Damkina noticed. “The few female Magi that exist,” Damkina added, mildly, “have all learned to store some of our vital will in crystals or other objects. So that we may draw on those to empower our spells. If there is need. This also permits our spells to be stored in objects and devices.” She sighed inwardly. “So few people in the world have truly studied magic. Most are content to call it the will of the gods, and leave it at that.”
The young empress’ eyes lit up suddenly, and she whispered rapidly to her husband, who shook his head. Emphatically and repeatedly. More whispering, and then, abruptly, he stated, his voice tight, “We’ve had agents making inquiries about you for the last week. No one in Alexandria has ever seen you socialize with other Chaldean or Parthian residents.” A pause, and then a sharp demand, “What are you doing here, Magus? What’s your purpose?”
She blinked, taken off-guard. And then looked at Ehsan, whose expression was blank, but whose eyes held grim fear. “I came to Alexandria three years ago to find the men who did this to me when I was a child,” Damkina said, pulling her veil away from her face with her bound hands. She knew what it looked like, but could see the shock in their eyes as they saw her disfigured face fully for the first time. The livid color of the scars had faded over the past thirteen years. But the scars themselves never would, long slashes extending from just under her cheekbones to the corners of her mouth.
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