“How goes the rest of the battle?” she demanded.
“The dragon…it is hungry,” one of the guards replied, tremulously.
“I shall deal with it,” Cleopatra said, not knowing how she would do so. One of the officers quickly turned into a giant wolf, and she rode on his back through the burning streets of Byzantium to the acropolis. She found the dragon sunning itself on the rampart, idly gnawing the bones of a freshly slaughtered cow sticky with drying blood.
“Where did it get the cow?” she whispered to another officer.
“The marketplace,” the guard whispered back, not taking his eyes off the sated beast. “The merchant…made no protest.”
“Very well. Reimburse the merchant, and purchase another cow, or two or three, for our…ally. And deploy the troops to accept surrender; use the captured legions to help put out the fires.”
By now, Cleopatra understood the dragon could hear her thoughts; she watched as the dragon inclined its head in thanks for her hospitality. The dragon cracked open the cow’s skull, its eyes half closed with contentment as it gnawed.
“How did you know to come? What god sent you?” she called.
A feeling like laughter bubbled up inside the queen’s mind. This time, there was no deafening voice in her head, but the sure knowledge of the dragon’s thoughts filled her.
No god, but your sister-queen Erminia summoned me from long slumbers. Your song of arrows guided me to you.
“What is your name?”
I was once called Saris. You may call me that.
“And what I can give you, my friend? What reward? For you have served me beyond reckoning today.”
There is no reward but satisfaction for kin rendering duty to kin. But if I may, now that I am here, awake again after many long years, I would stay and view the world. Where best to do that?
“With me,” Cleopatra said. “I am expanding the heart of the world from Alexandria. Stay with me, and watch.”
A FEW WEEKS LATER, BRUTUS’S generals surrendered formally and Queen Cleopatra entered the city of Rome. It was not a triumph, of course, but looked rather like one: piles of treasure confiscated from Brutus and his allies were scattered to the populace, Brutus and his generals marched in chains, and the queen wore armor made from the melted gold of the armor once worn by her traitorous brother.
If anyone thought about raising a protest at the unseemliness of a foreign queen inside the walls of Rome, or the spectacle with which she entered with the large number of soldiers, they were put off by her surrounding Janus guards, their banners bright with silver and gold embroidery of fierce wolves and fanged serpents. The sight of the dragon, Saris, well-fed and dozing, pulled into the city by elephants, also led potential naysayers to decide they were better off silent.
A note arrived from Octavian by the swiftest wolf-man couriers. The letter, though polite and politic, did not conceal the fact that he was uneasy about a foreign monarch—even an ally—living in Rome. Discussing matters of state with the Senate. Entertaining on…an imperial scale. Perhaps it was time for her to depart for Alexandria, he wrote, with thanks for defeating the traitorous Brutus and securing the city.
Cleopatra wrote back: “I am delighted to be of service to Rome, the second city of my heart, and I will not rest easy until you’ve returned to Rome to prosecute Brutus. While Brutus is alive, there is always the chance of another uprising. After such a narrow victory, the dragon Saris—an ancient relative of mine, it turns out—has advised me to stay until your safe return. After that, we will certainly depart, for Saris has determined to visit Parthia and farther east, both to secure the new peace treaty and introduce me to more of my dragon kin. But rest assured, Saris has become just as attached to Rome as I have, and has chosen a part of the Tiber Island to dwell as a permanent guardian of the city.”
“Perhaps some sort of more permanent alliance between us?” wrote Octavian. “It will be the joining of powerful families, Rome and Egypt, Fanged and Mortal. Perhaps we should discuss marriage.”
“Perhaps,” wrote Cleopatra. “Come to Rome and we shall see.”
QUEEN ERMINIA WATCHED AS THE children of the Chatti tribe studied reading and writing with one scribe, while another led older youths in a copying exercise. A cohort of her priests joined the queen as the Roman ship approached with its precious cargo. She shushed her baby, then handed him to a waiting attendant before going to greet the ship’s captain. The captain bowed, a little unsteadily, for he had spent a great deal of time at sea. He handed a scroll to another attendant.
“Your voyage was uneventful, I hope?” Erminia took the scroll, and broke the seal.
“Pirates, majesty, but our Fanged warriors dispatched them easily.” He stood a little straighter, pride lending steadiness to his joints. “I heard that the ship to Britannia has also arrived safely.”
“This tells me that the other two reach their destinations, at Charax and Seleucia, but two others were lost to storms or enemies.”
“Fewer and fewer every day, majesty. The empire is reinforced by the Empress’s wisdom and our new found brethren.”
“Good. The Library at Anglesey has started sending copies through Britannia and the northlands, and in the south, the Library of Hispania Baetica has almost completed another copy for Volubius.”
“First Citizen Octavian Augustus is making great inroads in Parthia.”
“And from there, even farther east. There will be no civilized country on earth without its own Library.”
She gave orders for the captain and his crew to be made welcome and comfortable while the cargo was transferred to the nearby stronghold. She traded the scroll for her son again, who promptly spat up. The queen wiped her son’s mouth and proceeded up the hill to her home passing a group of adults sitting by a fire, being taught the new writing style. It was now the law of the land that every citizen be literate and numerate; rhetoric and logic were also obligatory. Students who showed the most aptitude were hired away to work as scholars in the new Libraries, to further the availability of the texts to the world.
If it had been destroyed, the Library of Alexandria could never have been replaced. Indeed, as the new capital of the Empire, Alexandria was now even more important as a source of learning—but neither would it ever be endangered as it had been. It was a fortunate series of events indeed that ushered in the glorious Pax Egyptica.
A WASTELAND OF MY GOD’S OWN MAKING
BRADLEY P. BEAULIEU
AS THE SUN BROKE ABOVE the horizon, Djaga Akoyo rushed from the heavily shadowed streets into the entrance hall of the collegium medicum. The streets were cool from the chill desert night, but this place was frigid, a feeling that seeped deep below Djaga’s skin, making her quicken her pace all the more.
“May I help?” An attendant—from the looks of him a scholar fresh from receiving his laurel crown—strode toward her, calm as a wading heron. When he saw the dried blood caked along the front of her beaten leather armor, however, his eyes went wide as the moons. “Oh!” was all he said.
“Calm yourself,” Djaga told him. “It isn’t mine.” Not all of it, in any case. “A woman named Nadín was taken here yesterday. A stab wound to the gut. Where is she?”
The young man opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “I’ve only just arrived.”
“Well, go find her!” Djaga shouted.
“I’ll take her, Ari.” A tall, black-skinned woman had exited the hallway ahead of them, a high physic named Malanga. She had striking eyes and a pretty smile. The wheat-colored robes she wore was the preferred uniform in the collegium medicum, yet it seemed chosen to match her lustrous black hair, which was braided into a beehive coil. She’d treated Djaga several times, courtesy of Djaga’s more vigorous battles in the pits; she even hailed from Djaga’s homeland of Kundhun, yet they’d traded no more than a bit of idle chitchat over the years. Djaga felt poor about it now.
Illustration by NICOLÁS R. GIACONDINO
After waving the young scholar
away, Malanga motioned for Djaga to follow. To Djaga’s relief, Malanga seemed to have a sense of urgency about her.
“You should be prepared,” she said to Djaga as they strode swiftly along the halls, “we’ve done all we could, but—”
“Just tell me how much time she has left.”
Djaga had known Nadín’s fate from the moment she’d seen the extent of the wound to her stomach. She’d prayed that Nadín would still be alive upon her return from the desert.
“She won’t see the sunset,” Malanga said. From the occupied rooms to either side of the hall issued the sounds of low conversation, coughing, moaning, or the shuffle of sandaled feet. “She’s refused milk of the poppy in hopes that you’d return, but she is in deep pain. The longer you wait—”
“Djaga?” The voice had come from the room ahead but it sounded frail, ghostlike. “Djaga, is that you?”
Djaga swallowed before speaking softly to Malanga. “I would spare her pain, but I must speak with her first.”
“The longer you wait—” Malanga tried again.
“She must know this before she departs for the farther fields.”
After a pause, Malanga nodded and left.
Djaga used tentative steps to enter the room. She turned toward the bed, and the world seemed to spin. Nadín lay there, but she looked like a completely different woman. Her copper skin was pale, almost yellow. Her lips were bloodless. She seemed to have fallen in on herself, a beautiful cavern collapsed after an earthquake. Swallowing the hard knot in her throat, Djaga stepped to the bedside. She’d known this was going to happen, but to now be faced with it…
Nadín grimaced, reached one hand out. “Did you find her?”
Djaga pulled a chair close to the bedside and took Nadín’s quivering hand, swathed it in her own. “Yes, I found her.”
Nadín swallowed once. Twice. She licked her lips before saying, “Will you tell me?”
“Could we not speak about other things? About our days sailing your ship? Or your family we met?”
“I would know what happened.” Before Djaga could say anything more, her fingers gave a squeeze, a weak gesture surprisingly strong for a woman in her state. “You can’t deny a dying woman her last wish. Do, and you’ll be cursed. You don’t wish to be cursed, do you, Djaga?”
Despite all the worry roiling inside her, Djaga laughed. “No, I don’t wish to be cursed.” Djaga paused, her eyes brimming with tears. “Very well, my sweet. I’ll tell you my tale. “ She took a moment to regain her composure. “I brought you here. You remember? After, I returned to the harbor with Osman, and we took your ship to the desert…”
Nadín was shaking her head. “No. All of it. I deserve that much.”
Djaga nodded, resigned. “As you say…”
But where to begin? How could she tell this tale to her one true love when she’d hidden so much? One word at a time, her father used to say.
“It was high sun the day Afua came to Sharakhai.”
ON A DAY AS HOT as anyone in the city could remember, thousands gathered to watch a bout in Sharakhai’s storied fighting pits. They had waited a long while already, the seat sellers charging triple the already-dear rate for bouts in the central pit. They drank lemonade and wine. They placed money with the bet takers wandering up and down the aisles, receiving special chits for the money and the bet taken. They argued about which opponent, Djaga or Talashem, would win. All the while, their eyes drifted to the two darkened mouths of the tunnels where the combatants would soon emerge. When Pelam, the lanky master of the game, strode calmly from one of them, they rushed to their feet, threw their arms in the air, and began shouting to the oven-hot air.
Pelam, who wore long, purple robes, a bejeweled vest, and an embroidered ivory cap stained with sweat, waited for the cheer to crescendo. Only then did he raise his hands and make a tamping motion. Like a flock of skylarks landing on the banks of the Haddah, the crowd went still, but they sat with ill-contained exuberance, ready to burst into motion once more.
Pelam spread his arms wide, as if welcoming them all to his home. “You are wise, my good people.” He said these words quietly, yet such was the timbre of his voice that it carried to every corner of the yawning pit. “Either that or you are gifted with the keenest foresight.” He turned suddenly, sweeping his attention to another section of the choked seats. “And if not that, then surely the desert gods have shined on you this day, for you will soon bear witness to one of only two final bouts that Djaga, the Lion of Kundhun, will ever fight!”
As one, the crowd roared their appreciation. Pelam would normally go on for a time, recounting her exploits, but Djaga needed no introduction to the spectators of Sharakhai. As the sound began to die, Djaga emerged from the tunnel. Knowing when it was his time to be the center of attention and when it wasn’t, Pelam merely flourished an arm toward her and backed away. With the sun’s heat washing over her, Djaga took to the center of the pit and slowly turned, allowing the crowd to take her in.
It was a thing she did to build excitement, a slow teasing of the battle about to begin. It felt familiar as heat in the desert, and yet she hardly knew what to feel, seeing so many gathered, eager to see her trade blows, eager to see blood. Since coming to Sharakhai, she’d practically lived within these walls. If it were only a matter of her body, she’d stand within them and fight a while longer. She was young, yet. Her nagging wounds hadn’t accumulated so badly that she couldn’t still scrap in the dirt with the dogs. But during the bouts, the things she rummaged up within her mind to wage these battles so effectively, and for so many years, had become like a canker, painful to the touch. They’d grown worse over the years, until each felt as if it would consume her.
“Take him!” A young man in the crowd rent the air before him as if opening up some imaginary enemy before him. “Open him up!”
Many spurred the young man on, but Djaga ignored him, turning her attention elsewhere to a strikingly beautiful woman sitting at the very edge of the pit’s walls. Nadínamira. Nadín. A woman who’d long ago captured Djaga’s heart. She sat in a seat Djaga had arranged for her long ago, to take if she so chose. She rarely did, though. She was too worried over the wounds Djaga received, the danger she was in, but she’d come today, and for that, Djaga was glad.
Like a perfect marble statue in the midst of a riot, the crowd raged around Nadín. She held Djaga’s eye, smiling her worried smile. Djaga nearly broke, then, nearly allowed the worry that emanated from Nadín like rays from the sun to enter her consciousness. She regained herself a moment later, choosing instead to see only Nadín’s beauty, her dark lips, her curly hair lifting every so often in the meager wind. Look any deeper and she would become lost, and that was a thing Djaga couldn’t allow. Not now, so close to the end. If she were going to start a new life with Nadín, she needed the money these last two bouts would bring. They both did.
The crowd had become an undulating beast now that Pelam was announcing her opponent. “Talashem,” Pelam was saying, “may be a man born of the desert tribes, but he is fresh from the killing pits of Ganahil at the edges of the Thousand Territories of Kundhun.” Djaga’s ears perked at this—she had been born and raised in Kundhun, after all—but the rest was lost, for the bout was near.
She paced back and forth over the dusty floor of the pit she knew so well. The shouting of the gathered crowd faded. The desert’s hot wind became like to a dream. She focused on Talashem. Only on Talashem. The way his battle-kissed armor hung on his spare frame. The way he favored his right hip. The way he stared at her as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
I will wipe that look from your face. I will grind it against the dirt until it’s gone. You will remember this fight until your dying days.
He matched her in weight. His muscles were lithe. It made her wonder just how quick he was. Osman wouldn’t have pitted her against him if he weren’t a good fighter. Her opponents had always been skilled, but since the public announcement of her retirement, they had featured
fighters as good as the desert had to offer.
The crowd burst into a renewed flurry as pit boys ran out in a train carrying an assortment of weapons. Talashem chose a spiked shield and a shamshir while Djaga chose one of the tall leather shields from her homeland and a heavy, curving club, its end round like a fist, studded with nails.
All the while Djaga whispered under her breath. I ask not for your favor, Sjado. I ask not for your favor. I only give what you require, Sjado. I only give what you require.
As she returned to her starting point, images of the dead returned to her. Her cousin, lying on green grass, his blood bright beneath the summer sun. Her uncle not so far from him. Her brother as well. Seven others. Her family, by the gods. All of them her family.
She heard no murmur of reply. Felt no sense of favor from the god she’d invoked. But she felt Sjado’s hunger. It was growing inside Djaga, as it always did when she called upon it. An old friend, it sat within her chest, crouched like a lion. It enlivened her frame, making her club feel as light as air, her shield invincible.
Nearby, Pelam struck his gong, signaling the start of the bout. Djaga strode forward.
I ask not for your favor.
Talashem moved to meet her, wary, ready.
I only give what you require.
Perhaps Talashem saw it within her. Perhaps he was simply being wary. But he backed away as Djaga charged, bringing her club down on him as Sjado’s light filled her from within. That was when she felt it, a familiar sensation coming from somewhere in the crowd. It was something she hadn’t felt since leaving her homeland: another who could touch Sjado. Another spurned by the two-faced god.
Afua…
MANY YEARS BEFORE THAT BOUT in the pits, far, far away from the heat of Sharakhai, a younger Djaga stood on a hill as the ceaseless winds of Kundhun swept over the grasslands.
Like standing on the shore of an emerald sea, Djaga thought. “Come now,” Afua called from the base of the hill. “Always mooning.”
Hath No Fury Page 20