The Queen motioned Wen to a table and the two women sat next to each other on polished wooden stools. Cleopatra unrolled the dusty scroll before them.
‘Now that I am free, Queen Cleopatra, may I ask you why you sent for me?’ Wen blurted. ‘At the brew house, I mean. Why...me?’
Cleopatra smiled slightly, smoothing the parchment. ‘I think you know the reason. I think you have known it all along. Let us see if you can guess it.’
Wen knew how the Queen delighted in games, but she suddenly felt foolish. She did not know the reason. She had no idea at all. She began to speak, hoping to find some hint of the answer in the Queen’s reaction to her words. ‘The man you sent to retrieve me,’ Wen began, ‘the man who called himself Sol—he said that you were interested in my holy birth.’
‘Yes,’ the Queen said invitingly. ‘Go on.’
‘I am a child of the Temple of Hathor, born of the Festival of Drunkenness. The High Priestess was my mentor and teacher.’
‘Yes, she was.’
But how would the Queen possibly know that?
‘The man who sold me to the slavers said that the High Priestess had been killed by the late Pharaoh Ptolemy, because she had loved the usurper to his throne.’
‘That usurper was my older sister, Berenice,’ said Cleopatra. ‘The High Priestess loved her like a daughter.’
Wen nodded thoughtfully. It seemed quite possible. The High Priestess spent most of her time in Alexandria and seemed to delight in the presence of young people. Wen had always wondered why the Priestess spent so much of her time in Alexandria. Now she finally knew the reason—she was instructing the royal children.
‘But Berenice was not the only one of Pharaoh’s children that the High Priestess loved.’
‘You knew her?’ Wen asked, searching the Queen’s eyes with growing excitement.
‘Of course I knew her, she was our holy teacher,’ said the Queen. She smoothed the scroll’s edges lovingly. ‘The High Priestess taught me to read—and not just words on a page. She taught me to listen and to observe. And also to seek. Everything I know that is of use, everything I believe that is of value, all that success that I have had in my life is all thanks to the High Priestess.’
‘Then we are connected,’ Wen cried, ‘for she was my teacher, too!’
‘She was more than that, Wen,’ said Cleopatra. ‘She was your mother.’
* * *
Everything had changed and nothing at all. Somewhere deep inside herself, Wen had always known that the High Priestess was her mother. Still, to hear the words had been a revelation that had lifted her ka into the sky.
She was not nobody, as she had believed all of her life. She was somebody. She was Wen-Nefer of Alexandria, daughter of the High Priestess of Hathor. Though such a high birth did not change who she was in her heart. As her mother would have said, it mattered not.
Still, Wen was grateful, and her gratitude came in great, crashing waves that often resulted in tears. Each morning, the Queen read to Wen from her scrolls, the Latin words dancing off her tongue like music. And every afternoon they would sit down and sip tea and remember the woman who had shaped both their lives.
‘But how did you find me?’ Wen asked one morning.
‘I knew that your mother had a daughter—a girl of my same age—for she spoke of you often. She said that you were very clever and that one day she would present you at the palace. She said you were brilliant at reading people and that you would make a fine advisor one day.’
Wen shivered with pride. ‘She said that? About me?’
‘She did indeed, though that day never came. You see, my father had to keep raising taxes to service his debt to Rome. Then the River failed to rise and the people of Alexandria began to riot. My father departed for Rome, hoping to borrow more money, and while he was gone, my older sister Berenice usurped the throne. Your mother had nothing to do with my sister’s treachery. She was not even in Alexandria at the time. But when my father returned from Rome, he was so angry at Berenice’s treachery that he killed her and everyone who had ever known her, including your mother.’
‘Ptolemy’s purges.’
‘I wept for her, Wen, for I had loved her and, after I became Queen, I resolved to find her only daughter. I knew that you had been sold into slavery in Alexandria, along with the other temple children. Before I was exiled I heard a story of a brave beer maid who jumped off a rooftop of a brew house somewhere in the Egyptian Quarter. She was my age, had a scar on her leg and she was known to be perceptive and clever.’
‘But how did Sol know I was the right woman?’
‘The roles and riches of this life are illusions. I told him that the right woman would know how to finish that saying.’
‘I thought everybody knew that saying.’
‘No, it was your mother’s alone. She taught it to us.’
Wen’s spirit filled to bursting. She was her mother’s daughter—a free woman, an advisor to a queen. Her life had become so much more than she ever could have dreamed and she prayed for the siege to end so that she could continue to live it.
She yearned for Titus. She stared at the words he had written, comparing them against the words she knew. Slowly, the markings began to acquire meaning. The strong T of Titus, the low-sloping p of promise, the lovely round r that began the word return.
But when?
One day, Ptolemy’s troops flooded the palace pipes with sea water and the residents of the Royal Quarter found themselves with nothing to drink. Caesar and his men went to work digging wells, but fear settled on the legion like a fog. They had successfully defended against the siege so far, but without a consistent source of fresh water, the soldiers were lost.
Wen descended to the baths with her empty pots. She lifted her skirt and was bending at the edge of the pool when she noticed the sheath tied to her leg. Just behind the knife, a small piece of paper protruded.
It was the scroll that she had stolen from Titus’s bedchamber. She had forgotten about the small memento and now it peeked up at her like a gift from the gods. She tucked it safely beneath her loincloth, then filled her vessels with water. Soon she had settled herself beside her Latin alphabet to see if she could decipher the small message.
The paper had been damaged by both fire and water, and it was a wonder that its words were still legible at all. She compared them against words that she had memorised from Catullus, along with the sounds of the Latin alphabet.
Slowly, the Latin markings began to make sense. A terrible, devastating sense. It was a letter, quilled by someone who called himself the Whisperer. His long, elegant script confirmed a fine education and the Senatorial seal at the bottom of the page marked him an important man. In the letter, he urged someone called the Watcher to abandon his post. He said that the bull, whom Wen guessed to be Caesar, should be allowed to perish along with his rose, whom Wen could only assume was Cleopatra.
Which left only the identity of the Watcher for Wen to determine. But she did not have to guess it. She knew that the Watcher was Titus. He had been ordered by someone in the Roman Senate to abandon Caesar and all efforts to help defend against the siege.
To abandon her.
Her heart seemed to plunge from some high place. It fell and fell as the realisation took hold: Titus is never coming back.
Chapter Eighteen
Wen spent the next few days too stunned to speak. She read the letter over and over again, hoping that she had made some grave error in its interpretation. Perhaps the bull was not Caesar, but an actual bull. Or perhaps the bull was Ptolemy, and the rose was Cleopatra’s younger sister Arsinoe, who had recently defected to Ptolemy’s army.
But none of these possibilities completely fit. The only interpretation that made sense was her first: Titus had been ordered to betray Caesar by abandoning him to defeat.
Wen knew that she s
hould show the Queen the letter, but she could not find the courage. She wandered around the Royal Quarter, heedless of the danger, trying to arrange her thoughts. The Queen had grown thin and listless in recent weeks and had visited Caesar’s chambers less and less often. Wen feared for the Queen’s spirit. She did not wish to be the cause of her lost hope.
Coward, she told herself. The Queen deserved to know. At the very least, it would enable her to prepare a secret escape. But a part of Wen still could not believe it was true. I will keep you safe, Titus had promised her. I will return.
Just days before, Caesar had released Pharaoh Ptolemy and allowed him to return to his army.
The hope was that the young Pharaoh had spent enough time between the walls of the Royal Quarter to see the futility of destroying them. It had been a desperate measure—a last-ditch effort in an unwinnable war.
And it had all been for naught. Ptolemy had instead rallied his troops outside the walls of the city, preparing to make a final strike.
It was only a matter of time now. The once-mighty fortress of the Royal Quarter was crumbling and would soon be overcome. There was no more water, no more food. Their only hope was aid from abroad.
Their only hope was Titus.
* * *
Wen found herself at the docks, staring up at the Lighthouse. It beckoned as always, its thread of smoke spiralling to the heavens.
Come, it seemed to say.
Wen stepped into a small rowboat and began to row. She had nowhere to go and nothing left to lose.
‘Beware the heirs of Romulus and Remus,’ her mother had cautioned before she died, but the words had been a riddle in Wen’s young ears. Now, finally, she understood, though it was too late. She was already in love and doomed to die.
Her boat found its inevitable course and she was soon making her way on heavy legs up the ramp to the Lighthouse. She had no money to pay the entrance fee, but even the Lighthouse had been touched by the war and there was no attendant in sight.
Ra was already making his descent to the Underworld as Wen began the slow climb up the spiralling ramp. A familiar fear began to bubble within her, but she brushed it away. ‘Lie to yourself,’ she whispered, remembering Titus’s advice.
Her fear seemed insignificant now, with her death looming so close. She stopped to gaze out of each window, swallowing her nerves and studying the sky as it grew pink with the memory of Ra’s light. She had been lying to herself all along, she realised. About him.
She plodded slowly, for she lacked energy, having eaten very little for many days.
I serve the Roman Republic. That is what he had told her when she had confronted him about his mission and it occurred to her that he had not lied. There had been many other clues to his true purpose—she had just not been willing to see them.
Now she could only see her sandals, how they shuffled slowly up the cracking concrete.
She strode out on to the first deck as if floating on a cloud. There was not a single soul in sight and she stared down at the limestone-white city painted in the rouge of dusk. It was beautiful, even in its cloak of war. The theatres and gymnasiums, the synagogues and temples—they stood out amidst the smoke and destruction, decorating the streets with their stony purpose.
Titus had been right. Kings should not rule the world. They were rarely good, always corrupt, and they played with people’s lives like children playing with toys. Queen Cleopatra was an exception to the rule and even she had agreed that people should rule themselves, should seek their own freedom.
Wen departed, continued up the ramp. Freedom is an endeavour, Titus had told her. A thing that is earned. Wen had earned her freedom, or so she believed, though she wondered if she would ever be free of him.
She climbed and climbed, the lie of her own courage slowly becoming truth.
She heard the roar of the flames before she saw them and felt their searing heat upon her face. She stepped out on to the top of the Lighthouse to a grand show of light.
The fire was larger than she expected and wilder—a great white bonfire, barely contained by the high dome that topped it.
Wen stepped around the inferno on careful feet, keeping to the platform’s perimeter and hugging the low iron fence that separated her from certain death.
Sweat dripped from her brow, blurring her vision. She willed herself not to look down and stopped to observe the tongues of flame dancing so near.
Visions of Titus plagued her. Titus taking her hand in the Reception Hall. Titus sitting beside her on the Library bench. Titus in his bright blue helmet, parading like a peacock. She could not purge him from her mind, no matter how hard she tried. Nor could she condemn him, for he was doing what he believed to be right. She could only hope that wherever he was, he lived and thrived.
Is this how it feels to love? she wondered.
Behind the large flames, she spied two large metal panels.
Looking closer, she saw that they were mirrors—large polished reflectors mounted on wheels. The copper mirrors, Wen thought. They travelled on metallic tracks and hung on high bars, so that they might be adjusted to any position or angle to signal passing boats.
Now one of the mirrors gave a mighty groan and seemed to move of its own volition. Soon an ancient figure stepped out from behind it, shuffling towards Wen.
At first, Wen could not tell if the person was a man or a woman. But as she neared, Wen observed her pear-like shape and long, white hair, which was scattered across her shoulders like ash. She pointed at Wen with a coal-blackened arm. ‘Tourists are forbidden here.’
‘I am not a tourist.’
‘Then who are you?’
‘I am nobody.’ Wen paused. No. Not nobody. ‘I mean to say—I am Wen-Nefer of Alexandria. Who are you?’
‘I am Mut, the Keeper of the Flame. Why have you come here, Wen-Nefer?’
‘I have come to seek freedom,’ said Wen. From love.
Mut shook her head gravely. ‘No, no, no,’ she said. She linked her bony arm with Wen’s and led her to a sheltered area behind the mirrors.
‘Here we are protected from the flames,’ explained Mut. She gestured to a mat, and Wen sat down, letting the ocean breeze cool her skin.
‘Welcome to my home,’ Mut said. She scooped a cup of water from a large pot and offered it to Wen.
‘Yes please,’ Wen said, accepting the water gratefully. She took small sips and gazed out at the whitewashed city, which was rapidly disappearing into the darkness of night.
The old woman settled herself on what appeared to be a sleeping mat and wove her loose white locks into a tidy braid. The light of the flames danced on the side of her ancient, wrinkled face.
‘I did not know that a woman kept the flame,’ said Wen.
‘Woman, man—at my age it matters little.’
‘How old are you, may I ask?’
‘Ooowww,’ said Mut, flashing a toothless grin. ‘Older than the River is long, my dear. And how old are you?’
‘I have seen one and twenty floods.’
‘Then you are too young to seek your freedom,’ Mut said, glancing downwards.
Wen realised that the ancient woman thought Wen planned to jump. ‘Apologies, Keeper,’ Wen said. ‘I do not mean to jump. I came here to find freedom from my fear. I am afraid of...of high places.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ said Mut doubtfully. ‘Well then, congratulations, my dear, for you are as high up as a person can get—in Alexandria, at least.’
‘Gratitude,’ said Wen, though she felt little joy.
‘There is another reason you are here.’
‘I suppose that I came to gather my courage.’
‘A tester,’ said Mut.
‘A what?’
‘A person who has ascended in order to test herself. A tester.’
‘Are such people common?’
> ‘No, they are very rare.’
‘Why?’
‘We tell ourselves stories about our lives. We gather them up like Isis did the pieces of Osiris after Seth destroyed him. We put these pieces together to make meaning.’
The Pieces of Osiris, Wen thought.
‘These stories shape who we believe ourselves to be. Most people tell themselves stories to make them feel comfortable. Stories with limits. A tester tells herself a challenging story—a story with a lesson at its end.’
Wen studied the old woman, wondering what lesson she would teach.
‘The last person to climb to this high perch was over twenty years ago—a pretty young Egyptian woman much like you, though her linens were fine and a golden cobra snaked up her arm.’
The High Priestess of Hathor, thought Wen. My own mother.
‘Now tell me why you are trying to gather your courage.’
‘I must tell someone that she has been betrayed.’
‘Do you know this for certain?’
‘Yes,’ said Wen. She gazed into Mut’s eyes. ‘No.’
‘Then you are wasting your fear. If you are going to be afraid, be afraid of something real. Like crocodiles or plagues of locusts.’
‘What if I am right?’
‘Then you must not allow the betrayal to break your spirit. If you are strong, then betrayal matters little. Just remember, within everything is its opposite. What you perceive as a betrayal may not truly be one.’
In the last bit of light, Wen noticed the old woman’s eyes—they were the colour of the sea, deep and blue, and she thought she could discern the shape of a spiral within them.
‘Have you always been the Keeper of the Flame?’ Wen asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Mut. ‘I have lived a hundred different lives. The roles and riches of this life are illusions, my dear. They matter not.’ With that, Mut stretched out on to her mat, closed her eyes and began to sleep.
Wen’s heart filled with wonder. She suspected that she had just met the source of her own wisdom. She yearned to speak more with Mut, but the old woman was already deep in slumber. Soon Wen was yawning herself. She lay back on her mat and fell asleep to the sound of the flames.
In Thrall to the Enemy Commander Page 22