Keeper of the Flame

by Tracy L. Higley

  Sophia watched Cleo’s eyes, could see the shrewd calculations that ran behind her expression. “You think this child will rule both?”

  Cleo lay back again, licked her lips and smiled, like a satisfied cat. “Perhaps.”

  Sophia glanced at Bellus’s letter on her desk, remembered the wedding plans that Valeria had detailed, gushing with the effusive silliness of youth. “Does Caesar not have a wife in Rome?”

  Cleopatra waved her hand as if the truth were only a gnat buzzing about her head. “I will convince him to divorce her. She is nothing to him but a strategic alliance of two families.”

  Was Valeria merely a strategic alliance?

  “I wish that I had your confidence.” Sophia picked at a thread that frayed the cushion where she lay.

  Cleo sniffed. “What need have you of confidence? You sit in your tower here, watching the deeds of the city from far above. No one has challenged Sophia of the Lighthouse for many years.” Cleopatra ran a hand through her hair and loosened it from its gold combs. Sophia followed the long fingers that raked through curls. “Would that my life were so simple,” Cleopatra said.

  “Your Caesar has complicated my life.”

  “Your life? Ah yes, the centuria. I had forgotten.”

  Sophia shifted on the couch. In all these years, she had rarely spoken to Cleo of her own heart. They were both much too occupied with Cleopatra herself. She tried to keep her voice light. “Their leader does not think much of me, I fear.”

  Cleopatra laughed. “That much is quite clear. I was present in the palace hall when the centurion made his report to Caesar.” She grinned at Sophia. “But he does have the most winning smile, does he not?”

  You already have Caesar, Cleopatra.

  “And you are correct,” she continued. “He is quite passionate in his distaste for you. ‘Beastly’ I believe is the word he used. You must have made your mind clear to him, I daresay.”

  Sophia felt her eyes flutter and let them close.

  “Take care not to be too harsh toward him, though, my Sophia. The centurion suggested to Caesar that you might need to be removed if you stood in their way. And I do not believe he implied relocation.”

  Sophia felt she could not breathe, so great was the pressure that fell upon her chest in that moment. She forced air into her lungs and found her voice.

  “You believe he would have me killed? And yet you sent no word of warning to me?”

  Cleopatra made a little pouting sound that Sophia well-recognized. “I have been quite occupied, Sophia. Do not forget that I am the ruler of an entire country. I cannot concern myself with every centurion that marches about.”

  The heavy tightness lessened, replaced by a numbing cold in her limbs that made Sophia feel almost sleepy. “Why do you suppose he hates me?”

  “Caesar? He barely knows your name.”

  “Bellus.”

  “Who? Oh, the centurion.” She paused, and Sophia thought she must be considering her answer. But when she spoke again, her voice was young and uncertain. “Do you think he loves me, Sophia?”

  “You want Bellus to love you as well?”

  “Caesar, Sophia! What silly games you play!”

  The conversation had wearied Sophia greatly, and she turned away from Cleo, her face tucked against the back of the couch. Even with her eyes closed, she could see Cleopatra’s full lips, her piercing eyes, her voluptuous body and creamy skin. “Of course he loves you,” she whispered. “How could he not?”

  “I pray to Isis you are right. Everything depends upon it, you understand.”

  “Yes.” She felt her heartbeat slowing, felt the ache flowing out of her limbs.

  “Do you think I am more beautiful than his wife in Rome? I know I am more intelligent than the little mouse. How could he return to her when I am here for him? And she has not given him a son. Did you know that, Sophia? That is right, no son. I know that Isis will favor me and deliver a boy into Caesar’s arms.”

  Cleo’s voice continued, surging like a flame that burned hotter and hotter, consuming everything, devouring all the air in the room.

  And in that moment, as Sophia succumbed to the deadening sleep she could no longer fight, she knew that everything had changed. Cleo no longer belonged to her. Caesar had taken her, as surely as he had taken the city of Alexandria.

  And Sophia was truly alone.

  Twenty-Nine

  Only a day passed before the weight of guilt, together with the fascination he could not suppress, drove Bellus to seek out Sophia to apologize for his rough treatment.

  He learned from Ares that she had not descended from her chambers since retreating there last night. He climbed the ramp, his fingers tightened around a small blue stone, a token lightly given at the beginning of this strange friendship.

  Yes, he would apologize, as any civilized man would do. Nothing more.

  He expected her imperial “Come!” and was surprised when she opened the door. He pushed the blue stone into the leather pouch at his waist.

  Her eyes were dark, almost sunken, and her lips a tight slash. “What is it?” she said, her voice flat.

  Bellus cleared his throat. “May I come in?”

  “Do you not have a mission to command?”

  “Sophia, let me in.”

  She shoved the door open, then turned and walked from him. Bellus entered and nudged the door closed.

  The late afternoon sun poured through the western bank of windows and reminded him of the first time he had entered this room. She had been such a mystery to him then.

  She still is.

  The light fell in long streaks on the thickly carpeted floor, creating bars of shadow between, as though Sophia were caged here, high above the sea. She stood apart, her back to him, and ran her hand over a small box on her desk.

  Bellus adjusted his tunic, feeling half-dressed without his armor. He took a deep breath. “Sophia, I treated you with disrespect yesterday. I came to offer you my apology.”

  She did not turn. “A strange manner of warfare, you Romans have. To apologize to those you conquer.”

  “I did not come to conquer you.”

  Her back stiffened. “No? And yet you tell your general that perhaps it would be best to have me executed, so that you may better secure the lighthouse.”

  Bellus’s heart missed a beat. He reached to Sophia, then let his hand drop. “Who told you this?”

  “Does it matter?” She faced him, betrayal etching deep lines around her eyes.

  He moved toward her, took her hand. “Sophia, that was long ago! When first we came to the lighthouse. Before I—before I knew you.”

  She yanked her hand from his. “Do you think I care? It is who you are. You bring death with you.”

  “I follow orders. That is all.”

  “You cannot even do that! Is that not why you were banished here to the shores of Pharos? Because Caesar recognized that you could not manage the simplest of tasks?”

  He took a step back. “And yet I have managed the lighthouse, and even its Keeper, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, conquest runs in your blood, I suppose. You should be quite proud.”

  Bellus slowed his breathing, tried to blink away the fury. She watched him, her chest rising and falling visibly. He shook his head. “You know me better, Sophia. You know this is not true.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I know nothing of you, centurion. Just as you know nothing of me.”

  Anger sparked in his veins. “That is right, Sophia. I know nothing of you.” He leaned closer. “But the gods know that I have tried! You are as closed as a sea oyster, and just as hard.”

  Her lips whitened and her eyes seemed to bore into his own.

  Jupiter, she is beautiful.

  The thought rode over him, like an army swelling over a battlefield, furious and undeniable. His gaze roamed over her ridiculously cropped hair, the angry eyes, her lips pale with emotion. And he wondered at the absurd idea.

  She
must have felt his thoughts. Her lips parted, her shoulders dropped, and she blinked several times.

  Bellus noticed for the first time the strong scent of roses in the room.

  “Let me in, Sophia,” he whispered, ignoring the strange fear building somewhere deep inside. “Let me in.”

  She dropped her gaze to the floor, turned back to her desk, to the small box there. Beside it, a terra cotta pot spilled over with glossy-leafed stems of roses.

  He moved to stand behind her, close enough to look over her shoulder, to reach around her body and touch the box’s engraved lid with two fingers. “What is it?”

  She exhaled and relaxed backward, not quite touching him, though it felt like an embrace.

  She opened the box and removed a small mechanism. From a trough at the base, she took a tiny marble and set the device in motion.

  “It is wondrous. Did Sosigenes make it?”

  “Kallias,” she whispered. “My husband.”

  He stilled. “Tell me.”

  “I was very young when we were married.” Her voice was so quiet, he strained to hear it. “He was an inventor.”

  Bellus heard the pride in her voice. “You loved him.”

  “More than life.”

  Yes, as I knew you could.

  “Sosigenes worked with him, in the Museum. Kallias was constructing the Proginosko.”

  Bellus held his breath, did not move. It was a fragile thing, he knew, this confession.

  “He was done. There was only the testing month to complete, to wait as the phases of the moon passed over our heads and to be certain the gears were set correctly, that his calculations had been accurate. We were traveling through the islands, and then on to Rome, meeting with governmental leaders. Sosigenes was with us, and Pothinus, too.”

  Her voice shook, and from behind her, Bellus wrapped his hands around her upper arms to give her strength to tell it.

  “There was a storm. It arose at night, when most were asleep. We scrambled to the deck to do our part. The sailors were frantic to shorten the sails. Running and yelling. The captain screaming ‘The ship heels! The ship heels!’ ”

  He felt her body tighten. Her head dropped.

  “Seawater everywhere. Decks awash as though the angry hand of Poseidon fought to pluck us from our feet. I tried—” her voice broke. “I tried to hold him . . .”

  “Kallias?”

  She shook her head and tears dripped from her chin. “Leonidas,” she whispered. “My baby.”

  Oh, God.

  He pulled her back against his chest.

  Her body shook with silent sobs. “I tried. But he was pulled from my arms. He was so small. He had only me.”

  “Sophia,” he whispered into her ear. “It was not your fault. Not your fault.”

  “He had only me.” The tension flowed from her then, as though she had been wrung out and tossed aside.

  Bellus wrapped his arms around her from behind and laid his head on top of hers, rocking her gently.

  “I awoke on Antikythera, that tiny island near Crete. I do not know how I got there. Sosigenes had survived with me and two sailors. Pothinus was on Crete, I later learned. The rest—my husband—even Leonidas—were . . .”

  Bellus shushed her and turned her to himself. He used the back of his hand to dry her face. “It was long ago.”

  “It feels like yesterday.”

  His own eyes filled with tears. “I am so sorry, Sophia.”

  She bent her head. “It has taken all these years for Sosigenes to reproduce Kallias’s calculations.”

  “It must be difficult for you. To see it again.”

  She pulled away. “What is difficult is to think that it could be lost again.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you Romans have your way, all that makes Alexandria the center of the academic world will be destroyed.”

  Do not retreat from me now, Sophia.

  He grasped her hands with his own, willing his warmth to penetrate her icy fingers. “Let us leave Caesar and his legion in the city tonight. Here I am only Lucius.”

  She blinked away the tears that still brimmed. Bellus pulled a stem from the pot of flowers on her desk, and with the pink bloom, traced a line along Sophia’s jaw to her lips. She took the rose from him and tried to smile.

  “Your scholars have sent you the work of their hands,” he said, indicating the rose. “They care much for you.”

  She bent her head to the bloom and inhaled. “Not the scholars.” She lifted her eyes to him. “Come.”

  He followed her, across the chamber and through the door. She intends to lead me upward.

  The thought sparked his latent curiosity about what lay above, but it was overshadowed by the privilege he knew she extended.

  The ramp that circled the inside of the first tier of the lighthouse spiraled past Sophia’s private chamber and continued upward another sixty cubits or so. Bellus followed Sophia, and from her pace realized that she was far more accustomed to the climb than he.

  They reached a wide doorway to the first platform as the sun touched the horizon, a great glob of orange on the edge of the dark blue sea.

  The platform formed the base for the next tier of the lighthouse, but circling it was a wide space, walled to his chest, and enclosing the most riotous tangle of pink and red, white and green that he had ever seen. Bellus froze in the doorway, his eyes drinking in the display.

  Not even the palace courtyard rivaled this feast. The scent of the roses hung like a shroud over the platform. Droplets of water shimmered on silken petals and dripped to emerald leaves. Bellus looked to Sophia and saw that she watched him. Her smile shone with the pleasure she took from his reaction.

  “It is impossible!” was all he could think to say. “Up here. No rain. How—?”

  She indicated the pulley system that ran upward through all three tiers of the lighthouse to feed the fire above.

  “The servants send up water twice each day.” She moved through the raised planters, around the central octagon and out of sight. Bellus followed, still transfixed by the wild chaos of it, so unlike the well-ordered Sophia he thought he knew.

  The wind tugged at his hair, a cooling breeze as the sun descended.

  On the west side of the platform, Sophia stood waiting beside a low couch the color of wine, buried in the midst of a cascade of white roses tinged with red.

  And he saw that she was at home here, as much as she was below, in her room of luxury surrounded by her books. This garden was the rest of Sophia, the hidden fragment she had never uncovered.

  Behind her the sun struggled to remain above the sea, then surrendered to its watery resting place for the night. A divine artist’s brush striped the sky with bands of blue, blurring to orange and then to black.

  “Do you like it?” She held out a hand to the roses. Her voice seemed to tremble on the breeze.

  Bellus crossed to her, his legs like seawater, like the first day off the ship when he’d arrived in Alexandria.

  He had never touched her face before. Though he’d thought of it often, he admitted to himself now. His fingers brushed her temples, her forehead, her cheeks and lips, as though he were a blind man discovering her for the first time. Her skin was as soft as the rose petals. Everything about her was soft now, and he tried in vain to steel himself against it. His heart beat with a fear he had never known in battle.

  Her smile faltered at his first touch, replaced by a fearful knowing, one that he also felt. The knowing that things were changed forever.

  He stroked her throat with one hand, felt her beating pulse rise to meet his fingers.

  “I love it,” he whispered.

  When he buried his fingers in her hair and pulled her lips to his own, he felt the fear shout at him again, but it was far too late to listen.

  He had said that he did not come to conquer. But as he took his first taste of her, he knew the battle within had long ago been lost.

  Thirty

  Sophia closed her eyes as Bellus kissed her onc
e, with gentle uncertainty, and then again. She felt as though she rode the crest of a wave of loneliness that had carried her for too long.

  “Sophia,” Bellus whispered over and over, as though her name were the very air he exhaled.

  He pulled away to search her eyes. She did not know what he would read there, for passion and fear battled for control. She had brought him up here on an impulse, wanting to prove that she was not as tightly closed as he accused. She had not imagined he would see into her soul.

  Bellus guided her to the couch, lowered them both to the soft cushions to sit with hands entwined and knees touching, sheltered from the wind and caressed by the scent of roses. Sophia felt unable to speak, struck mute by the tightness in her chest.

  She reached a hand across to touch his chest. Did he also feel as though the world had ceased to breathe?

  He caught her fingers and held her hand against his tunic between his own, the rough hands of a soldier. The gentle hands of a scholar.

  The wind had loosed the errant lock of his dark hair, and it curled toward his eye. She used her fingertip to brush it aside, and then he was kissing her again, wrapping her up in his soldier’s battle-ready arms.

  “Lucius.” She whispered the name between his kisses, giving herself to him, and he laughed and pulled her to his chest where she belonged.

  No. No, she did not belong there.

  She pushed away the thought, but it would not be ignored.

  Even as his kisses grew more urgent, she felt herself withdrawing. As though the crest of the wave she rode had surged past him, rushing her forward to dash her against a rocky coastline.

  He cannot love me. Not me. I cannot be loved. Too long on my own. Too long the fiend in her tower.

  Like an angry beating drum, the words pounded at her. She thought of his beautiful Valeria. She would never be what he wanted. She pulled his hands from her face, moved outside his embrace.

  He grasped at her, as though she had taken flight on the wind. “Sophia.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, releasing him. She struggled to her feet and sought protection against the wall. “No, this cannot be.”