“You're wrong about her.”
“Be careful about how far you trust her,” he said. “Our city may not tear down gods, but it takes pride in pulling down its royalty.”
Papyrus 6.07
Jerusalem
King Herod is returning from Jericho, and I've arranged for Miriam and Malachi to join me as I welcome him home. Herod has plans for a double palace in Jerusalem. Until then, he has a compound in the upper city--one he inherited from his father, Antipater.
Herod's caravan enters the city at Antonia Fortress. Miriam, Malachi, and I would be lost among the hundreds who welcome him, but we stand in a place of prominence. The caravan is a colorful display of wealth and might, but its arrival is the end of an eight-hour journey. The foot soldiers are tired and covered in dust.
Herod's debarkation from his canopied camel is a ritual unto itself. While the other camels are brought to their knees, his remains upright, and a platform is wheeled to him where servants can assist him, provide him with food and drink, and check his clothes and makeup, all before his feet touch the ground.
It also allows him to move with dignity. He's a surprisingly short man, and his continual feasts have made him fat.
When the formalities end, he takes refuge in a section of the barracks reserved for his use, and he bids us come with him. He sprawls out on an ornate couch and calls for wine. We stand.
“I thought her a fool to fight the Romans,” he says, “but she's beaten them, again.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Amanirenas,” he says, examining Malachi from beneath half-closed lids, “that one-eyed queen of Kush. She's driven the Romans out of her country and even controls parts of Egypt.” A pause. “This is your Levite friend? The one who knew the Egyptian?”
After my introductions, Herod's attention moves to Miriam. “You're something new.”
“With your permission,” I say, “I'd like to send a doctor back with her. People in Bethany need attention.”
Herod's eyes dart from Miriam's face to mine and back again. “If I like what you have to tell me, you can have your doctor.”
I keep my face pleasant and banal.
Miriam clears her throat. Her strong voice becomes hesitant. “What would the king like to know?”
“I want strength,” he says. “Philostratos tells me this woman came to Jerusalem with machines that moved of their own accord. Did you ever see them?”
Miriam hesitates, but she knows better than to lie. “I did when she was in Bethany.”
“So, where are they hidden?”
“She took them with her to Jerusalem.”
“Where?” Herod repeats.
“She never showed me,” Miriam says, “but I came to see her before she left. The machines were not with her.”
Miriam's eyes dart toward me with a fresh distrust. I promised her I would not let Amani's efforts fall into Herod's hands, but Herod only knows of their existence because of me.
When Amani was here, Herod’s father, Antipater, was the second most powerful man in the country, but he only made his final rise to power after the war between Cleopatra and her brother, when he sailed with three thousand men to aid in Caesar's rescue.
In return, Caesar made Antipater Judea's first procurator, and Antipater set Herod on a course that would lead to Rome naming him king of all Palestine.
We kept from the world the truth of what our post-Cyprus Alexandria became, but Antipater was there. He saw our violent wonders, and he passed those stories to his son.
Herod declares we will join him for dinner tonight. Miriam is not free to leave, and he does not mention the doctor I requested. This must kindle Miriam's distrust, but she is not used to the world of politics. Nothing good ever happens fast.
Sometimes, nothing good ever happens at all.
I have seen a child give us the future and ask nothing but that we cut ties with Cyprus, and to our destruction, we thought we knew better.
Politics is suicide.
“I'd have called it all nonsense,” Herod says, “if I hadn't heard it from my father. Egypt could have conquered the world. They had the power of God, only to have it snatched away. With every building project, with every wall I tear down, I wonder at what we might discover. If any of that power is here, no one else must ever find it.”
Not for the first time, I see his fear.
Thunder cracks the sky, but the rains fall elsewhere. We join Herod's procession to the upper city, and, from his litter, he regales us with plans for a raised road that will lead from the temple straight to the homes of the rich and, beyond that, to the palace he will build for himself.
Garish canopies stretch overhead, but the sun is low and bright as if peeking in upon those foolish enough to hide.
Herod's residence is made evident by the soldiers who surround it; otherwise, the house looks very much like every other in the upper city. The lower city is a patchwork of varied building materials and styles, but here, everything is homogeneous--white walls and red tile roofs.
The front gate opens into an enormous courtyard, and we file in like an advancing army. The main house is two stories tall and extravagant in its colors and sculpture. Shuttered walls open front and back, revealing an interior courtyard and the buildings surrounding it. The grand dining room sits beyond but open to the inner courtyard. After a chance to refresh ourselves and change into clothes Herod provides, we gather to lounge, watch dancers in the courtyard, and talk of Amani.
“Philostratos has been burrowing like a rabbit these last few weeks,” Herod says.
Miriam is quiet. I catch a reproachful look, like it's my fault she isn't home. Perhaps it is. I sought her out. I brought her to Herod. This is my doing.
This must be the most sumptuous meal she has ever experienced, but Herod's company is hard on the appetite.
I feel a question in her eyes. Why am I here? Why do I search for these remnants of Amani's passing? Cleopatra has been dead five years, and how long has it been since I've seen Amani? Twenty years?
Twenty-three. She was twenty-one when she died, if she died. Of course she died. She's dead. Burned. It happened. I was there.
Twenty-three years. Why can't I let it go? Why do I have to drag Malachi and Miriam all over Jerusalem and fill Herod with fear and hope? I'm not a good man. I'm not even a good servant, not anymore. I don't know what I am, and maybe this is why I search. I need Amani to define me, and she can't do that.
Or she won't.
“A series of homes suffered a partial collapse during the construction of the hippodrome,” I say. “As demolition on those homes began, we discovered tunnels.”
“No one knew the tunnels existed.” Herod giggles to himself. “My wife suggests they date back to the days of David. She thinks this is how his men took the city from the Jebusites.”
Malachi looks to me for confirmation. Herod isn't looking, so I offer a shrug. None of that is my concern. I need only know if Amani was once there.
Herod motions to Miriam. “Tomorrow, the two of you will burrow with Philostratos.”
“We've cleared the open tunnels,” I say.
“They knew her while she was here,” Herod says. “Perhaps they will see something they recognize.”
“What is there to be seen?” I ask, unable to stop myself. The tunnels are as unstable as Herod himself. More passages may wait to the north, but there is nothing left for the open tunnels but to fill them in.
Herod glares at me, and I fall silent.
Papyrus 6.08
Alexandria
Over the next couple of months, I thought often of Theodotus’s warning. His fears over Amani played upon my heart, but no situation arrived to test my loyalty until the installation of the new Buchis bull. The events that led to this began shortly after Pharaoh’s death when we invited the High Priest of Ptah and his wife to Alexandria.
The priest, Numenius, locked himself away when he heard he was not invited. It was an insult no one outside the priests o
f the cult of Ptolemy would understand. Pasherenptah was elevated above all who had ever held his position. He was the head of all priesthoods who, at the age of fourteen, had crowned Cleopatra's father as pharaoh.
After eight years as the wife of the High Priest, it was Taimhotep's first trip to Alexandria. She had always been too busy with her frequent pregnancies or simply too young, having been fourteen when she married. For her first visit and her first dinner with Cleopatra, we denied her the extravagance of the large banquet hall and instead ate in Cleopatra's island palace, lounging at a table in the courtyard where Cleopatra had once held the choosing ceremony. That seemed to be enough; Taimhotep's eyes were large and full of wonder.
We had avoided business during the dinner until Taimhotep caught Cleopatra's attention and said, “I don't mean to break protocol, but I'm so terribly sorry about your father.”
The table went silent. Eating stopped. No one moved. Cleopatra dismissed the servants with a glance, and we were alone: Taimhotep; her husband (and Cleopatra's cousin), Pasherenptah; myself; Lucius Septimus; and Amani.
Before she inadvertently stopped dinner, Taimhotep had confided in Amani. The role of High Priest passed from father to son, and Taimhotep had borne Pasherenptah only daughters.
“We're praying now to Imhotep,” she'd said. Apparently, Ptah's ears were closed.
Taimhotep was elegant, educated, and innocent. Though a few years older, she reminded me of Amani when she was young and full of wonder at the world. Taimhotep's colorful robes and heavy jewelry suited her position, but she moved free and unburdened, unaware of their preciousness. She treated her words the same way.
Pasherenptah, who was seventeen years his wife's senior, offered an apologetic smile. “I trust we are among friends.”
Lucius's face showed its agitation, but Cleopatra's smile offered reassurance and forgiveness. It promised that all was right with the world, and it promised true. Taimhotep's misstep only strengthened our position.
Mummification for a pharaoh is a protracted affair. Ptolemy was immersed in salts to dry out the body, a process that could take half a year or more. With Pasherenptah's cooperation in preparing the body in secret, we would have the time needed to solidify Cleopatra's leadership before either her brother or Rome learned the truth.
Most of the city would accept that Pharaoh was ill and locked away in the palace. Cleopatra’s younger siblings might rejoice at being free from their obligation to visit, but the would-be regents would take constant shepherding. A few trips into the heart of the country on behalf of their pharaoh would help.
Months later, Amani sat in Cleopatra's barge and studied the bull that rode in the barge behind them. Outside of Thebes, Cleopatra led a procession of ships up the Nile. She wore a white linen robe covered with a black cloak. Upon her styled wig, she wore the crown of Geb. Iras sat nearby in her new role as royal hairdresser, taking action whenever the wig or crown needed attending, as it often did, with the crown's unwieldy horns, feathers, and sun disk.
Cleopatra's black-robed priests dotted either side of her barge, leaving unobstructed the people's views of her as she sat upon her golden couch. Amani lounged nearby.
The barge behind Cleopatra transported the bull with the required markings—a white body and black face—now said to be the living manifestation of the war god, Mantu. He wore a solar disk and two tall plumes between his horns, and a net covered his face to protect him from flies.
Crowds lined the banks. The great temples of Thebes towered above. The barges sailed upstream, southward, toward Heliopolis. As they approached the city, Amani pointed to the Bucheum, where the Buchis bulls were buried after a life of luxury and pleasure. As they approached the Heliopolis, the other ships came into view. Amani watched the barge that had followed just behind the Buchis bull; upon it rode Pasherenptah.
Amani suffered through the pageantry. The young bull was reunited with its mother in the temple. For much of the ceremony, the two roamed free as people fell in worship. The crowds ate and drank, sitting close enough they could have touched the bull as it passed.
Amani wanted to believe a spirit truly inhabited the bull. Otherwise, it was only an animal, and she felt exposed and vulnerable. The bull needed only charge in any direction; dozens of worshipers would die.
At a table with Pasherenptah and Taimhotep, Cleopatra ate, and her chair was burnished like a throne. Amani ate with the bull.
At the end of the ceremony, the priests wanted an oracle. They sought Pasherenptah for a question, one he would know to word so there could be only two answers. The bull had the choice of two gates, and the gate it chose to pass through would give the answer.
Amani assumed Pasherenptah would pass the honor to Cleopatra. Instead, he turned to his wife.
“The floods are late,” Taimhotep said. “Unless they come soon and plentiful, our crops will suffer. Will the gods grant us mercy?”
The bull chose his gate. The answer was no.
Everyone looked to Cleopatra, the human embodiment of the goddess Isis who brought the floods each year. Was this an insult?
Pasherenptah looked mortified; his wife, confused.
Pasherenptah, the priests, and those with them rose, and together they bent the knee and bowed their heads before Cleopatra. In an instant, what had begun as a disgrace became an honor.
It occurred to Amani that the connection with the floods was ethereal, but her presence at the ceremony, tangible. Cleopatra's unprecedented involvement may have encouraged the faithful not to blame her for the misfortune. Amani smiled at my craftiness in taking over the ceremony to bolster Cleopatra's popularity, and, now, Amani had a plan of her own.
When the guests were full and drunk, the night ended. Cleopatra retired to the rooms awaiting her. Amani followed after her. From the balcony, they could see the Nile, and as Cleopatra undressed, Amani stood in the night breeze, beneath the blanket of stars.
“How long do you think we can keep the secret?” Amani asked.
“Not much longer. The ministers demand access. Claims of his illness will only last so long. I wanted time to secure my position; this trip has helped, but it’s not enough. We’re not safe.”
Amani turned, her mouth open to make her proposal. Cleopatra had just slipped out of her tunic and stood naked at a basin of scented water. She splashed it over her, washing away the day’s dust, and Amani fell silent, transfixed.
She looked away. “I’ve found your brother’s weakness.”
Cleopatra stopped mid-wash. “Tell me.”
“The armory. He’s fully dependent upon it, and his ministers plot to keep it in their control and away from you.”
Cleopatra crossed the room to her, still undressed. Her skin wet. “And you’ve figured out how to take that from them?”
Amani averted her eyes. “It will be flood season soon. We have one year to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?” Cleopatra asked.
“There’s one thing I need from you,” Amani said. “No matter how counter-intuitive it sounds, I need you to trust me. We need this. Maybe everyone else would think us mad, but this is right. I swear to you; this is right.”
Cleopatra placed a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me.”
Papyrus 6.09
The night after they returned from Thebes, I awoke to the taste of bile and vomited on the floor. Something deep and liquid pulsed in my ears. I told myself lies, could almost believe it was only sickness, that the food at Cleopatra's welcome-home feast had poisoned me. The air clung to me with ten-thousand little feet. It crawled across my face and dangled off my chin and nose.
“She wants to use next year's celebration as a cover,” Cleopatra had said. “We will not fight for control of the steam-powered machines. She has plans for alternatives that use local resources.”
I had reviewed Amani’s plans. They lacked the power needed to compete with steam power. Ptolemy’s existing machines would crush her creations.
“She needs us to undermine our
relationship with Cyprus,” Cleopatra said.
“Cut off our fuel?”
“Cato is already suspicious of our need,” she said. “If they stop their shipments, Ptolemy’s machines will be impotent.”
I asked when Amani thought she could have the new machines ready.
“She wants to disguise our weaponry and parade it through the streets during the festival of Wepet Renpet,” Cleopatra said. “Anything we make at the factories, we can store at the Serapeum without raising suspicion. We then use the parade to move them into position.”
The parades ran from the Serapeum to Lochias.
“With the Serapeum’s proximity to the lake harbor, we can also ship weaponry to friends in places like Thebes,” Cleopatra continued. “When the war starts, the shortage of fuel will cripple Ptolemy's strength, but we will never run dry.”
“Is it only your war with your brother she has in mind?”
“What else is there?”
How could I have spoken against Amani? My head hung over the edge of the bed, and I stared into my sickness. I had done my job and given necessary counsel, but sometimes, the necessary was impossible to stomach.
While Amani retooled the factories to build her machines, she refused to give all of her time to weapons. She spent hours walking the streets of Rhakotis, reacquainting herself with its people, learning its problems, designing their solutions.
Meanwhile, the problems of Rome sailed into our harbor.
Ptolemy had been dead nearly a year when the new governor of Syria, Bibulus, sent an envoy to Alexandria. They made a humble showing upon arrival, with the bulk of Bibulus's resources focused on the campaign against the Parthians.
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